The Linking Rings

by John Gaspard

  I was still pondering this as I left the train station and made my way up the lane toward Baxter’s estate, enjoying the cool night air. The moon was almost full and provided more than enough light on the path, but that illumination paled by what I saw when I turned the corner toward the mansion. I was surprised to see both the inside and outside of the house were brightly lit up, the exterior illumination provided by the flashing lights from several police cars and an ambulance.

  The ambulance was just starting to pull away from the house as I broke into a run.

  Chapter 18

  “They’re saying it might have been an accident, but they’re also saying it might not have been,” Harry said, turning to McHugh for confirmation on this less-than-helpful assessment.

  “In short, they are hedging, which is exactly what I would do given the circumstances,” McHugh added.

  We were standing in the mansion’s large foyer, off to the side, observing Laurence Baxter as he wrapped up another of what I guessed had been a long and detailed conversation with Detective Inspector Matthews. She was patiently nodding and taking notes while he gestured to the staircase and then to all of his assembled guests. The crime scene team was upstairs in one of the bathrooms, and Megan was on the other side of the entryway, talking quietly with Roy and Roxanne Templeton. Davis De Vries stood off by himself, looking ashen.

  The only guest who wasn’t with us in the foyer was Angus Bishop, and the reason for that was simple; he was the one who had just left in the ambulance. The good news was he was still breathing when he left. The bad news was he was in a coma, and no one was certain if he was likely to come out of it. Or what shape he might be in when, or if, he did.

  The facts I had gleaned so far were sketchy.

  Apparently, one of the maids—poor Gwendolyn, who was two-for-two for finding bodies while simply doing her job—had discovered Angus unconscious in a bathtub in one of the several bathrooms on the second floor. Her screams summoned Roy and Roxanne, who were able to get the large man out of the water. First aid and mouth-to-mouth was attempted while an ambulance was summoned, and soon the professionals took over.

  The sticking point, and the one element flummoxing the police—according to McHugh—was the amount of water on the bathroom floor. Gwendolyn said she distinctly remembered lots of water on the floor by the bathtub when she found the body. For their part, Roy and Roxanne had no memory of there being water on the floor when they came in the room. However, once they had managed to pull Angus’ large form from the tub, Roy said the floor looked like “the engine room on the Titanic.”

  “So,” Harry continued, “the water issue aside, it’s possible Angus may simply have passed out while bathing and nearly drowned. Given the amount of alcohol he consumes on a regular basis, that hypothesis is not too far-fetched.”

  “Agreed,” McHugh said. “However, more near-fetched is the issue of Archie Banks’ suicide note. I don’t have the exact wording on me, but it was something like, ‘You drowned my dreams,’ wasn’t it?”

  Harry nodded. “Yes, I think you’re very close on that. However, if this was a murder attempt—”

  “—which the lads, and lasses, on the force are hesitating to confirm,” McHugh interjected.

  “But if it was, then that means someone snuck into the bath and held Angus’ head under water. Once he passed out, they assumed the deed had been completed.”

  “Or this person was interrupted. The room does have two forms of egress. Doors, that is,” McHugh added for my benefit. I nodded in thanks.

  “And let’s not forget, our friend Angus was—is—a big fellow,” Harry said. “I can’t imagine it would be easy for one person, even a strong person, to subdue him, particularly in an environment as slick as a bathtub full of water.”

  “Certainly not the unfortunate Second Girl, Gwendolyn, who is building quite the CV in the discovery of murders and attempted murders,” McHugh said. “I agree, it would require one exceptionally strong person or perhaps two people working in concert.” He glanced over at the door, which Laurence Baxter was holding open for DI Matthews. “I would guess that’s the direction this investigation will head.”

  While they continued to speculate, I crossed the foyer to check in with Megan, who had been comforting Roxanne. The older woman was both unnerved and still soaking wet from the effort of pulling an unconscious Angus out of the tub. She and Roy looked like cats left out in the rain.

  “I think you both should take some ibuprofen before going to bed tonight,” Megan said, turning to include Roy. “You’re bound to be sore tomorrow.”

  “Good thought,” Roy agreed, glancing up the stairs. “I’m just wondering if we’re allowed to go back upstairs yet. I need to see a man about a horse.”

  “More like a pony,” Roxanne said, and this crack made both of them snort, holding in a laugh they knew was not appropriate for the situation. “You’re such a creature of habit. There’s like four biffies on this floor alone.” She took him by the hand and pulled him down the hall to a guest bathroom.

  “Sorry I wasn’t here for this,” I said to Megan.

  “Don’t worry about it. I missed the whole thing. I was up in the greenhouse watching the sunset. I didn’t know anything was going on until I heard the sirens and looked down to see an ambulance pull up to the front door.”

  I gave her a hug and was working on some warm words to go with it when Davis De Vries approached us. He still looked pale, made all the more so by his snowy head of hair.

  “I’m going to get a drink,” he said in what sounded like an invitation to join him. He moved past us toward the study but turned back and lowered his voice. “Just between us, I’ve come to the conclusion, late as it may be, that I’m really not enjoying my stay in this house.”

  “And then there were five.”

  Roy Templeton made this declaration in what turned out to be a pretty fair Vincent Price impression. We had been sitting in silence for several moments, and his sudden proclamation actually made me jump, if only a bit.

  We were assembled in Laurence Baxter’s study, most of us with drinks in our hands. I looked around and sensed everyone was doing some quick mental calculations in reaction to Roy’s statement. McHugh had departed with DI Matthews, leaving just the core group of magicians sharing drinks, along with Megan and myself. I repositioned myself in the large, cushiony chair, trying to get comfortable and coming up short.

  “Five? How do you figure?” Roxanne asked indignantly. She had joined the group wearing a bathrobe, quoting Robert Benchley about slipping out of some wet clothes and into a dry martini. Currently she was on her second.

  Roy counted on his fingers as he spoke. “There’s Baxter, Harry, De Vries, me, and you. That’s five.”

  “Hold up there, Kemosabe. Don’t include me in this morbid mob, I was late to the Archie Banks party, remember? I’m just the hired help. You know, the girl in the box.” She took another long sip of her drink, finishing it. “You’re the ones who got him drummed out of The Magic Circle.”

  “Yes, we all did, and now we’re paying the price for it,” De Vries said. He had been sitting quietly in the corner, sipping his second, or maybe his third, drink.

  “But why? And, more importantly, who?” Roy said.

  “I always tell my students the simplest answer is usually the right one,” Laurence Baxter said as he got up and went to the bar. He glanced around to see who else might need a refill. When his eyes met mine, I gave a slight shake of my head, feeling I had already passed my meager limit.

  I adjusted my position in the chair and realized that, while it was not the most comfortable seat in the room, it was the iPhone in my back pocket that was the real cause of my discomfort. I pulled it out, and the pain I had been experiencing vanished.

  “Well, the simplest answer is that someone is enacting a revenge scheme for Archie Banks,” De Vries said.


  “I’ve heard revenge is a dish best served cold,” Roy said. “But thirty-plus years? That’s beyond cold. That’s sub-zero.”

  “Unless it’s Archie himself,” De Vries said. His eyes looked a little glassy, and he was working hard on his enunciations. “From beyond the grave. Somehow.” His voice trailed off. This idea, which earlier in the week he had scoffed at, was clearly becoming more palatable to De Vries. I was still resisting that explanation.

  Baxter, at the bar, clucked his tongue. “Well, I can’t speak for the rest of you,” he said as he added ice to a fresh glass. “But I, as the saying goes, ain’t afraid of no ghosts.” He punctuated the phrase by tossing one final ice cube into his glass.

  “I agree. Our situation, while extraordinary, is not likely to be supernatural,” Harry said. He turned and smiled at Megan. “No offense to the believers in the room.”

  She smiled right back. “None taken,” she said.

  “Consequently, I think our time would be better spent focusing on the living and not on the dead. At least for the time being,” Harry added, nodding to De Vries, who raised his glass in acquiescence.

  “I for one,” Baxter began as he moved away from the bar, and then he stopped. Miss Hess had appeared, silent as always, in the doorway to the study. She waited patiently while Baxter crossed the room to her.

  Seeing that our host was otherwise engaged, Harry continued. “So, we have to ask ourselves, if not Archie Banks, then who? Who benefits?”

  While we were all listening to Harry as he posed questions that needed answers, we were also doing our best to overhear the conversation between Baxter and his spooky housekeeper. As always, their conversation was so low it was virtually inaudible. Baxter wrapped up the muted exchange and turned to the now-silent group. He set his drink on a nearby table.

  “Excuse me for just a moment,” he said, following Miss Hess out of the room.

  “The issue we’re running into,” Harry continued, “and I’ve discussed this at length with McHugh, is the dearth of actual suspects in the case. Archie Banks is dead, has no heirs, and—on the surface at least—no one seems to benefit from these murders.”

  “Revenge is a mighty strong motivator, my friend,” Roy Templeton said. “Sometimes blindingly so.”

  I could tell Megan had lost interest in the conversation. She leaned toward Roxanne and gestured toward the door.

  “Did you hear what they said?” Megan asked the older woman.

  Roxanne was listening intently to Roy, so it took a moment for her to realize Megan had put a question to her.

  “What, dear?”

  “I said, did you hear what those two said in the doorway?”

  Roxanne leaned over to fill Megan in, and I turned to back to the group.

  “Well, who was it who found Archie with his head in the oven?” De Vries asked from across the room. “We could start there.”

  “That’s weird,” Megan said, leaning toward me after she had stopped chatting with Roxanne.

  “What is?” I asked, my focus actually on the main conversation.

  “Roxanne said Miss Hess told Mr. Baxter she needed help moving the marigolds in the greenhouse.”

  I shrugged. “What’s so weird about that? Given how frail she is, I would imagine she’s not likely to be able to bench press even a small flower pot.” I glanced down at my phone, wondering why I had a sudden strong desire to look at the photos. I flipped open the photos app, which took me to the last photo I had taken. It was of Archie Banks’ tombstone.

  “It was that girlfriend of his, wasn’t it?” Roy suggested. “She came home late and found him. ‘Honey, I’m home!’ Nice surprise, that.”

  “Well, where is she?” De Vries asked. “Has anyone tracked her down?”

  “She was from Australia,” I offered, remembering Angus Bishop’s comments to me about her. “At least, according to Angus.” I looked over at Megan, but she was looking down at my phone and furrowing her brow in concentration. She took it from me and examined the photo more closely.

  Roy shook his head and laughed. “Angus got that one wrong. Close, but no cigar. She wasn’t from Australia. I remember she was from Austria.”

  I nodded, understanding that once again Angus Bishop had mixed up like-sounding words. I looked back to Megan, to see if she was following this, but her attention was clearly elsewhere.

  “It’s so weird. I spent a lot of time in the greenhouse over the last week,” she said. “I can name every plant in it. And I don’t remember seeing one marigold. But there is one here—on Archie’s tombstone.” She gestured toward the center of the photo as she handed the phone back to me.

  Across the room, Roy continued on the subject of Archie Banks’ girlfriend. “I know it was Austria, because I used to joke with Archie about her. I called her his version of Eva Braun.”

  “Austria?” Harry said slowly.

  “Marigolds?” I said in reply, looking at the photo of the tombstone, with its loving addition of the engraved flower. The flower that symbolized grief. The flower that—according to Megan—would not be found in the greenhouse that Miss Hess was taking Laurence Baxter to this very second. The greenhouse on the roof. Four stories up.

  Harry and I turned and looked at each other. I could tell—like he did with McHugh on occasion—we were having the exact same thought. Harry said it first.

  “The suicide note.”

  “‘You pushed me over the edge,’” I said quickly.

  “‘I am at the point of no return,’” he responded, finishing the line from the note.

  “Austrian,” he added.

  “Marigolds,” I said in reply.

  I jumped to my feet and raced out of the room. Harry was right behind me.

  “Eva Braun,” Roy said, repeating his punch line weakly, looking after us as we ran out. He turned back to the rest of the room. “What? Too soon?”

  Chapter 19

  I took the steps to the second floor two at a time. I had left Harry at the base of the stairs, with instructions to call the police.

  This sudden and unexpected cardio workout, combined with the one—or was it two?—glasses of wine I’d had, was making it hard to pull all the pieces together in my mind as I scrambled up the stairs.

  The out-of-the-blue mention of a missing marigold—the same flower adorning Banks’ tombstone—was one thing. Interesting, but not really earth-shattering.

  But when you coupled it with the revelation that Archie’s girlfriend had been Austrian, not Australian, it felt like things were centering on the creepy housekeeper.

  I hit the second floor landing and, using the banister as a pivot point, rounded the corner on the stairs, heading up to the third.

  The notion that the comically fragile Miss Hess was behind all the murders was, on the face of it, absurd. However, her connection to this house, Laurence Baxter, and, by extension, The Magic Circle certainly provided all the access one would need.

  But for some reason the words means, motive, and opportunity kept running through my mind as I neared the top of the stairs to the third floor. She certainly could possess the last two, but if I understood how the iconic phrase defined “means,” I was thinking Miss Hess would likely come up short in that department. She had trouble lifting a teapot, so holding Angus Bishop’s head under the water for any length of time seemed too far outside her wheelhouse.

  As I raced down the third-floor hall toward the spiral staircase, which led to the roof, I said the word “wheelhouse” out loud, suddenly doubting it was the right word, or for that matter, even a real word. Such was the current functioning of my brain cells. Before I could consider this further, I arrived at the black cast-iron spiral staircase.

  The circular nature of this last climb made running impossible, and my feet almost slipped out from under me twice as I struggled up the steps, heading toward
the doorway to the rooftop. My speed was significantly diminished, and so was my idea of bursting through the door in a dramatic fashion.

  However, when I reached the door, it stood ajar, and I opted to keep moving rather than stop and catch my breath. I figured time was of the essence.

  Stepping out onto the roof, I was immediately hit with a rush of cool air, which, given my unplanned workout, felt great. The sky was still clear, and the moon provided more than enough illumination. I looked first to the greenhouse on my left, which was dark and still. And then I glanced to the right and gasped. As involuntary as it was, it was also audible enough to give away my presence on the roof.

  “Eli, stay back. She has a gun.” Laurence Baxter’s voice was full of tension.

  He stood near the edge of the roof, his back to the four-story drop behind him. Miss Hess stood about ten feet from him and equidistant from me. As he had warned, she had a small gun of some kind in her hand. It was pointed at Baxter. She glanced over at me, a scowl of annoyance on her face. She turned back to Baxter.

  “Again, I give you the option,” she said in her flat German—strike that, Austrian—accent. “You may jump and take your chances on the fall. Or I shoot and remove all doubt.”

  It immediately became clear what she was doing. Archie Banks’ suicide note had included the phrase “you pushed me over the edge,” and this appeared to be her intention for Baxter. I took a step forward, and she quickly turned the gun in my direction.

  “No further,” she snapped.

  “Sure thing,” I said, reaching for an unnecessary note of affability. “Whatever you say.”

  For some reason, I felt the need to hold up my hands, I suppose to indicate the truly minimal threat I posed. She turned back to Baxter.

  “You jump. Or I shoot,” she said, waving toward the edge of the roof with her free hand.