She looked across at Sarah, who, as if on cue, moved marginally closer to Jeffrey.
“You also didn’t mention that his name was not Adrian Beau-clerk-Fisk when you met him, but John Davies. Why?”
She said nothing this time, but he knew the answer, incredible as it was: rampant, bloody-minded snobbery. She kept silent because that damned title-the one she had had to subsidize for Adrian-meant so much to her. As she had kept silent in part to keep the scandal of Ruthven’s parentage out of the headlines.
“You didn’t want me digging around in Adrian’s past,” he said for her. “That is a wish you shared in common with at least one other person in this room. Mrs. Romano, for one.”
He saw her grip tighten on Paulo’s arm. “Sir Adrian said never to talk about those days,” she said.
“You were certainly well-rewarded for your silence. I suppose the danger of your being recognized by Violet was minimal-it’s not as if she would have remembered an undercook from her household of decades ago. Any more than she spotted Jeffrey’s resemblance to her former scullery boy.”
“Mine?” Jeffrey looked genuinely startled. Turning to Sarah, he said, “I knew my father had emigrated from England in the fifties. I had no idea there was a connection. None at all.”
St. Just allowed his glance to rest on each of them in turn.
“As I was explaining to my sergeant on the way here, I thought at first the motive of the murderer might be muddled, indiscriminate- someone who wanted only to eliminate the family, one by one. And to some extent, that was true.”
Involuntarily, Albert flicked a glance in Sarah’s direction.
“The order in which they were eliminated did not seem to matter. Why kill Ruthven, when it was clear to anyone the real source of the conflict in this family was Sir Adrian himself? Why not go straight to the source-cut off the head of the snake?
“Then I thought, what if the choice of Ruthven were not random at all? What if there were a reason to eliminate Ruthven as heir? His death would point the finger of blame at the family, to be sure-at everyone in the house with a vested interest. Perhaps that was part of what the murderer wanted: to widen the field to such an extent no one person could be excluded as a suspect absolutely. And at the same time, to narrow the pool to be divided up on Sir Adrian’s demise.
“So there was that possibility: Ruthven was an inconvenience to be eliminated, by a cold-blooded killer who would have killed anyone who happened to get in the way. But-what if the motive were even more… personal than that?
“Ruthven was not well-loved, certainly, but the violent, brutal method chosen for his death spoke of something more frenzied than a desire to simply get him out of the way. That was when I realized the motives might be multiple-not muddled, multiple. Not random- multiple. I asked: What if someone felt betrayed by Ruthven? His wife, for example? The victim of his multiple infidelities.”
He looked to Lillian, who turned away disdainfully.
“Or, was it perhaps one of his victims on the other side of that coin, so to speak? His mistress, for example.”
Now he had captured even Lillian’s attention. They all looked at each other, mystified.
“No one came near the house that night. You said so yourself,” said Albert.
“Perhaps no one needed to. Perhaps the killer, the mistress, was right here. You, for example, Natasha,” he said.
“Don’t be ridiculous. You know perfectly well my relationship is with George. You even know why I’m with George.”
George frowned, deeply baffled. What other reason could there be for a woman to be with him, apart from the sheer wonderfulness of it all?
“After Ruthven discarded you, you turned to George, that is true.”
“I say…” began George.
“If you couldn’t insinuate your way into this family one way, you decided to try another, didn’t you? The child you’re carrying is not an invention of George’s, as you led us to believe, but quite real-or so say your NHS records. That was a silly lie; did you count on us not bothering to verify every word you said, just because you were with the Yard? It’s not the kind of secret you could keep forever, now, is it? Perhaps Chloe here can give you pointers on that subject. But the one secret you could keep was that it is Ruthven’s child, not George’s-Ruthven’s. And thus, a child that is no heir to Sir Adrian’s fortune.
“When exactly was it that you met Ruthven, Natasha?”
She gave him a cool smile, but he saw her mouth slip, trembling just for a moment before she spoke.
“Last week, when we were all summoned to the Presence by Sir Adrian, of course.”
“I think not. No, I think not at all. I think you met him in the course of cozying up to George for your investigation. Oh, your story on that score checks out. How was it your superior put it? That you were ‘relentless’ in pursuing a case, like a hound after the fox. I don’t believe he meant that comment on your methods entirely as a compliment, either, even though it often brought him results.
“That is what threw us off course for a while-your story, insofar as what you were doing here, checked out. But the real story is that you met Ruthven and saw in him a finer catch than the one you’d landed. You had to continue seeing George, professional”- and he let his voice dwell on the word-“professional that you were. But it was Ruthven, with his power and money and fame you wanted, not the thief who was stealing from his own father and in due course was headed, with your assistance, for gaol.”
George, his invincible stupidity penetrated at last, looked as if he’d been pole-axed. Sergeant Fear quietly stepped over behind him, blocking a move toward the French doors. He didn’t fail to notice that Paulo had been edging in the direction of the exit, as well.
“Then, as in the nature of these things,” St. Just was saying, “you discovered you were pregnant with Ruthven’s child. You were elated. Here was the tie that would bind Ruthven to you. Now he would leave his wife for you. It’s the same old story, isn’t it? It doesn’t change with the centuries. Far from sharing your joy, Ruthven was appalled. His wife’s money was what had kept him afloat while he waited out his inheritance. He wasn’t jeopardizing that for some commonplace affair. In any event, he knew the child wasn’t Sir Adrian’s grandchild. His mother had let him in on that secret. A child was of less than no use to him in this competition to be favored heir-it might prove to be a danger, in fact. At first he may have told you he wouldn’t acknowledge it, told you to get rid of it. At least, that was no doubt what he was thinking.
“Then you-or was it he?-had a better idea. Clever Ruthven was full of ideas, wasn’t he? Why not foist this child off onto George, ensure its “legitimate” claim to Sir Adrian’s fortune? It was a case of the past repeating itself, wasn’t it? His own mother had done the same, palming Ruthven off onto Sir Adrian. Ruthven must have appreciated that there was a certain symmetry to all of this. A grand joke to play on the old man.”
“The child is George’s. Of course it is. Tell him, George.”
His virility at stake, George repeated manfully, “Of course it is.”
“No doubt blood tests will confirm that,” said St. Just calmly. “In any event, I would urge you, Mr. Beauclerk-Fisk, to investigate that option thoroughly.”
While George mulled this over within the tiny confines of his brain, St. Just went on, speaking again directly to Natasha. She would no longer look at him, but seemed to be studying with great interest the gold bracelet on her wrist.
“Ruthven persuaded you to this scheme. Perhaps you pretended to go along. There was a great fortune to consider, wasn’t there? And poor George would be none the wiser.”
Sarah and Albert exchanged fleeting looks. They had never heard the words “poor” and “George” used together before in the same sentence.
“What did he promise you, Natasha? That you and he would be together once you’d established yourself as the second lady of this house? Did you fall for that? If so, what changed your mind? My gu
ess would be the telephone conversation you overheard him having with his London associate: the other woman in his life. One of the many women in his life.
“Perhaps it was at that moment you accepted the reality at last. He cared nothing for you. You were indeed just the latest pawn in this game. And once you had decided you alone were going to win the game, Ruthven had to die. He knew too much; he was the only one who knew about this child of yours and his. George having sprung his announcement at dinner, there was no time to lose.
“You convinced Ruthven to meet you that night, for one of your usual assignations. You lured him that night to the cellar, stopping to collect your weapon from the selection in the hall, and then you killed him. You killed him, and then carried on with the plan to produce the next Beauclerk-Fisk generation, and collect the money that would go with it.”
“Well, it’s a fascinating theory, Inspector. Oh, and Sir Adrian? While I was on a killing spree I just decided to finish him off, too? Is that it? Before he’d had time to change his will in favor of the child? Silly of me to rush things like that, don’t you think?”
“You didn’t have to worry overmuch about the will-and you are the only one who can truthfully say that. George’s inheriting from Adrian wasn’t essential to this plan. One way or another, you and Ruthven’s child were going to inherit-perhaps later rather than sooner, but eventually. From your mother. From Violet, the new Lady Beauclerk-Fisk.”
25. MIRROR, MIRROR
ALBERT LOOKED AT NATASHA, at Violet, back to Natasha. Why the deuce hadn’t he seen the resemblance? Hazy, like a reflection in a pond, but decidedly there. More obvious than the physical similarities, obscured as they were by Violet’s age and Natasha’s youth, was the way they both stood and moved with silent, feline grace. He was suddenly reminded of Mrs. Butter’s Clytemnestra, the daughter a smaller version of the mother.
For his part, Jeffrey understood that from the first glimpse of Natasha, he, too, had registered the physical resemblance: in the planes of her face, in her walk, even in the ungainly hands that Natasha was at such pains to hide behind long, draping sleeves.
“I should have noticed from the first,” said St. Just. “The similarities are evident, once one becomes aware of them. But I didn’t become aware until I saw a photo of Violet taken decades ago. It was like looking at a photograph of Natasha.
“There was a clue Sir Adrian, the mystery writer, left for us,” he went on. “He was found clutching the red leaf of a poinsettia plant, known as the Christmas plant. We assumed this was an accident, something he simply grabbed at, blindly, as he fell across his desk. But we were forgetting the way Sir Adrian’s mind worked. He couldn’t leave an obvious clue-the killer would have simply removed that from the room. But the subtle clue, the clue to the killer’s name, we nearly missed altogether, as did the killer. What he left us was the name, ‘Natasha.’ Natasha, a common variation of ‘Natalia,’ meaning, ‘born on Christmas day.’ Only Sir Adrian’s sleuth Miss Rampling, or his daughter, Sarah, with her interest in the derivations of names, would have realized what he was trying to tell us.”
“I could have told you… about the name… You never mentioned the plant…” began Sarah. She looked over at Natasha in wonder. Natasha, a killer?
St. Just nodded. “The plant was a clue straight out of one of his novels, and we nearly missed its significance. It was the only thing close to hand that he could use to point us to his killer, without leaving a clue so obvious the killer would realize what he was doing.”
“Oh, come on, Inspector,” said Natasha. “I mean, really. You’ll have to do better than that. My birthday is December 25. That proves exactly nothing. Sir Adrian didn’t know that; he didn’t ask. Why would he?”
St. Just’s look was piercing.
“He didn’t have to ask. He knew as soon as he heard your name, as did Sarah. Among his hundreds of reference books are half a dozen of those baby-naming books containing the etymology of every name imaginable.”
“He used those to come up with his characters’ names,” put in Sarah.
“Everywhere I went in this case,” said St. Just, “I was nagged by the thought that it was connected with Christmas, and I couldn’t think how. This time of year, we’re surrounded with reminders.
Even my sergeant’s mobile, with its blasted ‘Jingle Bells’ ring.”
“My name has nothing to do with this,” said Natasha.
“Names, lineages, inheritances-they have everything to do with it.”
She shrugged. “All right, yes, so Violet is my mother. What a brilliant deduction on your part, Inspector. You’re positively wasted out here-we could use you in London. The rest is bollocks and you know it. You can’t prove a thing.” But her voice was harsh, strangled, no longer ringing out with quite so much confident authority as before.
Turning to Violet, St. Just said:
“When did you tell your husband just who Natasha was?”
Violet, eyes hooded, said nothing.
“We’ve had enough lies from you. The truth, now.”
It seemed Violet didn’t dare look at her daughter as she spoke.
“That afternoon he died, when we were alone together in his study-yes, I lied about that; haven’t I had enough of the police in my life? But I told him then. Natasha had asked me not to, because she was working undercover. She didn’t give me any details about George. I was used to that, all this skullduggery that went with her line of work. I never really knew what Natasha was up to-what was real in her life, and what pretend. But the longer the deception went on, the more awkward it became not to say anything, especially once Adrian heard about the baby on the way. He was over the moon. How could I not tell him that this grandchild and its mother were even more… special… than he realized.”
She hazarded a glance at her daughter.
“I did swear him to secrecy, Natty.”
Natasha returned the look of appeal with one of scorn.
“I should have known better than to trust you,” said Natasha.
“That is just not fair.” Violet might have forgotten anyone else was in the room. “Everything I’ve done I’ve done for you. I told you: He was talking about changing his will again. He had to know there was a double reason for-for arranging things totally in my favor and yours. This was not just his grandchild, but his and mine. And I was right about telling him, whatever you may think.”
“Shut up,” said Natasha.
“So you told Sir Adrian about your daughter, born of a liaison while you were ‘in exile’ on the Continent. One-” He turned to Sergeant Fear. “What was his name again, Sergeant?”
Sergeant Fear flipped back a few pages in his notebook.
“Count Madalin Landeski.”
“Count Landeski. Thank you, Sergeant. Interpol has been most helpful, haven’t they? Frightfully efficient. Yes, Miss Landeski, even country bumpkins like Sergeant Fear and myself know how to ring the experts at Interpol.”
Sergeant Fear smiled at them all. It was rather a terrifying smile; he was enjoying himself immensely by this point. He fixed his eyes on St. Just with something like adoration.
“And then you told Natasha that Sir Adrian was in on the secret- that you had ‘blown her cover,’” St. Just said to Violet. “Thus helping to seal his fate. Sir Adrian was anything but discreet, and Natasha knew it, even if you did not. The whole setup-a stranger in his house posing as someone else, Ruthven’s murder, this pregnancy- was bound to make him suspicious, start asking questions. Sir Adrian knew all about false paternity, after all. And what proof had he-had any of you?-that all this wasn’t just a typically short-sighted scheme on George’s part?”
“What do you mean, short-sighted?” said George, thoroughly affronted. “The old man might have been dead long before we had to decide what to do about the kid.”
“Thank you for illustrating my point so nicely. As it happens, the ‘old man’ was.
“Natasha wasn’t planning to reveal her identity-at least
to the necessary extent-until well after Sir Adrian was dead and the inheritance secure. But once her mother spilled the beans, she couldn’t risk having Sir Adrian start snooping into her affairs. So she moved up the timetable for Sir Adrian’s death, which I am certain she had planned from the first. When the time was right, she would strike. With Ruthven dead, George took his place as heir; her mother had already secured rights to the proceeds by her marriage. Everything was in place. Why not, then, strike now? She would win either way. But her relationship with George, cold and calculated as it was, must not be subjected to analysis.
“What did Sir Adrian do, Natasha, when you went for your friendly little chat with your new stepfather? Suggest a blood test, that very subject being so fresh in his mind? Just as I did to George, just now?”
Natasha held her silence, but her expression told him the game was up. If she hadn’t chosen to tell so many direct lies-about the child, just for one-she might have gotten away with it.
Wonderful, he thought, what a good line of bluff can produce. Didn’t she know: The National Health released medical records to the police only under threat of torture. And sometimes, not even then.
26. ST. JUST IS DENIED
AS THEY DROVE AWAY some time later, Sergeant Fear’s mind was still following the strings that had led his superior to Natasha. He drove slowly this time, but distractedly; several times St. Just had to warn him off a ditch on the narrow drive away from the house. Natasha, George, and Paulo had been taken into custody on their various charges and been driven off to be sorted out on their journeys through the legal system. George would be out in a few years; there was little, so far as St. Just knew, to stop him inheriting Adrian’s precious title, but he wondered how easy a time he and Paulo would have getting their hands on the money, under the circumstances. Somehow, he felt a good solicitor might be able to sort all that out. It seemed a shame, but there it was.
“Will it stick?” Fear asked at last.
Death of a Cozy Writer Page 24
