The Corpse with the Crystal Skull

by Cathy Ace

  “I don’t know any Wilson Thomas,” said Niall.

  “Oh, come off it, Niall, of course you knew him. You’ve lived here your entire life – Wilson Thomas was a local character. I’ve learned from Inspector Charles that Wilson’s reputation as a decent, honest man was well known, too. I bet he could have described everything you’d done the night you killed Freddie, and you knew he was just the sort of person who’d be prepared to speak to the police about what he’d witnessed. So, you decided to get rid of him too. And why change the MO? It had worked so well, you decided to repeat the performance. You waited until Wilson was inside his shack, with his lamp lit – allowing for an easier shot for you – then you sent in the drone from your boat. This time you were more careful; the way the arms of the cove curl near where the shack is located meant you could pretty much hide your boat around the corner from the shack and yet still steer the drone using the camera mounted on it. Almost invisible, and certainly quiet enough for the sound to be drowned out by the pounding of the surf and the heavy rain that night, your drone got the job done again. Even better, you’d spotted someone hanging around the beach, hadn’t you? You didn’t know who it was, but thought you’d use them as a scapegoat – hence the call to the police. I bet the police will find a pay-as-you-go phone when they search your belongings – or maybe you were bright enough to dispose of it. I doubt it; you strike me as the sort of man who’d find a phone like that to be useful, especially if you wanted to keep some of your more interesting calls completely private.”

  I didn’t want anyone to know that Wilson had lived long enough to utter some last words to Bud, so I left it at that.

  “It’s all rubbish,” said Niall petulantly. His ears glowed red.

  I continued, “The killer not taking items they clearly wanted when they killed Freddie, but coming back to do so at a later time, was puzzling. But the drone wasn’t able to do that for you, was it? Amelia told me you’d recently visited Freddie in his tower, and I bet that’s when he showed you the map he’d found of the original Henry Morgan property lines. It would have been easy enough for you to get in through the door at the base of the tower – it was a pretty standard lock, and I bet a bit of lock-picking isn’t past you, is it? Bud and I saw the scratches you left with your handiwork. You wanted the map Freddie had located, because if anyone else had found it after Freddie’s death they might have put two and two together, guessing Morgan’s treasure had been buried on this estate, because the map showed the existence of a secret tunnel running from the tower to where the ‘Precious House’ sat. It’s just a dotted line that could be a pathway, as Bud suggested when we all saw it, but, once you know where the tunnel is – running due east from the base of the tower – it’s clear that’s what’s marked on the map. We’ve found the tunnel, by the way – it’s blocked, but it’s still there alright. The funny thing is that I don’t think Freddie ever knew it existed. When we shifted his desk to gain access to it we scratched the floor, but there were no other signs of damage to the planks. None of the mechanisms worked as easily, and the dust alone suggested the cavity beneath the floor hadn’t been entered in many, many years. But you couldn’t take the chance that Freddie didn’t know about the tunnel, could you? You didn’t want Freddie to know the treasure was here, on this property. All he did was suspect, but how would he ever prove it? The map with the tunnel on it would help him do that – and then the game would be up, because there’d be an almighty fight for ownership of that treasure once it was known it had been found.”

  Niall squirmed, but didn’t speak.

  I pressed on, “And let’s not forget that you’d already convinced Nina that she should buy up Freddie’s entire estate after his death, so she could protect her precious peace and quiet. How much did you make on that deal, Niall? A million? Acting for both the seller and the buyer would net you about that much, I should think. Nice. And a clever move on your part; you planted the seed of horror into Nina’s mind about what might happen on that land if it were to be developed. You convinced her Freddie was about to develop it, and further convinced her that killing Freddie would stop it. You got her to allow you to make the deal with Cooperman on her behalf, and it’s all coming up roses for Niall. Thanks to Nina’s bank balance…which is stuffed with the money Freddie borrowed to pay for the treasure, which is what put him in debt and meant the estate had to be sold. Absolutely neat, and practical, and perfect – for Niall.”

  Nina shifted, and started to shrink into herself again.

  At a nod from Inspector Charles, I continued, “So, Freddie was dead, you could take what you wanted from his tower room – but what did you want, Niall? You wanted that map, yes, but did you also grab up a bundle of old papers that had been sitting on his desk beneath the crystal skull?”

  “This is all rubbish,” said Niall again – his ability to think creatively seemed to have deserted him. His voice quivered.

  “No, not rubbish.” I nodded at Inspector Charles, and he nodded at Constable Lewis. She walked into the sitting room with a large plastic evidence bag containing a matt-black drone, about two feet wide. “The police found that in one of the guest villas here, where you’ve been staying, Niall. I’m going to assume it’s covered in your fingerprints, and yours alone.”

  Nina and Niall exchanged a significant glance. Nina’s chin quivered, and she began to cry. Arnold reached forward and gently handed her a handkerchief. She smiled at the elderly man as she took it, and he smiled back. It was a warm exchange, loaded with sorrow, and regret.

  Niall’s shoulders slumped. His entire body sagged. He knew we had him. Eventually he shrugged, and spoke, “There was a copy of a part of the map on top of the pile,” he said flatly. “It looked old, but it turned out it was just something I think Freddie himself had copied out using an ordinary fountain pen – you know, with real ink. That’s why it looked old, I guess. I thought it might be useful, but all it showed were the places where the land had slipped in the 1993 quake. It didn’t help me at all, but I didn’t know that until later. When I saw it on his desk I was in a hurry, so I just picked up the whole bunch of papers. I realised I didn’t need the sketch, so I just chucked the entire pile away; the rest of the papers were just useless old lists of names.”

  “Chucked?” Bud’s tone was harsh.

  Niall’s head snapped up. “Yeah, chucked. Out. In the garbage.”

  “When?” Bud’s entire body tensed; he wasn’t messing about.

  Niall shrugged. “Yesterday? I don’t know.”

  Bud leaped to his feet. “Here’s a chance to be helpful, Arnold. Where would Niall’s garbage, from yesterday, be right now?”

  Arnold sized up the situation in an instant. “Sir will find it in our recycling sorting shed. Would sir care to follow me?”

  Bud glanced at Inspector Charles, who nodded, then Bud, Jack, John, and Lottie all left the sitting room with Arnold, and headed toward the pool.

  Niall and Nina looked genuinely confused, if cowed. “Lot of fuss over nothing,” muttered Niall.

  I’d had enough. “Nothing? Freddie Burkinshaw might not have been a trustworthy, pleasant or popular man, but he was a human being. Wilson Thomas was a good man who’d fallen on hardship, and who happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. They are both dead. That is not ‘nothing’, Niall. That’s a double murder, with greed – pure and simple – as the underlying reason. I understand that Nina didn’t pull the trigger, but she’s got to be accountable too. It’s up to the police, and the courts, to decide how you’re both charged…and to decide if anyone else needs to face charges too, like Arnold, for example. In a way, it was maybe a very fortunate error you made that night, Amelia…by mistakenly putting some overripe ackee into Mr. Freddie’s smoothie. That accident raised questions about the initial decision the police had reached about his death being a suicide. True serendipity.”

  Amelia stared at me open-mouthed, as did Tarone; Inspector Charles merely nodded, sagely.
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  I pressed on, “I also think it’s going to be an incredibly complicated process for the courts to sort out who now really owns what. If Niall has signed legal papers on Nina’s behalf, undertaking to purchase Freddie’s estate with money paid to her for treasure she never had the right to sell, then maybe she hasn’t bought the estate at all…I don’t know. Do you, inspector?”

  Inspector Charles shook his head. “I’m glad to say that’s not my decision, though I’ll be interested to find out where the rest of that treasure is at the moment, to be able to arrange to have it placed somewhere for safekeeping. We have already taken everything that was stored beneath Mr. Burkinshaw’s bed.”

  Nina threw her hands into the air. “Freddie slept on it? That is so like Freddie. His possessions had to be close to him at all times…things, and people. What an odious man. As for the rest of it? Yes, I shall tell you everything. The inner wall of the library is false. It leads to another room; originally my Luca played high stakes card games with his special friends in there. It was his private place, dark, no windows. No one knew what time it was, or whether it was even day or night. He would sit in there for days, sometimes, and the money that changed hands also changed lives. Those were heady days, when the stakes were high in so many ways. As they still are today, it seems. I understand everything now. I have been a fool. A blind, old fool. I should have learned by this time in my life that there are people upon whom one can rely, and those one should not trust. I made the wrong decision. I was flattered because a young man showed an interest in me. I hurt Arnold deeply; all he ever did was support me. I can show you where the door to the secret room is, inspector, and how to open it.” She looked around, obviously expecting to be helped to her feet by Arnold, who wasn’t there. “Niall,” she said, and stuck out her hand.

  Niall pushed her arm away. “Get up yourself, you old crone.”

  Inspector Charles did the gentlemanly thing and strode over to help Nina from the sofa. He also indicated – with a swift flick of the wrist – that Niall Jackson should be handcuffed. Sheila and I knew we could leave, and we also both knew we wanted to; when we got the nod from Charles, I told Amelia and Tarone to wait for us. As Sheila darted out into the night heading in the general direction we’d seen the others take, I hung back for just a moment, and leaned in toward Tarone.

  “I know you believed the entire estate would be yours after Freddie’s death, and that – in your mind – you probably felt that everything on the estate was yours to do with as you pleased. The ten bottles of cognac in the pantry? I know you’ve sold at least one of them to raise money to be able to buy an entire new kit, and running shoes, and so forth, but have you still got any of the other bottles left?”

  Amelia’s mouth dropped open, and Tarone nodded sullenly. “I only sold one. Got good money for it, too. I got the others at home, in the shed. I can easy put them back into the pantry.” He sounded contrite.

  “Good idea,” I said. “That cognac’s worth about three thousand, five hundred dollars – American – a bottle.”

  “How much?” chorused Amelia and her grandson.

  “I kill that Ronnie. Him robbed me, yeah man,” said Tarone, his eyes wide.

  “You selling stuff you been stealin’ to that Ronnie Hangar? Him a wicked, wicked man, Tarone…”

  I left Amelia giving Tarone a good telling off as I headed toward the pool, calling Bud’s name.

  Fiery Finale

  As I passed the gleaming turquoise pool, which sounded even better at night with its fountains and jets, I could see a flame flickering just beyond the far end of the guest annex. I walked as fast as I could and crossed paths with Arnold, who was returning to the house. He seemed to have aged a decade or so. We exchanged a sad smile.

  When I reached the group I was a bit out of breath. They’d found a metal waste-paper basket; there were just a few sheets of paper still burning inside it, among ashes.

  “Did you find what you were looking for?” I asked.

  Bud nodded. “All of us saw the lists, all of us witnessed their destruction. Our mission is successfully completed. Thanks to you.”

  “So, now they don’t exist anymore, can you tell us exactly what the papers were?” asked Sheila of Jack. I didn’t say a word, because I suspected Jack was much more likely to spill the beans than Bud.

  Jack looked at his colleagues, who both shrugged. When Jack spoke, it was with gravity. “First of January, 1942: the Big Four nations – the USA, Great Britain, China, and Russia – signed the papers that became the foundation for the United Nations. The next day a host more countries followed. More and more signed up as the months, then the years, went by. Prior to that, during the last few months of 1941, Washington, DC was a hotbed of negotiation. Of course, it being Washington, not much was truly secret because everyone had their nose in everyone else’s business. But there was a series of private dinners, hosted by various individuals, that were deemed truly confidential, because they were ‘informal’. The names of the guests invited to those dinners, who represented their countries, was a matter that was closely guarded at the time. Today, there are those who might want to point at the way in which such ‘informal’ negotiations were undertaken as a means to cause friction within the UN; those guest lists could have become inflammatory. Now, they no longer exist.”

  Sheila shook her head. “Guest lists? Secret dinners? The UN? You might be getting a bit long in the tooth for all this, Jack. But, well done; I’m glad it’s all over, now.”

  I was at the end of my tether; I decided this was the time to break free. “Nope, sorry Jack, that’s just not good enough. I’ve led you to those papers, and I think I deserve to really know why they are so important. Lottie, you said you were here on behalf of your family’s reputation – at your father’s insistence. What on earth could your grandfather have signed that would bring your family’s name into disrepute now, almost eighty years after the events the lists recorded? And Bud, what’s all this about Sweden needing you here?” I looked at every face; no one made eye contact with me.

  I’d had enough. “I won’t give up, I’ll just keep asking. So tell me now, and you’ll be glad of the peace and quiet later on.” I realized Bud, at least, would know this to be the truth.

  Bud shrugged. “Sweden managed to remain neutral throughout the war, but it occasionally made ‘concessions’ to its neutrality. If the guest lists for dinners where Sweden was represented were to become known, it might be inferred that Sweden favored a world view that today would be seen as…damaging to Sweden’s current position within it. There might have been certain persons close to the Swedish royal family named in those lists. Possibly.”

  Jack jumped in. “Canada did some things in the war she’s far from proud of. All nations did. Though that’s no excuse. Sending specific people to attend private dinners, where said individuals mixed with those present, could be read as Canada at least contemplating some terrible options. And the fact that one of the Canadians in question was the grandfather-in-law of a current minister doesn’t help.”

  “And the Brits?” added John. “Well, we were in a terrible position in 1941, of course, but couldn’t allow it to appear that way. Nowadays, the list of people at some of the dinners held would allow for a revisionist’s free-for-all when it came to whom Britain was prepared to consider her friends and allies.” He looked at Jack with a shake of the head. “And there’s a minister of state whose reputation could be irreparably damaged by the knowledge that a member of his family was an attendee at a dinner where certain…elements…were hosts. It’s one of those things – wars make strange bedfellows, and those jumping enthusiastically into said bed at the time can find their children, and their children’s children, ruing the day they did.”

  Lottie was the most forthright and illuminating of anyone when she said simply, “My grandfather was dining with people who later became rather well known as much more terrifyingly left wing, and right wing, than he might have belie
ved at the time. Imagine Daddy living that one down; his father dining with closet commies and Nazis. Daddy was horrified; there was evidence of his father breaking bread and clinking glasses with a list of Who’s Who in dodgy politicking. He’d managed to hush up the fact that my grandfather had once roomed with the infamous Philby for months on end, then he found out about these guest lists and went potty. I had to help him out. Whatever it meant. After all, it’s my family name too, you know.”

  I gave some thought to what the men, and Lottie, had said. The world of politics is not my forte; the types of personalities drawn to that particular arena have some of the most fascinating, yet worrying, profiles – often sharing many traits with those who commit terrible crimes. Risk takers, narcissists, those who truly believe only they know the “right” answer, and those who act purely for personal, venal reasons. Yes, it’s an area ripe for psychological investigation alright, but I’d long ago decided to focus my efforts on the legally defined criminal element, which keeps me busy enough. But it seemed as though my life with Bud might still draw me close to the place where the crimes were on a global scale, and where many saw those acts not as being at all criminal, but as necessities…imperatives, even.

  I absolutely understood that liaisons during a time of war, and recorded in the papers in question, might have meant that current parties in, or out, of power could be viewed by their supporters as having a history not quite as they had presented it. Or that individuals closely associated with, or even personally related to, those currently active in global politics might be viewed as having a questionable background, based upon their attendance at one documented dinner, as recorded in these lists…and I wondered about that. Should someone be Twitter-trolled, or worse, because a grandparent was instructed to attend a “social” event eighty years earlier? I grappled with wondering what my husband might do – or possibly had already done, at some point – on behalf of his country, without having any possible chance of understanding the potential implications of his actions decades later. I understood why three governments, and a family, would want the lists destroyed. No one likes to be reminded of their mistakes. But the price that had been paid? Terrible.