“Almost like I had a fever …” Marjorie thought aloud.
“That’s right. It was like what I had after finding Mr. Ashcroft in that trunk. I know the doctor gave me something to calm my nerves, but even before that, all I wanted to do was sleep. George blamed it on the brandy Mr. Creighton gave me but—”
“The brandy!” Marjorie exclaimed. She sprung from the bed and rummaged through the closet for something to throw on over her full slip. “Is Sergeant Jackson or Inspector Nettles here?”
“They were when I came up to sit with you. I don’t know if they’re still around; they had said they were going to make it an early day.”
Marjorie pulled a green, flutter-sleeved day dress from its hanger, stepped into it, and pulled it up over her shoulders. Once Selina zipped the back of the dress, a barefoot Marjorie sprinted into the hallway and down the cedar staircase. Through the windows that flanked either side of the heavy front door, she could see the figures of Jackson and Nettles walking down the white gravel path to the cove beyond.
Marjorie flung the front door open. “Wait!” she called.
The men continued on their way.
Realizing they hadn’t heard her, she reached around her neck for the police whistle, but it wasn’t there. It must have fallen off while I was sleeping, Marjorie thought to herself. “Wait!” she shouted again before taking off down the gravel path after the policemen.
“Ah, look, Nettles,” Jackson teased once Marjorie was within earshot. “If it isn’t Sleeping Beauty.”
“I suppose that whistle worked,” Nettles joked.
“Hmm?” Marjorie replied, her face a question.
“I gave you the whistle to help you rest easier,” Nettles explained.
“Yes, you did, didn’t you?” Marjorie answered distractedly. “That’s actually the reason I followed you out here. You need to test the brandy.”
“I’d love to,” Jackson rejoined, “but we’re on duty.”
“No, not taste it, test it. Take it back to Hamilton with you, because that’s what put me to sleep last night and kept me asleep all this morning and afternoon.”
“And what are we supposed to test the brandy for?”
“Seconal,” she responded drily.
“Ah yes, the ‘missing’ Seconal tablets,” Jackson said. “I was wondering where they might turn up. I had no idea you’d claim they were put into your glass of brandy.”
“They weren’t put in my glass, they were added to the decanter. And they didn’t just turn up; they’ve been there all along. That’s why it took so long for Selina to wake up yesterday and why Creighton was sound asleep in the cottage yesterday afternoon: they both drank the brandy.”
“Mrs. Ashcroft,” Jackson argued, “the past couple of days have been difficult for everyone. If Selina and your husband were tired, it’s most likely due to the strain of the situation.”
“And what about me?” she challenged. “I know what I experienced and it wasn’t emotional strain. I felt like I had been drugged.”
“Mmm. Did you drink anything else last night? Eat anything?”
“I had fish chowder with Selina and George.”
“With rum in it?”
“Well, yes,” she reluctantly replied.
“Well, there you go,” Jackson declared. “You can’t go mixing different types of spirits like that, Mrs. Ashcroft.”
“Mixing spirits? I had a tablespoon of rum and a snifter of brandy.”
“You never know. That rum can sneak up on you.”
“If what I suffered were the effects of a tablespoon of rum, then I don’t know why hospitals waste their time with ether! It was the brandy, I tell you.” She suddenly recalled the previous night’s events. “Look, if you don’t believe me, ask Edward. He opened the decanter. He’ll tell you it had an usually strong aroma.”
Jackson’s eyes narrowed. “All right, let’s assume for a moment that your theory is correct. What’s the motive?”
“Motive?”
“Yes. Why would someone put Seconal in the brandy?”
Marjorie shook her head slowly, until an idea suddenly burst forth. “Wait one minute! Griselda said that Mr. Ashcroft drank brandy—two glasses—after dinner every night.”
“So?” Jackson prodded.
“So, that’s a habit anyone in the house would have noticed. It makes me wonder if the killer didn’t try to take advantage of it.”
“By putting Seconal in the brandy?” Nettles guessed.
“Yes,” Marjorie stated. “It would have been easier to slip the Seconal into the decanter without being seen than to drug Ashcroft’s glass.”
“If drugged brandy was meant for Ashcroft, why is it still there?” Nettles asked.
“The killer didn’t have the opportunity to get rid of it. We were in the study all day yesterday,” Marjorie explained. “Besides, you never know when that sort of thing might come in handy. Especially since the source of the Seconal is in Hamilton Hospital.”
“You’re forgetting something, aren’t you? The murderer put your father-in-law to sleep permanently,” Jackson pointed out. “There was little need to use barbiturates.”
“The Sergeant’s right,” Nettles agreed. “A bronze statue over the head is much more effective than sleeping pills.”
“Granted, but what if murder wasn’t the killer’s original intent? What if the plan was to drug Ashcroft with the Seconal?” Marjorie hypothesized. “And what if somehow, somewhere along the line, something went wrong with that plan? Inspector Nettles, you and I were both of the opinion that Cassandra’s death was an act of desperation.”
Nettles nodded. “Broad daylight with scads of policemen around? I’d say so.”
“Sounds about right to me,” Jackson weighed in.
“Well, what if murdering Ashcroft was also a last resort?”
Jackson chuckled. “Of course it was a last resort. This was a crime of passion, wasn’t it? Whoever murdered Ashcroft did so because Ashcroft was, for lack of a better description, a louse and a bully. The killer had had his fill of Ashcroft’s behavior and clocked him one on the back of the head. It certainly wasn’t premeditated.”
“That’s right!” Marjorie said excitedly. “The murder wasn’t premeditated, but something else was. Think about it: the elaborate scheme to get Ashcroft here, the confirmation telegram, and the threatening note. Something else had to be going on.”
“I think you’re reaching,” Jackson judged.
“And I think you’re not reaching enough,” Marjorie countered. “You’ve had my husband in custody for twenty-four hours now and you’re still completely unwilling to admit that you’ve made a mistake.”
“Because I have no reason, apart from your theories, to even consider the possibility that someone else committed the murders. Your husband had the most to gain from Mr. Ashcroft’s death. In fact, he was the only person with anything to gain financially. Case closed.”
“But no one—not even Creighton—knew who was named in that will. Sure, Edward assumed that it was Creighton, but it was anyone’s guess as to whether or not that assumption was correct. It was anyone’s guess, for that matter, as to whether the Old Man had even changed his will. He might have been bluffing.”
“But he wasn’t bluffing, was he?”
“No one knew that at the time,” Marjorie shouted. “Ashcroft was murdered because something he did that night threw a wrench into someone’s plans—and I don’t mean financial plans. To murder someone on the off chance that you’ve been written into, or out of, their will, simply doesn’t wash.”
“And what about you, Mrs. Ashcroft?” Jackson said smugly. “Have you washed?”
“What? What in heaven’s name are you talking about?”
“I’m talking about you, Mrs. Ashcroft, and the fact that you only just woke up a short time ago and immediately came out here firing off all sorts of crazy ideas. Here’s what I suggest: Nettles and I return to Hamilton; I meet my wife for supper as I promis
ed; and you, Mrs. Ashcroft, have a long bath and something to eat and give serious thought to all you’ve suggested today.”
“You needn’t be condescending,” Marjorie chided.
“I’m not being condescending, Mrs. Ashcroft. If you come up with anything new, don’t hesitate to call me. Oh, wait,” Jackson feigned ignorance, “you don’t have a phone here, do you? I guess anything else will have to wait until I see you in the morning.”
“Funny,” Marjorie remarked. “Very funny.”
“Yes, I am. That’s why Mrs. Jackson has requested that I be home in time for supper,” the Sergeant smiled and tipped his hat. “And cheer up. Maybe you’ll be lucky and your brother-in-law will bail him out this evening.” He took off down the path, whistling happily.
“Do you have the decanter?” Nettles asked quietly.
Marjorie nodded and then bolted into the house. She returned a few seconds later, the decanter tucked under one arm. “Oh, I forgot to ask. Did Detective Jameson call today?”
“No, but we haven’t been at the station since this morning. If he left a message, I’ll send it over with Constable Smith. He’s on duty again tonight; he’ll be here by six.”
“I’ll keep an eye out for him.”
Nettles looked around suspiciously. “Keep an eye out for yourself while you’re at it. If this brandy has been tampered with, the perpetrator is going to notice when it goes missing. You still have your whistle?”
“Yes, it’s, uh, upstairs,” Marjorie replied.
“Good girl. Use it if you need it.” Nettles took the decanter from her hand and, with a smile and a wink, followed the Sergeant to the cove.
Marjorie turned on one heel and went back into the house. Despite the patronizing manner in which it was suggested, she had to admit that the idea of relaxing in a tub was an extremely appealing one.
As Marjorie made her way toward the staircase, she was startled by the sound of a voice resonating through the high-ceilinged entryway. “Mrs. Ashcroft,” Miller greeted. “Good to see you up and about.”
“Thank you, Mr. Miller. It’s good to be back … umm … amongst the living.”
“We were all very worried about you. Griselda had you as murdered in your sleep. I don’t think she realized that it wouldn’t have looked very good for her if you had been,” Miller laughed.
“No it wouldn’t have, would it?” Marjorie chuckled.
“Say,” Miller segued, “I was in the office, looking for a postage stamp, and couldn’t help but notice you talking to Sergeant Jackson and Inspector Nettles. Have they left for the day?”
“Yes. They’ll be back tomorrow.”
“Ah,” he replied. “I’m sorry if it seems like I was eavesdropping. I wasn’t, I assure you. It’s the location of that office, between the view of the front lawn and the view of the front door, you can see everyone coming and going.”
“It is quite the vantage point,” Marjorie remarked.
Miller nodded. “Well, I just wanted to let you know I’m glad you’re all right. I won’t keep you. I know you were on your way upstairs.”
“Yes, I’m in rather dire need of a bath.”
“Sounds like just the thing. Will you be down for dinner? Selina’s back on duty tonight.”
“Griselda will be happy to hear that,” Marjorie remarked. “Yes, I’ll be down for dinner. Eight o’clock?”
“That’s right,” Miller confirmed. “I’ll see you then.” He nodded his goodbye and went into the study.
With a smile, Marjorie turned and began her ascent up the wide, cypress staircase. Suddenly, she stopped, her foot poised over the first step. The smile washed away from Marjorie’s face as a vague memory fought its way into her consciousness and then, before it could be identified, retreated back into the darkness.
Marjorie put her foot down onto the tread and continued up the stairs, all the while taking a mental inventory of her conversation with Miller. What was said to trigger that memory? And, more importantly, did the recollection condemn Miller? Or did it point the finger at someone else?
Marjorie lowered herself slowly into the sudsy water, drew a deep breath, and attempted to quiet the various thoughts and ideas racing through her head.
Whereas showering was a completely utilitarian exercise, bathing, for Marjorie, was a meditative activity. An hour spent splashing, lathering, and rinsing not only cleansed dirt and perspiration from the body, but purified her mind of distractions, thus providing Marjorie with a renewed and refined focus on the problem at hand. Indeed, a good long soak in a warm tub had helped her work through many of the more difficult plot lines in her novels.
The puzzle which she currently faced, however, was much more complicated. Unlike her novels, the characters and dialogue of this particular drama were not of her creation, making the dénouement a potentially tragic one for all involved.
Marjorie leaned against the high back of the claw-foot tub, closed her eyes, and reviewed the facts of the case.
First, there was the body. Mr. Ashcroft had been struck on the back of the head with a blunt object—in this case, the bronze statuette from the downstairs hallway. Marjorie shook her head slowly; it was a risky, messy murder that couldn’t have been premeditated. Why couldn’t Jackson see, as she did, that the whole scenario reeked of desperation?
Mr. Ashcroft was a tall man with a sturdy build, and, by all appearances, was in good health. There had to be an easier, more foolproof way of killing him than bashing his brains in with a household curio. Likewise, the murderer might have been seen by the other eight people in the house or even by Ashcroft himself. One shout from the Old Man and the entire game would have been over, unless …
The brandy.
Marjorie took a bar of soap from the adjacent wire rack and began lathering her arms and legs absently. If Ashcroft drank the brandy (which Marjorie still maintained contained the missing Seconal tablets), he would have been asleep or, at the very least, too groggy to notice or fight his assailant. But, as Jackson pointed out, why drug a man only to cosh him over the head later? Why not slip poison, rather than Seconal, into the brandy, and get the job over with?
Because, she argued with Jackson and now herself, the killer didn’t intend to be a killer. At that point, he or she was getting Ashcroft out of the way temporarily. He or she was simply buying time.
Buying time, she turned the phrase over in her mind. Buying time seemed to be a recurring theme in this case: first the phony appointment meant to lure the Ashcrofts out of New York and to Bermuda, then the counterfeit confirmation designed to get Mr. Ashcroft and possibly Mr. Miller away from Black Island, and, finally, the Seconal-laced brandy, administered to Ashcroft to ensure his complete withdrawal from the world at large.
Even the concealment of the body in the chest, aside from implicating Creighton, could be construed as an attempt to delay the discovery of Mr. Ashcroft’s murder. Selina, when questioned, claimed that the lid was closed when she entered the dining room that morning. If the chest had been watertight, Mr. Ashcroft’s body may not have been uncovered until Marjorie and Creighton crated the piece for delivery to the United States, possibly even later.
But why? Why so much subterfuge and misdirection? The reasons for hiding the body were obvious. Doing so made it tougher for the police to pinpoint the time of death, thus giving the killer an opportunity to establish an alibi. Moreover, if the chest containing Mr. Ashcroft had actually been crated and shipped, the resulting murder investigation would have been a logistical, as well as bureaucratic, nightmare.
What Marjorie didn’t understand was how it might behoove anyone to drug Mr. Ashcroft, or to send him on a wild goose chase. Why did they need him out of the house, or out of their hair, so badly? What was the plan—
Marjorie stopped in mid-thought and let the bar of soap slip through her fingers. She had listened to enough of Griselda’s nattering the previous night to understand that Mr. Ashcroft had been working on a new airplane, the design for which was so inn
ovative that Ashcroft would only view the plans late at night and in the security of his own home. Marjorie had also read enough about the situation in Europe (namely the recent German rearmament and Italy’s potential invasion of Ethiopia) to realize how valuable the new design would be to certain foreign powers, and just how lucrative those plans would be for whoever possessed them.
Suddenly it all became clear. Even the Bermuda locale had been handpicked in order to take advantage of the regatta, an event attended by boating enthusiasts and dignitaries from around the world. If one were to be seen speaking with a foreign representative on the streets of Hamilton, who would be the wiser?
What wasn’t clear, however, was the identity of the person behind the plot. Edward, as second in command, was more than likely aware of the project and its potential worth on the international market; he was also the only person to have seen the telegram confirming the spurious appointment. Did he scheme to resell the plans in a last-ditch attempt to purchase his independence?
And what about Pru? It wasn’t unreasonable to think that Edward could have mentioned the new project to his wife or that she might have overheard it being discussed around the dinner table. Between the miscarriage, the Seconal, and now the Benzedrine she was certainly desperate enough to try anything to get away from her father-in-law’s watchful eye. Yet, if George’s account was accurate, Pru was en route to the hospital when Cassandra was murdered. Could they have worked together to commit the crimes? If so, it would shed new light on Pru’s reluctance to speak with the police.
As Mr. Ashcroft’s secretary, Mr. Miller was high on the list of those who knew about the new airplane design. The only problem was that he had been dispatched, along with Ashcroft, to the now notorious Hamilton appointment, which indicated to Marjorie that someone wanted both of them away from the house and, more specifically, the office.
After having given the story to Marjorie, there was no way that Griselda could refute her knowledge of the drawings. Was Griselda aware that the sale of those plans could have kept her and her beloved Benny safe and warm in their New Jersey love nest for many years to come? If so, why divulge any of it to Marjorie—a woman she knew had been working with the police? Or was the unseen Benny the brains of the operation, and had Griselda—never-too-blonde, never-too-thin, never-too-tanned Griselda—simply said too much in an effort to satiate her constant need for attention?
Black Moonlight Page 14
