Losing interest, she turned from him to resume watching the game. Colin thundered up and down the court on powerful legs. He was too big a lad to be agile, but he demolished the ball whenever by chance it caught his racket. His small, dark opponent scampered lightly back and forth, easily outmaneuvering him with precisely aimed returns.
Why had he come? he wondered. Surely, she was right. Whatever she knew of that, by all accounts, badly managed case was so lost in the mists of time as to be irretrievable as evidence now. He’d seen the reports, the statements taken by those “investigating.”
But every instinct told him that the Winthrop murder held the key to recent events. Anything else was coincidental beyond belief.
Eventually, Colin lost the match on the serve. The boys were packing up their gear when Agnes turned to him and announced she was cold. He unlocked the brakes of her chair, and, following her directions, took her up in the lift to her room, a small but cheerful private room with flowered wallpaper, overlooking the front of the building where a small ornamental waterfall spilled over into a rock garden. Perhaps a bite to eat in town while he put in time, he was thinking, waiting for the late train… “I have a photo of the castle as it was then, you know, if you care to see?”
He feigned curiosity, more out of politeness and deference to her age than anything, and followed her arthritic, pointing finger to the bottom shelf of a painted yellow bookcase against the wall. There on its side lay a large, velvet-covered photo album, of a type he hadn’t seen since his grandmother’s day. He hefted it over to the table where she sat and placed it before her, rather fearing a protracted stroll through all ninety years of Agnes’ memories. Indeed, she paused at pages bearing a photo montage of husbands one through five, and took a moment to introduce them all. But then she flipped back to near the beginning of the book.
He saw what looked like a professionally composed photograph of an imposing gray castle set against thundering gray skies. But what caught his eye were the people in the photo on the opposite page.
She pointed to it.
“The architect took that after he finished renavatin’ the castle kitchen. Lady Vi wasn’t half in a state over that, gettin’ it doon before the party arrived. There, that’s me, holding the book.”
The black and white photo showed a cavernous room with stone walls, feebly lit by a skylight levered open for ventilation. The five of them, four women in their twenties and thirties and one solemn young man, stood captured in various studied poses, not looking at the camera, apparently absorbed in their tasks. A much younger Agnes consulted her book of receipts; one woman sliced a potato as another stirred something in a large metal bowl, a bowl so deep one of her hands disappeared inside it to the elbow. Something about their stilted posture and calculated avoidance of the lens told the viewer it was not the casual shot it appeared to be but one carefully arranged by the photographer, right down to the props. One could almost hear him shouting directions at them down the century: “Try to look natural, for God’s sake! That’s it! Hold it!” Only the young man, one hand on an enormous metal canister, was turned slightly toward the camera as he stood near the cooker, spoiling the effect of industry caught unawares as he stole a sideways peek at the photographer. The fourth woman, holding by the neck a dead fowl with about half of its feathers left intact, spoiled the effect as well by staring off blindly into space as if wondering how on earth the thing had flown into her hand.
He took the album from Agnes, holding it close to his eyes for a nearer look, to make certain he was right.
It couldn’t be the same woman. It couldn’t. But it was. Among the array of old-fashioned ranges, cookers, and spits stood a very young Mrs. Romano, wearing a long white apron tied about her waist, and holding by the neck that bedraggled wildfowl.
“Who is this?” he asked carefully.
“The undercook, Maria. She left shairtly afterwards, run off with the footman. Told me she’d seen somethin’ that night, the night of the mairder. Said folk wairen’t in their beds as they claimed. Any road, many did leave aboot that time. I asked her was it the mairder upset her. She said, no, it was the haggis. But I think it were the mairder, just the same.”
He felt as if the more he peeled the layers off this case, the further he was from the center. Mrs. Romano had been there, Chloe had been there-who else had failed to mention their starring roles in that long-ago murder case?
He asked her to name the other people in the photo.
“Spencer, did you say?”
“That’s right. I don’t know I ever knew his first name. He left shairtly after, too. They all did, myself and oozeband number one included.”
“How did you come by these photos?”
“I told you, the architect took ’em. For posterior, like. They’d set him up with a little room to work in, to make the photos. A darkroom, they called it. I asked him could I have it, the photo. It was me kitchen, after all.”
He turned a page. This time, another black and white group, but of a very different kind: a gathering of about thirty people, all dressed formally for dinner, posed stiffly on a carved wooden staircase. He scanned the faces, many of them of people probably long gone. There… there was a diminutive Chloe, looking like a girl playing dress-up in her mother’s finest, her neck and wrists encircled with massive diamonds intended for the larger woman she had become.
“After the mairder, the castle wair shut oop. Lady Vi was gone, the master dead.” Defensively, she added, “Well, that photo was just sittin’ there, and no one to mind me having it.”
The photographer had arranged them so that the guests fanned out behind what were clearly the hosts of the party, a distinguished man in his sixties, a beautiful, much younger woman at his side, one hand resting on his arm. Sir Winnie Winthrop and his lady. The women’s stiff bouffant hairstyles and fulsomely petticoated dresses identified it as a scene from the fifties. Violet was instantly recognizable, sleek in classic, form-hugging black, her hair pulled back into the chignon she still affected.
But this was a different Violet, one unaltered by fifty years and a surgeon’s hand, and there was something about the hands, the eyes… He held the photo closer.
Agnes was saying something about eyes, as well.
“The goings on, weekends in that house, you wouldna believe. Accairding to what the maids told me, noon stayed in the beds they was given, not for long. Scampering aboot half the night, they was. There-that’s the gentlemon there the weekend of the mairder, the one who said he was with Violet. Any road, he was making calf ’s eyes at Violet all the weekend. Right behind her on the stair, see? Could hardly stand to be more than a foot away. Handsome, was he. But she’d ’ave noon of it, not me Lady Vi, not she. I dunna recall his name. Welsh, he was, though he tried to put on airs like he ware fooling someone aboot that.”
“John Davies.”
“What?”
He’d forgotten her infirmity. “John Davies,” he shouted.
“Aye, I believe you’re right. The one who told such tales later at the inquest.”
“And went on to make a living at it. Telling tales, that is.”
***
Being driven back down the hill some time later in another taxi, St. Just sat looking again at the photos Agnes had let him borrow, turning over the possibilities in his mind. Now he had all the pieces to the puzzle, but could not for the life of him see how they fit together. The driver, launched on a monologue about the local rugby match, seemed not to notice his passenger wasn’t listening, might indeed have been miles away.
Competing images crowded St. Just’s mind, but what he kept coming back to was the look of pride and accomplishment on Chloe’s face when she told him of capturing a title for “Daddy.” A rose by another name, he thought. Davies. Beauclerk-Fisk.
Some rose. That second-hand, shopworn title of Sir Adrian’s. Had she funded not only its purchase, but the forged identity that must have been necessary to attain it?
He looked again a
t the photos. The faces, young and old, passed before him as in an identity parade: Mrs. Romano. Chloe. Violet. Sir Adrian. All at Waverley Court-by design, or by chance? Spencer- a common enough name. Jeffrey’s father?
They passed again the church with its nativity scene, his thoughts on crimes, old and new, on births, miracle and otherwise.
And suddenly, he saw the truth, unfolding before him like a bolt of shimmering cloth. Finding his mobile, St. Just punched in Sergeant Fear on speed dial, smiling as he imagined the receiving instrument bursting into the happy strains of “Jingle Bells.”
24. TOO MANY CROOKS
SERGEANT FEAR DROVE TOWARD Waverley Court at a speed sufficient to peel the paint off the car. St. Just jostled against his seat harness in a way he felt reflected his fettered thinking on the case from the beginning.
“Three murders,” he was saying. “Two of them growing out of the first. All of it, Fear. All of it woven together.”
Fear slowed just enough to be able to talk over the straining engine.
“Hang on… What could any of this have to do with the Win-throp case?” he asked. “If anyone wanted revenge against Violet for that, they certainly waited a long time.”
St. Just answered indirectly, his mind still retracing the steps that had led him to the solution. Had he missed anything? Lost the trail somewhere? No. The “who” was clear; the “why,” if he had it right, was astounding.
“I thought the motive was confused,” he said, “an explosion of years, decades of spite-an explosion going off, as explosions by definition do, in all directions. Where there is years-long suffering, the desire to make your enemy suffer includes the wish to prolong his pain, the way yours has been prolonged. A quick kill isn’t enough: the demolishing of your enemy’s dreams, before his eyes, must come first. Perhaps, too, anything or anyone remotely associated in your mind with your enemy becomes a target. But making the enemy pay, suffer, that is paramount, and by any means at hand. What was at hand was Sir Adrian’s investment in Ruthven as his heir.”
“But Ruthven-”
“Yes. What the murderer didn’t know was that Sir Adrian’s dreams for Ruthven had already been demolished. How frustrating- maddening-it must have been, to learn all the ‘effort’ of killing Ruthven had been wasted. Sir Adrian had already stopped caring about Ruthven-instantly, in the way a man of his nature could turn his limited affections on and off. No matter that Ruthven had been raised as his son; he was not his flesh and blood. He ceased to matter once Sir Adrian learned the truth.”
St. Just closed his eyes as they nearly ran the car up into the back of a lorry.
“Slow down. It can all wait. Some of them have waited years, after all.”
Fear, after talking with St. Just in Cornwall, had telephoned ahead to Waverley Court, telling Maria that the inmates were to gather and await the pleasure of the Chief Inspector. The car having returned to a velocity somewhere below the speed of light, St. Just continued:
“We know that Sir Adrian liked to play games with his will. A game of Russian roulette, as his solicitor called it. Perhaps a better comparison would be that his heirs were all perpetually riding a Ferris wheel. When one of them was at the top, it meant the rest were below. They’d almost become used to this over the years, resigned to it. What, after all, could they do about it but hope, when the old man finally did go to his reward, they’d be the one who happened to be riding at the top when the wheel stopped?
“But then, the unexpected happens. He’s added a new player, yet another person to ride this infernal wheel with them, reducing the odds in their favor even further. That, I thought, was what made them-made someone-finally snap. Sir Adrian had fatally underestimated the extent to which his lack of feeling might finally, fatally, antagonize one, or all, of the members of his little family.”
“That explains why Sir Adrian was killed, perhaps, but it doesn’t explain Ruthven’s death-unless, as you say, that was a mistake on the killer’s part,” said Fear. “But if one of them wanted to kill off the competition, so to speak, surely the most likely target was Violet- the newcomer?”
“Of course, you’re quite right about that.”
“And?”
But, again, St. Just didn’t appear to be listening. At times like these the DCI could be maddening. If he, Fear, was so right, why was Violet still hanging about? Fear slowed the car just enough to fishtail into the drive.
St. Just continued thoughtfully:
“Adrian, as we have sensed from the beginning, was the catalyst for murder. He certainly had everything to do with setting in motion the machinery that led to Ruthven’s death. And eventually, even inevitably, he became the catalyst for his own death.”
“With his remarriage, you mean.”
“We have to keep in mind that Sir Adrian’s character combined the wanton destructiveness of a child with all the untrustworthiness of a detective novelist. He was bored. He was old and he was bored, jaded and discontented, in fading health. Disappointment over Ruthven may have driven him over the edge, who knows? So he spins the wheel again, just for mischief ’s sake.
“He has to do something that will make them all come running. He knew if he announced his wedding after the fact it was unlikely to cause a stampede to his door. Quite the opposite, in fact, was likely to happen. Oh, they would carry on and gnash their teeth, but they’d all stay in London to do that-and where was the fun in that? Eventually, curiosity might have brought one or two of them to Waverley Court. But not all-and perhaps not the one he most wanted to see: Ruthven. I think what he had in mind was to disown him publicly, a final, dramatic humiliation-on top of his remarriage-for Chloe.
“In any event, he stages this phony engagement or pre-wedding party, whatever you want to call it. That, he knew, would bring them all on the run. Especially Ruthven, the control freak. There was still a chance, you see, of changing their fates, preventing the wedding. Or so they thought.”
A final spurt of gravel, and Fear brought the car to a halt at the door of Waverley Court.
St. Just gazed balefully at the coat of arms over the imposing door.
“‘Blood alone moves the wheels of history.’ But I don’t think blood lines are quite what Mussolini had in mind.”
***
Something about the golden light shimmering off the dark mahogany fittings onto the group made him think of spiders trapped in amber.
They were arranged in an artful tableau, like stage actors holding their poses just before the curtain went up for the next act, clustered in pairs or groups reflecting their current, no-doubt constantly shifting, alliances.
Natasha stood near the mantelpiece, wearing a clinging gray dress that made her look as ephemeral as one of the puffs of smoke going up the chimney. George was at her side in one of his studiedly casual slouches designed to display his Armani to best effect.
Mrs. Romano and Paulo had tucked themselves into a far dark corner, standing, just the pair of them, distancing themselves from the rest. Her hand, he noted, lay protectively on her son’s arm.
Sarah had acquired a new partner: She sat on one of the sofas, flanked by Albert on one side, Jeffrey on another, an arrangement that served to point up the physical resemblance between the two men.
Violet, Chloe, and Lillian, all now in black, sat together in silence in a triangular grouping of chairs, watching him warily as he took up a position before the fireplace. The smoke from their cigarettes created a literal screen in front of them. Natasha and George withdrew at his approach, taking up a position behind the three women.
He paused, taking them all in, sizing them up, like a washed-in-the-blood minister about to exhort them to repent before it was too late.
It was Violet who spoke first. After all, he thought, it was her house, now.
“Do you have any idea of the hour, Inspector?” She stabbed out her cigarette in an angry gesture, swatting away the smoke. “Don’t you think we’ve been through enough?”
“I do indeed, Lady B
eauclerk-Fisk. But I felt certain you would share my interest in solving the mystery of the murder of your husband, whatever the hour.”
“Have you solved it?” She wouldn’t meet his eyes; she might have been asking the ashtray.
“I have indeed. Although I doubt you will care to hear what I’ve learned,” he said.
He saw her large hand freeze in the act of lighting another cigarette, an infinitesimal hesitation that told him the arrow had struck home. As she tensed for further attack, he turned instead to Chloe.
“There is a tradition in this country of which I am certain you are aware: Lying to the police is deemed a crime. You failed to mention during any of our interviews Adrian’s involvement in the Win-throp murder. You even failed to mention he was there at the time.”
“You didn’t ask, Inspector,” she said. Her low voice was even, unconcerned. “Do you really imagine it had anything to do with Ruthven’s death? It couldn’t have done. And his death is all I care about, certainly not Adrian’s. I’d like to pin a medal on the person-”
“What if I told you your son’s death sprang directly from the death of Winthrop?”
A slight start of distress, followed by her usual quick recovery.
“I would say you were mistaken. Yes, Adrian was there. It was how we met. He was laid up with that ‘sprained ankle,’ or so he said, so he was mincing about the house with the women while the others were out shooting. Always his preference anyway, the company of women.” She angled a glance in Violet’s direction. “In a strange way, that murder brought us together. When I ran into him again in Paris, later in the season, it gave us something to talk about, didn’t it? Nothing like being suspects in a notorious crime to bring people together.”
Death of a Cozy Writer Page 23
