“That hoist must have been rigged in advance,” Max told her. “Since Mrs. Gaheris used to be a mountain climber, I expect she could have got up the tree all right, but ifs more likely the rigging was another of Versey’s jobs. He probably biked out here Saturday night with the rope and pulleys. Getting them up in the tree wouldn’t have been any big deal for an ingenious guy like him.”
“But why didn’t anybody notice the rope on Sunday morning?” Lionel demanded.
“Partly because of the thick foliage around it, partly because everyone’s mind was on other things, and partly because the rope blended in so well with the tree trunk,” Sarah told him. “It was the same dark brown as the one you use on your rock climbs.”
“Ungh.” Lionel didn’t care much for that. “And would you kindly inform me as to when Mrs. Gaheris could have had time to throw the dart gun into the pond?”
“I don’t suppose she did. She’d have tossed it in among the bushes or somewhere for Professor Ufford to find and dispose of. That would explain what he was doing up on the hill when I met him. I shouldn’t be surprised if he had the gun hidden under that full cloak he was wearing even when he claimed to be trying to date me up for the dance.”
“Damn good thing you didn’t accept,” Lionel grunted.
“Men were deceivers ever.” Tom Tolbathy was getting his spirits back. “But what about this business of the bicycle, Abigail? I was given to understand you and Drusilla spent the whole morning together in good works yesterday.”
“We weren’t always together. In fact, there was a space of time when I’d gone off to do a few errands and Drusilla stayed here. The idea was that she’d be helping Cook pack the rest of the food for us to take out to Milltown, but when I got back I found Cook meditating, which is a euphemism for taking a nap, and Drusilla nowhere near done with the packing. She made a little joke about having to work slowly so as not to disturb Cook’s meditation, and I helped her finish up. It wasn’t that much of a job, really, and I remember feeling just a trifle annoyed that Drusilla’d managed to drag it out so long. But you know how it is, working in someone else’s kitchen. I thought perhaps she’d been unsure about what I wanted done, and blamed Cook for not staying awake to tell her. It just never entered my head that Drusilla Gaheris could be up to anything shady. How in the world did you get on to her, Sarah?”
“Max and I both wondered about her right from the beginning. You didn’t actually know her, after all.”
“We certainly didn’t,” Abigail replied bitterly.
“But of course you know and trust Tick Purbody implicitly, so when the evidence began piling up against him it seemed possible somebody else had marked him out for the scapegoat. Living here in the house, Mrs. Gaheris was in an excellent position to manage that. That story of hers about the wandering Morris dancer made us wonder even more, especially when we found we couldn’t identify the man she allegedly saw. But what clinched it for me was when you said the person who hit you was wearing a dust coat, Aunt Bodie. That costume Mrs. Gaheris had on was exactly the same color. I expect the veil you thought you saw was the wimple, pulled over her face.”
“But Drusilla’s not tall enough,” her aunt protested.
“She’d be plenty tall enough standing up in the Ghost,” Lionel broke in impatiently. “And at least you know now you weren’t talking through your hat when you said you’d kept hearing Drusilla’s voice while you were tied up in the car. How did you get on to Hohnser, Max?”
“Well, I’d thought it a bit strange, his insisting Bob work for him both Sunday and Monday when he must have known the Billingsgates would have plenty for Bob to do here. Bob impresses me as being a bright, active guy; he mightn’t have been so easy to dispose of as Rufe was. But I thought maybe Hohnser had just done it to be ornery until I persuaded the Italian police to open a safety deposit box Mrs. Gaheris had in a Busto Arsizio bank.”
“Good heavens,” Bill exploded, “do you mean she kept Hohnser’s letter? Why ever would she do a reckless thing like that?”
“For insurance, I’d say offhand. The Gaherises may have intended to finance a prosperous old age by blackmailing their former correspondents. Only they didn’t retire soon enough. Getting back to Hohnser, once the preliminary negotiations had been opened through Ufford, he came to call on the Gaherises at the Albergo Verdi, posing as a tourist named Brown.”
“How original,” Tom Tolbathy remarked. “Why Busto Arsizio, Max? I know it’s up near the Italian Alps, but I thought it was a manufacturing town, not a tourist resort.”
“It is, but it’s also close to the Swiss border, you know, and the Gaherises used to pop back and forth a lot, especially on weekends. Signora DiCristoforo told me there always seemed to be tourists passing through when the Gaherises were there, and they always managed to strike up acquaintances. A nice elderly couple, possibly a bit lonesome and bored, it seemed natural enough at first. After a while, though, she began to get curious and had her nephew Pietro, who’s quite a talented fellow, run a few spot checks.”
“How?” demanded Lionel.
“In Hohnser’s case, by lifting his wallet. As soon as he found out Mr. Brown wasn’t Signore Bruno, Pietro took a few snapshots and jotted down the real name and address on the back.”
“Sounds as if the DiCristoforos were taking out a little insurance themselves,” Lionel grunted.
“I expect it’s a fairly profitable sideline.” Max took out his own wallet and extracted a small sheaf of plastic envelopes. “These cost me fifty thousands lire apiece. There you are, Bill. One of Ufford having an aperitivo with Drusilla on the terrace, one of Hohnser sitting at a table with the two Gaherises, a good, clear closeup of Hohnser himself, and one of Mr. and Mrs. Gaheris watching him leave. It’s okay, you can pass them around. Just don’t take them out of the envelopes.”
“So that was Drusilla’s husband,” said Abigail. “My goodness, he was a handsome rogue. No wonder she fell for him. He had a mean mouth, though. Don’t you think so, Bodie?”
“Let me see.” Boadicea Kelling put on her reading glasses and took the photograph from her friend’s hand. “Good heavens, that’s Lance!”
“Your brother Lancelot? I thought he died years ago. Bodie, are you sure?”
“Of course I’m sure. Don’t you think I know my own brother? So that’s why Drusilla went to live in Europe. All those years, sending me postcards and polite little notes, never once letting me know Lance was alive and she was my sister-in-law. Drusilla always did have a mad crush on Lance, even when she was captain of the lacrosse team. She roped him on the rebound, I suppose. Poor Lance, throwing his life away because of a heartless, scheming woman.”
In mingled grief and righteous indignation, Boadicea shoved her reading glasses down to the tip of her nose and pressed a clean white handkerchief to her eyes. “I hope you realize, Sarah Kelling Bittersohn, that if it hadn’t been for your precious Aunt Caroline, all this would never have happened.”
“If you say so, Aunt Bodie,” said Sarah. “Actually, I never liked Aunt Caroline either. Abigail, if there’s any more tea in the pot, I think Aunt Bodie and I could both use another cup.
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The Silver Ghost Page 22
