Harding continued writing. “So, whatever is going on between the much troubled Pilkingtons, we can’t pin a murder on them.”
“Very difficult to do at present,” Graham agreed. “They only have reasons to be grateful to her. And mad at each other, but that’s not the point.”
The board was filling with names, lines, and notes, but at least it was a more orderly depiction of the case than their previous attempt. “Okay, so we’re assuming Alves didn’t pay off an assassin?” Harding posited.
Graham was shaking his head. “I really can’t imagine him murdering Sylvia in any other way than with his own two hands. Revenge killings are brutal. This was a quick bit of poisoning. Doesn’t fit.”
Sergeant Harding agreed. “And even if he had paid to have her poisoned, would he use a method like Wolfsbane?”
“More likely something which would draw out the process, not kill her in the course of an unpleasant afternoon,” Graham said.
Standing back from the board, Harding said, “So, we’re looking for someone else entirely.”
“Yes,” Graham said. He stood and began pacing around the tiny office. “Think about this,” he was saying. “Why would the murderer stay around on Jersey after doing the deed?”
“If I’d just done somebody in, I’d take myself as far away as possible,” Harding told him, brushing chalk off her hands.
Graham tried the opposite approach, just to play Devil’s Advocate. “The murderer might have stayed in town just to deflect suspicion. As if to say, ‘Look, I’m still here! I’ve got nothing to hide!’”
“But in that case,” Harding countered, “we’d have something else on them, some connection or motive or… something.”
Graham took the chalk. “Next. Colonel Graves.”
“Our erstwhile paramour and real estate mogul,” Harding quipped.
“Now, now, Sergeant,” Graham said with admonishment in his tone. “He’s hurting, and he’s the real deal.”
“You told me,” Harding asserted, “that no one can be ruled out entirely.”
“But how does he benefit from killing the woman he’s about to propose to? If she had been the one to loan him money, I’d bite, but she was just a sweet, retired doctor. And he was crazy about her.”
“That’s true. Half the hotel knew about the two of them. And Mrs. Taylor, of course.”
Graham stopped short. “Can we rule her out, too?”
“Oh, God, yes,” Harding said at once. “Murders might boost a hotel’s reputation if a celebrity is involved and a few decades go by, but all she’s done since we arrived is remind us how important the summer is to her business.”
“Exactly. It does her no good to have a bunch of police officers running around.”
Harding thought on. “I mean, there’s no way she’s in a weird love triangle with Sylvia and the Colonel?”
DI Graham couldn’t help a quick, indulgent laugh. “Wow, Sergeant, that’s imaginative. I mean, we’ve got no reason to suspect it, but I like your ingenuity.”
Barnwell reappeared at the door. “Oi, what the bloody hell happened to my diagram?” he demanded. “I had something there.”
“What you had,” Harding informed him, “was fit for a kindergarten art class. This,” she announced, “is much better.”
Arms folded, Barnwell took his seat and let the two continue to brainstorm. Roach slid in next to him. He turned over yet another page of his legal pad, ready to keep track of his own thoughts as he had throughout the investigation.
“What about Alice?” Harding prompted.
“She loaned Graves money,” Graham told them. “It might not be in any way relevant, but I just want to put it out there.”
“Money? What for?” Roach asked.
Graham explained about the Miami deal, the way that Graves was being pressured by the investment group. “He’s already started paying it back,” he added.
Barnwell chortled obscenely. “Paying it back how, exactly?”
Harding gave him yet another exasperated look, hands on her hips. “What are you talking about?”
“I mean, you saw her. That Alice, she’s totty, she is.” Barnwell said, narrowly preventing himself from clarifying his point with a lewd gesture. “Is it so impossible to believe?”
“That Colonel Graves was cheating on his beloved Sylvia? Or that Alice Swift, with all of her…” Harding said, barely believing she was stooping so low, “assets, would be interested in a sixty-year-old ex-soldier with the stiffest…”
“Steady on,” Barnwell interjected.
“Upper lip,” Harding enunciated, “you’ve ever seen.” She rolled her eyes at Graham, as if to say, How can I work with these buffoons?
“Let’s put a pin in that one,” Graham said diplomatically. “Does Alice have any motive to harm Sylvia?” Three pairs of shoulders raised slightly, then dropped back down. “Thanks, team. Excellent police work,” the DI said with heavy sarcasm.
“If there isn’t anything to be found,” Barnwell objected, “we aren’t going to find it, are we?”
“Okay, you’re right,” Graham allowed. “So, who are we left with?”
“There’s suicide. We haven’t gone back over that,” Barnwell insisted.
“Because it’s bollocks,” Roach countered.
“So sure?” Graham asked.
Roach was adamant. “She was happy, in love, living on the beautiful island of Jersey in the summer time, with plenty of money. What possible reason…”
“I don’t want to give this idea more credence than I should,” Graham said cautiously, “but just because someone seems happy doesn’t necessarily mean they are.”
“Look at Marilyn Monroe,” Roach offered.
“I often do,” Barnwell replied.
“Moving on,” Graham decided. “If none of the hotel staff are suspects, and we can rule out everyone we’ve interviewed, then…”
“We’re kind of nowhere,” Roach said despondently.
Graham stood. “Bugger it. I’m going for a walk. If you are struck by a bolt of investigative lightning in the next half hour, call me.”
It was a bright, sunny lunchtime outside, one of the warmest days of the year so far. Graham left his jacket behind and rolled up his sleeves. It might even, he wondered to himself, be an opportunity to replace his pasty Londoner look with something a little more exotic. Not to mention attractive.
He walked west, on autopilot almost, toward the ocean. The cliff tops gave spectacular views of the other island beyond and then the coast of France, especially on a day as clear as this. He reached the top after twenty minutes at a meandering stroll and sat down on the grass. Quite a few years earlier, he’d been invited to a meditation retreat in Scotland that had scenery a little like this; green meadows, sparse little villages with twisting roads disappearing into the next valley, and breathtaking views of the serene, sparkling, summertime Atlantic. He’d spent a long weekend simply breathing in and out. It hadn’t really been his thing, if he were honest. By the third day, he was bored beyond belief, but the invitation had come from a particularly alluring brunette named Isla, and he could hardly refuse, especially when she’d asked so nicely….
Without any warning whatsoever, a light bulb went off in his head. It illuminated areas of his mind, details of his memory that had languished in darkness. New connections were made, even as he sat there, stunned by the suddenness of the sensation. Pieces fell into place. The events of the last four days sought to relate to each other in novel ways and with a fresh logic.
“Bloody hell.”
He stood, reaching for the notebook in his jacket pocket before remembering that it was on the back of his office chair, at the station.
He covered the mile back to the Constabulary at a pace that would have impressed a much younger man, exhilarated by the energizing power of raw, independent discovery.
CHAPTER SEVEN
THE THREE POLICE officers stood in the lobby of Gorey Constabulary, looking at one anot
her in confusion. Banished from DI Graham’s office while he made what seemed to be a series of phone calls, they were left wondering what on earth he might have stumbled upon during his afternoon walk.
“You don’t think,” Barnwell shared in a low tone, “that our new boss is a bit loopy, do you?”
Harding gave him a skeptical look. “No, Constable. I don’t.”
“I mean,” Barnwell pressed on, “I like a breath of fresh air as much as the next man, but…”
Graham emerged from his office, swinging back the door so hard that it smacked into the wall. “Friends, Romans, Countrymen,” he began oratorically, “lend me your car so I can get over to the White House Inn and put this sodding case to bed, once and for all.”
“Breakthrough, boss?” Roach asked, excited.
Graham turned to him. “Maybe. I won’t know for sure until we all do a bit of people-watching. I just called Mrs. Taylor, and she’s racing around the Inn right now, doing us a favor.”
The drive over was purposeful and speedy, despite the wandering tourists on this sunny afternoon. They stopped at a pedestrian crossing to allow an elderly man to cross, but he changed his mind in the middle and headed back the way he’d come. “Dozy bugger,” Harding muttered. “Does he think we’re in a police car because we like the colors?”
“Should have put the siren on,” Barnwell recommended from the back seat. “Give him a good scare.”
“Thank you, Constable,” Graham said, “but I’d rather deal with Dr. Norquist’s murder than a random stranger’s heart attack. And buckle your seat belt. You do know the law around here, don’t you?”
Mrs. Taylor was as good as her word, as always. “Good afternoon, Detective Inspector. I must say, I was surprised to receive your call, but it’s good news that this might all be over soon,” she enthused.
“I make no promises, Mrs. Taylor,” Graham reminded her. “But I’ve got a hunch. And sometimes that’s enough.”
The Inn’s staff, including the bustling and efficient Marcella, had cleared the terrace except for one large table. Around it were seated seven familiar figures. Per Graham’s instructions, Carlos Alves was seated furthest from the door, followed by the Pilkingtons, Colonel Graves, and then Alice Swift. Mrs. Taylor and Marcella took the last two seats. Harding, Roach, and Barnwell positioned themselves around the terrace as Graham strode into the middle and addressed the group.
“Thank you all for being here this afternoon,” he began. “I’m sure the past few days have been difficult for everyone. Sylvia was a popular and respected lady, and she will be sorely missed by many, including some of you,” Graham said carefully. Not everyone on this terrace, he knew full well, was devastated at this particular loss.
“You’ve all been very generous with your time and for the most part,” he emphasized, “entirely honest in your statements to the police.” There was a flutter of concern throughout the group. Which of them was being accused of dishonesty was uncertain. “My team and I,” Graham continued, motioning to the trio, “have exhausted every avenue of inquiry, including the forensic angles, and we’re here today for what amounts to… Well, I suppose it’s a final interview, done en masse,” he explained. “Does anyone have any objections to this rather unorthodox format?”
No one spoke. Roach was writing, just as Graham had instructed, keeping a log, not of what was said, but of what each person did. Before being reduced to his solo evening games of solitaire, Roach had been a decent poker player and had even won a local championship. Reading people’s reactions, he’d insisted to Graham on his first day in the job, was a specialty, and one which the DI was keen to put to good use.
“I’m going to lay out our case as plainly as I can,” Graham said. “Nothing is for certain in this game, but we’re ninety-nine percent certain that Sylvia was murdered.” The Pilkingtons both gasped slightly, but that was the only movement Roach could detect. “We are also ninety-nine percent certain that she was poisoned with an herbal concoction known as ‘tincture of aconite.’”
The Colonel looked thoroughly appalled. Perhaps it was guilt at the revelation of what he had done, Graham conjectured, or simply distaste at being told the very method by which his beloved had been taken from him. Alice was frowning as though puzzling the matter over in her mind. Over on Graham’s left, Alves was rolling an unlit cigar between his fingers, as though supremely indifferent to this whole business.
“Aconite, or Wolfsbane as it is also known, is a deadly poison, but not an especially commonplace one. It has the virtues of being largely undetectable by pathologists as it leaves no traces of its own, save the symptoms of the poisoning itself: asphyxia caused by a dangerously irregular heart rhythm.”
The Colonel was having trouble gathering his emotions. For an instant, Graham wondered whether it was a mistake inviting the man here but reminded himself that for this conjurer’s trick to be a success, every participant in the investigation had to be present.
“So, once those facts were established,” he told the group, “our investigation shifted its focus to potential motives. And here,” he said, “we had an obvious place to begin.” Graham turned to face Carlos Alves. “Sir, it is no secret that you harbored ill will toward Dr. Norquist.”
Alves said nothing, continuing to roll his cigar to and fro.
“She was responsible to an extent that varies depending on who you ask for the tragic death of your son.” Alves raised his eyes now and nodded slightly. “There is no greater pain in human life than such a terrible thing. But unfortunately, it made you our prime suspect.”
“It would have been a pleasure,” Alves said with studied malevolence, “to deny life to the woman who took my son from me.”
Colonel Graves made to stand, but Barnwell responded quickest, a firm hand cautioning the incensed ex-officer to go no further.
“But I was not responsible for this crime,” Alves said finally.
“No, you were not,” Graham conceded. “You were on Guernsey at the time of the murder. Unless, of course,” he added, “you paid someone to carry out this act.”
Alves gave Graham a furious look. “Paid? I wouldn’t pay to have such a thing done. I would have done it myself!” He paused. “But I didn’t.”
“No, indeed,” Graham asserted. “We were discussing motive,” he reminded the group. “Anne Pilkington. You had just such a motive, did you not?”
Her hand flew to her chest. “Me?” she gasped.
“You were concerned that your husband might be having an affair with Sylvia. You suspected that, during the course of his treatment, they had become close. Even intimate.”
Nigel, for his part, looked thoroughly downcast and exhausted. Roach could only imagine that these repeated reminders of his life-and-death struggle with cancer were weighing on him. “I suspected nothing of the sort,” Anne retorted. “Nigel and I are as close as we have ever been.”
“But you were furious when you discovered they’d been spending time together,” Graham reminded her.
Shaking her head firmly, Anne replied, “We made a pact after his diagnosis last year that we would be absolutely honest with each other. It was the first time Nigel had hidden anything from me since then.”
“But for your own good,” Nigel offered sincerely. “If you’d known we were meeting, you’d have known the cancer was back. And this time… Well, I couldn’t put you through all that again.” They sat, hand in hand, bereft. “I was going to walk out into the bay one night and never come back.” The couple embraced and then sat in an intense, shared silence, seemingly no longer part of the drama unfolding around them.
Harding was close to tears, but Graham regained his focus quickly. “Which brings us to Colonel Graves.” This was not, Graham could see, going to be an easy moment. “More often than you might believe,” Graham said, “and far more often than any of us would like, it is those closest to the victim who are responsible for their death.”
“You can’t think…” Graves began, red-face
d.
“I have to, Colonel. During investigations like this, we are obliged to ask the hardest questions and follow the most unlikely leads. You claimed to us that you were about to propose to Sylvia.”
“I… I was,” he replied.
“But we were forced to wonder whether you already had and had been refused. All of those carefully-laid plans ruined,” Graham speculated. “Your future happiness in tatters.”
Graves was silently shaking his head.
“Or perhaps you asked her for money to bail out your troubled investments in the States, and this was the refusal which cost Sylvia her life.”
“I discussed that with you,” he rasped, “in confidence.”
“And I apologize for deceiving you. My business is catching a murderer, whatever misfortunes might have befallen yours.”
“This is outrageous!” he roared. “You have no right to speak to me like this!”
“I have every right,” Graham shot back, “to question those whom I believe may be complicit in a murder and to do so in any way I see fit.”
Harding was becoming worried. Was Barnwell right, she wondered, and their new DI was a bit “loopy?” Were his methods, including this strange performance on the terrace, really sound? Were his conclusions, whatever they might be, truly to be trusted?
But before she could intervene, there was an angry voice from the next table. “You leave him alone!” Alice insisted. “He did nothing wrong.”
There was silence on the terrace for a long moment. Then Graham resumed where he had left off. “Miss Swift. I wonder if there’s anything you’d like to tell us?”
She sat stubbornly, her arms folded.
“Perhaps why it was that you decided to order aconitum flowers online?” Graham asked. “Perhaps why you chose to concoct a poison amid the dyes and inks in your room?”
Alice remained silent, staring straight ahead at the ocean.
“Perhaps why,” Graham asked, approaching her now, “you added a fatal dose of Wolfsbane to Sylvia’s wine while pretending to be her friend and sharing confidences?”
The Case of the Hidden Flame Page 8
