“You mean because of Kinmuir’s debts?”
“Indeed,” he said.
“How could he have squandered his wealth?” I asked. “I know that he used to drink, but he was something of a reformed character, wasn’t he? Where did all the money go?”
“That’s one thing we need to try to find out. Perhaps there’s a motive there. An unpaid debt. A deal gone wrong. A man, or men, whom he had crossed and who wanted to carry out some kind of revenge.”
An idea began to form in my mind. There was a great deal to do before I could be more certain that it had substance.
I recalled something Robin Kinmuir had said that first night at drinks. “And we should of course, if we can, question Kinmuir’s aunt, Mrs. Kinmuir,” I said.
“From what I’ve heard, I’m not sure how reliable her statement will be,” said Davison. “Apparently she is in her dotage and doesn’t make much sense anymore. So I think we should start with the other guests and see what we can find. I’ll ask Hawkins if he has an idea of whom he wants to talk to first. Obviously, I can’t let him know that we plan to search the guests’ rooms. I wouldn’t waste your time on Mrs. Kinmuir. Or if you do insist on talking to her, I’d leave her until last.”
From my experience of my own grandmothers and their circle, old women were often the very best sources of information. They had years of practice—gossiping, swapping stories, sharing seemingly insignificant changes in a person’s appearance. A missing button, a lock of hair out of place, a lost cameo brooch. These were some of the clues that they used to interpret odd or even illicit behavior. I remembered as a very young girl sitting at the knees of my grandmothers and listening wide-eyed to the tall tales they shared. The experience left me with not only an innate love of storytelling—the unstoppable “What next?”—but a long-held belief that, as one of my grandmother’s worldly friends would say, the good God is in the detail.
ELEVEN
The first to be called into the library was Eliza Buchanan. I waited until the last swish of her dress disappeared behind the closing door before rushing upstairs, where I met Davison. He nodded as I went by him, down the corridor, and past the landscapes, the portraits of ancestral figures and paintings of saints and Jesus on the cross, towards Mrs. Buchanan’s room. I stopped for a moment, pretended to brush a speck of dust from my skirt, and looked around me, listening for any signs of an approach. As quietly as I could I took out the keys from my handbag.
It had been easy to get them from Simkins. Davison had asked the maid if she could send the butler up to him. He told Simkins that he felt he had drunk too much since first arriving in Scotland and asked him to remove the bottle of whisky that Kinmuir had placed in his room. He would not mind in the least if Simkins were to enjoy the spirit himself, he said. A man needed the odd dram living up here. The main thing was to get the bottle out of his sight. He had his cousin’s wedding to prepare for—my forthcoming nuptials in Edinburgh—and he had promised his aged mother that he would turn up for the ceremony looking as fresh-faced as possible.
According to Davison, Simkins had reacted with nonchalance; he had simply bowed his head and retreated with the bottle. After lunch, when the butler had a few hours to himself before his duties started again in the early evening, Davison stole up to the man’s room, where he eased open the door and found Simkins sprawled fast asleep on his bed. The keys were sitting on his bedside table next to a Latin primer. If he were to miss them he would, Davison reasoned, hardly broadcast that fact around the house; to do so would risk exposing his fondness for drink. Hopefully, on waking, perhaps Simkins would presume he must have left them somewhere around the house, in the parlor, or in one of the bathrooms. After our search of the rooms was over—which Davison estimated would take just over an hour—the keys would be left in a place where Simkins could find them again.
I tried a key, then another, before finding the right one. Taking a deep breath, I stole into the room. The air smelt of orange blossom and musk, the remnants of a heady perfume that Mrs. Buchanan must have sprayed over herself before the interview. I moved to the bureau and began my search. The top drawer contained writing paper, envelopes, and stamps, nothing out of the ordinary. The drawers beneath were empty. There was a jewel box on the desk full of diamonds, rubies, sapphires, and emeralds, trophies earned by her own efforts and some, I was sure, that were gifts from rich admirers. A perfume box held glass bottles of exotic aromas from Chanel, Lanvin, Coty, and Guerlain. Her cosmetics comprised various powders, rouge, lipsticks, an eye pencil, together with what looked like a particularly expensive rose-scented night cream. No wonder Mrs. Buchanan looked so youthful.
From there I moved over to the wardrobe. I wondered how long Mrs. Buchanan planned on staying, because it was bursting with clothes. Dresses, kimonos, scarves, sweaters, skirts, blouses, together with boxes full of every style of boot and shoe. In my tweed skirt, green woollen jumper, and sensible brown brogues I felt rather conventional, if not downright shabby, in comparison. If a woman of Mrs. Buchanan’s age could dress with aplomb and style, then why couldn’t I? Doubts about Max began to seep into my mind again. He really was too young, wasn’t he? I’d make myself look a fool. Women like the Frith-Stratton sisters would talk, if not laugh, at the sight of us together. But who would want to live by the standards set by people like that, anyway?
I knelt down and pushed my hand into the bottom of the wardrobe. Again there was nothing out of the ordinary. Then I saw a box that looked too small for shoes. I brought it out and eased off the lid. The first thing I saw was a photograph. Here was Mrs. Buchanan, still in costume from one of her productions, smiling at the camera. It looked as though it had been taken in a dressing room; in the background there was a mirror surrounded by lightbulbs and various extravagant displays of flowers in tall vases. The photograph had been torn in half, but in the looking glass one could see what appeared to be the reflection of part of a man’s shoulder. Who was the gentleman, I wondered, and why had the image been ripped in this way?
Inside the box there were dozens of letters written in a near-illegible scrawl. But some phrases jumped out at me—“my darling,” “my sweetheart,” “the rose of my life”—as well as a few more intimate details. These were clearly letters from a lover. The letters, however, were neither signed nor dated. My assumption was that they were written by Robin Kinmuir to Eliza Buchanan, missives penned at the height of their romance which the actress could not bring to throw away. I was conscious that, at any moment, Mrs. Buchanan might be finishing her interview with Inspector Hawkins. I knew that she was a capricious creature and could terminate the meeting on a whim.
I could feel my heart racing, my breathing increasing. I had always been a quick reader, able to gulp down pages of text at a time, but, even so, I felt overwhelmed by the sea of words that swept over me. The letters spoke of arrangements for future meetings, memories of their time in various hotels in Inverness, Edinburgh, and Glasgow, snatches of romantic poetry. Then, as I turned a page, a name stood out: Catherine. The name of Robin Kinmuir’s late wife. I squinted to try to make out the words. There was something here about… yes, about a plan. “It’s the only way,” read a sentence. “I can’t think of anything else,” read another. Then the terrible words became clearer. “I keep thinking of our life together when she is dead.”
Catherine, I had been told by Davison, had walked out one day and disappeared. But what if Robin’s wife had been murdered?
I dropped the incriminating letter and photograph in my handbag, hoping that soon I would be able to sneak back into Mrs. Buchanan’s room and put them back. I restored the box to its original position and stood up. I straightened my skirt, checked the room for any signs of disturbance, and was about to step outside when Davison appeared at the door.
“Mrs. Buchanan is on her way up,” he whispered.
I stepped outside, locked the door, and placed the keys back in my handbag. We walked quickly down the corridor and came face-to-face with a
n angry-looking Mrs. Buchanan.
“I warn you both, it’s far from a pleasant experience,” she said. “Such impertinent, vulgar questions.”
“I must admit I’m not looking forward to the interrogation,” I said.
“Well, at least you might be able to use some of it in one of your novels,” she said. “I had to draw on every last ounce of my considerable experience on the stage just to endure it. So humiliating. And some of the things that inspector was implying…”
“Implying? In what way?” I asked.
“About my relationship with Mr. Kinmuir.” Mrs. Buchanan lowered her voice and leant a little closer to me. “You know, my dear, what I’m talking about. But I really don’t see it’s anyone else’s business, do you?” I thought of the letter in my handbag. “Best to keep one’s private life private. I loathe a scandal. Anyway, you’ll have to excuse me, because talking to Inspector Hawkins has really left me feeling quite wretched.” She nodded first at me and then at Davison and then retreated into her room. At what point might she notice that a photograph and letter had been taken from the box?
“I’ve got something to tell you,” I whispered as we walked away from Mrs. Buchanan’s room and down the corridor. “But what about the next person to be interviewed by Hawkins?”
“I’ll go and find out,” Davison said, and hurried down the stairs.
A minute or two later he was back.
“Hawkins has just called Miss Passerini into the library,” he said. “So I’m afraid you’re doing the dirty work again.”
“Very well,” I said. We checked the corridor for approaching guests and, hoping that the sergeant stationed outside Kinmuir’s room was not about to walk around the corner, I took out the keys and entered Miss Passerini’s quarters.
It was a small room overlooking the front of the house. Everything looked terribly ordered and in its place, almost as if it were some kind of stage set. I suppose Miss Passerini, with her love of the classification of flora and fauna, must have applied that sense of the strict regulation and organization of natural systems to her own life. In her wardrobe the few clothes she had were coordinated by color, a pleasing blend of greens, grays, and blacks. The accessories that she allowed herself—two scarves, two pairs of gloves, two hats, and her various undergarments—each occupied their own space within the specific sections and drawers of the wardrobe. Books—about fungi, birds, orchids, mosses, and a tome on Karl Marx—were stacked neatly by her bed. I moved across to the chest of drawers by the window. In the top drawer was a silk-lined box containing a string of pearls. In another, smaller wooden box there was a magnifying glass and a compass. The drawer below contained Miss Passerini’s watercolor set and a sketchbook full of meticulously detailed drawings and paintings of flowers, ants, birds, beetles, and butterflies. She not only had a real talent for capturing the anatomy of a stem or a leaf or the wing of a bee but clearly possessed a keen artistic sensibility too.
As I began to feel more than a little guilty for rummaging through the young woman’s belongings—it seemed that Miss Passerini had nothing to hide—I opened the bottom drawer. There was her passport. I opened it at the photograph of Miss Passerini. Although the image was not a flattering one, it was undoubtedly that of the woman sitting downstairs. I turned through the pages when something jumped out at me. The stamp showed that Miss Passerini’s most recent visit had been to Argentina and before then she had traveled to Venezuela and Uruguay. But at the drinks reception that first night at the lodge she had told Davison that she had just come back from Berlin.
Just then there was a sharp knock at the door.
“Agatha, come on,” hissed Davison. “She’s on her way up.”
“What?” I said to myself. I’d only been in the room for a matter of minutes. I quickly shut the drawer, pushing it back as if my fingertips had been licked by fire. I ran to the door and opened it. Panic hardened Davison’s eyes.
“Quick, you’ve only got a few seconds,” he said before he turned and walked away.
I shut the door as quietly as possible and with shaking hands locked it. The next moment, as I looked up, Miss Passerini appeared at the top of the stairs. Understandably, she seemed startled to see me standing outside her room.
“Oh, there you are,” I said, thinking quickly. “I just came to knock on your door to ask you a question.”
“A question?”
“Yes. I wanted to see whether you had any books I could borrow. It’s so boring being cooped up like this, don’t you think? There are only so many walks one can go on and only so many lunches and dinners one can endure. I only brought one novel with me, which I’ve finished. I wondered if you had anything I could borrow.”
“Yes, of course,” she said, although I detected a hesitancy in her voice. “But have you looked in the library?”
“I would have done, but I didn’t want to disturb Inspector Hawkins.”
The answer seemed to satisfy her. “Well, I’m not sure whether I’ve got anything that you’d like,” she said, taking her key out and opening the door. “But you’re very welcome to come in and have a look at what I’ve got.”
“That would be so kind. Thank you,” I said as we stepped into the room.
She walked over to the chest of drawers, almost as if she were drawn there by an invisible force. Her eyes darted back and forth from one drawer to the next before they came to rest on the one at the bottom that contained her passport. I noticed that it was not quite closed; I had been in such a rush to get out of the room that I had not shut it properly.
“How was the interview with Inspector Hawkins?” I said, trying to distract her. “I’m dreading talking to him.”
“Why? Do you have something to hide?”
“Oh, no, nothing like that, it’s just that—”
“I was joking,” she said. “Unless you do have something to hide?” She gazed at me for a little too long.
“No, not at all,” I said, feeling a slight blush rise to my cheeks.
“I wouldn’t concern yourself with the inspector,” she said. “It’s all very straightforward.” She rattled off some of the questions in an officious-sounding voice: “ ‘What were you doing at the time of Robin Kinmuir’s death?’ ‘Did you see or hear anything unusual?’ ‘Do you think Kinmuir had any enemies?’ ‘What made you come to Dallach Lodge?’ ‘How did you hear about it?’ Those sort of things. I raced through it all at top speed. And I think the inspector wanted to get on with talking to the men in the house; I think he’s got his suspicions regarding some of them. So he let me go.”
“Whom does he suspect?”
“He was asking me all about Mr. Peterson, but I can tell you for a fact he had nothing to do with it. As you know, he was in his room when it happened that morning. You saw him with your own eyes, standing at the top of the stairs in his dressing gown.”
“Yes, I remember,” I said. “But who do you think… did it?”
“My money’s on Simkins, don’t you think? That’s what the Frith-Strattons are saying, anyway. It’s a cliché, I suppose, one that you couldn’t use in your novels. But in life, with real crimes, it’s so often the butler, don’t you find?”
“Perhaps,” I said.
“And he’s behaving very oddly if you ask me,” Vivienne Passerini continued. “I tried to call him earlier and he was nowhere to be seen. In fact, I wouldn’t be surprised if he had a just cause to strike out.”
“But why would he want to kill his employer?”
“All those years of having to bow and scrape and do his master’s every bidding. I would have thought that’s enough to drive a man to murder.”
“But if that were the case, wouldn’t every servant one comes across be a potential murderer?”
“I’m not going to argue with that. I don’t know if you’ve guessed already, but I’m not a fan of all this,” she said, gesturing at the sublime view of the sea loch framed by the window.
“ ‘All this…’?”
&nb
sp; “The aristocracy. The landed gentry. The great and the good. Whatever it is you want to call them. I think they’re a dying breed. Inheriting wealth and privilege and connections. It’s all got to stop.”
“So, you’re a socialist?”
“Yes, I am, and I don’t mind telling anyone. I’d go further and say I was…” She quoted some long, incomprehensible paragraph about Marx, the means of production, and the sins of capitalism.
I didn’t want to have an argument with her.
“In fact, I’ve got a splendid idea,” she said. “You were asking for a book. Why don’t you read this?” She picked up the political tract by her bedside and pressed it into my hand.
“Thank you, that does look interesting, but I was thinking of something a little more… entertaining.” She looked disappointed in me. “Something to take my mind off all this terrible business in the house.”
“If it’s fiction you want, I can’t help you there. I don’t believe in it,” Vivienne Passerini said, turning her back on me. “It’s nothing but a capitalist venture, an opiate to dull the senses of the populace.”
When I didn’t respond, she looked back at me.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to insult you. I know that you write novels, but my guess is that they’re a great deal better than the romantic dross churned out by those two sisters. At least in your books the colonel or lord of the manor or whoever gets bashed over the head with a piece of lead piping in the library. Serves him right, I’d say. Actually, one could argue that your novels could be read as…”
Again she spouted some intellectual theory that completely passed me by, but she seemed to be saying that, on some level at least, she approved of my work.
“I suppose you must have mixed with some very clever people in Berlin?” I asked.
“In Berlin?” For a moment she seemed unsettled before she composed herself. “Oh, yes, it’s full of people who really want to change the system, and not just the awful bright young things you see here. The frivolity of that scene makes me sick. I mean, James and Rufus are all very well, but they’re not serious people.”
I Saw Him Die Page 8