I continued, “I deemed it prudent to say nothing about these clues at the time. On the evening when Miss Chimes collapsed at the table, a scrap of newspaper with the word ‘Monday’ on it was found at her place setting. The next day, when Jerry Gribble was found dead, a similar piece of paper was in his pocket.”
George Holdfast perked up. “I remember. It said ‘Tuesday.’”
I nodded. “And after Mr. Osgot-Edge was stabbed, we found yet another piece of newspaper bearing the day of the week, except that this time a word had been appended, so that it read ‘Wednesday’s Corpse.’”
Horrified gasps compelled me to pause.
“It was obvious to me by this time,” I continued in the same calm, authoritative tone, “that this was a murderer who was not satisfied with mere killing. He wished to advertise his crimes. He was issuing a challenge. The pieces of paper left beside the bodies were, in effect, a conundrum, and it was the work of a few minutes to resolve the puzzle.” Out of the corner of my eye I noticed Alix set down her teacup and fold her arms. I hoped she wasn’t about to interrupt. “The key to the puzzle is the rhyme familiar to us all. ‘Monday’s child is fair of face’ and so forth, the word ‘corpse’ being substituted for ‘child.’ So simple.” Alix shifted again and I moved on swiftly to explain the relevance of each line of the verse to the respective victim.
They stared at me like owls in a thunderstorm.
“So when I was walking in the grounds this morning with Marcus and spotted yet another scrap of newspaper, this time on the walled surround of the well, I knew exactly what had happened.”
“I don’t quite follow,” Pelham interrupted me. “I thought the rhyme to which you referred went ‘Thursday’s child has far to go’?”
“So it does.”
“But we believe that Claude Bullivant is at the bottom of the well. I cannot conceive of any sense in which that line of verse can be applied to him.”
Not without satisfaction, I said, “Then it would seem that our murderer is too clever for you, Marcus. Let us remember how ingenious—or devious—he has been up to now. ‘Fair of face’ we can take as a literal description of the first victim, poor Miss Chimes. The second line, ‘full of grace,’ was a play on words, a reference to Jerry’s Dukedom. And ‘full of woe’ was, we deduced, a reference to Wilfred’s initials. Each interpretation of the verse has been different, so why shouldn’t Thursday’s bring yet another variation?”
“Well, it’s all Greek to me. ‘Far to go’?” said Pelham, and the murmurs around the room suggested that it was all Greek to the rest of them.
“If any one of us fitted the description, it would have to be Isabella,” added Holdfast.
“A reasonable assumption,” I acknowledged. “I made it myself at one stage, and of course I took sensible precautions to safeguard Miss Dundas. However, the murderer had someone else in mind—Claude Bullivant. And the phrase ‘far to go’ is a reference not to his way of life, but to the way he met his death.”
After some hesitation, Alix said, “By falling down the well?”
“Now you see it. The man had far to go, indeed. That well is extremely deep. I doubt whether we shall ever recover his body, which is, perhaps, what he intended.” I remained alone in a sea of blank faces, so I said helpfully, “Cast your minds back to the story I told you a few minutes ago about the man who entered his own death in the bag book. That, I suggest, is what Bullivant did.”
“Killed himself?” said Holdfast, his voice rising in astonishment.
“After putting out the piece of newspaper,” said I.
“With all respect, Bertie, I find that uncommonly difficult to believe,” said Holdfast. “He wasn’t a melancholic sort at all. Far from it. I can’t see Claude doing away with himself.”
“What you can’t see, George, is the totality of the mystery. I don’t blame you. It would tax many a trained investigator. Before Claude Bullivant did away with himself, as you put it, he had done away with three others. I put it to you that he is the murderer.”
“Claude?”
The faces around the room were satisfyingly aghast.
I said, “Just like the man in the story, he went on a solitary hunt and then added himself to the tally.”
“You’re telling us he killed Miss Chimes and Jerry and Osgot-Edge? Why?”
“Why does anyone resort to murder? Either he was mad, or bad. I cannot be more precise than that. His motive is somewhat clouded, I grant you, but one is confident of a clear view before much longer. At this moment I wanted mainly to reassure you that your lives—indeed, all our lives—are no longer at risk.”
“Thank God for that!” cried Moira Holdfast.
“Let’s also thank His Royal Highness,” said her husband with his customary tact.
There were murmurs of support, rather muted, I have to say.
Miss Dundas, who had sat through my explanation in conspicuous silence studying the tea leaves in her cup, now joined the conversation—using a tone I didn’t care for at all. “Apart from the fact that he is dead,” she remarked, “is there anything whatsoever about Mr. Bullivant that would suggest he killed people?”
This, I thought, was pretty unsporting considering what she and I knew about Bullivant’s erratic behavior in the night. I wasn’t so ungallant as to let the company know that he’d climbed over the lady’s balcony expecting a tumble, but to my mind it was a strong indication of guilt. Of all the party, only the murderer could have known that it was safe to philander.
Rather to my surprise, Marcus Pelham sprang to my defense. “I’ll tell you one thing. Bullivant was sitting next to Queenie Chimes on the night she died. He was better placed than any of us to tamper with her food.”
“So he was!” said Amelia.
“Don’t sound so surprised,” her brother rounded on her. “You drew up the seating plan.”
Miss Dundas remained unconvinced. “But why would he have wished to kill Miss Chimes?”
George Holdfast gently chided her, “My dear, you’re asking for the motive. Bertie just told us that he doesn’t know yet. The main thing is that it’s all over. We can sleep safely in our beds tonight.”
A comforting statement, you might think, but it almost caused a domestic tiff. Moira Holdfast said, “If you think I’m willing to spend another night in this house after what has happened, George, you’re woefully mistaken. Our things are packed and we’re leaving within the hour.”
Amelia was up from her chair before the words were out. “What are you implying, Lady Holdfast? I’ve heard more than enough of your slurs on my hospitality. Nobody was murdered in bed. Nobody. You make it sound as if my house is verminous.”
“Your manners are,” retorted Moira Holdfast. “Not to mention your morals.”
“Moira!” George rebuked her.
Amelia caught her breath at the enormity of the insult. She would certainly have struck Lady Holdfast had I not intervened. Just as she raised her wrist I grabbed it. I appealed to them both, “Ladies, please! Decorum, decorum!” To salvage a little dignity for them I added, “We have all been subjected to intolerable strains, but the danger is over now. Let us be thankful that we are alive.” I was about to add, “. . . to tell the story,” but stopped myself in time. I didn’t want anyone telling the story. I’m only telling it now in the knowledge that it will be under lock and key until long after all of us are dead.
Lady Holdfast redeemed herself slightly by saying that she regretted her last remark, but she still intended to leave as soon as possible. Amelia was led to a chair where she remained sullen and ashen faced.
Then Alix enquired of me brightly in her singsong accent, “Is the house party over, then? You found your murderer, Bertie. That is all we have to decide, is it not?” She can be embarrassingly direct with her remarks.
I strolled back to the fireplace
, thinking actively. “Well, the case has been brought to a conclusion, it is true. It’s out of the question, of course, to resume the shooting tomorrow . . .” I hesitated.
Miss Dundas—another lady whose questions struck into you like bolts from a crossbow—said, “May I ask what you propose to do about Mr. Osgot-Edge?”
“Osgot-Edge?”
“Unless I am misinformed, his body is still in an outhouse somewhere. What is to become of it if we all go home?”
“Fair comment,” I said, buying time to think.
“Sir, we ought to inform the police,” said a voice at my ear that had not spoken for some time.
“Sweeney, how many times do I have to remind you that you are the police?” I smiled at Miss Dundas. “You’re absolutely right, my dear. Of course the poor man must have a decent burial. I shall speak to the Chaplain. We’ll have a private funeral before the weekend.”
“Shouldn’t there be an inquest?” asked Alix.
I gave her a look that she recognizes—not one that I am often forced to resort to—and she was silent. Turning to Amelia, I said, “You knew Wilfred better than any of us. Did he have any family?”
“There’s a brother in the Indian Civil Service.”
“Based abroad, then?”
“In Bombay, I was informed.”
“That’s all right. You can write him a letter. He wouldn’t get back in time for a funeral in any case. Be so good as to send word to the Chaplain that I would like to speak to him urgently, would you?” To Alix, I said, “That, I think, is the answer to your question, my dear. Some of us may wish to stay on for the funeral. I see no reason why Lady Moira should remain, if it would upset her, or any of the ladies, come to that.”
So it was agreed that the Holdfast carriage should be summoned. George very decently insisted on staying. His insufferable wife, he said (he didn’t really say it; I did), was capable of traveling to their London residence in the company of her maids. As for himself, there might be some way in which he could be useful to me and Amelia. I thanked him for his support.
Then Alix announced that she, too, proposed to leave. I suppose I ought to have expected it; there wasn’t much prospect of parlor games in the next day or two. I tried to persuade her to delay her departure until the morning, but she was insistent that she would rather spend the night in her own bed at Marlborough House however late she got there, so I ordered the carriage. In the privacy of her suite I told her I hoped she understood why it was necessary for me to remain.
Making a fine distinction she said, “I understand why you feel it is necessary to stay. I didn’t expect you to return with me.”
I squeezed her hand to show my appreciation. “What will you say when they ask why you came home?”
She lifted her shoulders. “If anyone really wants to know, I shall say the party didn’t turn out as I expected.”
“That’s true.”
“I think we should all respect the truth, Bertie.”
“I couldn’t agree more, my dear.”
“Will you keep yourself to yourself when I am gone?”
I frowned and tried to look puzzled.
She said, “Leave them alone, Bertie. One is too clever and the other is anybody’s. Get some sleep, you old ram. You are looking tired.”
“Tired, but not unsatisfied,” said I, letting the remark make its impact before I added, “You haven’t congratulated me yet.”
She stiffened—and when Alexandra stiffens she could stand in a sentry box. “Congratulate you—what for?”
“My detective work, of course. Another case brought to a brilliant conclusion.”
She sighed. “Oh, Bertie, I despair of you. You don’t really believe Claude Bullivant was a murderer? He was killed like the others. Isabella Dundas was right. There’s no motive. All the evidence you have is circumstantial.”
This from my own wife set me back on my heels. “Of course there’s a motive,” I told her scornfully. “I shall find it. See if I don’t.” I was so astounded by what she had said that I felt like quitting the room immediately. I believe I would have done so if I hadn’t thought of a devastating riposte. “If there’s any truth in what you say,” I told her, “the murderer is still at large. How can you even think of going back to London knowing that your husband is in risk of his life?”
She tilted her head defiantly and said, “You’re welcome to come with me,”
“My dear Alix, it’s utterly out of the question. I shall be here until Osgot-Edge has had a Christian burial and all the other matters are tidied up.”
“Tidied up—or hushed up?” she said insensitively. “It’s the same old story wherever we go, isn’t it, Bertie? Avoid a scandal at all costs.”
“This time I’m blameless. I can’t be faulted.”
“That’s a matter of opinion. I warned you not to play at being a detective. You brought this botheration on yourself, beloved, and now you want to sweep it under the carpet. Stay here if you must. I don’t think you’ll be murdered. All the murders up to now have fitted that rhyme, and if there are to be any more, I don’t suppose the murderer will deviate from it. What’s tomorrow?”
“Friday.”
“Friday’s corpse is loving and giving. The loving might apply to you, but not the giving. You’re not ungenerous, but I wouldn’t say you’re noted for it. That must be someone else. Then there’s Saturday. Saturday’s corpse works hard for a living. Even less likely. And the corpse that is killed on the Sabbath Day is bonny and blithe and good and gay. Bonny and blithe I grant you. Gay, yes. Much more gay than good.” She made a wafer-thin space between her thumb and forefinger. “The good is a small measure.”
“Well,” I said cuttingly, “if I want home truths, I always know where to get them.”
“Yes,” said Alix. “But I don’t want you to think I’m indifferent to the perils of this place, Bertie. Just to be sure, I’ve had a quiet word with Sweeney. After I’ve left he’s going to move into my suite and keep a special watch on you.”
CHAPTER 15
I was pocketing my handkerchief after waving goodbye to Alix when a pony and trap trundled up the drive with the Reverend Humphrey Paget aboard, so I remained at the foot of the staircase to thank him for answering my summons so swiftly. Having eased his weight ponderously from the carriage to the gravel, the Chaplain performed an odd maneuver. He dipped his head, as if uncertain whether protocol required him to bow to me, and then proceeded to rub each shoe in turn against the back of his opposite trouser leg. No doubt about it—the fellow was buffing up his toecaps to discourage me from another demonstration of the science of deduction.
We mounted the stairs together and entered the hall, where Amelia received him in what was by her standards a lackluster manner, a fleeting smile and a limp hand.
As soon as we were alone in the drawing room the Chaplain commented, “Poor Lady Drummond! The burden of these tragedies is more than she should be asked to bear. It’s too cruel!”
“Did you hear about Bullivant?” I ventured.
“The dreadful news was in the note she sent. Such a cheerful fellow, I always thought, may the Lord rest his soul. Is he still . . . ?” He pointed downwards.
I nodded. “The men will try again tomorrow, no doubt. In many ways it might be a mercy if he is never brought up. Probably you didn’t hear that we suspect him of having killed the other three.”
His eyebrows reared up like flying buttresses. “My word, no! That is unbelievable.”
“On the contrary, Padre. It is obvious.”
Now his fat features absorbed the shock and became more guarded and the eyes narrowed. “Did you deduce it, sir?”
I was beginning to find the Chaplain tiresome. I said as if to a child, “It’s the only possible explanation. But to return to the topic of Amelia and her distress, I should like for
her sake to keep the events of this unhappy week from being bandied abroad.”
“How very considerate.”
“I shall do everything within my power, Padre, and I look to you for support.”
“You shall have it, sir.” And in case I doubted his credentials he declared sanctimoniously, “As a pastor it behooves me to give comfort and succor to all who require it in this transitory life.”
“Capital. So I dare say you wouldn’t mind burying one whose life turned out to be more transitory than any of us expected?”
“Oh?”
“I should be obliged if you would lay the poet to rest as soon as possible.”
“Mr. Osgot-Edge?”
I nodded, tempted to say that I didn’t know of any other dead poets wanting a quick funeral. “Would you care for a cigar?”
He took one and his hand shook. “Has Mr. Elston the coroner been informed, sir?”
“About Wilfred? No, we haven’t troubled the coroner. He’s busy enough, I am sure, with Queenie Chimes and Jerry Gribble.”
He clasped his free hand to his mouth and drew the fingers downwards as if trying to locate his chin in the fleshy surrounds. “Forgive me, wouldn’t it be somewhat presumptuous to consign a stabbed man to his grave without an inquest, sir? Not that I wish to be obstructive.”
“I’m glad to hear it, Padre.” I struck a match. As he drew close to light up the cigar I added, “On occasions one is justified in bending the rules. You and I know that Osgot-Edge was murdered in this house and we know who did it. But the whole of the kingdom doesn’t have to be told. Fearfully distressing for Lady Drummond, not to mention the rest of us.”
“Does he have a family?”
“Osgot-Edge? A brother in India. I’m willing to serve as chief mourner myself. A private ceremony in the village church tomorrow. What say you?”
There was a pause. Then: “Might I help myself to some brandy, sir?”
“I’ll join you. Didn’t I hear from somebody that you organized a private funeral last year for a young gamekeeper who was shot?”
Bertie and the Seven Bodies Page 14
