by Savage, Tom
On the vanity table was an envelope of creamy white linen. Across the envelope in an elegant, sloping hand were written the words, To whom it may concern. Pete picked up the envelope, opened it, and read the letter.
My name is Constance Hall Randall. For the last five years, I have been posing as Catherine Shaw, later Catherine Randall.…
It was a very detailed story. The woman had gotten out of prison six years ago, and one year later she’d murdered someone, a woman named Jane Dee. She’d left the other woman’s burned body in her house in Long Beach, Long Island, and gone to Europe for a prearranged meeting with her lifelong love, John Randall. A plastic surgeon in Zurich had operated on her three times, changing her nose and her cheekbones and her jawline. Two years ago she’d married John Randall.
Ten months ago, the letter stated, she and her new husband had come here, to Randall House, to wait for Alicia Wainwright to die so they could claim the inheritance. That’s when they’d learned that the Randall fortune had been left not to them, but to Holly Smith.
Holly Smith, it turns out, was their daughter.
It was there in every horrible detail, the whole, sad story. Pete read it with a growing sense of disgust. This woman and her husband had hired Mr. Buono, the stiff from the motel, to rid them of Holly. But Constance had been having second thoughts, a delayed sense of guilt—very delayed, Pete thought grimly. And now, after learning of her husband’s perfidy with the tragic Dora Jessel, Constance had decided on her final course of action. Better this, she’d concluded, than prison.
The final paragraphs of the letter were a detailed description of Constance Randall’s actions tonight. She’d written the letter first, apparently. She would poison her husband and daughter in the library shortly after ten o’clock, she wrote. Then she would come up here, to this room, and take her own life with her husband’s revolver, the revolver she kept in the drawer in her bedside table.
Pete read the three pages twice. Then he slipped the letter back in the envelope and put it down on the table. He went out of the room and down the stairs to the Great Hall. Glancing around, he saw that the county police were there now, and the people from the Greenwich medical examiner’s office. There was nothing more he could do here. Circling the pool of milky vomit at the base of the stairs, he went out the front door to his car.
As he drove through town on his way to the hospital, he heard the bells of Randall ringing in the new year.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Breaking the Silence
Holly awoke to the sensation that she couldn’t breathe. She was lying on something soft, and she was vaguely aware of a large shape hovering over her, reaching down to her. It is an angel, she thought. I am dead, and this angel is reaching down for me, to take me to Heaven. Then her vision came into focus, and she saw that the angel was a nurse.
She could breathe after all, but only with difficulty. Something cold made of clear plastic was fitted over her nose and mouth, and there was an awful hissing sound all around her. She tried to sit up, but the angel restrained her, pushing her gently back down against the pillows.
“Don’t move,” the angel said.
She didn’t move, but she did come fully awake. She was in a white bed in a white room with white uniformed people around her. An emergency room or an ICU, she reasoned. But she wasn’t there for long.
“How do you feel?” An elderly man in white had arrived beside the angel-nurse.
“Who are you?” Holly asked, half expecting him to answer, “I’m God.”
“I’m Dr. Bell, Ms. Randall,” God said. “You’re at Randall Hospital. You’ve just had your stomach pumped, I’m afraid, which will explain any pain you’re feeling in your abdominal region.”
Groggily, she shook her head. “No. No pain.” Then she sat abruptly up on the bed. She remembered, even in her confusion, to use the appropriate relationships. “My aunt and uncle. Where—where …?”
Dr. Bell shook his head sadly as he took her hand in his. “I’m sorry, Ms. Randall. They’re dead, both of them. The police are here, and they want to talk to you as soon as you’re in your room. You’ve been poisoned. Arsenic, as well as I can tell. Your uncle was poisoned, too, and Mrs. Randall—well, Mrs. Randall shot herself.”
Holly was fully cogent now. “She—she poured the champagne, but she didn’t drink any. I—I was wondering about that.…”
“Yes. Well, the chief will ask you to tell him the whole story. I think we can move you out of here now. You’re going to be fine. That young man saved your life.”
Holly stared at Dr. Bell. “Young man? What young man?”
“Shh,” the doctor said.
Then she was moving, floating out of the white room and down a long white corridor. The angel-nurse was still beside her, and there were two large men, one at each end of the floating bed. Holly settled back against the pillows and allowed herself to be led.
Then she was in a small, beige room, being lifted from the floating bed into a solid one. A gurney, she thought: I was on a gurney, and now I’m in a private room in Randall Hospital.
“I’ll send the police away,” the angel—a pretty young African-American woman, Holly now saw—was saying.
“No,” Holly replied. “Please help me to sit up. I—I’m all right. I want to do this now.”
“Very well, Ms. Randall,” the nurse said.
“What’s your name?” Holly asked her.
“I’m Nurse Reed, Ms. Randall.”
“No,” Holly said, “I mean your first name.”
The girl blinked. “Selma.”
“I’m Holly, Selma. Please don’t call me Ms. Randall. I’m just—Holly.” Then she smiled at the startled nurse. “Please send the police in now.”
The girl nodded and disappeared. Moments later, the beige door opened and Pete Helmer came in, followed by Ichabod and Toby Carter. Holly smiled, half expecting Tonto. But the dog was not here. Of course not, she thought. You’re in a hospital, Holly, and there are rules.…
Suddenly the door opened again, and Kevin was in the room with them.
“Hi,” Pete Helmer said to her. Then he turned around, apparently surprised that the others were here with him. “Hey!”
“Please let them stay here,” Holly said. “They’re my friends.” She studied the trio behind him a moment before adding, “They are my only friends.”
Pete Helmer shrugged and pulled a beige armchair over to the side of the bed. He sat, but the others remained standing near the door.
“Okay,” he said, pulling out a notepad. “I guess we’ll begin with your name.” He laughed halfheartedly at his rather weak joke.
She smiled at him, and at the three men who stood behind him. She smiled at everyone, at the whole, wide world.
“My name,” she said. “My name is Holly. Holly—Alicia—Randall.”
With that, the questioning began.
Ichabod was relieved when the police chief finally left the room. They’d all listened to Holly’s story—as much as she seemed to know of it—with a growing sense of wonder. Ichabod, of course, knew more than the others, so he wasn’t particularly shocked by Mrs. Randall’s actions tonight. But the others were, especially by the revelation in the suicide letter that “Catherine” was actually Constance Randall, the notorious murderess.
Holly was perfect. She looked appropriately surprised when Chief Helmer told her that the woman who’d tried to kill her tonight was her mother, Constance Hall Randall. She stared around at them all, seemingly unable to take it all in, and Ichabod suppressed a smile.
Then his amusement faded. He remembered his foreboding from earlier tonight, the terrible, constricting sense of evil all around him. Now, of course, that feeling was explained for him. Connie Randall had shown her hand at last. More scandal for the family, he thought grimly, realizing that even as they were here in the hospital room, the journalists and camera crews would be gathering, some of them here but most of them outside the gates of Randall House. He must
call Town Hall, he thought, and get the servants away from the party. Raymond Wheatley, at least, should be at Randall House with the various police forces and the reporters.…
Then Chief Helmer told Holly something that put his mind at ease. The servants were already home, he said. His deputies had been at the party when someone named Debbie had contacted them, and they had told Mr. Wheatley. Randall House would be safe.
Ichabod looked slowly around the room, and it occurred to him that something here was odd. There was a presence that needed explaining.…
The boy.
Toby Carter stood near the door behind him, staring at the woman in the bed. Ichabod studied his face a moment, and in that moment he realized that here was someone who might just know more than all the rest of them. Randall House’s own Greek chorus, omnipresent and possibly omniscient. Yes, and silent, too. But now, perhaps …
Then he realized what was bothering him. It wasn’t the boy—or, rather, it wasn’t merely the boy. It was something he’d seen earlier, at Randall House. Something about the tiles, the sea of black and white marble slabs that paved the floor of the Great Hall. He’d been standing at the top of the stairs, gazing down, noting yet again the floor’s resemblance to a chessboard. He’d spent his entire life hovering above them, studying them, analyzing strategies. And there was something—one specific thing—that had been out of place on that particular chessboard.
Yes, he thought. Oh, dear me, yes!
At last the police chief finished with his questions and left, and Kevin Jessel went over to the bed. Ichabod and the boy waited quietly by the door as Kevin asked Holly if she needed anything. Then, after she’d promised him that she was all right, Kevin left the room.
Ichabod went to the bed and looked down at her. She was pale, which was to be expected, but otherwise she looked to be in good spirits. He shook his head, thinking, She came close; this is as close as anyone should ever come to death.
“You’re going to be fine, Holly,” he assured her. “You just need some rest. But first, I want you to talk to Toby. I saw him outside my window earlier tonight. He’s always around Randall House. He may be able to shed some light on all this, on what happened to you tonight.”
Holly smiled weakly up at him.
“Toby’s not going to shed any light on anything, Ichabod,” she said. “Toby doesn’t speak.”
Ichabod reached out to stroke her hair. “Perhaps that’s because nobody ever listens.”
With that, he turned to go. He regarded the boy in the corner for a moment, aware that he was watching him. Then Toby nodded once. Ichabod returned the nod, and left the room.
Holly reached behind her and adjusted the pillows. Then she leaned back against them and faced the boy across the room.
“Are you the young man Dr. Bell was talking about?” she asked. “The young man who saved my life?”
Toby nodded.
She regarded him, this tall, handsome boy with the glistening blond hair and the pale blue eyes. He was watching her, silent as ever. Silent and unblinking.
“Why did you do that?” she asked him.
He continued to watch her, his grave face revealing no emotion. Then he stepped forward, out of the shadows by the door into the pool of light around the bed. He came right up to her, and after a moment he reached out for her hand. Startled, she placed her hand in his, studying his face as he slowly licked his lips. For the very first time, she heard him speak.
“I think …” he whispered, pausing to lick his lips again before he continued. When he did, his voice was clear and strong. “I think I’m your brother.”
I stood beside the bed looking down at Holly Randall, holding her hand in mine. Her face registered the shock that was the appropriate response to my words, the appropriate response to my finally—and so dramatically—breaking my long silence. I regarded the beautiful face staring at me. She was the most beautiful woman I had ever seen, and I had fallen in love with her instantly.
“Who are you?” she said at last.
I waited a moment before I replied, savoring her confusion. For once, for perhaps the only time in her life, it was she who was surprised.
“I am the son of Dora Jessel and John Randall,” I said at last. “I was adopted by the Carters, who brought me up as their own. They’re not very nice, and I don’t like it there. But two years ago I got them to tell me about my real mother, and I’ve been hanging around Randall House ever since. If I’m not mistaken, you are John Randall’s daughter.”
“Yes,” she whispered.
“Yes,” I repeated. “John and Constance. The man you poisoned tonight, and the woman you shot.”
Now there was absolute silence in the room; you could have driven a truck through it. I squeezed her hand, savoring every moment of my triumph. She was still staring at me, and her eyes were beginning to glaze over.
“That makes me your half brother,” I went on before she could say anything. “I just found that out a few days ago, on Christmas Eve. But no matter. Nothing matters now, except the fact that you’re alive.” I leaned forward, smiling at her. “What’s that phrase, ‘Hoist with your own petard’? I think you drank too much champagne.”
Her shock delighted me. I’d waited a long time to see the stupefied expression on her face. She was speechless.
But not for long. After a moment, she burst into laughter. She laughed for a long time, doubling over in the bed and letting go of my hand to cover her mouth lest the policeman outside hear her. But she continued to giggle, shaking with the mirth that had been pent up during all her weeks at Randall House. Then she began to gasp for breath, and to cough. I reached out again and grasped her by the shoulders.
“Holly!” I cried. “You’re ill!”
She continued to gulp air as she shook her head vigorously.
“No,” she gasped. “Not anymore. You’ve cured me, Toby, once and for all!”
I leaned forward, and we embraced. I held her tightly against my chest until her shaking subsided. Then she leaned back again.
“So,” she said presently, “you saw everything tonight. I guess you’ve been watching me since I arrived, in November.”
I nodded.
“Talk to me,” she said.
So I did. I told her all about Alec Buono, the man I’d watched while he watched her. The man I’d heard talking with John Randall in the little lane near the estate, plotting and planning everything. The man I’d followed one night, back to that squalid Kismet Motel.
I told her all about it. Then I told her all about my mother, Dora Jessel. How I had approached her that Christmas Eve on the cliff. How she had looked into my pale blue eyes and seen the eyes of the Devil—my father, John Randall. How I’d introduced myself, told my confused mother who I was, what I was. She’d slapped my face then, and called me the Devil. She told me who my father was—not her high school sweetheart, which was what the Carters had told me, but John Randall. Then she—she told me to get away from her, and never to come near her again. She said she wished I was dead, and that she was sorry she’d had me instead of getting rid of me before I was born.
It only took a little push to send her over the railing.
Holly listened to all of this in silence, the whole story I’d been longing to tell her. When I was finished, she nodded, more to herself than to me. She didn’t seem to be too terribly surprised by what I told her, and I was grateful for that. I didn’t want to go on and on about it.
Then, from the depths of her soul, she smiled.
So I told her the rest, everything I had seen at Randall House tonight.
Holly stared up at Toby Carter as he spoke, remembering. She remembered everything now, from the moment she’d arrived back at Randall House from Long Island this afternoon. It had been four o’clock: she’d checked her watch as Zeke drove the Land Rover away toward the garage.
At Gil Henderson’s house the night before, she had decided to get rid of John and Constance Randall. And she’d figured out exactly
how to do it.
At four o’clock she’d come into the Great Hall to find Mr. Wheatley waiting for her. He’d told her several things, notably that Mr. and Mrs. Randall were not at home. So she’d used that precious hour to get ready.
She’d wandered around the estate, and her travels included the storeroom, where she poured a small but lethal amount of BEE-GONE into a tiny paint jar, which she slipped into her coat pocket.
She’d wandered into the office on the ground floor of the house, where she’d written letters to Gil Henderson and the MacGraws. And the letter in her mother’s remarkably similar hand, confessing everything.
Then she’d gone upstairs to her room, and into her walk-in closet. Among other things, she’d taken down the Louis Vuitton suitcase. The “other things” had included a trip through the sliding wall into her mother’s bedroom, and over to the bedside table. For the revolver she’d seen there three days before, when she’d searched the room.
She’d left the revolver and the confession and the arsenic in her bedroom when she went down to join them for dinner at seven fifty-nine.
Later, at approximately ten-fifteen, she was in the library with John, ostensibly waiting for “Catherine” to come down and join them. She’d turned her back to him, slipped arsenic into the bottle, and poured three glasses, murmuring something about a quick one before “Aunt Catherine” arrived. John was amenable to that, of course; she’d known he would be. He’d downed his first glass in one quick gulp, as she had observed him do so many times before. Then he’d held the glass out for another. She’d smiled and poured.
It was remarkably swift. The moment he’d hit the floor, Holly left the library and ran up the stairs and down the hall to her bedroom. She’d taken the revolver and the forged confession out of the drawer where she’d hidden them and gone into the walk-in closet.
