Safety in numbers, I reminded myself.
So long as the lights stayed on.
I went to fetch the first-aid kit, the one that had no magic ingredients whatsoever, and took it into the back room.
As I walked in, I realized that I knew who had killed Priscilla Carstairs.
I just didn’t know how to prove it.
8
I retreated back to the shop and then quickly ran upstairs to my flat and picked up my phone. I could hear the police cars pulling up as I rapidly texted Rafe, asking him to check two pieces of information for me.
Then, slipping my phone into my pocket, I returned downstairs.
I opened the shop door to the two detectives who were standing there. Detective Inspector Ian Chisholm gave me a baleful look—and who could blame him? This was not the first time he’d been called to my shop because of a dead body on the premises. I was beginning to think the shop was cursed. Again, not for the first time.
As soon as this was over, I was going to ask the witches in my family who were more powerful than I to come by for yet another cleansing.
Ian probably didn’t believe in curses, but I was sure even his rational mind boggled at being here again because of a suspicious death.
He didn’t waste any time on chitchat. “This is Sergeant Barnes.” I nodded to the redheaded man. “Tell us what happened.”
I did, as best I could, explaining about the knitting circle and the suspicious death. Ian’s gaze never left my face, but I tried not to let it unnerve me and to explain the facts as succinctly as I could.
He stopped me halfway through my recital. “Wait. Perhaps we’d better see for ourselves.”
The paramedics came in right behind him. He signaled them to wait, and he and Sergeant Barnes went ahead and into the back room. All the knitters were in exactly the places where I had left them. There was low-voiced conversation that stopped as we entered.
Ian looked all around the circle once and then twice before even identifying which was the dead woman.
He called in the paramedics, who came in with a medical kit. I was surprised he didn’t ask us all to leave the room, but he didn’t. So we sat and watched as a doctor examined Priscilla.
Weirdly, I waited anxiously for the verdict, even though I was positive there was no life left in Priscilla Carstairs. Sure enough, after a short examination, the doctor looked up at Ian and shook her head. Then I finally accepted that Priscilla Carstairs was dead. Murdered during a knitting circle.
Now, Ian asked us all to move into the front part of the shop. The police photographer arrived with the forensics team, who greeted me by name. Honestly, you know you’ve been involved in too many deaths when the forensic people know your name.
The photographer brought in strong lights, and with the light and sounds of activity coming from behind the curtain, it was as though they were making a movie back there. I only wished that were true.
We stood around awkwardly among the walls of wool and table of Christmas knitting displays. “I don’t want to take you all down to the station.”
Hudson said in a panicked tone, “No. I have paper due in the morning. I’ve got to get home to finish it.”
Ian looked at me, and I could practically read his thoughts. He was contemplating asking me if everyone could go upstairs to my flat. The only problem with that idea was that I would be hosting a murderer in my home. However, since I’d already had that person in my back room all evening, I didn’t think I had a lot more to risk. “I’m willing to have everyone come upstairs to my flat if you’d like.”
He looked grateful and relieved and at the same time worried. But since it was the most practical solution, he agreed. I opened the door leading up to my flat, and the knitters headed up that way. Ian held me back with a hand on my arm. “Thank you, Lucy. I’ll make sure and keep you safe. If necessary, I’ll have an officer assigned to protect you until we have the perpetrator in custody.”
I appreciated his concern for me. In fact, I appreciated a lot of things about Ian Chisholm. In some ways, he was the light to Rafe’s darkness. Still, our brief dating experience hadn’t turned out that well. Not that it was entirely his fault—he’d been the victim of a love potion gone wrong, but even so, I couldn’t change history. Much as I might like to.
Hudson was helping Joan Fawcett into the most comfortable chair when I got to the top of the stairs with Ian Chisholm. My lounge wasn’t terribly big, and there wasn’t enough seating for all of us, so I went to the dining room and fetched some more chairs. As people began to settle themselves, Ian said, “I want you all to sit in exactly the same order as you were downstairs.”
I looked around, and strangely, we had instinctively done that. I moved my wooden chair beside Sarah Lawson. And then, with a heavy heart, placed an empty chair where Priscilla Carstairs would have been, between Eileen and Joan.
Ian sat just outside our circle, and Sergeant Barnes stood with his notebook open at the top of the stairway. I strongly suspected that there were more officers downstairs should the killer try to make a break for it.
Ian began. “Normally, I would interview each of you separately, but due to the peculiar nature of Priscilla Carstairs’s death, I’m going talk to you all at once. I want each of you to listen to the other person’s interview and let me know if you hear inconsistencies or have anything to add. It’s very important to try and remember everything that happened, in the order it happened.”
He didn’t say that one of us was a killer, but I think we all realized that by now. These were nice people I’d knitted with, sold wool and magazines to. I hated to think of them harboring violence while they’d browsed through my wools, but it must be true. He looked around at us all. “This is where you were sitting?”
We all nodded.
He started by getting each of us to go through the evening as we remembered it. He began with Sarah Lawson. She looked nervous, and her color was up. She talked about bringing in her hamburger and how mean Priscilla had been to her. But then she assured him that even though she’d been hurt by the dead woman’s unfeeling remarks, she wouldn’t kill anyone.
“And did you know Mrs. Carstairs before tonight?”
She looked around at all of us helplessly. “Well, yes, of course. We’ve all been coming to this knitting circle for several weeks. It’s not always the same people, but I’ve knitted with Priscilla Carstairs on several occasions.”
“And before that? Did you know her?”
“No. We never met.” She made a face. “Once this knitting circle was over, I would’ve been perfectly happy never to see her again.”
It was probably a stupid thing to admit to the police, but on the other hand, her honest admission made her sound more innocent.
I asked if Ian would mind if I took care of Joan Fawcett’s burn, as I was still lugging the first aid kit around and hadn’t had a chance to treat her scald. He said that was fine. I moved closer to Joan and opened my first aid kit.
Ian asked Sarah Lawson exactly what she’d experienced when the lights went out. “Take your time and be as specific as you can.”
She took a moment and closed her eyes before beginning. “It was a shock. One minute I was counting stitches on my needle, and the next minute everything was dark. I heard rustling and maybe someone said, ‘What’s going on?’ I can’t really remember. Next thing, I heard a crash and the sound of breaking china. Someone screamed. And then Lucy was telling us not to worry, that she had candles somewhere.”
“And then?”
“And then the lights went back on. It took a few minutes before we even realized Priscilla Carstairs was dead.”
9
“When the lights went back on, was everyone in the same spot as before the power cut?”
“Um.” She closed her eyes again and left them closed as though a movie was playing on the back of her eyelids. “Lucy was standing up. Otherwise, I think everyone was sitting in the same spot.”
Ian moved on to
Hudson next and got pretty much the same story, though Hudson was able to add more detail. He remembered me and Eileen bumping into each other, and he remembered more of what I’d said. While they were talking, I helped Joan take off her sweater, and I smoothed a topical ointment on the red skin where the hot tea had scalded her left arm. It wasn’t blistered, so I didn’t think there would be any permanent damage. I didn’t want to think of her skin burning in the aftermath of having scalding tea dumped all over it and decided I would make her a cup of my special healing tea after all.
I went to the kitchen and put the kettle on to boil. I listened with half an ear as Hudson said he hadn’t known the victim before knitting circle began and he hadn’t noticed anything strange during the blackout. “Though I did hear something odd. The two older ladies sitting beside me were talking to themselves. They said something about blackouts during the war. I didn’t know what war?”
I turned to stare. Clara and Mabel looked guilty. Again. I made a silent vow to ban them from all human knitting circles from now on. Finally, Clara said, “I was talking about my mother. She used to tell stories about the war.”
In a hurry to get back out there, I brewed my special tea and, circling my hand over the cup, quietly muttered,
Let this tea soothing be to one who suffers burning pain.
Take away the sting and let healthy skin remain.
So I wish, so mote it be.
I took the mug into the lounge and offered it to Joan. I didn’t offer anyone else a drink, and no one even seemed to notice. Or perhaps the very thought of tea made them feel bilious.
I resumed my seat. Ian interviewed Mabel next, and I tried to refrain from clenching every muscle in my body with dread. Please let her not tell him things that no human should know, like how she’d actually heard Priscilla’s blood stop pumping and how she’d smelled death. But fortunately, Mabel had the sense to repeat nearly word for word what Sarah and Hudson had said. Clara did the same.
Eileen was next, and as Ian turned his attention to her, I think we were all aware of the empty chair next to her.
“You were sitting beside Mrs. Carstairs. I want you to think very carefully about what you saw or felt and what you did, during and after the blackout.”
She shrugged her shoulders and looked around the room as though we might all be able to help her out. “I was busy knitting my little grandson a sweater. Because it’s so tiny, it’s very important to get everything right. It’s got a cable pattern, you see, and I was counting, making certain that I had all my stitches in the correct order when the lights went out. I admit the first thing I felt was irritation because I had just worked out exactly where I was in the pattern and now I was going to lose my place.”
“You weren’t frightened or startled?”
“Not really. It was only a power cut.”
“Did you hear anything from the victim?”
“I think she made a sound as though she were annoyed. She muttered something. ‘This is nice,’ you know, in a sarcastic way. I heard rustling like in the theater before the movie starts when the lights go down. Suddenly you’re aware of other people shuffling and sighing and coughing and so on. Then I heard the crash of dishes and things breaking. Joan screamed, and I wasn’t certain what to do. I wanted to get up and help her, but it was so dark, and I was afraid of slipping or hurting myself on something that was broken.
I heard Lucy say that she would try and find some candles, and then I thought I’d better get up and see if I could help Joan. I suppose in the darkness, Lucy and I became disoriented, and we collided with each other. Then, shortly after that, the power went back on. I think in the relief of having our vision restored, none of us realized that poor Priscilla was dead.”
She swallowed, and I could see the shudder go over her skin. “It was horrible.”
As he’d asked all the others, Ian asked her if she had known the victim before the knitting circle began to meet. She hesitated for a long time. The moment stretched too long, until I suppose even she realized that if she pretended now that she didn’t know the woman, none of us would believe it, including the police. “Yes. I did. It was on a professional matter. I really shouldn’t say more.”
Ian looked at her, and when he put on his tough cop face, he could be quite intimidating. “I can take you down to the station and interview you in a private room, if that would make you more comfortable. Please remember, this is a criminal investigation.”
Eileen looked at the empty chair as though she might get Priscilla’s permission to go on and, receiving none, said, “I don’t suppose it matters too much now that the poor woman is dead. We represented her husband in their divorce.” She hesitated, then added, “If everything he claimed was true, she wasn’t very nice to him.”
“Divorce?” Sarah asked her. “I thought she said she was widowed.”
“She was divorced from the man first. I think she called herself a widow as it made her sound like the victim.”
“Did you feel someone walk behind you before they knocked into the table and broke all that crockery?”
“No. I didn’t.”
“You and Lucy bumped into each other. You’re the only person who seems to have been on their feet during the blackout. Are you sure it wasn’t you who caused the accident with the table?”
I discovered that Eileen had a steely glare just as tough as Ian’s. It was impressive. “I’m very sure.”
They stared at each other for about thirty seconds in a standoff that I knew I’d have lost in the first microsecond.
He turned, finally, to Joan Fawcett. He asked her the same questions he’d asked everyone else. She said very much what the rest of them had. When the lights went out, she’d heard some shuffling. Someone coughed. And she looked at Eileen. “And yes, I did hear Priscilla mutter something. I was wondering whether I should put my crochet away when I was hit by scalding tea. Well, I didn’t understand it was tea at the time. All I knew was the shock of great pain. I’m afraid I screamed. After that, I was so completely taken up with mopping myself up that I didn’t notice anything else.”
“Did you hear anyone behind you?”
“Now you mention it, I did. I heard footsteps and then the impact as someone hit that table and then, as I said, I was hit by the burning tea and also heard all the china breaking on the floor.”
He looked at her. “This is very important, Mrs. Fawcett. Do you have any idea who that person was who knocked into the table?”
“I think it might’ve been Sarah Lawson.”
10
Sarah sat up straight and shrieked, “What?”
Joan shrugged helplessly. “It was a heavy-footed person. That’s all I know. And, of course, Priscilla had been very unkind to Sarah.” She let her words hang in the air, which they did, like a fog or a bad smell.
I felt the vibration that told me a text message was coming in. To my relief, it was from Rafe. He’d worked very quickly, and I had the answers to both my questions. It wasn’t proof, but his new information confirmed what I already believed.
I put my phone back in my pocket as Ian asked, almost by rote now, “And Mrs. Fawcett, did you know the victim before this evening?”
“Yes, like everyone else, I saw her most weeks at the knitting circle.”
He nodded. “And you’d never seen her before?”
She shook her head. “No. Never.”
I didn’t like what I had to do, but Joan Fawcett had just told a lie. “Are you sure?” I asked her.
Everyone turned to me, looking startled. I wasn’t supposed to be the one asking the questions, but Ian Chisholm knew that I had a bad habit of getting involved in murders. I didn’t like to boast, but I had actually helped solve a couple of them. And I felt certain I was on my way to solving this one.
Joan turned to me in surprise. “What can you mean, Lucy? I suppose I might have seen the woman in your knitting shop, but I didn’t pay any attention.”
I glanced at Ian, and he gave an
imperceptible nod for me to go on. I knew I had to be very careful here or I’d make a mess of things. “Didn’t you once attend Miss Adelaide’s Ballet School?”
She looked stunned for a moment, and I saw her mouth open as she went slack-jawed. Then she shut her mouth so hard, her false teeth snapped together with a clatter. “My goodness, that was donkey’s years ago. But yes, I took dance lessons when I was young.”
Hudson glanced over now, looking interested. “Miss Adelaide’s Ballet School? Wasn’t that the school that Priscilla Carstairs said she’d attended?” He looked around at us all. “She was just telling the story tonight.”
Eileen furrowed her brow and then nodded. “Yes, Hudson, I believe you’re right.”
Joan Fawcett shifted in her seat, finding a more comfortable position. “I should think a great number of girls attended Miss Adelaide’s Ballet School. It was famous. She turned out a number of dancers who went on to great careers.”
“Yes,” I said. “But you and Priscilla Carstairs were exactly the same age.” And thank you Rafe for that information. “You must have been there at the same time.”
She shrugged irritably, looking at Ian now. “Even if we were, I could hardly be expected to remember something that happened nearly seventy years ago.”
I let a beat of silence pass. If there was one thing I’d learned in my brief time of interrogating people, it was the importance of silence. Letting that pause build until the suspect was uncomfortably waiting for the next question. I let her wait, and the silence grew in the room. Ian didn’t say anything. He let me have the floor. “You said to Eileen that you didn’t suffer from rheumatism. That you walk with a cane because you had an accident when you were young. What was that accident?”
I’d deliberately tried to throw her off with a question she hadn’t expected. She began to look offended and sat up ramrod-straight. The cameo broach at her throat caught the light from the lamps. She put down her tea with a snap. “I really don’t think that’s any of your business.”
Six Merry Little Murders Page 22
