I Saw Him Die

by Andrew Wilson

  “And what do you make of Mr. Peterson?” I had observed the two of them becoming increasingly friendly, but from what she had just told me, he did not seem like her type at all.

  “Simon? He’s an interesting chap. There’s more to him than first meets the eye.”

  “In what respect?”

  “He’s very mysterious but awfully good-looking, don’t you think?”

  “Indeed.”

  “He says he wants the same thing as I do. The breakdown of established society. A new order.”

  “I see,” I said. “And what does he do for a living?”

  She looked uncertain and didn’t answer the question. “Now, you said you wanted to borrow a book?”

  I left Miss Passerini’s room with a beautifully illustrated volume by a female botanist by the name of Priscilla Susan Bury, showing lilies and amaryllis and other exotic-looking plants. Davison was waiting for me by the stairs. Apparently, Inspector Hawkins had asked for tea, so we had a few minutes before he was ready to call in the next person. Neither of us talked until we entered Davison’s room.

  “It’s certainly looking as though not everyone is what they seem,” I said. “First of all, in Mrs. Buchanan’s room I found a bundle of letters written to her from a male admirer, in which the writer talks of life after the death of Catherine Kinmuir.”

  I took out the letter I had taken and showed it to Davison. “And here’s a photograph of Mrs. Buchanan, part of which has been removed. But look, you can see the shoulder of a man reflected in the mirror.”

  “So, do you really think Robin Kinmuir and Mrs. Buchanan may have disposed of his wife?”

  “It’s certainly something to look into. Do you know when and how Catherine disappeared?”

  “I think it was in 1916, but I’ll check,” Davison said. “We might be dealing with another case of murder here. After all, it’s a classic motive: a man and his lover plotting to get rid of a troublesome wife. Sorry, I—” He realized that, in one respect, this scenario was similar to the one I had endured when, during the days I went missing in 1926, Superintendent William Kenward of the Surrey police believed that my husband might have disposed of me. It was, of course, a theory that had blinded the superintendent to all other possibilities.

  “Not to worry,” I said. “Perhaps you could ask your office to find out if there were any unidentified bodies found around the same time?”

  “Yes, a good idea.” Davison glanced down at his wristwatch. “I’m conscious that we don’t have much time before Hawkins calls someone else. And what of Miss Passerini?”

  “Do you remember that night when she told us she had just come back from Berlin?”

  “Yes… yes, I do.”

  “I found her passport, and, according to that, Miss Passerini last visited not Berlin but South America.”

  “So why would she lie about that?”

  “Exactly,” I said, pausing for moment. I told him what Vivienne Passerini had said about Simon Peterson’s desire for the collapse of the establishment. “If she and Mr. Peterson are lying, as well as Mrs. Buchanan, what about the others? I’m beginning to wonder if everybody in this house has something to hide.”

  TWELVE

  Davison was keen to get into Simon Peterson’s room, but it was the Frith-Stratton sisters who were summoned into the library next. I couldn’t search their room because it was next to Robin Kinmuir’s, outside of which the sergeant was still stationed. And so we waited with the rest of the group—apart from Mrs. Buchanan and Miss Passerini, who were upstairs in their quarters—in the drawing room, where tea was being served and people were enjoying the warmth of the fire. At least the occasion gave me the opportunity to question the mysterious Mr. Peterson.

  “More tea, Mr. Peterson?” I asked as I walked over to the tea table.

  “No, thank you,” he said.

  “A cucumber sandwich? Or perhaps some Dundee cake?”

  “No,” he said, somewhat irritably, before his thin lips formed themselves into a false smile. “No, thank you.”

  “It’s hardly what I’d call a holiday—being cooped up here, I mean. I’m sure you’d much rather leave and go somewhere else—that, or get on with your business.”

  “Yes, indeed,” he said.

  “Shipping, isn’t it?”

  “Yes,” he said, clearly not wishing to elaborate.

  There was an awkward pause, during which I took a sip of tea. “Glorious things, ships,” I said, realizing how stupid I sounded. “Ocean liners, particularly.” I had to think of something to engage him in conversation. “I went round the world—well, a good deal of it anyway—in 1922 to help promote the British Empire Exhibition tour. I love being up on deck, looking out at the horizon in the distance. There’s something so thrilling about it.”

  “Fascinating,” he said, taking up the copy of the Times that he had been reading earlier.

  “Do you feel the same? I mean about being up on deck.” I gave him a warm and friendly smile. Surely there was only so long he could keep up his rudeness.

  “I’m afraid I don’t get very much opportunity to travel myself,” he replied, letting the newspaper drop down onto his lap. “I’m very much chained to the office.”

  “What aspect of shipping are you involved in, if you don’t mind me asking?”

  “Finance,” he said.

  “Have you always been employed in that area? I mean, worked in shipping?”

  He narrowed his eyes as I felt him scrutinizing me. I knew what he was thinking: “Why was I asking these questions? Was I just a bored, silly, but quite harmless woman who liked nothing better than prying into the lives of other people? Or was there something behind my inquiries? Did I have a hidden agenda?” I would have to be careful; I didn’t want him to suspect why I had booked a stay at Dallach Lodge.

  “Sorry, it’s a professional habit of mine—asking too many questions,” I said. “I’ll leave you alone in peace.”

  “No, not at all,” he said, smiling with a little more warmth. “It’s just that I woke up with a terrible headache and I haven’t been able to shift it all day.”

  “Too much whisky last night?” asked James Kinmuir, who, with Rufus Phillips, walked up to the tea table at that moment. “I know that’s the only thing that has kept me going the last few days.”

  “No, it’s not that,” replied Mr. Peterson. “Perhaps it’s the strain of… what happened.”

  “It’s certainly a terrible business,” said Rufus Phillips. “And then there is all that nonsense with Mrs. Buchanan. Walking out of rooms when James enters. Making those cutting remarks. No wonder people are on edge.” He turned to James. “Once this is all over, you should think about launching a suit for defamation of character. Some of the things she’s said are quite disgraceful.”

  As the two young men took their tea and walked away to stand by the large windows framed by a pair of elaborate red velvet curtains, they continued to discuss the issue. I concentrated on what they were saying. James Kinmuir was far from keen to pursue legal action on the grounds that it would be too costly and he did not have any money, but Rufus Phillips was insistent. I noticed a tension between the friends that had not existed previously.

  I sat down in an armchair next to Mr. Peterson. “Have you taken any remedies to help your headache?”

  “I’ve got some sal volatile somewhere, I think,” he said.

  “Well, if it doesn’t go, please let me know: I’ve got some powders and tonics in my room that may help,” I said, smiling. I thought of the collection of little vials hidden in my suitcase upstairs. The colorless liquids that could kill a man in a matter of minutes. A drop of poison that could be added to a cup of tea. The toxic grains that could be stirred into a glass of water. I hoped that I wouldn’t need to use them. But, as my mother always said, it was better to be safe rather than sorry.

  “Is there anything in the newspaper?” I asked. I hoped this might elicit some information regarding his political views.
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br />   “Unemployment rates rising to two million. The Miners’ Federation demand for a seven-hour day. The resolutions and encyclical letter of the Lambeth Conference.” Each point was delivered dryly, without emotion. Simon Peterson smoothed his hand over the newspaper, fixed me with his small, beady eyes, and said, “And I’ve got a question for you.”

  “Yes, of c-course,” I said, trying not to fluster. I hoped he wasn’t going to ask about Davison and me or what I was doing at Dallach Lodge.

  “I know you’re a writer of detective novels.”

  “Yes, that’s right,” I said.

  “I’m afraid I haven’t read any of yours, but you might have a better idea than most who is likely to be responsible for what happened.”

  The question came as something of a relief. “Well, I—I have a theory or two, like everyone here.”

  “I don’t believe those two sisters—all that nonsense they’re spouting about Simkins. He hasn’t got the mental capacity to commit a murder like this.”

  “Do you think someone clever is behind this?”

  “Oh, yes, it has to be, don’t you think?” He seemed more animated now. “I mean, men like Simkins are all very well, but it’s unlikely he would have the intellect to plan such a complex scheme, don’t you agree?”

  “I see what you mean,” I said. “Because of the way in which Mr. Kinmuir was murdered?”

  “Well, the fact that we still don’t know what actually killed him tells us something,” he said.

  “Yes, I wonder when we’ll find out,” I said.

  It was then that Mr. Peterson gave me a queer sort of look that implied a shared understanding or expectation. What did he think I knew? He glanced over at Davison and back at me; then, with an enigmatic smile, he took up the Times once more.

  THIRTEEN

  In the end, Davison was unable to search Mr. Peterson’s room; nor did I get the chance to snoop around the quarters of the Frith-Stratton sisters. We had run out of time. We knew that Simkins would soon be waking up from his alcohol-induced afternoon nap and would go in search of his keys. Davison left them on a washstand in a bathroom used by the butler just off the servants’ corridor on the top floor. I kept watch outside the door to make sure neither Simkins nor any of the other servants discovered Davison entering or leaving.

  As we were passing down the corridor on the way back to the stairs, we heard a faint cry come from behind one of the doors. I stopped Davison, put a finger to my lips, and listened. Fragments of speech, none of which made sense, came from the other side of the door. I stepped back, so the occupant of the room could not hear me, and whispered to Davison to leave. It had to be the room of the ancient Mrs. Kinmuir. Perhaps now would be a good time to talk to her.

  “Are you sure?” he asked.

  I nodded. There was, from what I had been told, little chance that Mrs. Kinmuir would add anything to the investigation into her nephew’s death. But if I could provide a little companionship, maybe even bring her a few moments of comfort in a life that surely must be desperately lonely, then the day would not have been wasted. I had been brought up on Bible stories, the Good Samaritan, the parable of the Prodigal Son. It was, I reasoned, no less than my duty. And I always relished the company of elderly women: they seemed to enjoy an easy freedom to say anything, often the most shocking and outrageous things, without censure.

  I knocked gently on the door and, after hearing a muted, strangled cry, turned the handle and stepped into the room. It was a cramped space with a narrow bed and a low ceiling. In the corner was a washbasin and stand; the air smelt of lavender and coal tar soap.

  Sitting in one of two tartan armchairs by the window was a small-framed woman with white hair, a relatively unlined pink face, and cloudy blue eyes. She was wearing a brown tweed skirt, a white blouse, and a green cardigan. Her head tilted in my direction as she began to speak.

  “ ‘There was a crooked man and he walked a crooked mile,’ ” she mumbled.

  “Hello,” I said, smiling. “I hope you don’t mind me calling on you like this.”

  Her face lit up and she smiled with all the joy and innocence of a child.

  “Could I come and sit by you?” I asked.

  “ ‘Cry Baby Bunting, / Daddy’s gone a-hunting,’ ” she replied.

  Perhaps Davison was right and there was little point in talking to her. But I could hardly back out of the room now.

  “My name is Agatha. What is yours?”

  “ ‘I had a little hen, the prettiest ever seen, / She washed up the dishes and kept the house clean.’ ”

  “You have got the most wonderful view here, you can see for miles around,” I said, looking out of the window. Indeed, the attic room enjoyed lovely vistas of the sea loch and the heather-covered moors. With embarrassment, I remembered Robin saying that the poor old lady’s cataracts prevented her from seeing very much. “I think it must be lovely living out in the wilds of the country like this,” I said, sitting down. “I grew up in Torquay, so very different from here. Of course, when I was a girl, the town was nothing like it is today. And the villa where we lived—Ashfield, it was called—was situated almost in the countryside. I adored living by the sea, watching it change with the light and shade and wind. But you have the loch here.”

  There was no response from Mrs. Kinmuir. On a side table by her chair was a Bible and a pack of cards. But what was the point of them if she could not see?

  “I see you’ve got the Bible here. And a pack of cards.”

  “ ‘The Queen of Hearts, she made some tarts, / All on a summer’s day,’ ” she said. So Mrs. Kinmuir did understand something of what I was saying to her.

  I finished the couplet for her. “The Knave of Hearts, he stole the tarts, / And took them all away.’ ”

  At this, she giggled like a little girl and her cheeks turned more pink.

  “Do you like patience? Should I take the cards and play?”

  Again there was no response. I reached for the cards, shuffled them, and started to lay them out for a game, placing seven cards facedown in a line. I turned up the card on the left, placed six cards on top of the existing number, and repeated the sequence until I had one card to put down, which I turned over. I began to play, talking her through the cards as I did so.

  “Red queen on black king,” I said. “Black seven on red eight. Red two on black three.”

  The simple sequence seemed to delight her. Indeed, the rhythm of the game was somehow comforting, like the sound of gentle rain on a windowpane or the taste of crumpets with butter.

  “Do you get much company?” I asked, as I continued to play. “I’m sure Robin, your nephew, would have come up here a good deal. And I suppose now you must miss his visits.”

  At this, her smile seemed to fade away.

  “I know when my mother died I missed her enormously,” I said. “I still do, of course. But grief also drove me a little mad. Some of the silly things I did!” I tried to laugh, but the sound came out as more of a stifled cry. I took a moment to compose myself. “I wonder, has anyone told you about what happened to your nephew. To Robin.”

  Her eyes seemed to mist over and her bottom lip began to tremble.

  “I don’t want to cause you any upset. I’m sorry,” I said, placing the cards to one side and taking her hand. The skin, despite the liver spots and natural blemishes that came with age, was smooth to the touch. One of her fingers was decorated by a beautiful sapphire and diamond ring.

  “That’s a lovely ring,” I said. Perhaps the jewel had, at one time, been a talisman of memories. A touchstone to recall happier times. But what of those memories now? Where had they gone? Or was it the case that Mrs. Kinmuir could indeed remember the past but could no longer communicate that fact? What were we if not a collection of our memories? The thought of ending up like Mrs. Kinmuir unsettled me. This was not how I wanted to spend my last few years on earth: stuck up in an attic, fed and watered and looked after like a genial pet, but unable to eng
age or talk to anyone. Yet perhaps it was for the best that Mrs. Kinmuir was divorced from reality; at least in this state she seemed protected from the harsh brutalities of life.

  “Robin,” she said sadly. A single tear slipped down her cheek.

  So she wasn’t as lost as I thought. I had managed to reach her. “Yes, your nephew,” I said. I coughed as I thought how best to phrase it. “I’m sorry to tell you that Robin had a very bad accident. And I’m afraid he didn’t survive.”

  She slumped back in her chair and fell silent.

  “You see, he was out walking.” I looked out of the window across to the moor. If Mrs. Kinmuir had not been disabled by the cataracts in her eyes, she would have had a perfect view of the site of the accident. “I wonder, did you see anything that day? You might have heard shooting. The two young men—Robin’s nephew, James, and his friend, Rufus Phillips—were shooting grouse.”

  There was no response.

  “But the inspector has ruled them out of the inquiry,” I continued. “James shot Robin by accident, but the wound in the leg was only superficial. And James did not have a motive. Although he is the beneficiary of the estate, I’m afraid… well, I’m afraid there is nothing left.”

  What would happen to poor Mrs. Kinmuir? Once the house was sold and the debts were paid, where would she live? Would some kind soul on Skye take her in? Or would she end up in some home for ladies of reduced means in Portree or Inverness? Even that would require money. I would ask Davison and the doctor to look into it.

  “But don’t worry, my dear. Everything will be taken care of. You will be taken care of.” I gave her hand one last clasp and got up to go. I smiled and said goodbye, and told her that I would pay her another visit soon.

  The next time, I decided, I would just come and sit quietly beside her and hold her hand, or perhaps I would play another game of patience. I wouldn’t talk of Robin Kinmuir or upset her with talk of his death. It had been foolish of me to think that Mrs. Kinmuir could give me any insight or information into the mystery of what had happened to her nephew. I walked to the door and turned to give her one last smile.