9
a hero’s tale
Without the other piece of the weapon, it was impossible to tell how far the dart had traveled in Ken’s case. The roughly symmetrical wound suggested a direct shot. What level of expertise had been required to deal a fatal blow to Ken, and who possessed such expertise?
Unlikely it was Vanessa. The idea was almost laughable. Nobody truly believed it was her dart, even though it had been found in her clutch. She had offered a plausible reason for having it and had been believable; unless she was a consummate actress, and her daughter took after her in that department. Rex ran agitated fingers through his beard and flung himself back in his chair. Think, think, he exhorted himself, staring up at the ceiling. A pipe, or whatever device had launched the dart, must exist, else why would the killer have used a dart? And it was imperative they locate any remaining darts. Rex wished they had adequate light to make a thorough search and speed up progress. Presumably the police would come prepared. However, he wanted to find more evidence before anyone had a chance to hide anything.
He pushed himself out of the kitchen chair and went to re-join his guests, surprised to find them listening intently to Ace Weaver in his wheelchair. It appeared the old man was regaling them with a tale of escape from Flanders when his Spitfire was shot down in 1943 by a German Focke-Wulf 190 fighter. He now formed an integral part of the group, his wheelchair turned about, and he seemed remarkably revived. His voice, though it quavered in places, was strong, his eyes bright and alert. His wife nodded and expressed surprise at appropriate moments even though she must have heard his war stories numerous times before. Zoe regarded her father fondly and twiddled a long tendril of coppery hair.
Rex sat down beside Helen on the sofa and waited, all but writhing with impatience, until the ex-airman finished narrating his story of an adolescent boy in a brown cap and loose trousers bringing him food and hiding him in an applecart out in the meadow while the Germans searched the farmhouse and outbuildings, one of them going so far as to prod him under the fruit with a pitchfork, almost discovering him. In the nick of time, the quick-witted Emile, for that was the boy’s name, created a diversion by drawing the soldiers’ attention to the pilot’s leather flight jacket floating in a marsh, compelling them to wade in and search while Ace made his escape on a bicycle disguised as a peasant, complete with beret and a string of onions hanging from the handlebars.
“I had a Gauloise dangling from my lips and a pair of spectacles with the lenses punched out,” he recounted. “Emile even rubbed some flour in my eyebrows to make me look older. I was only twenty-one at the time—younger, I think, than anyone in this room. The Channel was heavily guarded by German patrols, and the Belgian Resistance took me to Paris where I hid for a week in a safe-house. A Basque guide led me and two American airmen through the Pyrenees into neutral Spain, and then to Gibraltar, a British colony.”
Ace continued to address his audience. “It was a long way back home, but I was one of the lucky ones. Many didn’t survive the crash landings or were shot while escaping, or else were sent to POW camps. If Vanessa and I had had a son, we would’ve called him Emile,” he added wistfully. “Zoe finally came along, when we had all but given up hope.”
He smiled at his daughter, and Rex caught a glimpse of the younger man. Ace must have been almost seventy when Zoe was born.
“Zoe’s first name is Emilia,” his wife told the group. “But she thinks it’s too old-fashioned and uses her middle name.”
Zoe rolled her eyes. “It’s awful. Emilia Weaver. Not exactly a brilliant stage name.”
Her mother sighed.
“That’s quite a story, Ace,” Drew said with admiration, leaning back on the loveseat.
“Yes,” Helen agreed. “All it needs is a secret romance with a pretty Belgian girl.”
Rex gave her a discreet nudge, as he wanted to move on, but it was too late. A look of sweet reminiscence lit Ace’s watery blue eyes.
“There was such a one,” he began with a devilish smile. “Her name was Lisette.” And then he gave an apologetic smile to his wife. “Vanessa was but a baby then.”
“I wasn’t even born!” she objected with a laugh, apparently forgetting, as had the others, the small matter of murder recently perpetrated in the house.
“Bravo to the brave airmen of the RAF,” Alistair said.
Ace Weaver bowed his head in modest acknowledgment, but perhaps also in memory of lost comrades, Rex thought. “Lest auld acquaintance be forgot” would hold special meaning for him, no doubt.
“Thank you for sharing your war memories with us,” Rex said. “But to return to less heroic feats, I can report that I have spoken to Chief Inspector Dalgerry, and he will be with us shortly.”
Sighs of relief and a few claps of applause followed Rex’s announcement.
“What’s taken the police so long?” Alistair asked, glancing at the mantelpiece clock.
“I understand the chief inspector decided to head up the investigation himself and has been busy putting a team in place.”
“I remember Chief Inspector Dalgerry,” Flora said. “He probably thinks the case is in safe hands until he gets here.” She smiled with encouragement at Rex.
“Thank you, Flora. I can’t say how sorry I am to subject you to a second investigation here at Gleneagle Lodge. You probably won’t ever want to visit again.”
“I feel quite safe with you,” she said with heart-warming confidence. “I only hope you can solve this case as quickly as the last one.”
“Well, I don’t have much time. Still, it might help keep us awake if we used the rest of the wait time productively by continuing our search. What say you all?”
His suggestion met with a lukewarm reception. A sense of apathy appeared to be setting in, and no doubt most of the company would have been happy to let the police take care of the search, which would have to be done all over again, in any case.
“What will the chief inspector say if he hears we’ve been meddling with the investigation?” Professor Cleverly asked with a wry grin, rousing himself on the loveseat.
“Oh, he won’t mind,” Flora said. “Less work for him. He really didn’t do much at all last time except charge about like a bull in a china shop.”
Rex suppressed a chuckle. This was indeed a fair description of Dalgerry’s activity at Gleneagle Lodge that fateful summer. However, he didn’t want to appear disrespectful. “Chief Inspector Dalgerry didn’t get to his position because of his daintiness,” he pointed out. “More from dogged perseverance and bullheadedness.” He smiled in spite of himself. Dalgerry was indeed a bulldog.
“Now,” he said, setting the coffee cups to one side of the table. “I expect we were all prepared to be up until the wee hours in any case, even if it wasn’t for this unfortunate business.”
“What a way to start a new year!” Drew lamented.
“Well, we can’t turn back the clock,” Julie said tartly, seemingly less enamored of Drew. “Might as well get on with it and try to find out who did away with poor Ken and Catriona.”
“I wish they could speak to us,” John remarked, glancing over at the sheet-enshrouded bodies.
“It’s possible they didn’t even know what hit them,” Vanessa said. “I hope not, anyway. Is whatever you said a fast-acting poison?” she asked Professor Cleverly.
“Curare paralyzes and asphyxiates the victim,” he said, smoothing his head. “It won’t have been very quick.”
“Oh dear.” Vanessa Weaver’s features sagged in distress.
This time it was her daughter who consoled her, and not the other way round. “The killer is not among us.” Zoe turned to Rex. “While you were away we discussed who was the most likely suspect and drew a blank. We decided the most logical culprit is long gone.”
Rex decided it could do no good to alarm the innocent or alert the guilty to his suspicions.
“I hope you are right, Zoe. Perhaps finding some more clues will point in that direction. Whose bag have we not checked yet?” One such article remained on the table, untouched since the earlier search, the guests assured him when he inquired. Helen and Julie who were staying at the lodge had not brought their handbags downstairs.
“This black one is mine,” said Señora Delacruz, sitting straight and poised on a loveseat beside the professor. She had not appeared to flag all night, whereas the others looked jaded and disheveled for the most part, except Cleverly who had no hair to speak of to begin with.
“This will entail further invasion of privacy, I’m afraid,” Rex apologized once more.
“Perhaps we should give the men a turn and see what comes up in the rest of their pockets?” Margarita Delacruz put a fresh cigarette in her black lacquer holder and held it to her lips, clasping the professor’s hand as he lit the end with a lighter engraved with her initials.
“I’ve only found handkerchiefs, keys, wallets, phones, and breath mints so far,” Alistair recapped.
“Handkerchiefs,” Rex repeated, hit by a memory flash. “Whose was it that Catriona used? I recall someone offering her their hanky.”
“It was mine,” John said producing a bunched up wad of white cotton from his pocket.
“When did she return it?”
“After Helen dressed her cut and she had no further need of it.”
“The police might want to see that.”
“It’s a present from ma mum!” It could have been “mam” he said, referring to his mother. Either way, he sounded like a wee lad on the verge of tears.
“Poor little Jonny,” Alistair teased his partner, who blushed and promptly surrendered the item to Rex. The white material revealed several large blood spots soaked through it.
Flora and Margarita looked away.
“I didn’t find anything resembling a dart or anything that could propel one,” Alistair concluded his inventory. “I haven’t looked in the coat pockets yet, men’s or ladies’. Shall I fetch them?”
Rex acquiesced with a nod. He had no objection to Margarita’s suggestion. The order of the search did not matter. Alistair brought in the outdoors apparel from the hall, which he had not got to earlier. He and Cleverly had kept their jackets on, as had Rex, who pulled out his pocket linings to show he had nothing in them. He drew his pipe out of his corduroys and patted down his other pocket to make sure it was empty. Nobody seemed to expect any surprises from him, but out of common courtesy and consideration for his guests he felt he could not hold himself exempt from the search.
Alistair put on one of the latex gloves and began fishing in pockets. “This is John’s,” he said indicating the medic’s dark blue anorak. He extracted what looked like a small television remote from one of the outer pockets.
“What is that?” Margarita inquired.
“A breathalyser.” John explained he had purchased it at Boot’s pharmacy chain. “Alistair won’t get into the car of an evening when it’s my turn to drive unless I test my alcohol level.”
“A wise precaution.” Margarita inclined her head in approval.
“How did you get stuck with being the designated driver for New Year’s Eve?” Julie asked.
“I bribed him,” Alistair said.
“We tossed a coin,” John corrected.
His mittens were stuffed into another pocket, but that was all there was. Alistair continued to sift through the other coat pockets. None produced a dart or anything else of a menacing nature, except for a penknife found in Jason’s fleece jacket, along with, less noteworthy, his car keys and two old rugby tickets, some candy wrappers, and a used tissue.
“Good time as any to get rid of this rubbish,” Alistair said with evident distaste, being of a fastidious nature.
“Better not dispose of anything yet,” Rex said, putting the breathalyzer and penknife aside on the table.
One of Cleverly’s coat pockets yielded a spectacle case and a brown leather bookmark with gold lettering, which the professor was delighted to be reunited with, remarking that he had looked for it everywhere. Drew’s Burberry overcoat offered even less of interest: lip salve, a comb, and a small bottle of cologne. A disappointing find when all was said and done, Rex thought. And nothing in the women’s coats either.
“The contents of men’s pockets do reflect the personality of the owner, don’t they?” Flora commented.
“Like props,” Zoe agreed.
“Everybody seems in character so far. Jason’s were predictably messy!” Flora playfully backhanded him on the arm.
“Thank goodness, no guns or lethal spray,” Jason exclaimed, wiping his brow in jest.
Zoe giggled. “Or voodoo dolls with pins stuck in their eyes.”
“Really, Zoe. No need to be ghoulish on an occasion like this.” Vanessa handed over to Rex a canvas hold-all located by her husband’s wheelchair. “Ace didn’t bring a coat.”
Mr. Weaver had come wrapped in his traveling blanket. His bag was packed with an extra sweater, a bottle of prescription medicine, a container of nonsteroidal anti-inflammatory drugs, a pair of reading glasses in a soft case, and a change of underclothes. Rex went through the articles carefully without taking any out of the bag. Vanessa rewarded his delicacy with a nod and smile of gratitude. He and Alistair decided to refrain from searching the invalid’s person.
“I need to go to the loo,” Flora complained.
So, it transpired, did a couple of other guests. Rex assured them he would allocate sufficient lighting to the cloakroom just as soon as they were through with the search. A few others, who hadn’t already done so, wanted to make phone calls letting people at home know they might be held up at the lodge. They were all growing weary. Rex asked for everyone’s patience while he quickly proceeded with the last bag.
The tasselled accessory belonged to Margarita. It was covered in bluish black sequins and opened with an old-fashioned twin clasp. He removed a delicately embroidered handkerchief, a small pill box containing what the señora said were aspirin, and which resembled the aspirin in the kitchen, a tortoiseshell comb, scarlet lipstick in a gold-plated capsule, and a slim leather billfold holding British and Venezuelan notes and several credit cards.
“Everything seems to be in order here,” Rex said, preparing to give the bag back to the owner, when his fingers encountered a small bulge in a zipped pouch tucked inside. He opened it and found secreted in the silk lining a dart identical to the one Vanessa had allegedly picked up earlier that night. His throat went dry, his heartbeat quickened.
A second dart in a second bag? This, indeed, was progress.
_____
Without a word he went down the hall to his study and compared the dart to the original he had locked away in his desk. He returned to the living room and found the same shocked silence as when he had left, everyone rigid and casting furtive eyes about, no one yet daring to accuse the lady who sat calmly taking puffs of her cigarette, her head tilted in an attitude of remote contemplation. Rex waited for her to tell him she had found it somewhere, just as Vanessa had come by hers, though he felt less inclined to believe her if that was the case. It would be too much of a coincidence.
“Well, Margarita,” he prompted. “Can you give us an explanation as to why this dart was found in your possession?”
“Is it not obvious?”
“Is it?” Out of politeness and caution, he felt reluctant to ask her outright if she had murdered the Frasers. The tension in the room was palpable. Seconds passed away, the steady tick-tock of the clock interrupted only by the percussion of a log cracking apart in the fireplace and the symphony of wind blowing outside.
“What is obvious?” Rex tried again.
“That someone put it there.”
“Oh, I see.” Evidently, he was not going to get a ready confession. “Are you saying someone framed you
?”
“That is correct. You cannot possibly think I would be so foolish as to hide a poison dart in my bag if I were the killer.”
“That pocket is well hidden. I almost missed it.”
“The police would have found it.”
“If it were not got rid of first. Perhaps you did not have the opportunity after Vanessa’s dart was found and the bags were being watched.”
“You believe Vanessa and not me?”
Rex scratched an ear. “Vanessa was able to supply a reasonable explanation as to why a dart was found in her bag. Not that your explanation is without merit,” he hastened to add. “Someone could have planted it.” He looked around the closed expressions of those present and got the impression they all found her guilty. And why not? She was the most enigmatic person among them, and she was, after all, from a part of the world whence similar darts originated.
“I can’t believe Margarita had anything to do with this,” Cleverly protested somewhat belatedly, and more out of gallantry, Rex suspected, than conviction.
“Am I supposed to have murdered the poor man in the hall?” she demanded of Rex. “I was never in the hall. At least, not since I first arrived. I have been in the living room all night.”
“You could have shot at him with a pipe,” Jason said.
“Ridiculous.”
“Do we know for sure when Ken left the room?” Alistair asked Rex. “He was here for “Auld Lang Syne,” but I can’t remember what everyone was doing during those moments when we were discussing who might be at the front door. Or after that, and before we started looking for him. Can anyone recall?”
Most everybody shook their head and redirected their attention to Margarita Delacruz. Was she strong enough to have dragged Ken’s stocky build into the broom closet? Rex assessed her lithe frame and decided it was improbable.
Murder at Midnight Page 9
