A Death Overseas

by Caroline Dunford

  ‘You would not dare!’

  ‘Euphemia,’ said Rory softly, ‘look around you. Everyone is staring. You are making a display of yourself. This is not like you. You may have seen worse, but I believe you are blaming yourself for what has happened. You have to accept that sometimes bad things over which we have no control happen. There is nothing you could have done.’

  ‘Come on, old girl,’ said Bertram, rising and offering to pull out my chair. ‘You’ll be more yourself after a good rest. Tell you what I’ll even come with you to see that wretched horticulture pavilion Richenda wanted you to inspect.’

  I stood quickly and immediately felt dizzy. ‘All right,’ I said. ‘I will go back and rest, but I do not think a few hours’ rest will convince me there is not something important we are overlooking.’

  ‘Any minute now you will be suggesting my brother was behind it,’ said Bertram. Then he saw my face. ‘Oh come on, Euphemia, even Richard isn’t that duplicitous. Unless he set up that organisation she belonged to, convinced Hans to hire her as a chaperone, and bribed Pierre to break some of the equipment...’

  ‘Not to mention convincing a vicar’s God-fearing wife to kill,’ put in Rory.

  ‘But as you both said, she did not mean to do it. In fact, she may not have done it. Could you not speak to Pierre, one of you, and find out if what she did would have caused that fatal accident?’

  Bertram sighed. ‘She is not going to let this go, McLeod. You take her back to the hotel and see she stays there and rests. If you go with him, Euphemia, I will see if I can track down Pierre and get his side of the story.’

  ‘I don’t like it,’ said Rory.

  ‘It’s the least we are going to get away with,’ said Bertram. ‘If I don’t do something she’ll try and investigate on her own, or worse still she’ll go looking for Fitzroy or Mr Edward.’

  Rory paled. ‘You wouldn't,’ he said to me.

  ‘I might,’ I said.

  ‘That Edward mannie almost had me hung!’

  ‘Oh don’t be silly, Rory,’ I said. ‘He was using it as a ruse.’

  Rory’s jaw dropped. He took a moment to collect himself and then turned to Bertram. ‘I’ll take her back. You go and do your thing. Lass is mad enough to try anything unchecked.’

  ‘I am glad we are of one accord,’ I said as serenely as possible. ‘Hire a cab, Rory. I do not feel like walking.’

  ‘Aye, alright. I’ll mind her till you’re back, Bertram.’

  ‘I can hear you, you know,’ I said.

  ‘Good,’ said Rory. ‘At least you have some sense left.’

  Chapter Seventeen

  Rory says too much

  I hate to admit this, but they were both right. Once I reached the familiarity of my hotel room, I had barely laid my head on my pillow before I was fast asleep. I did not dream or if I did my dreams did not follow me back to the waking world.

  A maid knocked on my door a little before seven o’clock in the evening to bring me water for washing and to say the gentlemen would be expecting me for dinner at seven forty-five. I assumed from this that Rory had been permanently upgraded for the rest of the trip to the equal of Bertram. Although this time it would be to help control me rather than solve a mystery. I felt refreshed from my rest, but still I was not content that Eugenie’s story had been fully and fairly told.

  The panicking despair I had felt in the police station had calmed to serious doubt. How, I wondered, would I get Rory and Bertram to realise I had just cause to be concerned and was not simply being hysterical?[20] Getting one pig-headed man to see my point of view would always be a challenge, but with two!

  As I was dressing I made a discovery. At least it was not a discovery but a truth that made me think yet again that Eugenie had been murdered. I walked down stairs thinking of when in the conversation I could most convincingly raise my point. Both Bertram and Rory might fear I would turn to Fitzroy, if he was at the British Embassy, but I knew him far better than either of them, and though it might be useful to keep this action as a threat to goad the two of them into action, the reality was Fitzroy would have little interested in the death of vicar’s widow. His sole concern was the welfare of the King’s Empire and he did not waiver from that purpose. He was cold, callous, and all that a spy needed to be to serve his country – utterly single-minded. I sometimes thought he had a slight tendre for me, but in my heart I knew it was no more than that of a child who sees that one toy may be of more use than another. The three of us had been of use in the past and so we were assets. He was never our partner, our friend, or liable to put himself out for any of us. I wondered why Bertram and Rory, who could often read others so well, did not understand the spy in the way I did.

  Two faces raised eagerly at my entrance into the dining room. Both exhibited a pleasure tinged with suspicion. ‘I am feeling much better, gentlemen,’ I said in my calmest and sweetest voice.[21]

  ‘I told you,’ said Bertram. He rushed over to pull out my chair. He does not normally bother to do this when he is at the Muller Estate. Rory raised an eyebrow and nodded at me.

  ‘Will we be having cheese with supper?’ I asked.

  ‘Will be having cheese...! Did you hear that, McLeod? That’s the old Euphemia back.’

  ‘I managed to track down Miss Mary Hill,’ said Rory. ‘I asked her if she would like to join our party and she has agreed. It seems the aunt she was travelling with has become unwell and is determined to go off to Switzerland to try some cure Miss Hill considers the greatest folly.’

  ‘Oh,’ I said hollowly.

  ‘The invisible aunt,’ muttered Bertram under his breath.

  ‘I have told her she must have Mrs Brown’s room as everything else is fully booked, but she is not at all squeamish and said it did not bother her in the least. I have asked one of the maids to pack up Mrs Brown’s things,’ continued Rory. ‘They will be delivered to the police station and they can pass them on to the Embassy or her relatives directly. Whichever they feel is most appropriate.’

  ‘Do you not think Hans would feel we should deal with her effects? She was in his employ.’

  ‘If he wants to deal with them himself he can damn well come and do it himself,’ snapped Rory.

  ‘It’s easier to let the officials deal with all that,’ said Bertram. ‘If we are not careful we might get roped into transporting the body back to England, and I don’t have a clue how one would go about that. It’s not as if she could go freight. Not in this weather at least!’

  The confusion and distress on Bertram’s face belied any callousness his words implied. ‘It’s not as if it is a question of justice,’ he added, pleadingly to me.

  ‘Do you know,’ I said, ‘my skirt has no pockets.’

  ‘Really? Where do you keep things?’ asked Bertram intrigued.

  ‘In my reticule.’

  Bertram nodded. ‘Ah, very sensible. You can probably carry around a lot more than I can like that. Ladies have a lot of clever ideas, don’t you think, McLeod? I can barely get a book into my jacket pocket. Damn tailor keeps refusing to make them bigger – says it spoils the line of the suit. I say it’s my suit and I have things I need to carry with me.’

  ‘And a reticule would not suit you,’ said Rory, straight-faced.

  ‘Indeed not. Not unless a manly one would be made. I wonder if there is an idea there? Something one could invest in? A manly reticule. What do you think?’

  ‘I think how did she fill her pockets with rocks if she did not have any?’

  ‘Who?’ said Bertram blankly.

  ‘I do not remember anyone describing exactly where Mrs Brown put her rocks. They could have been in her jacket pocket...’

  ‘I have no pockets there either,’ I said.

  ‘You hardly dressed alike,’ said Rory. ‘Besides, for all we know she tied them around herself with string. The police are satisfied she did it deliberately. You cannot force yourself to drown in such shallow depths.’

  ‘Someone could have he
ld her under.’

  ‘There would have been signs on the body, Euphemia. The police would have noticed.’

  ‘They are not British police,’ I countered.

  ‘That does not necessarily make them stupid,’ said Rory. ‘In my experience it might well imply the opposite.’

  ‘Oh look, there is Mary,’ said Bertram, shooting up out of his seat. ‘Lovely to see you, Miss Hill. Do come and join us.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Mary, sitting down. ‘I am sorry it is under such sad circumstances, but I am very happy to be one of your party. I don’t believe we have been properly introduced yet, Mr...? Although you did approach me as Euphemia’s envoy.’

  ‘McLeod. Rory McLeod. An old family friend.’

  ‘And from Scotland too, if I do not misread your accent.’

  ‘Highlander through and through, Miss Hill.’

  ‘Now we are all settled, what shall we eat?’ asked Bertram. ‘There is never a great deal of choice, but from what I hear this is one of the better small hotels.’

  ‘All foreign food is strange,’ said Mary. ‘What I would not give for a wholesome steak and kidney pie – or a good steak.’

  Bertram smiled at her approvingly. ‘I can see, all other things being past, we can now be good friends, Miss Hill. Do you by any chance play chess? I have become a little wearied of beating Euphemia!’

  I opened my mouth to protest, but caught Rory’s eye and closed it again. Bertram was in flirting mode and if it made Mary more likely to forgive me for once accusing her of murder, all the better. It was not as if he could be serious about her – or for that matter, her about him. After all, she had a very fine brain.

  The dinner passed in various small talk with Bertram mentioning ‘my estate in Norfolk’ perhaps once too often. I kept my thoughts to myself. I knew there was something if only I could remember it that would be the key to proving Eugenie had not killed herself.

  We split naturally into two groups after dinner with Bertram playing Mary at chess. He won the first game and was in high spirits. Mary seemed keen to play again. Rory and I sat by the unlit fire and drank tea. We had been silent together for some time when Rory said, ‘You have not asked me yet what was found out about Monsieur Toussaint?’

  ‘Bertram appears to have other things on his mind. I assumed he would tell me his story if there was anything of note.’

  ‘He told me,’ said Rory. ‘There is a story there, but it has nothing to do with Mrs Brown. However, I feel I should tell you about it. It will doubtless be in the local newspapers tomorrow and I suppose it is not impossible that an English newspaper will pick up the story.’

  I said nothing, but waited. I was not feeling in a good humour towards Rory and saw no reason to help him out. He sighed. ‘There is a rumour going around, and a persistent rumour, that Monsieur Toussaint was a fraud. According to Bertram, his assistant Pierre blames the Germans for starting the gossip. However, Bertram was also persistent, and eventually Pierre admitted that he did not know the secret of how Monsieur Toussaint’s machinery worked. He is a capable physicist, by his own account, but Monsieur Toussaint was near paranoid about secrecy concerning his invention. As the Germans are apparently attempting to work on a similar objective Pierre said such protectiveness was not uncommon among scientists who were attempting to attract investors. Most importantly, he confirmed that before the machine went into the demonstration he personally checked the dial setting which he said, reportedly somewhat bitterly, was all he was ever allowed to do apart from cleaning the glassware. Thus, we must conclude Mrs Brown was wrong in believing that she killed Monsieur Toussaint and that the incident was an unfortunate accident. Again Pierre confirmed that accidents when experimenting with electricity are not as uncommon as those seeking investors would have us believe.’

  ‘Will this Pierre give a statement to the police, so Eugenie can be exonerated?’

  ‘Bertram said he only agreed to speak with him because he was packing up to leave. The police, it seems, are happy with Mrs Brown’s letter, and more than content to close the case.’

  ‘But that is not fair.’ I protested.

  ‘She is gone. What people think of her now can have no bearing.’

  ‘Her children are still alive and will bear the shame. She may even be buried outside church ground as a suicide.’

  Rory heaved another great sigh. ‘She did commit suicide, Euphemia. There is no doubt of that.’

  ‘I doubt it,’ I said, but he continued over me.

  ‘And as for her children knowing the truth? I believe the organisers of the Fair will do their very best to keep the whole story out of the press. Or as much of it as is possible. I think it unlikely Mrs Brown’s name will be mentioned in the newspapers. She is not a person of international significance and the letter we read is not being made public knowledge. It is only being said that a note was left. There will be no reason to connect her with Monsieur Toussaint as far as the outside world is to know.’

  ‘This is not right.’

  ‘If it is her immortal soul that worries you,’ said Rory, ‘then as a Christian you must believe God knows all and will treat her accordingly.’

  ‘You have lost your faith?’ I asked in some shock.

  ‘I am not entirely sure I ever had any,’ said Rory. ‘Besides we – you, Bertram, and I – have seen such evil in this world and so many wrongdoings go unpunished, that I must wonder if it is only the hope of justice in the next life that makes this world keep turning. And if that is so, I must also question whether it is true.’

  I was so shocked by his outburst that I drank the rest of my drink in silence. Then I politely excused myself and retired. I felt as if my whole world was exploding around me.

  Chapter Eighteen

  An unexpected champion

  You must not think I am more pious than the next person. I do not always say my prayers as I was taught as a child, but growing up in a rectory with a father who was kindly, wise, and a vicar, I did for the main part only encounter those who were also of the Christian faith. Of course, I have since met many who have professed to be a follower of the faith and have committed atrocities, even murder. But somehow in the end I have always assumed they will find their way back – maybe only as the hangman’s noose is placed around their neck. Rory’s casual dismissal of what had been a central tenet of my entire life had thrown me badly. He is an intelligent man, a little over-emotional at times and perhaps prone to anger and jealousy, but he is a man who thinks deeply. If this was how he saw the world, could it be that his beliefs were shared by many?

  And yet within me there was an adult voice that scolded that I was feeling as Amy will when she is finally told Santa Claus does not exist. Not that I am suggesting God does not exist, but all children already know inside, by the time they are told that Santa is not real, that this is the case. As we grow into adults we naturally abandon magic, but to also abandon faith? I thought I was stronger than that, but listening to Rory I realised I had always accepted faith and never questioned it. If his doubts could make me wonder then it made me wonder if I too had no solid beliefs, but only a passive agreement with society in general.

  When I eventually slept I was haunted once more by dreams of men marching off to war. That I do not believe God will help prevent the folly of man is perhaps part of the source of my discomfort. Often in my dreams I see Rory lying bleeding. Never Bertram or Hans, only Rory, and each time I witness it I cry out in my sleep. As I did tonight.

  I was awoken by a loud knocking on my door. ‘Euphemia, are you well?’

  I staggered to the door, the last vestiges of the dream still floating before my eyes, and opened it to find Mary standing on the threshold, her candle held high.

  ‘My goodness, you look as if you have seen an army of ghosts!’

  Her comment was unfortunately apt, and to my shame I turned from her weeping loudly.

  ‘Oh, good heavens!’ I heard the door close and thought Mary had returned to her own room –
that was until I felt her hand on my shoulder. She guided me to sit on my bed.

  ‘My dear Euphemia, I know we have not always been on the closest of terms, but it distresses me to see you so! This must be more than a dream. I know you to be a strong-minded, if sometimes misguided, woman. No mere dream could reduce you to this. Tell me. I will be your confidant. I am quite apt at solving problems, you know.’

  All this was said gently and with a humour I had not thought Mary possessed. ‘I’m so sorry,’ I said. ‘The recent events have overwhelmed me.’ I could not tell her of my dreams, as I would also need to mention Fitzroy, and my signature on that dratted new document the Official Secrets Act prevented me from doing so.

  ‘How so?’ enquired Mary. ‘I know you have endured far worse. Eugenie Brown might have been a paragon of virtue for all I know, but you had known her but a short time. Her suicide is a tragedy, of course,’ this last was said in the tones of a woman who could not understand ever taking such an action, ‘but this...’ I imagined she gestured at me at this point, but my eyes were filled with tears. It was clear I would have to explain.

  ‘I do not believe she killed herself,’ I said. ‘And no one will believe me.’

  ‘Ah,’ said Mary. ‘You do get yourself involved in such things.’ She paused. ‘I am not a great one for the patting of hands and offering condolences. If you were my cousin Lucy I could distract you by encouraging you to talk of the latest fashions, but you, like I, are uninterested in such things.’[22]

  ‘So,’ she continued, ‘I suggest we attack the problem with reason. What reasons, concrete if you please, do you have for thinking Mrs Brown did not kill herself.’

  ‘The local police said she had rocks in her pockets to weigh her down, but her costume had no pockets.’

  ‘Hmm. Shoddy reporting, no doubt, but could she not have tied rocks onto herself?’

  ‘Would it not be difficult for a woman to select rocks from the various rockeries in the gardens and tie them to her with twine without being witnessed?’ I asked, thinking of it for the first time.