I Saw Him Die

by Andrew Wilson

  “L’ho visto morire,” she said in a low voice.

  I knew some Italian. The words fixed me to the spot and I grasped the door handle forcefully.

  “What did you say, Mrs. Kinmuir?”

  Although she had mumbled the words the meaning was clear; I had not misheard them. I stepped away from the door and came closer to her. I didn’t want to put her under any pressure or give her the impression that the words were especially significant; to do so might make her clam up.

  “You saw him die?” I asked the question in a way I might when inquiring of a young child what they had done that morning with nanny in the nursery.

  “ ‘Who saw him die? / I, said the Fly, / with my little eye, / I saw him die,’ ” she replied.

  Oh, dear. She was back on the nursery rhymes again. She recited some fragments I could not quite place before she declaimed, “ ‘Oh, the grand old Duke of York, / He had ten thousand men,’ ” before breaking off and saying, “Oh, yes, it was a grand tour all right,” followed by the rest of the verse: “ ‘He marched them up to the top of the hill, / And he marched them down again.’ ”

  I knelt down by her and took her hand once more. She smiled softly at me with the kind of sweetness of nature and compassionate regard that reminded me of a woman in holy orders.

  “You said something in Italian: ‘L’ho visto morire.’ Can you tell me what you saw?” I asked gently.

  She gestured for me to come nearer. I eased myself forwards, so close that I could smell the milkiness of her skin.

  Her voice was nothing more than a whisper now. “ ‘Who killed Cock Robin? / I, said the Sparrow, / with my bow and arrow, / I killed Cock Robin.’ ”

  FOURTEEN

  That evening, as I went down for dinner, I had a sense of a scene being played out for the second time. I was wearing the same emerald-green dress I had worn that first night at Dallach Lodge, the same borrowed jewels. I stepped into the drawing room, beautifully lit by candlelight, to see most of the guests I had met that night. Yet there were now two people missing: Robin Kinmuir, our genial host who had been killed, and Dr. Fitzpatrick, who was due to report on the method of his murder.

  The inspector had gone for the day. He was staying in a guest house farther up the coast. A uniformed officer was still stationed outside Robin Kinmuir’s room and he was under strict instructions not to let anyone in. Hawkins had not yet shared with us any of the information that he had gathered during the course of his interviews. But he said that he would do so the next day, when he had finished working up a neat copy of his report. Hawkins told us that this was when the doctor would come to the house to present him with the findings of the postmortem investigation.

  There was a false jollity to the drinks. Everyone was relieved that their interviews were over and the atmosphere was like that of an end-of-term gathering, when pupils had finished their exams. However, unlike schoolchildren, the guests at Dallach Lodge had access to alcohol. Although everyone was polite at the moment, I worried that by the end of the night that façade of respectability would have been stripped bare to reveal something quite ugly underneath. After all, it appeared that there was a murderer among us.

  As I talked to Davison, I studied the guests. There was Mrs. Buchanan, a beacon of light in a diamond necklace and matching earrings, holding forth about some of the great actors and writers she had known during the course of her glittering career. As she drank her champagne she bandied about famous names: Noël Coward, Gerald du Maurier, even Charlie Chaplin. She had been Robin Kinmuir’s mistress and there was an implication that she could have been involved with the disappearance of his first wife, Catherine.

  At the other end of the room, involved in an intimate tête-à-tête, were Vivienne Passerini and Simon Peterson. She had told everyone that she had just returned from Berlin, when her passport showed that she had been in South America. Miss Passerini, who held socialist if not downright communistic views, had avoided telling me what Mr. Peterson did for a living. And the strange look that Mr. Peterson himself had given me, implying some sort of shared knowledge—what did that mean?

  I walked around the room with Davison and heard the Frith-Stratton sisters boring poor James Kinmuir and Rufus Phillips to death about their romance novels. The young men were doing a noble job of being polite, nodding their heads and saying appropriate things such as “Really?” and “How fascinating!” and “You must tell me more about that.” Whenever they thought the sisters weren’t looking, both of them nervously glanced over at Miss Passerini, but of course the beautiful young woman did not return their feelings of admiration. What had she called them in that dismissive manner? “Not serious people.” She only seemed to have eyes for Mr. Peterson. I looked at him again. What was he hiding?

  “Should I rephrase the question to make it more interesting?” asked Davison.

  “I’m sorry?”

  “I was wondering if you had any inkling about what the doctor might say tomorrow.”

  “Oh, I was miles away,” I said.

  “Evidently,” said Davison. “I just hope you’re not having second thoughts about your forthcoming nuptials.”

  “What are you talking about?” I said rather crossly.

  He looked over at Mr. Peterson and raised an eyebrow. “There seems to be a particular man who has become an object of fascination.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” I said, keeping my voice as low as possible. “You know very well the reasons why I might be studying him.”

  He glanced at Mr. Peterson, who leant forwards and whispered something in Miss Passerini’s ear, an observation that made the young woman laugh out loud. At that moment Simkins rang the gong for dinner and we proceeded into the dining room. The room was painted the same deep shade of red as the upstairs passages, and, like them, its walls were lined with a number of old paintings in gilt frames. The long wooden table was beautifully set with candles, silverware, and sweet-smelling flowers from the gardens.

  Normally, I would have been sitting beside Davison, but even though I wasn’t that cross with him, I felt as though I should signal my annoyance, and so I took a seat at the other end of the table. Mrs. Buchanan sat by me on one side and Simon Peterson on the other.

  Initially the conversation steered clear of the murder and the prospective findings of Inspector Hawkins and Dr. Fitzpatrick. Mrs. Buchanan was fascinated by the imminent birth of a new royal baby at Glamis Castle—it seemed she had some inside knowledge of certain aristocratic circles—while Mr. Peterson talked about the problems facing the islanders of St. Kilda in the Outer Hebrides. Illness, crop failures, and contamination of their soil would soon lead to the complete evacuation of the remaining population. As they talked I tried to listen to some of the other discussions around the table. Davison was asking Miss Passerini more about her supposed time in Berlin, and the young woman was answering with confidence about the sights on and around Unter den Linden. James Kinmuir and Rufus Phillips had broken free of the Frith-Strattons and, fueled by wine, were engaged in a debate about some obscure aspect of the Italian Renaissance, while the two sisters were talking about the possibility of setting a book in a remote Scottish castle.

  After the soup, Simkins served the meat course, a rich beef stew—which Mrs. Buchanan rejected in favor of a plate of creamed potatoes and carrots—and then poured a fine claret for those drinking wine. As I predicted, voices rose, and somewhat inevitably the conversation turned to the subject we had been ignoring: the inspector’s report and the postmortem results of Dr. Fitzpatrick.

  “Whatever happens tomorrow we must all remain calm,” said Mr. Peterson, giving me that strange look of approbation once again.

  “I agree with Simon,” said Miss Passerini, using his Christian name.

  “I wonder what the inspector will find,” May Frith-Stratton remarked.

  Mrs. Buchanan scowled down the table at James Kinmuir; it was obvious that, despite all the evidence to the contrary, she still believed that the
young man was responsible for her former lover’s death. James, feeling the force of her glare and taking advantage of the momentary silence around the table, blushed a little, pushed his chair back from the table, and stood up.

  “I’ve been m-meaning to say something to you all during the last few days, but I never found the right time,” he said somewhat hesitantly. Rufus Phillips nodded as if encouraging him to go on. “First of all, I want to apologize to you for the inconvenience you’ve experienced here at Dallach Lodge. Of course, none of you expected any of this… trouble and disturbance…” His voice trailed off for a moment before he began again. “I know the situation looked terribly bad for me soon after the accident, and I wouldn’t blame you if you thought the very worst of me.” He did not need to look towards Mrs. Buchanan to convey the fact that he was referring to her. “But, as the inspector informed us, my uncle did not die because of a gunshot wound. We will learn the truth tomorrow, when I hope the inspector will be able to release you and we can all try to get on with our lives. I want to thank you for cooperating with Inspector Hawkins. I’m certain the explanation will clarify everything.”

  Just as the young man was about to sit down, he remembered one last thing. “And, of course, none of you will have to pay for your stay at the lodge. It’s the least I can do, considering the circumstances.”

  There were murmurs of assent and approval around the table, apart from Mrs. Buchanan, who was whispering something to herself.

  “But don’t you need the money rather desperately?” asked Davison.

  “I’m sure I’ll manage,” James Kinmuir said. “Although Glenelg told me my uncle was stony broke, I’ve got some small savings of my own that I can draw on.”

  “That’s extremely noble of you,” said Mr. Peterson. “Very generous indeed.”

  “And what about the servants?” asked Miss Passerini. “It would be awful if any of them were to suffer. After all, none of this is their fault.”

  James Kinmuir looked around to make sure that neither Simkins nor any of the servant girls were in the room.

  “I’m going to honor all my commitments,” he said vaguely, noticing that the dining room door was ajar.

  I coughed lightly before I spoke. “And do you know what will happen to Mrs. Kinmuir?”

  The mention of the name was met by a certain blankness of expression.

  “Your uncle’s aunt?” I added.

  “Of course,” he said. “Old Auntie. She’ll be looked after; there’s no doubt about that.”

  “It’s just that I went to see her earlier,” I said. “I know she’s nearly blind and…” I thought how best to express the state of her mind, or lack of it.

  “Yes, I’m afraid the old girl is not what she was,” James Kinmuir said. “It’s a very sad state of affairs. I believe she used to be quite the intellectual and spoke half a dozen different languages.”

  I turned to Mrs. Buchanan and related something of my visit. “I do feel quite sorry for her,” I said. “I wanted to know if she had seen anything of the accident from up in the attic, but of course her cataracts are really quite disabling.” As I said this I noticed that the table had fallen silent. “My hopes were raised for a moment when she said, in Italian, ‘L’ho visto morire.’ ”

  “ ‘I saw him die,’ ” said the actress.

  “Exactly,” I said. “But it proved to be nothing but a line from an old nursery rhyme.”

  “It’s ‘Who Killed Cock Robin?,’ isn’t it?” said Mr. Peterson.

  “Yes, that’s right,” I said. “Now I think of it, it was one of my nanny’s favorites. Quite gruesome if I remember.”

  I repeated the opening of the rhyme to myself.

  Who Killed Cock Robin?

  I, said the Sparrow,

  With my bow and arrow,

  I killed Cock Robin.

  Who saw him die?

  I, said the Fly,

  With my little eye,

  I saw him die.

  “Yes, Auntie seems to have retreated to her childhood,” said James Kinmuir. His face had lost its color now, and a certain melancholy expression clouded his features.

  “It’s extraordinary how ghoulish they are, some of the old nursery rhymes,” said Rufus Phillips, trying to cheer up his friend. “I remember having nightmares when my mother read ‘Three Blind Mice’ to me before bedtime.”

  At this the group erupted into good-humored laughter, apart from Mrs. Buchanan, who could not even force a smile. But Mr. Phillips was right: there was something definitely unsettling about these rhymes. Just as Simkins began to serve an apple tart with custard, I thought of “Sing a Song of Sixpence” and those horrid blackbirds baked in a pie.

  “No, thank you,” I said as the butler came to stand by me. “I couldn’t eat another thing I’m afraid.”

  “Neither can I,” said Mrs. Buchanan, dismissing Simkins with a quick wave of her hand. “Honestly, to think that Robin is not even in his grave yet and these people think it’s all right to laugh and joke as if nothing has happened.” She stared down the table at James Kinmuir and Rufus Phillips. “It’s disgraceful.”

  “Do you know Mrs. Kinmuir well?” I asked.

  “Which one?” she said, without a moment’s hesitation.

  “Robin Kinmuir’s aunt, the lady who lives in the attic.”

  “I’ve met her many times, but I couldn’t say I know her well.”

  I lowered my voice. “And she knew of… of your friendship with Robin?”

  “Yes, of course,” she said. “But I don’t think she approved. She was very fond of Catherine, you see.”

  “Would she recognize you now?”

  “I doubt it,” she said. “Although it’s difficult to say what she knows and what she doesn’t know. Personally, I think her mind has gone to pieces. I popped up to see her the other day and she just spouted gibberish. It’s sad to think of her stuck up there all alone. She used to love traveling. She always said she wanted to spend her last days in Italy. I think at one point in her life she must have been very happy there.”

  The observation gave me the opportunity to talk about my love of travel—my trip around the world, my passion for the Orient Express, the journey to southern Iraq—a subject which I knew I could then use to ask Miss Passerini an important question.

  “There is one continent that I’ve always wanted to visit, and that’s South America,” I said as the table fell quiet. “Have you ever been there, Miss Passerini?”

  She blinked as if to erase traces of deception from her eyes. “No, I haven’t, but of course I would like to,” she said. “In fact, I’m going to have to go there if I want to carry on with my project about Alexander von Humboldt.”

  And so she continued to lie. As she talked a little about the work of the famous Prussian explorer and naturalist, I took time to study her appearance. She was, as I had noticed before, of an olive complexion. But could her skin color have been due to exposure to the sun, something that she had encountered in South America, rather than her natural hue? It would be winter in the Southern Hemisphere at the moment, but surely the sunlight in parts of that continent would still be strong enough to produce a darkening of the skin. She was a bewitching creature, and as she spoke, it was understandable that all the men at the table, even Davison, seemed drawn to her. There were, however, three women who were less than enamored: Mrs. Buchanan and the Frith-Stratton sisters.

  “I wouldn’t go there, to South America; I wouldn’t trust the Latin men,” said Isabella Frith-Stratton. “Not with their reputation.”

  “I quite agree,” said her sister, in a voice that was half-excited, half-terrified. “Some of the stories I’ve read about them, you wouldn’t believe. All those passionate dances like the tango. One would be lucky to escape with one’s reputation intact.”

  Simon Peterson and Vivienne Passerini exchanged an amused glance as if to say, I’m not sure she would be quite so fortunate.

  “And all those spiders and insects and snakes;
I couldn’t bear it,” continued Isabella. “It’s bad enough here with these midges. Even if I lived here, I don’t suppose I would get used to them. The late Mr. Kinmuir was a sufferer, I believe.”

  At the mention of his dead uncle’s name, James Kinmuir bowed his head while Mrs. Buchanan blinked back some tears.

  “I can’t wait to get back to civilization,” said May. “Keeping us here like prisoners against our will… Really, it’s been unbearable.”

  “Not to mention interfering with the muse,” said Isabella, somewhat pompously. “Romance is a most fragile flower. Its bloom can wither and die if the right conditions aren’t met.”

  Mr. Peterson and Miss Passerini could not look at one another; as if to do so would risk the eruption of involuntary laughter. Instead, Mr. Peterson quickly excused himself from the table, while the young woman pretended to drop her white napkin on the floor.

  “Talking of romance,” said Mrs. Buchanan, turning to me, “you must be so excited about your forthcoming wedding. I want to hear all about the man you are marrying.”

  I squirmed inwardly, as I hated being put on the spot like this. “Oh, what would you like to know?”

  The questions sprang forth with unsuppressed relish. “What kind of man is he? How did you meet him? What does he look like? Where are you going to live?” She looked along the table at Davison. “And what does your cousin think of him?”

  Did she suspect that Davison and I were not, in fact, related? Where could I begin? I had always been reticent, guarding personal information with a certain possessiveness that at times bordered on an obsession. Since the scandal of the time I went missing in 1926, that instinct had intensified. Yet I knew that if I didn’t share something about myself then, in turn, Mrs. Buchanan and the other guests gathered at the table were less likely to reveal details about themselves. The question was what kind of information I was prepared to give away and how much.