Murder Keeps No Calendar

by Cathy Ace

  Finally, I was beginning to get impatient. ‘Paris, you’ve told the story in such a way that anyone can see Lily would have killed to free her husband, Charles would have killed to be free of his parents, Lily’s mother would have killed to save her daughter and, possibly, the Eversholts’ servants or an unknown thief might have killed for the stolen items – or some other reason you haven’t told me about. Is that about it?’

  ‘Uh huh,’ was the only thing I got out of him as he dropped his head even further.

  I pushed on. ‘Research tells us that most murders are committed by men; however, when women do kill, they often use poisons and other things, like pills, which don’t require physical violence. In this case, however, poison might have been used so the victims didn’t have a chance to cry out in the night – drawing attention to their plight – so it could be the tool of either a female, or a cautious male. Everyone could have known about the poison and how to use it, anyone could have administered it into the food. Was there any forensic or medical information you haven’t mentioned?’

  ‘There was an autopsy, but the local guy did it, and all he told anyone was that the Eversholts had eaten the poison. He wasn’t very sophisticated.’ Paris was dragging his storytelling feet.

  I could picture a rudimentary slice and dice being carried out in a mud-washed room in rural China back in the 1930s, and realized I was getting a bit ahead of myself. I reined in my desire to push ahead and tried to be methodical. First of all I had to get Paris to come clean about a few family facts.

  ‘Will your grandparents be at the party this weekend?’ I asked, all innocence.

  Paris looked nervous and mumbled, ‘Yeah’ under his breath.

  ‘Do you think they’re going to like this story?’

  ‘I guess.’

  I decided this was the moment to confront him. ‘Lily and Charles are real people and members of your family, aren’t they? This is a real case from your family’s history in Shanghai, isn’t it?’

  He bit his lip, and didn’t make eye contact with me. ‘Not exactly.’

  ‘What do you mean, “not exactly”?’ I pressed.

  ‘You know Sandra Redmond?’

  ‘Your girlfriend?’ I knew Paris and Sandra had been a couple for years – they were hardly ever seen apart, had taken all the same classes as each other, and were generally thought of as an odd, but strangely well-matched couple. She was a pretty, blue-eyed blond, and a good Canadian girl through and through – the type who enjoys kayaking, and running the Grouse Grind – while Paris was whacky, off-beat, and enjoyed using his appearance to shock and challenge.

  Paris nodded. ‘Yes, my Sandra.’ His face softened as he spoke her name. ‘Charles and Lily were her great-grandparents, on her mother’s side.’

  I was surprised.

  ‘So Lily and Charles made off to Canada, where they lived in poverty and happiness?’ I asked.

  Paris’s voice was heavy. ‘Kinda. It turns out they traveled across Asia and Europe by land, then got a ship to Canada. Lily gave birth to Sandra’s grandmother pretty quick, and they all lived in Halifax for years. It was about as far away from China as they could get. And they were poor, and they did work hard, and then Sandra’s grandmother married her grandfather, and they moved to Regina. Then they had her mother, and she married Sandra’s dad, and they moved to Vancouver. We met here, at university.’

  ‘Why this story then, Paris? Got some big plans, have you?’

  Paris looked amazed. ‘How did you guess?’

  ‘Paris, I’m a psychologist first and foremost. Nowadays I apply my expertise to the field of profiling victims of crime, but you’re not that difficult to read. You want to marry Sandra?’

  Paris smiled and nodded with excitement. ‘And she wants to marry me too. But . . .’

  ‘Go on,’ I encouraged him.

  ‘You’re right. This isn’t just a story; it’s a really famous unsolved case in Shanghai. In all of China. No one ever found out who killed the Eversholts, and everyone just sort of accepted it must have been Lily and Charles, or at least one of them. My whole family knows about the case, and when Sandra tells them about her family they’ll know who she is. You see, her great-grandparents changed their names when they immigrated, but we can’t begin our life together without telling my family everything. It would be very . . .’ He hesitated before whispering the key word, ‘. . . dishonorable.’

  I got it. One of the things I learned soon after my arrival in Vancouver was that – in the Chinese community – honor, the integrity of the family unit, and the way that every generation of a family is linked to all the rest, past and future, were critical issues taken seriously by all. If Sandra was to be married to Paris, then all her ancestors would be coming along for the ride. Maybe it would be in her favor that she had Chinese blood in her, but I didn’t think the Chow family would be leaping over each other to welcome the great-grandchild of probable murderers into their family.

  ‘So you want to tell the story to convince your family it wasn’t Sandra’s great-grandparents who killed the Eversholts, is that it?’

  Paris nodded, and added, ‘But I want to prove it too. If I can. It has to be beyond doubt.’

  ‘That’s a pretty tall order, Paris. This all took place over eighty years ago; how can you prove it now?’

  ‘I don’t know. I thought, like, maybe you could help. I know you’ve worked on real-life cases in the past and, well, I guess I just thought, like . . .’ He trailed off, audibly losing hope with every syllable.

  I couldn’t help but feel sorry for him; it seemed Lily and Charles weren’t the only star-crossed lovers in this story. Given that I don’t have a single romantic bone in my body, being a happily single forty-something-year-old, I knew I didn’t want to help him for all the soppy reasons – I wanted to help him because there was a problem to be solved.

  So I asked the only sensible question, ‘Where’ve you been getting all your information, Paris? Is it all just hearsay from within Sandra’s family, or do we have some real facts to go on?’

  Paris passed me his folder. Inside it were newspaper clippings, articles downloaded from the Internet, photocopies of letters and cards exchanged between Lily, Charles, their daughter, and her daughter. Paris had done a thorough research job – I wouldn’t have expected anything less from such a methodical and diligent student.

  As I flipped through the plastic wallets protecting his treasures, I glimpsed a sepia photograph of all three Eversholts; they were posed stiffly in front of a spectacular staircase, ornate lamps flanking them. The Mr and Mrs were all I’d expected – he was upright, with slicked hair and a dress suit, she was Chinese only in her features, which she’d done her best to hide under heavy make-up and a tiara-like headdress. Charles was young, and I thought of Paris as I peered at the grainy picture. I guessed Charles would have been about twenty-two or so, and here was Paris sitting in front of me already older than that by two years, yet still in school. Charles was smiling and looking straight at the camera – he was obviously a confident young man.

  As I was thinking this Paris piped up, ‘That picture was taken at the ball I told you about in the story. That was the night Charles fell for Lily.’

  So that was what I could see in the young man’s expression – literally the first flush of love, of passion. That chemically induced state of euphoria that kids us into thinking we’ve found a mate for life; that rush of endorphins that makes us do the stupidest things, even if they are totally contrary to our nature, just because we believe the object of our obsession wants this of us. How stupid we become when we allow chemistry to take over our bodies.

  I put the story into context as I continued to flick through the file. Two youngsters, passions boiling over, physical desires burning them up, hidebound by cultural taboos and controlling parents, the romance of a damsel in distress, the appeal of a strong, handsome young man. It really was an age-old tale.

  Now to the
murder; I could see a great deal of newspaper space had been given to the story in the English language newspaper in Shanghai of the day. Obviously it had been a great scandal, and much was made of the fact Lily had gone missing, and that her mother had clammed up. There didn’t seem to be much of an outcry that Charles, too, had done a bunk, but I guessed that was to be expected.

  Paris didn’t seem to have left out any of the key facts of the story, and it was clear the local police – such as they were – had been baffled; they had no proof of any one particular person’s involvement, so they couldn’t bring charges against anyone, not even in absentia.

  I moved on to some cards and letters Lily and Charles had given to each other over the years; obviously they’d been passed down in Sandra’s family, and there were even little scribbled notes they had written to each other. It seemed that, when they’d married in China before they left for Canada, they’d become man and wife under the names of Lily and Charles Farmer, which struck me as a nice touch. It was also clear they’d spent every moment they could together, but with their working lives pulling them apart for what must have been about fifteen hours a day, their time together was never enough for the lovebirds – hence all the notes.

  There were lovely little wedding anniversary notes, birthday wishes, and Christmas greetings – they wrote what was in their hearts, and seemed to share so much. Thanks to my ability to speed-read, I managed to get through the file’s contents pretty quickly, then looked over at Paris.

  I smiled knowingly as I asked, ‘So, do you want to prove who did it – or do you want to prove they didn’t do it? That’s the real question – because I can help you with one, but not the other.’

  I knew what his reply would be; he confirmed it when he answered, ‘I want to prove they didn’t do it. Can you help with that one?’

  He was on the edge of his chair. All his hopes seemed to rest on my shoulders.

  I tried to be as good as he thought I was.

  ‘Look at this, Paris.’ I pointed to a note that was written from a hospital bed in Halifax.

  Paris read the note aloud:

  February 14th 1955. My darling Lily, I know it is difficult for you to come here and see me like this every day, especially when I have been such a strong man all my life. But we must face the fact I am dying, and you will now have to live without me. I hope you will stay with our darling daughter Joy for many years to come, and you know I will be watching over you both. She is a beautiful young girl, almost as beautiful as her mother, and you must be sure she marries that boy Ted. He’s a sound young man, and will work hard to support her. I’ve given him my permission to ask for her hand, but I believe my illness has held him back. Don’t let them wait too long; you know how it feels to want to be with someone you love. It seems strange to say goodbye to you – I feel as though you have been with me all my life, and I know the memories I have of you will come with my soul when it leaves this sick old body. So now is the time when I have to tell you that I forgive you. You were stronger than me even then – I could not have done what you did. We have never spoken of it, but I have always known. God has blessed us with a happy life together, and a wonderful, healthy daughter – he would not have done that if he hadn’t forgiven you. If God can forgive you, then I can certainly do likewise. Indeed, maybe it was God’s work you were doing that night – for without your actions, we would never have had this life together. I forgive you, and I thank you, and I love you, my darling Lily. Charles.

  ‘Wow,’ exclaimed Paris, ‘I’ve read that note before, but it never clicked. I can see it now; she did it. Lily killed the Eversholts, and Charles knew about it all along. Oh no. What’ll I do? This is proof she did it.’

  Paris was distraught. I tried to calm him. ‘Hang on a minute, Paris. Read the next note, too. The one from Lily to Charles, inside the big heart-shaped card.’

  Paris flipped the plastic wallet and began to read aloud again:

  February 14th 1955. Darling Charles, This will be my last Valentine to you – we both know that, and I will not lie to you at the end. I love you, Charles, and I have done so since I first saw you in Madame Chang’s all those years ago. You have been my strength and my life – you have always been my Valentine, in good times and bad. I cannot write very much, you know how bad my eyes are these days, but I wanted to send you this big heart and tell you that you hold mine in your hands. I will hold your secret close to my heart forever. I will never speak of it, not to one living soul. Only God knows, and he will smile on you. Your Loving Wife, Lily.

  Paris looked confused. ‘I don’t get it. Well, I do – I mean, I never read it, like, that way before, but could she be telling him she knows he killed his parents?’

  I smiled. ‘Exactly.’

  Paris still looked puzzled. ‘Exactly what?’

  ‘Oh come on, Paris, you’re sharper than that. Each one of them obviously thought the other one did it. They both make that clear in these notes.’

  ‘So which one of them did do it?’ Paris jumped to his feet with frustration.

  ‘Neither of them did it, Paris. Charles knew he hadn’t done it, but assumed Lily had; Lily knew she hadn’t done it, and assumed Charles had. Neither of them did it – and here’s the proof.’

  Paris sat back down with a thump and took a moment to re-read the notes again. A smile lit up his face; his perfect teeth gleamed at me.

  ‘You’re right. It was there in front of me all the time; these two notes. I’d completely missed their significance. You’re right – there’s no other explanation. Sandra’s going to be so happy.’ He was on his feet again and grasped my hand with both of his. ‘Oh Professor Morgan – I can’t begin to tell you how important this is.’ He had tears in his eyes, and I could feel my own begin to well up.

  ‘It’s okay, Paris, I’m really glad I could help.’ I tried to calm him. ‘I think you should also emphasize in your storytelling that, if Lily’s mother was so sick she died just a day after the Eversholts, she couldn’t possibly have done it either; so there’s no chance that Sandra has a murderous ancestor at all. Play up the theft angle – I think there’s a strong argument for the local authorities not taking enough notice of that. They were lawless times, Paris, and I’m sure news that a wealthy Westerner with a bejeweled Chinese wife were staying at the local inn would have reached some of the region’s thieves of the day. The local police probably just didn’t want to admit the murderers could have been still lurking in the area. I hope you and Sandra will be very happy together. So what will you do? Tell the story, then read the final farewell notes from Lily and Charles?’

  Paris was gathering up his bits and pieces, stuffing them haphazardly into his backpack. He was distracted as he looked at me, bright-eyed. ‘What? Oh yes, I’ll do that. That’s just what I’ll do; I’ll tell them a story like it’s a chance to solve a crime, and when they’ve all worked out that the letters show both Lily and Charles were innocent, then I’ll tell them who Sandra is. It’ll be great; they’ll all be very happy. Gung Hei Fat Choi, professor – Happy New Year!’

  He waved as he rushed out of my office, and I could hear him speaking to Sandra on his cell phone before he’d even reached the end of the corridor. He was in for quite a life-changing weekend.

  As I gathered up the mountain of scripts I needed to grade at the weekend, I could visualize the Eversholts eating their last meal together, full of anger and bigotry; I silently hoped the poison had given them as much pain as they had caused Charles and Lily – even though Paris had said it wouldn’t have done so.

  As I drove my old but beloved red Mazda Miata toward my little house on Burnaby mountain, I allowed my thoughts to turn to who had killed the Eversholts, rather than who hadn’t. I discounted the notion of thieves in the night, and of the Eversholts’ own servants killing their employers; thieves or bandits wouldn’t have bothered with poison – they’d have simply battered the Eversholts to death, or – more likely – slit their throats, and the
servants wouldn’t have wanted to be out of a job even if they could have sneaked off with a bit of jewelry. No, since it clearly wasn’t either Lily or Charles, it must have been Lily’s mother.

  The psychology was right; Lily’s mother had a strong motive, and she’d have had both the means and the opportunity. She would certainly have risked it – and she’d have found the strength to push her feeble body beyond its normal limits for her daughter’s sake. She was an aging widow, ailing, and probably under the care of a doctor, so maybe she’d had the poisonous root close to hand. I felt sure she’d have killed to ensure her daughter’s happiness, knowing she was close to death herself. An old woman, maybe swathed in disguising headgear, wouldn’t have been noticed sneaking through a rural inn’s kitchen, or even stirring a pot, and, without a witness – and there had been none – no one would have been able to prove it was or wasn’t her, either then or now. I wondered why Lily’s mother hadn’t given herself up to the police, in order to protect her daughter’s reputation, but realized her untimely death might have prevented her from following through with any plan she had to do just that.

  I was sure Paris would be able to convince his family that Lily’s mother would have been too sick to do it, and to convincingly point the finger at bandits and thieves. After all, what harm was there in that? Lily’s mother had wanted her daughter to be happy; I was sure she’d want her great-great-granddaughter to be happy too.

  Having battled heavier than usual traffic on my short trip, I finally got home at the end of a long week and decided I deserved a drink. Just that day I’d ploughed through grading two midterms and solved an eighty-odd-year-old mystery, so, if anyone deserved a Bombay and tonic, it was me. As I slipped a slice of lemon into my glass I glanced at the copy of The Globe and Mail I’d tossed onto the kitchen table, still unread. I was amazed at the price of a barrel of oil, and my mind leaped to the Eversholt oil holdings. I wondered if they’d been left to Charles; he was the Eversholts’ only son and heir, and they hadn’t actually had time to change their wills before they died. I decided to mention it to Paris on Monday; after all, Sandra’s family might be able to do something about claiming her birthright. She could be very rich indeed.