“You weren’t there while I was there.” Lionel forgot to be circumspect in his need to be right. “I spent a good ten minutes in your room. Checking the proportions.” And other things, no doubt. “I didn’t see you upstairs the whole time I was there. But I did see you going back to the pavilion. I didn’t mention that before, Sarah, because I didn’t think it counted.”
“It counts,” Sarah croaked, “Go ahead, Lionel. Where was she?”
“I was coming down the back stairway that leads into the corridor from the parking area to the front door. Mrs., Gaheris dashed in from the drive and went out to the pavilion ahead of me.”
“She didn’t see you because you ducked out of sight, I suppose.”
“I didn’t intercept her because she was obviously in a hurry,” Lionel corrected. “She was making awfully good time for a woman her age, I must say.”
Mrs. Gaheris failed to appreciate the compliment. “Lionel, don’t be a fool. It’s obvious to me and to everyone else that you’re trying to cover yourself by making me the scapegoat. That must have been you I saw going into the copse. You no doubt caught sight of me watching you from my bedroom window and made up this taradiddle to save your own skin. Abigail, I hate to make a scene in your house, but I do think this has gone far enough. I must ask you to excuse me.”
Nobody moved except Sergeant Myre. “I don’t think you ought to leave just now, Mrs. Gaheris.”
“You can’t hold me! I have diplomatic immunity.”
“I don’t think so, Mrs. Gaheris,” said Max. “That only applies when a diplomat’s in a foreign country. Anyway, you weren’t the diplomat. Your husband was, and he’s dead, or so we’ve been given to understand.”
“That was an unnecessarily cruel remark, Mr. Bittersohn. If I was mistaken about diplomatic immunity, it’s simply that I was accustomed to it for so long that I took it for granted.”
“You take a lot of things for granted, Mrs. Gaheris, one being that we’d fail to make the connection between you and Versey Ufford.”
“What connection? I met him here in this house as a friend of the Billingsgates.”
“Whom you hadn’t seen for thirty years or so?”
“That is correct.”
“Then how do you explain all those overseas phone calls Ufford made to you last month at the Albergo Verdi in Busto Arsizio?”
“I don’t explain them because they never happened.”
“Oh yes they did. I’m sure you told Ufford to destroy the phone bills, but he was a penny pincher. I expect he intended to take them off his income tax as business expenses. Signora DiCristoforo asked me to let you know she found that cassette tape you were so worried about. It had fallen down behind the headboard. Her cousin Pietro’s going to play it so we can find out if it turns up in Ufford’s card file.”
“I think you must be insane.”
“The tape was in one of those padded envelopes with your name and Ufford’s return address on the customs slip.”
There was dead silence. Then Nehemiah Billingsgate said quietly, “I think you’d better explain, Drusilla.”
She sat there quite a while, fiddling with the clasp of her workbox. At last she spoke. “Very well, Bill, if I must. This is painful for me. You see, my husband was not always faithful. Years ago, in a stupid attempt to get even with him, I had a brief fling with Versey Ufford, whom we’d met on a visit to Rome. I soon wearied of the affair, but Versey didn’t. He kept in touch, and when my husband died, he tried to win me back. He began a barrage of letters, phone calls, and small gifts. I have to confess that I didn’t discourage him at first. I was lonely, and a woman my age can’t help feeling a bit grateful, I suppose, that any man cares enough to bother. But Versey really was the most dreadful bore. He’d got worse as he got older, and I soon realized I’d made a mistake letting him back into my life.”
“Then why did you come here instead of to the Dorks’?” Melisande demanded. “You must have known he’d be infesting the place.”
“I came here because I wanted to be with my old friend Abigail. It wasn’t as if Versey actually lived in the house. I decided the nuisance of having him in the picture would be outweighed by the advantages of being in a social circle where I could really feel I belonged. Anyway, Versey was an unattached man and there are times when any escort is better than no escort, to put it as crudely as possible.”
Mrs. Gaheris tried the effect of a wistful smile, but nobody smiled back. “Does that explain why Lionel saw you coming in from the drive?” said Sarah.
“Well, yes, as a matter of fact, it does. Versey’d insisted I meet him outside for a private interview. He was resenting the fact that I’d refused to acknowledge him to the Billingsgates as an old friend. I went because I didn’t want him to make a scene in the pavilion, as I knew he was quite capable of doing.”
“Was this before or after you went up to your room?”
“After. I did go to get my stomach pills. I knew I’d want them by the time I got through with Versey. Then I fiddled around the room postponing what I knew would be a distasteful experience, which it was. That was how I happened to be around to see your cousin going into the copse.”
“Sorry, Mrs. Gaheris,” said Sarah. “You didn’t meet Professor Ufford outside. He glued himself to me the moment I entered the pavilion and stuck like a burr all during the banquet. Lionel didn’t go anywhere except where he said he did. No Morris dancer went into the copse. That was a flat lie, to distract attention from your having been out of the pavilion while Rufus was killed. We have all the Morris dancers and all the costumes accounted for. I doubt whether the Billingsgates will care to go on sponsoring a guest who tried to frame their son-in-law for the murders she committed, and I’m sure Aunt Bodie’s going to take umbrage in a big way when she finds out her old school chum hit her over the head with Bill’s Totschläger. Grab that workbox, Max!”
Unfortunately Tick Purbody couldn’t resist getting in on the action, and Tick was a little too far away. While he and Max were getting untangled, Drusilla Gaheris had time to open her workbox. It was Sarah who hurled the sofa cushions to deflect her aim and Melisande who wrenched the gun out of her hand. But Lionel Kelling was the real hero of the hour.
“I don’t see what everyone’s so wrought up about. Naturally I confiscated the bullets when I discovered the gun yesterday. You’re old enough to know, Mrs. Gaheris, that one should never leave a loaded weapon lying around.”
At least Sergeant Myre got to make the arrest.
23
OF COURSE THE DOG work remained to be done. Not until Friday at teatime was there another gathering at the Billingsgates’. Abigail and Bill, looking careworn but relieved, were helping each other butter the crumpets. Sarah had met the flight from Busto Arsizio and brought Max out from Logan Airport. Acting Chief Reginald Myre represented the Fernwood Police. Lionel Kelling had been invited partly because Sarah felt a trifle ashamed of the way she’d bullied him on Monday and partly because her bullying had paid off so handsomely. Boadicea Kelling had driven from Wenham in her 1946 Daimler wearing her Queen Mary toque, which didn’t look much worse than it had before.
Tom and Hester Tolbathy were there because everyone wanted it made clear that nobody was holding Wouter’s doomful legacy against them. Mr. and Mrs. Purbody, however, had sent regrets. Tick was busy interviewing prospective assistant meaders in his new capacity as president of Apian Way Enterprises. Melisande was at a professional recording studio taping another hour of “Melly’s Mellow Melodies.”
Boadicea Kelling took an analytical sip from her teacup and nodded approval. “Just right, Abigail. I must say in retrospect that Drusilla always did have a duplicitous streak. She borrowed my best silk stockings once without asking and sneaked them back full of runs, thinking I wouldn’t notice. And she was always smuggling in chocolates. She’d eat them in bed after lights out so she wouldn’t have to share. I could hear the little papers rattling when she fished around for the caramels. Her cubicle wa
s next to mine, you know. I never snitched on her before, but now that she’s tried to murder me, I feel myself under no obligation to keep silent.”
“My loyalty went down the drain when I found out she’d used our hospitality to kill poor Rufe, swipe our cars, and try to put Bill out of business,” Abigail agreed. “I still can’t grasp how she managed it all, much less why. Were you able to dig up any information in Italy, Max?”
“Plenty. For one thing, the late Gawain Gaheris was never a diplomat, though he often pretended to be.”
“Whatever for? Was he a spy?”
“Now and then. Also a smuggler, a forger, and a few other things. He and Drusilla worked as a team. Their real forte appears to have been dirty tricks to order.”
“Such as what?”
Max shrugged. “Spreading false rumors and planting evidence to back them up, staging entrapments, arranging quiet disposals.”
“Do you mean murders?” Abigail asked bluntly.
“Sure. Nothing cheap or vulgar, you understand, they were always very careful and very clever. It did get to be noticed eventually that wherever the Gaherises went, accidents, suicides, shattered reputations, and depleted bank accounts tended to follow; but they never left a clue anybody could put a finger on. What’s incredible is that they managed to keep it up for forty years or so, maybe even longer. They worked in Europe, North Africa, and places like Hong Kong; but they shied clear of the United States pretty much. She came back for a few brief visits, but he never did, as far as anybody knows. The inference is that he’d made the U.S. too hot for himself.”
“Was he ever traced back here?” Sarah asked.
“Not successfully. He posed as an Englishman who’d been sent here as an orphaned child, which accounted for his New York accent. He had the right papers, but a man of his talents naturally would. By the time anybody thought of checking him out, there didn’t appear to be anybody left alive who could vouch for his identity.”
“How old a man was he?” Bill asked.
“Seventy-two when he died, according to his passport—for whatever that’s worth—but he was showing no sign of being ready to quit. It wasn’t a heart attack that killed him, as his wife claimed, but a fall from an open cable car halfway up an Alp. The man from Interpol who’d been riding with him explained that Gaheris had stood up to get a better view of the scenery and lost his balance.”
Lionel snorted. “Surely nobody believed that yarn?”
“I got the impression people had been lining up in rows to believe it,” Max told him. “Anyway, the widow obviously decided to carry on the business. Just before Gaheris died, they’d been approached by what sounds to me like a neo-Nazi to lay the foundation for a propaganda network in this country. Gaheris would probably have turned him down, but for Drusilla alone this must have seemed like the ideal setup. She probably did want to come back to the States, as she claimed. She was clean with the authorities, she had a handy accomplice in Ufford, and she had the ideal cover: relatives who hadn’t seen her in years and an old school friend living practically next door to her client.”
“Lord save us!” Bill exclaimed. “Who was the client?”
“Hohnser the rose man. He met with the Gaherises at Busto Arsizio as representative for a neo-Fascist underground group so top-secret he refused even to tell them its name. He did write them a businesslike follow-up letter about this neighbor of his who owns a group of radio stations currently being used to disseminate dangerously subversive propaganda about racial equality, universal brotherhood, and other radical left-wing garbage.”
“Did he actually say that in the letter?” Abigail demanded.
“That and a good deal more. He outlined in detail how he wanted them to infiltrate the stations with a dirty tricks campaign. Once they’d got the owner demoralized enough to quit, they were to buy him out with money obtained by capturing—Hohnser’s word—and selling the neighbor’s own collection of antique Rolls Royces. The stations would then be used to broadcast both overt and subliminal messages of what Hohnser described as ‘the right sort.’”
“He must be crazy!” cried Hester Tolbathy.
“No doubt,” Max agreed, “but he’s an efficient organizer. He explained how he wanted the Gaherises to remove the cars by a series of clandestine operations utilizing a concealed door in the car shed which had been installed some time ago by a rival gang of subversive operators who were no doubt Russian spies. The owner had been absent at the time but Hohnser had naturally maintained close surveillance and discovered the mechanism that operates the door.”
“Do you mean he’s been spying on us all these years? And using Bob as a—” Words failed Bill.
Max shook his head. “Hohnser states that your gardener has remained obstinately loyal to you and should not be approached with bribes or other inducements, which have already been covertly tested and proven ineffectual.”
“Why, that infernal scoundrel! He ought to be strung up by the boot heels. Forgive the intemperance of my language, but I find this revelation totally incredible. Hohnser’s been a pillar of this community. He’s served without emolument in town offices.”
“Yeah,” said Myre. “That’s how come we got Grimpen for police chief. Hohnser ganged up with the chairman of the Board of Selectmen and they rammed the appointment through. I even heard it was Hohnser who took Grimpen’s written exam for him.”
Bill shook his head again. “I knew Hohnser was an enthusiastic supporter of Grimpen, but—good heavens! And to think we’ve lived right on the same road with the man all these years.”
“And never heard a cordial word out of him the whole time,” snapped Abigail. “You know what he said last Christmastime at the Fromes’ about your little homilies, Bill. Your soft answer didn’t turn away my wrath, I can tell you. How did Versey get mixed up in it, Max? He wasn’t really Drusilla’s lover, was he?”
“Probably not, but he appears to have been on the Gaherises’ payroll for a good many years. He did own a house in Venice, by the way. It was no palazzo, but it must have cost Ufford something to keep up. That may explain why he developed a sideline.”
“But surely he wasn’t sending out noxious propaganda over our stations all that time,” Billingsgate protested.
“No, Bill. I’m sure this was a recent development. Otherwise Ufford wouldn’t have been testing to find out whether his messages were going to work for the Hohnser project. There was no point to that ‘eat the frumenty’ stunt unless it was an experiment in mass persuasion to show Drusilla he was capable of handling the job. I expect he valued his long connection with you mainly because it gave him a legitimate excuse to be skipping back and forth on the Gaherises’ errands. Like those so-called visiting lectureships he kept telling you about. Some of them may have been genuine, but I suspect a good many weren’t.”
“He seems to have got away with a great deal.” Lionel Kelling spoke not in censure but in envy.
“He wouldn’t have for much longer,” Max assured him. “Ufford had been getting too arrogant and taking needless risks. The Italian police had been keeping an eye on him, I found out.”
“Probably that was why Mrs. Gaheris decided to get rid of him,” said Sarah. “The bicycle was definitely his, by the way. Brooks checked it out with the professor’s landlady. They had a cup of tea and a cozy chat together. Brooks would, you know. The landlady says she saw Professor Ufford riding off on his bike about half-past one Monday morning, but thought nothing of it because he often did. He’d told her he liked to ride when the streets were empty of traffic, but she thought it more likely that he had some woman on the string whose husband worked the graveyard shift.”
“Well, I’d say Versey booked himself for the graveyard shift when he got mixed up with our old school chum, Abby,” Hester Tolbathy reached over to set down her empty cup on the tea wagon. “And to think Drusilla planned the whole thing sitting right here with that everlasting needlepoint.”
“Wherever she planned it, she didn�
�t do as good a job as her husband would have, if you’ll forgive the sexist observation,” said Max. “Gaheris would have known better than to underestimate the opposition.”
Boadicea Kelling sniffed. “Drusilla always did think she could get away with anything. She was a positive menace at field hockey. She’s kept herself in shape, though, you have to hand her that. Not many women her age could have got to the car shed, killed Rufus and hidden his body in that bizarre way, driven the Silver Ghost to the honey shed, stopping to commit mayhem on my person and haul me aboard en route, hidden the car, then run the whole length of the hedgerow path, gone around through the house and been back inside the pavilion before anybody noticed she was gone.”
“You could have done it, Bodie,” said Hester.
“I’m sure she could,” said Sarah, “but I’ll bet Drusilla Gaheris didn’t. My theory is that she told Rufe on Sunday morning to drive the honeybug out to the honey shed and leave it there. Melisande noticed after the revel, when she and I went for our ride, that the bug wasn’t parked quite where it ought to have been. She thought the kids must have been fooling around with it, and said she was going to jump on somebody’s neck, but she probably forgot.”
“Rufe wouldn’t have taken an order from Drusilla,” Tom Tolbathy objected.
“He would if she claimed to be carrying the message from Bill. She’d have known it was safe to lie to Rufe because he wasn’t going to be around long enough to—” Abigail choked up.
Boadicea decided to be tactful.
“Having the electric cart left where she could quickly find it and drive it back would certainly have been the practical thing for Drusilla to do. My own feeling is that while she’s in excellent condition for her age, as I remarked earlier, Drusilla is by no means the athlete she used to be. She couldn’t have put much of her old force behind that blow she dealt me with the Totschläger, or I shouldn’t be here to criticize. Of course her arms may by then have been tired from pulling Rufus’s body up into the tree,” Bodie conceded as a gesture to positive thinking. “I should have thought her ingenious arrangement of pulleys would have reduced the expenditure of muscular force required, but perhaps I underestimated the original degree of difficulty. What really puzzles me is how Drusilla managed to install the hoisting apparatus so expeditiously.”
The Silver Ghost Page 21
