Murder on Skiathos

by Margaret Addison

  Rose, finding that her head was beginning to spin with Miss Hyacinth’s endless chatter, sought to put a stop to the woman’s gentle rambling. It had served its purpose. Miss Hyacinth, at least, appeared to be at her ease. In fact, she was beaming at Rose in a most kindly manner and had hardly cast a glance in her sister’s direction during the entirety of her narrative.

  ‘When was the last time you saw Mr Dewhurst?’

  Miss Hyacinth looked somewhat taken aback and not a little put out by the sudden change of subject. Her mind was still lingering on the delights of the Mediterranean pleasure cruise; she did not wish to return to the ghastly business of Alec Dewhurst’s death. She was stung also by the abruptness of the question and cast Rose a reproachful look.

  ‘Last night in the dining room,’ she said, for her, a trifle coldly. She pursed her lips, lowered her voice and leaned forward in her chair. ‘I hardly like to mention it, and dear Peony will think it quite dreadful of me if I do, but I couldn’t help noticing that Mr Dewhurst was dancing in rather an intimate fashion with Miss Adler. Really, we felt for the poor duchess, my sister and I, though, of course, she had rather brought it on herself; don’t you agree?’ Her hand shot up to her mouth. ‘Oh dear,’ she said. ‘Have I spoken out of turn? Ought I to have referred to her as Miss Dewhurst rather than the Duchess of Grismere?’

  ‘It is quite all right,’ said Rose, concealing a smile, for Miss Hyacinth, in apologising, had only made matters worse. ‘I doubt whether anyone, with the possible exceptions of Father Adler and his daughter, is unaware of the woman’s true identity.’

  ‘Oh, the vicar knew all right,’ replied Miss Hyacinth, before she could stop herself. ‘I told him myself only yesterday. I mean to say, I thought he ought to know the sort of man Mr Dewhurst was, given how dear Mabel seemed to be losing her head over him. And of course, I couldn’t tell him about Mr Dewhurst without first telling him about the duchess.’

  Rose gave her a sharp look but did not comment. Out of the corner of her eye, she caught sight of Mr Kettering scribbling down this salient fact in his pocketbook.

  ‘You did not see Mr Dewhurst again? That is to say, later in the evening when he had finished dancing?’

  There was a slight pause. Was it the girl’s imagination, or did she detect again the same faint flicker of something akin to fear? Certainly Miss Hyacinth’s little bright eyes were seeming to dart towards her sister, much in the same way they had done that morning in the dining room. ‘No, I did not see him again,’ she said finally. ‘My sister and I do not keep late hours. We returned to our room when Mr Dewhurst was still engaged in dancing with Miss Adler. We went to bed and read for a while, as was our habit, and then we turned out our light.’

  ‘And went to sleep?’

  Miss Hyacinth nodded apprehensively. ‘Oh, yes, indeed. We are quite heavy sleepers.’

  ‘You did not happen to leave your room again?’

  ‘Certainly not,’ said Miss Hyacinth, looking a trifle apprehensive.

  ‘Miss Peony?’ said Rose, turning her gaze upon the woman’s sister. ‘Did you leave your room? Perhaps you decided to take a walk before turning in? It was a fine night.’

  Rose was vaguely aware that Miss Hyacinth was sitting on the edge of her seat. The question had been a simple one. What was more, she was quite certain that Miss Peony had heard her ask it. Yet she was greeted with such a blank stare by that woman as to suggest otherwise. But she had not been mistaken for she was certain that the look of bewilderment on Miss Peony’s face was feigned. Its intention was to deceive. For she did not doubt for one moment that Miss Peony had been avidly following their conversation. Her face might be devoid of all emotion, but the hands in her lap that clutched the ear trumpet had rarely remained still.

  ‘Oh, no,’ declared Miss Hyacinth, answering for her sister. ‘Peony didn’t go out. It is not the sort of thing she would do. Go out alone, I mean, and certainly not after dark.’

  Rose stared at Miss Peony, but she remained as resolutely silent as ever. Rose was half tempted to go over to the woman and pick up the ear trumpet, if only to produce a reaction. Instead, she sat quietly at the table, waiting. The ensuing silence that filled the room had the effect of unnerving poor Miss Hyacinth.

  ‘She would have told me if she had,’ she continued rather desperately. ‘Left our room, I mean. And besides, I would have heard the noise of the bolts being pulled back and the door being opened.’

  Rose did not pursue the matter further. She felt tolerably certain that, having concocted a story between them, the sisters would stick to it like glue and, besides, she had her answer as clearly as if she had received it from Miss Peony’s own lips.

  The interview was drawing to a close. There was still one task left to do and yet Rose found herself reluctant to complete it for the simple reason, she told herself later, that she had been rather afraid of finding out the answer.

  In a seemingly careless movement, her hand brushed the edge of her scarf and, in so doing, it fell on to the desk, a bright blue bundle of silk. Rose was wearing a white summer dress, very simple in style and unadorned except for the silver brooch in the shape of a bow. Both the Trimble sisters’ eyes were drawn to it, if only because both the silver and the sapphires caught the sunlight which streamed through the window. The brooch glittered very prettily. Though enthralled by it, only one of the Misses Trimble let out a gasp, her hand going up to her mouth and her face turning white. It was all that she could do to stifle the scream that leapt to her lips and yet, of course, it was too late; she had given herself away.

  ‘Well I never!’ exclaimed Mr Kettering as soon as the Misses Trimble had left the room. ‘Fancy the thief being Miss Hyacinth! For what it’s worth, my money would have been on Miss Peony being the culprit.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Rose, rather distractedly, for it had just occurred to her that she had forgotten to arrange for the pocket watch to be retrieved from the sisters’ room while they were being interviewed. She admonished herself severely for this oversight, not least because Miss Hyacinth, on realising that her hiding place in the chimney had been discovered, would this very minute either be ridding herself of the pocket watch altogether, or seeking out a new hiding place in which to stow it. Rose advanced quickly to the door and then, for some reason she, herself, could hardly fathom, abruptly changed her mind.

  Later, she told herself that it was because she had felt quite certain that, if challenged, Miss Hyacinth would confess to her part in the theft whether the pocket watch was produced or not. Such reflection on her part, however, was yet to come. That particular moment in the hotel proprietor’s office, Rose contented herself with listening to Mr Kettering, who had evidently quite forgotten about the existence of the pocket watch. His attention instead had been drawn to Miss Peony’s odd behaviour and Miss Hyacinth’s claim that neither she nor her sister had left their room after retiring for the night.

  ‘Do you believe Miss Hyacinth was lying, your ladyship?’

  ‘I believe she is holding something back,’ said Rose carefully. ‘Did you notice how adamant she was that her sister had not left the room?’

  ‘She did not like you questioning Miss Peony,’ observed Mr Kettering.

  ‘No. I think she was rather afraid what her sister might say, which leads me to believe that it was Miss Peony, rather than Miss Hyacinth, who took a walk last night after the sisters had supposedly turned in. That is to say, I believe Miss Peony waited until her sister was asleep and then let herself out of the room.’

  ‘To do what?’ asked the hotel proprietor. ‘Surely you are not suggesting that she went out with the intention of murdering Mr Dewhurst?’

  ‘No,’ said Rose, ‘but I think it quite possible that she went out in search of him. I am quite certain that something untoward happened. I do not believe it is in Miss Peony’s character to look so impassive or unconcerned about the murder of a fellow guest. Her habit is to nod and smile, not to adopt a rigid mask. This morning, in the dining room
, she did not seem particularly shocked by the news of Mr Dewhurst’s death. Under the circumstances one would expect her to show some signs of being shaken or upset.’

  Mr Kettering nodded sagely, remarking that, now he came to think of it, he could quite well imagine Miss Peony striking Alec Dewhurst on the back of his head with that ear trumpet of hers.

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Mabel Adler entered the room tentatively, the effects of recent sobbing very apparent on her young face. Her eyes were red-rimmed, and her complexion wan and pale. She clutched in one hand a damp handkerchief, rolled up into a ball, her restive fingers picking at the fabric as if seeking for something, anything, to do to distract her mind from dwelling on the awful events that had occurred. The thought struck Rose that the handkerchief would be quite ruined, twisted and pulled out of all recognition. If this thought struck the vicar’s daughter, however, it did not stop her from plucking at the miserable square of cotton and rolling it up into an ever tighter ball.

  Rose and the hotel proprietor stared, appalled by the rapid transformation that had ravaged the young girl’s features. For once Mabel Adler appeared careless about both her appearance and her dress. Strands of hair were plastered to her forehead and the blouse she wore was crumpled and creased as if she had lain down while wearing it. She bore so little resemblance to the Mabel Adler with whom they were familiar, that she might have been no more than a pale and inferior imitation of herself.

  Alarmed by her rather pathetic appearance, Mr Kettering hurried forward and ushered the girl into a chair. He poured her a glass of water and regarded her with something of a paternal air as she sipped at the liquid gingerly. After a while she cradled the glass in her hands and her fingers became still. She looked from one to the other of them with wide, scared eyes.

  ‘Is it true?’ she asked in a very small voice. ‘Is … is he really dead?’ Rose nodded. ‘I … I simply can’t believe it,’ she said. ‘I’m … I’m all to pieces.’

  ‘It’s been a dreadful shock,’ said Rose kindly. ‘I know it’s beastly for you, but I’m afraid we must ask you a few questions.’

  Mabel stared at her apprehensively. The knuckles on the hand holding the glass were quite white. It occurred to Rose that, in her present agitation, there was a fair possibility that the girl would break the glass. She leaned forward and took it from her and put it down on the desk out of harm’s way. Bereft of clinging to the glass, Mabel returned to pulling at the fabric of her handkerchief.

  ‘Before I ask you any questions about Mr Dewhurst,’ said Rose, keen to distract the girl, ‘I should first like you to look at these.’ She proceeded to remove from Cedric’s bag the two gold, full hunter pocket watches which she laid out carefully on the hotel proprietor’s desk. ‘I wonder if you could tell me whether you have seen either of these pocket watches before?’

  The girl’s brow clouded for an instant. No doubt she was remembering the pocket watch that she had examined the night before with such childish enthusiasm. She leaned forward and put her hand out towards the objects. She studied each in turn, handling them with a solemn reverence. This time her eyes did not widen appreciatively. Instead, she blinked back tears.

  ‘I thought that one was Mr Dewhurst’s,’ she said in a voice hardly above a whisper, pointing at the watch which had a few diamonds in the centre of its outer casing. ‘But Alec’s … Mr Dewhurst’s one had more diamonds. I … I counted them.’ She put a hand up to her eyes, as if she found the recollection too painful.

  ‘It wasn’t this one by any chance?’ said Rose quickly, pushing forward the other watch. ‘It’s engraved with entwining leaves and flowers; can you see?’

  ‘Yes. It’s … it’s beautiful. But it’s not Mr Dewhurst’s pocket watch, if that is what you’re asking me. His didn’t have a design on it as such, just his initials. Only …’ she paused a moment before adding, ‘only, of course, they weren’t his initials.’

  ‘Oh?’ said Rose, trying to keep the eagerness from her voice. ‘Whose initials, were they?’

  ‘I don’t know. But they weren’t Alec’s. They didn’t begin with an “a”. I thought they did at first, because sometimes people write a capital “A” as if it were a large lower case “a”, don’t they? I know my aunt does. But it wasn’t an “a”. When I looked more closely, I realised it was an “o”.’

  ‘Do you remember what the other initials were?’

  ‘No, I don’t. I didn’t have time to look at them closely. I was more interested in counting the diamonds. All I remember was that there were three initials.’

  ‘Could the last initial have been a “g”?’ asked Rose.

  ‘A “g”?’ said Mabel, screwing up her face in concentration as she tried to drag her mind back to the night before. ‘Oh no, I don’t think so. It had more lines. By that, I mean it was made up of lines like a capital “M”, or a “W”.’

  ‘You are quite certain that neither of these pocket watches was the one Mr Dewhurst produced at the dining table last night?’

  ‘Quite sure,’ said Mabel. ‘I am quite certain I should recognise it if I saw it again.’

  Rose returned the pocket watches to the bag and looked at Mabel. Some of the girl’s natural colour had returned to her cheeks and she had stopped fidgeting with her handkerchief. It seemed to Rose a shame, therefore, that she was obliged to pry and probe into matters that she was fully aware the vicar’s daughter would rather not dwell upon.

  ‘When did you last see Mr Dewhurst?’ she asked gently.

  The colour that tinted Mabel’s cheeks now took on a bright, unnatural hue that accentuated the deathly pallor of her skin beneath its thin veil of powder.

  ‘You danced with Mr Dewhurst last night and then you went for a walk with him,’ prompted Rose, when no answer appeared forthcoming.

  In her mind’s eye she saw again Alec Dewhurst taking the girl in his arms and then the couple rushing past her, hand in hand, towards the cliff edge. It was clear that Mabel shared the same recollection, for the girl was now dabbing at her eyes ineffectually with the screwed up handkerchief.

  ‘Yes,’ said Mabel, between sobs. ‘It was such a lovely walk. It was so beautiful. I … I shall never forget it for as long as I live, not even if I live to be a hundred.’

  Rose was tempted to ask Mabel what they had talked about. On reflection, however, she thought better of it. The girl was in a fragile enough state and, besides, it was easy to imagine the general course their conversation had taken. Instead, she said:

  ‘Did you return to the hotel together? Or did you leave Mr Dewhurst at the cliff edge? You must tell me; it is frightfully important that you do.’

  ‘My dear young lady,’ said Mr Kettering, addressing the girl before Rose could stop him, ‘did Mr Dewhurst do something to frighten you? Perhaps you pushed him away and he fell? It would be quite natural if you did. Took steps to defend your dignity, I mean. I daresay you didn’t realise you were standing so near the edge. The courts would take a very lenient view about that sort of thing, I can tell you. But you must tell us the truth. It is the only way we can help you, my dear.’

  Mabel stared at the hotel proprietor with her mouth gaping. Her eyes had widened to a frightening degree. Rose was inclined to copy her reaction, so taken aback was she by the hotel proprietor’s intervention. Her initial inclination was to object. She was the detective, after all, albeit it an amateur one. She might be acting on the hotel’s behalf, but it was up to her, surely, not Mr Kettering, to determine the questions to be answered. Yet, oddly, she found herself loath to interject. There was a certain simplicity and frankness to Mr Kettering’s questions. It startled those addressed into making a response, where a more subtle line of questioning might well have produced an awkward silence or barely audible answers.

  ‘You … you think I killed Alec … Mr Dewhurst?’ stuttered Mabel. ‘How could you? How could you be so wicked as to suggest such a thing?’

  With that, she dissolved into a flood of tears. Rose cas
t a reproachful look at Mr Kettering, who retreated into flicking over the pages of his pocketbook followed by a thorough straightening of the items on the desk before him.

  ‘There, there,’ said Rose briskly. ‘Mr Kettering didn’t mean anything by it. They are the sort of questions we shall be putting to everyone, you know,’ she said mendaciously. ‘It is merely a matter of form.’

  ‘I didn’t kill Alec,’ said Mabel, a defiant note of bitterness creeping into her voice. Even if he,’ she paused to give the hotel proprietor a scathing look which had the unfortunate gentleman again seeking refuge in the pages of his pocketbook, ‘suggests I did. He oughtn’t to say such things.’

  Rose decided that the best way to diffuse the situation was to repeat her original questions. She said: ‘Did you return to the hotel together? Or did you leave Mr Dewhurst at the cliff edge? It is frightfully important that you tell us.’