Murder on Skiathos

by Margaret Addison

  ‘Yes. That’s to say, I believe it was the reason she was killed. Of course this is only a draft. We can’t be absolutely certain what she wrote, or even that the murderer ever received the letter.’

  ‘But you think it very likely?’

  ‘Yes, I do,’

  Lavinia burst into tears. ‘It’s … it’s all my fault,’ she sobbed.

  In answer to Rose’s look of astonishment, she proceeded, in tears, to give an account of her encounter with the Trimble sisters on the terrace and the conversation that followed over afternoon tea.

  ‘You told them Mr Thurlow was about to be arrested for Mr Dewhurst’s murder?’ Rose exclaimed in disbelief.

  ‘Mr Kettering told me he was,’ Lavinia said, on the defensive. ‘I didn’t think there would be any harm in my telling Miss Peony and Miss Hyacinth. How was I to know that Miss Peony was going to feign a headache and return to her room to write that stupid letter?’

  Inwardly, Rose cursed both Mr Kettering and Lavinia for their stupidity. Aloud, she said: ‘I suppose you weren’t to know what she would do.’

  ‘No,’ agreed Lavinia heartily. ‘It was jolly stupid of her not to tell you. About the murderer, I mean. She was just asking for trouble.’

  ‘She was trying to protect the murderer,’ Rose said, more to herself than to her companion.

  ‘The only person I can imagine Miss Peony ever wanting to protect would be her sister,’ Lavinia observed, ‘and she’d hardly write a letter to Miss Hyacinth, would she?’ She yawned. ‘I don’t know about you, but I’m going back to bed.’

  ‘I will stay here,’ said Rose. ‘I should like to sit and think for a while. Yesterday I felt certain I possessed all the clues I required to solve Alec Dewhurst’s murder, if only I could assemble them in the right order.’

  ‘Well, I daresay Miss Peony’s death has made a mess of things,’ Lavinia remarked.

  ‘I wonder,’ said Rose.

  ‘Will you and Ceddie be going to breakfast this morning?’ asked Lavinia sleepily. ‘I shan’t want to sit at the table by myself.’

  Rose felt a flash of irritation. Only a few minutes ago Lavinia had been claiming she was to blame for Miss Peony’s death. Now the girl’s thoughts seemed to be preoccupied with food.

  ‘Why must you insist on calling Cedric, Ceddie?’ she said testily. ‘You know he hates it when you do it in public. It’s a ridiculous name.’

  Lavinia stared at her open-mouthed, and Rose immediately regretted her outburst.

  ‘I’ve always called him Ceddie,’ Lavinia said tersely, ‘ever since we were children and I have no intention of calling him anything else. And, if you must know, I’ve never liked the name Cedric, I can’t for the life of me think why my parents chose to call him such a stupid name.’

  With that, she flounced out of the room, closing the door behind her with a very loud bang.

  Feeling she had been suitably rebuked, Rose lay on the sofa, her back propped up by cushions, the thin blanket draped over her legs. It was becoming quite a habit of hers, she mused, to sit quietly and evaluate her various observations and findings, sifting the wheat from the chaff, the material facts from the insignificant ones.

  She thought back to Alec Dewhurst’s sudden arrival at the hotel with the duchess, which had drawn gasps and sharp intakes of breath from the other guests. Her pulse quickened. She knew now that Ron Thurlow had recognised the young man, while the others had identified his companion as the ‘Disappearing Duchess’. She closed her eyes. She held in her hand Miss Peony’s letter. There had been another letter too, the one the duchess had left for the duke to read, after she had abandoned him. She had made no mention of Alec Dewhurst, only that she did not wish to bring her husband disgrace. They were considered a most devoted couple and yet the duchess had left the duke for a fickle and worthless young man. The duchess’ words came to her out of the darkness. ‘I am not quite the awful woman you suppose me to be,’ she had said, ‘and Alec is not the man you think he is. You judge us both too harshly. If you only knew the truth …’ What, Rose wondered, was the truth? The duchess had been at pains to keep it concealed from her. It had something to do with the name Oberon … She remembered an instance in the dining room when the duchess had been met with a steely glare by Alec Dewhurst because she had called him by that name, and then there was the scrap of paper in the ransacked room.

  Her mind then drifted to the conversation Lavinia had overheard between Alec Dewhurst and Ron Thurlow, which struck her as decidedly odd in a number of ways. Her thoughts floated to the previous evening in the dining room. There had been talk of sweetmeats and the vicar had spilt his wine. Mr Vickers had said something to Ron Thurlow and he had stormed out of the room.

  Rose supposed she must have dozed, though she was hardly conscious of the fact, for it seemed to her that her mind had kept active, turning over the pieces of the jigsaw, trying to fit them together to form a coherent picture.

  Yet when Cedric woke her a couple of hours later, she felt as if she was coming back from a very long way off. She had been sunk in the depths, but now she was floating to the surface. She clutched at her husband’s hand for a full three minutes as the truth slowly dawned on her. At last she turned to him and said, in a voice hardly above a whisper: ‘I know who did it. I know who killed Alec Dewhurst and Miss Peony. I know, but I haven’t the faintest idea how I can prove it!’

  Chapter Thirty-one

  Rose had summoned Mr Kettering and informed him she knew the identity of the murderer, much to that gentleman’s astonishment. She had refused to provide him with any particulars, but requested that he make an announcement to the other hotel guests at breakfast.

  ‘I should like you to advise them of Miss Peony’s death,’ Rose had said. She had glanced at her wristwatch and added: ‘Ask them to assemble again in the dining room at half past eleven. Tell them I wish to speak to them on a matter of great importance.’

  ‘And the duchess?’ the hotel proprietor had asked tentatively. ‘Should I ask her to attend?’

  ‘I should like everyone to be there, Mr Kettering, even Miss Hyacinth.’

  Next Rose had sat down at her writing table, picked up her fountain pen and written a few sentences on the hotel’s headed notepaper. Like Miss Peony before her, she had made several attempts before she was satisfied. ‘Concise and to the point,’ she had whispered to herself. ‘I say, I wonder if it will work?’

  She had placed the letter in an envelope and put it in her pocket along with Miss Peony’s letter and Alec Dewhurst’s pocket watch. It was then that she had glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece and noted there was still a full hour before her presence was required in the dining room. She had paced the room and then sat down at the writing desk again. She took up her pen. She might as well scribble down the salient points of the case she had constructed. If nothing else, it would give her something to do while she waited. She had just finished making her notes when Cedric entered the room, his face drawn.

  ‘It’s a ghastly business, all right,’ her husband said, without preamble. ‘I thought it was appalling seeing Dewhurst’s body stretched out on a slab. But it was a hundred times worse seeing Miss Peony’s.’ He sunk on to a chair and Rose came over to him and put her arms around him. They remained like that for a few minutes before Cedric made an effort to pull himself together. He spoke in the same strained voice in which he had commenced.

  ‘I can’t tell you how small and pathetic she looked,’ he said. ‘It was awful. Costas says she was struck on the back of the head in a similar fashion to Dewhurst, but that, in this instance, the blow definitely killed her; there’s no doubt about that. The only small blessing is that there were no defensive wounds of any kind. With any luck the poor woman never knew anything about it; she was deaf after all.’

  Rose nodded. It seemed to her that there was nothing else she could say. She did not doubt the image of poor Miss Peony’s body would haunt her husband’s thoughts to the end of his days. It filled her w
ith increased resolve. She had felt a degree of sympathy for the murderer of Alec Dewhurst, for she could not help thinking that the deceased had contributed to his fate by his own actions. The murder of Miss Peony, however, she viewed very differently. It was a heartless, desperate act, brought about by the murderer’s selfish desire for self-preservation.

  She entered the dining room with Cedric by her side. The hotel proprietor was already there, his expression anxious. The hotel guests, who, as one, turned to stare at her, looked similarly apprehensive. They were all present, even the duchess, who sat at a little distance from the others with an air of detachment. Miss Hyacinth, her eyes puffy and red-rimmed from continuous weeping, sat at the Adlers’ table, Lavinia beside her, holding her hand. Mabel, her cheeks tear-stained and her eyes wide with fright, stared straight ahead of her, a handkerchief held up to her trembling lips. The vicar sat between Miss Hyacinth and his daughter and cast concerned glances at each in turn. Mr Thurlow looked quite ghastly, as if he had suffered a terrible shock. Even the disreputable Mr Vickers appeared strangely quiet and subdued.

  Rose made her way to the front of the stage. She wished, with a sinking feeling, that it was all over and done with, that she was not about to accuse someone of murder and ask that they confess and face the consequences of their actions. She slipped her hand into her pocket and felt for the letter she had written. Its presence gave her reassurance and for a moment she held it tightly between her fingers. She cleared her throat and launched into a prepared speech of sorts.

  ‘As you are aware,’ she began, ‘I was engaged by Mr Kettering, on behalf of the hotel, to undertake a private investigation into the death of Mr Dewhurst.’ She paused a moment before adding: ‘My investigation was extended, of course, to include Miss Peony’s death.’ She heard Miss Hyacinth stifle a sob. She hesitated a moment before adding: ‘I have now concluded my investigation.’

  Her words were met with a series of gasps and sharp intakes of breath. Miss Hyacinth gave a startled cry.

  Before anyone had an opportunity to speak, Rose continued in a clear voice. ‘This has been a particularly difficult and puzzling case. Most of you had very good reasons for wishing Alec Dewhurst dead, and none of you had any alibis to speak of.’ She paused again for a moment, aware that one or two of the guests were shifting in their chairs uncomfortably. ‘The case was further complicated by the fact that Alec Dewhurst was not the man he purported to be.’

  She was aware that she had the full attention of her audience now. ‘Before I elaborate any further on that point, it is perhaps worth noting that Alex Dewhurst was a young man who incurred a great many enemies. He had a reputation for preying on rich women and pilfering their money and trinkets.’ She paused to cast a look in the duchess’ direction; the woman was looking into the middle distance with steely resolve.

  ‘I believe,’ Rose continued, ‘the murderer intended Mr Dewhurst’s death to be mistaken for an unfortunate accident. The deceased was in the habit of walking along the edge of the cliff before turning in for the night. He might, quite easily, have stumbled in the dark and toppled over the edge.’

  ‘You talked about motives,’ piped up Mr Vickers. ‘I hadn’t any motive for wishing the fellow dead.’

  ‘Hadn’t you?’ said Rose. ‘You are a private enquiry agent employed by a firm engaged by the Duke of Grismere to find his wife. On the night of Mr Dewhurst’s death, you had an altercation with the deceased in the dining room and your camera was confiscated. It is quite possible that you wanted revenge. Who is to say you were not above a bit of blackmail?’

  ‘’Ere, that’s a lie!’ interjected Mr Vickers, jumping up from his chair. ‘You’ve no right saying such things. I’ve a good mind to –’

  ‘Be quiet and sit down,’ ordered Mr Kettering. ‘You’ll hear what her ladyship has to say.’

  ‘If you were minded towards blackmail,’ Rose continued, holding up her hand as Mr Vickers again made to protest, ‘you were well placed to carry it out. All you had to do was threaten to disclose the duchess’ whereabouts to her husband unless a certain sum was paid. You had the necessary photographic evidence.’ She paused, before adding: ‘Mr Dewhurst did not strike me as the sort of man who would allow himself to be blackmailed. I daresay he would have put up quite a fight.’

  ‘Pah!’ said Mr Vickers.

  ‘Speaking of blackmail,’ Rose said, turning away and walking towards the travel courier’s table, ‘Mr Dewhurst was not above a bit of blackmail himself. Indeed as you are aware, Mr Thurlow, we have a witness who overheard a conversation between you and the deceased in which Mr Dewhurst threatened to disclose to both your employer and Miss Adler the fact that you had spent some time in prison.’

  Unlike Mr Vickers, Ron Thurlow remained silent. He merely bowed his head in acknowledgement and stared down miserably at the tablecloth. This was perhaps fortunate, for Father Adler and Mabel were both regarding him with eyes wide in disbelief. Rose strolled towards their table.

  ‘Both of you had very good motives for wishing Mr Dewhurst dead,’ she said quietly. Father Adler attempted to make a feeble protest, while Mabel merely stared at her, some of the colour returning to her cheeks.

  ‘You, Miss Adler, were in love with Mr Dewhurst. Indeed, you were planning to elope with him on the night he was murdered. You were in the very act of packing your cases when you discovered that he had deceived you. Mr Dewhurst’s companion was not his sister, as he had led you to believe. Indeed, Alec Dewhurst had gone to considerable pains to ensure that you believed his lie, even arranging for the duchess to join you and your father at dinner to give credence to his story. Having become aware of his dishonesty, you no doubt realised that Mr Dewhurst’s intentions towards you were hardly likely to be honourable.’

  ‘How dare you!’ cried Mabel, covering her face with her hand. ‘He … he loved me.’

  ‘Father Adler,’ Rose said, turning her attention to the girl’s parent, ‘on discovering Miss Mabel intended to elope with a man you regarded as no better than a scoundrel, you flew into a rage so ferocious that you frightened your daughter. You told me yourself that you set off to tackle Mr Dewhurst, and we only have your word for it that no such confrontation took place.’

  ‘Yes,’ mumbled the vicar sadly.

  Rose returned to the stage. ‘All perfectly reasonable motives for wishing Alec Dewhurst dead,’ she said slowly. ‘But, right from the beginning, it seemed to me that one person, above all others, had a particularly strong motive. Only one person had forsaken everything to be with Mr Dewhurst. That, of course, was you, your grace.’ She turned abruptly to face the duchess. ‘You had abandoned your husband, your reputation, your position in society and even some of your wealth. And then you made your awful discovery. You had sacrificed it all for a man quite unworthy of your affections.’

  The Duchess returned her gaze without flinching.

  ‘Not only was Mr Dewhurst a petty criminal,’ continued Rose, ‘but he made no secret of the fact that he had become bored of you and was quite taken with Miss Adler. It is quite reasonable to surmise that this made you feel both miserable and desperate. A person in that state of mind might be capable of anything.’

  The duchess sat motionless. It was almost as if she was quite oblivious to what was being said.

  ‘Let us suppose,’ said Rose, ‘that you learned that Alec Dewhurst intended to leave the island with Miss Adler. You quarrelled. I daresay you would have begged and pleaded with him to stay, but he refused to listen. Alec Dewhurst’s mind was quite made up; he was desperate to be gone. Let us picture it. He quickly stuffs his pockets with the hoard of trinkets that he has amassed and heads off towards the cliff. Unbeknown to him, you follow him. He starts to descend the path. You will not permit him to abandon you. You have forsaken everything to be with him. You decide there, on the cliff edge, that if you cannot have him, there is only one thing to be done and that is …’

  Rose left the sentence unfinished and regarded the duchess, who now return
ed her look with an odd flicker of amusement. ‘You are quite wrong,’ she said, in a voice that carried across the room.

  ‘Yes,’ agreed Rose quietly. ‘I am quite wrong because your conduct does not make any sense.’ She began to pace the room, collecting her thoughts as she went. ‘Why would a woman, who was neither stupid nor impulsive, decide to abandon a husband, to whom she was reportedly devoted, to run off, on a whim, with a thoroughly worthless young man?’ No one answered her. ‘You left your husband a note,’ she said, glancing first at the duchess and then down at Mr Kettering’s notes, which she had picked up from the stage. ‘“If there were any other way, then please believe me, I would have taken it.”’

  ‘No!’ cried the duchess, putting her hands over her ears. ‘I …I don’t want to hear … I don’t want to hear what I wrote.’

  ‘“Know only that I have loved you deeply and that I could not have wished for a better husband,”’ continued Rose relentlessly. ‘That does not sound to me like a woman who is no longer in love with her husband.’

  ‘I … I told you. I still cared for him.’

  ‘And Alec Dewhurst, did you care for him?’

  ‘Yes, but –’

  ‘But not in the same way that you loved your husband?’ suggested Rose.

  The duchess nodded. Some of the colour had returned to her face.

  ‘It was clear to me that Mr Dewhurst had a particular hold over you. At first I wondered if he was blackmailing you. However, you appeared genuinely shocked when I put forward the suggestion. It occurred to me then that any hold Alec Dewhurst might have over you was of your own making. That is to say, you were partially, if not fully, complicit. But it did not explain why you made no objection to his growing attachment to Miss Adler. For you do not strike me as the sort of woman who would permit a man to make a fool of her, particularly in public. The only explanation was that your relationship with Mr Dewhurst was not what it appeared to be on the surface. I could not forget what you had said to me during our first conversation. ‘I am not quite the awful woman you suppose me to be, and Alec is not the man you think he is. You judge us both too harshly. If you only knew the truth.’ But what was the truth? And then it suddenly dawned on me. Alec Dewhurst was not your lover! And yet you had abandoned your husband, whom you loved dearly, to be with him. Who could have a greater claim on your heart than your husband?’