The guests were no doubt relieved that the inspector was turning on me rather than on them.
“Why don’t you stick to writing about murder?” he added. “That’s where your real talents lie.”
The comment made me flush with suppressed rage. He knew that I couldn’t say any more, as it would reveal the real reason why I had been sent with Davison to the lodge. And so I had to smile, ever so politely, and agree. As I did so, I bit the inside of my cheek. I was sure I could taste blood.
THIRTY
The word blood—or rather bloody—was on my lips too. As soon as Davison and I were alone again in his room, I was spitting tacks.
“That b— infuriating man!” I shouted as I slammed the door behind me. “Really! If I weren’t… well, if I weren’t as well brought up as I am, then I would have something to say about him.”
“I’m sure you would, Agatha,” said Davison with an amused air.
“Did you hear what he said? That it’s best if I leave the solving of crimes to him? What a… And as for that patronizing nonsense about how I should stick to writing about murder… Oh, it makes my blood boil just thinking about it.”
“I’m sure it does,” he said, smiling.
“But why didn’t he listen to me? Doesn’t he realize the significance of what I was telling him? And to think that I once believed he was an intelligent man! Did you notice I had to use every last ounce of self-control to stop myself from speaking my mind?”
“Indeed I did, and I was very impressed,” Davison said, a sardonic grin spreading across his face.
“I don’t see what’s so amusing,” I said somewhat peevishly. “After all, this is life and death we’re dealing with here. And the inspector’s blinkered attitude could hasten Miss Passerini’s journey to the gallows.”
“I know, and I’m sorry,” said Davison, clearing his throat. “It’s not a laughing matter, but I was just thrilled to see you so engaged.”
“It’s a perfectly normal reaction,” I said.
“Of course it is, but I have been worried that you… well, that you’d lost interest in the case.”
So Davison had noticed my low spirits. He took a step towards me and smiled kindly, as if to welcome an old friend he hadn’t seen in a while. “I’m pleased to see you back in action, that’s all,” he said. He became more serious. “And if I upset you or caused you to feel any discomfort or unease, then I’m sorry.”
“Well, I did begin to think that I wasn’t really up to the job,” I admitted.
“You’re more than up to it.”
This seemed like the right time for me to tell Davison of my future plans: that I would see this case out, but after it was finished, then our time working together would be over. As I was formulating exactly how to express this, Davison took an envelope out of his pocket. He smiled mischievously as he did so.
“I’ve got something very interesting here,” he said. “Do you remember we asked for information regarding any bodies that might have been discovered in or around Skye in 1916, when Catherine Kinmuir disappeared? Well, nothing came up on that score, but—”
“If that could just wait a moment, Davison,” I said.
“This could change everything.”
“Yes, but—”
“It sheds a whole new perspective on the case. Listen to this,” he said, unfolding the paper. “It came from Hartford’s office, along with the information about Mr. Peterson. Do you remember we asked for background information on Fitzpatrick?”
“They have something on the doctor?”
“Oh, yes, they certainly do, and it’s good stuff,” he said with all the glee of a schoolboy. “Not at all what we expected. It seems that he had enjoyed an intimate relationship with Robin Kinmuir’s wife, Catherine.”
“Are you certain?”
“That’s what the private detectives discovered and fed back to the office.”
“But weren’t he and Kinmuir supposed to have been good friends?”
“I suppose that’s never stopped anyone in the past.”
“No, you’re right about that,” I admitted, as I contemplated the breakdown of my own marriage. Although I had not been that close to Nancy Neele, the woman who was my husband’s mistress, I had regarded her as a friendly acquaintance; she had even been to stay at our home. Now she was happily married to Archie and was soon to give birth. Discovering her pregnancy had felt like a dagger in the heart. How I envied Nancy for that. The image of her holding a baby, its warm breath on her cheek, made me feel sick with longing for another daughter, or a son, perhaps. Even though I was coming close to the end of my childbearing years, perhaps there was still time. But if I wanted another child, I really would have to tell Davison of my intention to give up my work with the SIS. “There’s something I wanted to—”
Davison was having none of it: he was so carried away with the information that he had received that morning, he would not let me speak. “That’s not all,” he said as his eyes scanned the letter, one that had been written in code. “It seems as though Dr. Fitzpatrick soon tired of Catherine and he embarked on a relationship with none other than—no, wait, can you guess?”
“No… no, I can’t,” I replied.
“Eliza Buchanan!” he said, spreading out his hands as if he had just pulled off a particularly difficult magic trick.
“What? I don’t understand. But she was in love with Robin Kinmuir!”
“She certainly was at one time, and that was confirmed by the detective who has found evidence of a love affair between them. But then Mrs. Buchanan went on to have a relationship with the doctor. And so—”
“That letter that I took from Mrs. Buchanan’s room could have been from Dr. Fitzpatrick.”
“Indeed,” replied Davison. “And of course, as a doctor, he would have expert knowledge of poisons.”
My mind seemed to fire itself up and soon I was thinking at top speed. “So you think that he and Mrs. Buchanan could have killed Catherine? Perhaps Catherine became overly attached to Dr. Fitzpatrick, perhaps obsessed by him. She could even have tried to blackmail Dr. Fitzpatrick into staying with her. But how would Catherine have reacted when she discovered that she was being thrown over for another woman? Did she know that Eliza Buchanan had also had a love affair with her husband?”
“But if Dr. Fitzpatrick and Mrs. Buchanan were the ones who killed Robin Kinmuir, why do it now?” asked Davison.
“Perhaps Robin Kinmuir discovered a piece of evidence to show that Dr. Fitzpatrick and Mrs. Buchanan had killed Catherine?”
“And the letters sent to the other guests?”
“A classic ploy of misdirection,” I said, speaking of a device I had used in my novels. “They could have been sent by Dr. Fitzpatrick and Mrs. Buchanan to put people off the scent. Or, more likely, they were hoping that, by attracting Kinmuir’s enemies to the lodge, they could direct suspicion away from themselves. Everybody had a motive.”
“Well, it certainly seems to have worked,” said Davison.
“I know: the inspector seems so certain that Miss Passerini is guilty.”
Davison’s eyes sparkled with delight. “Talking of the inspector…”
“What?”
Davison hesitated.
“Tell me, please,” I said. “You know if there’s one thing I cannot bear, it is things being held back from me.”
“Very well,” he relented, looking down at another sheet of paper. “Since I was in touch with Hartford’s office, I thought it wise to inquire about Inspector Hawkins. And although it seems extraordinary that he too might have a motive for wanting Kinmuir dead, it indeed appears to be the case.”
“What kind of motive?”
“It seems that before Robin Kinmuir inherited this estate, it was the dwelling place of a number of tenant farmers. Kinmuir’s father, like many other landowners in Scotland, made the decision to raise the rents on the local farms to something like three times what they had been. That hit families hard and forced them t
o leave the island. These Highland clearances devastated communities, driving some as far as America and Australia. And, of course, it left a certain bitterness and hatred behind. Livelihoods were ruined, villages and communities were broken, children starved.”
“And one of those families was Hawkins’s?”
“Yes, that’s right. His grandfather was forced to leave Skye and settle on the mainland. His father lost a brother and a sister due to ill health and poor nutrition. Hawkins was brought up with a loathing of the Kinmuirs and everything they stood for.”
“So it’s a case of the sins of the father being visited on the sons?”
“It certainly seems that way,” said Davison.
“So that could be the reason why Hawkins is so keen to fix the crime on Miss Passerini?”
“Indeed. And as you know, as a policeman he would not only be above suspicion but he would also have the kind of mind which could plan a crime such as this.”
I tried to picture everything we knew about the murders, but the image in my mind was teeming with colored boxes, overlapping circles, and arrows which snaked from one person to the next. I would need to write it all down in my notebook. “So, when it comes to suspects, it seems we now have quite a few.”
“That’s right, almost a castle full,” Davison replied, smiling, before turning his attention to me. “Now, what was it you wanted to talk to me about?”
The excitement I had felt during the last few minutes had melted away all my anxieties about my continued work with Davison. That conversation could wait.
“Oh, nothing important,” I said. “At least, nothing as important as this.”
THIRTY-ONE
It was going to be the last night at Dallach Lodge. James Kinmuir had resolved to put his personal feelings for the guests to one side and host a farewell dinner to thank Inspector Hawkins. No doubt he would be relieved to see the back of these people who had only traveled to Skye to see his uncle suffer, but his good breeding triumphed. What had happened at the lodge had been a tragedy, he said, and although he had been shocked by what had motivated the guests to come to Scotland, he understood that none of them were to blame for the deaths of his uncle and his great-aunt and that only Miss Passerini was truly guilty. He said he wished for them to leave with at least one positive memory of the place; he was certain that this was what Robin Kinmuir would have wanted. Soon the house would be cleared of its contents and the lodge put up for sale to pay his uncle’s enormous debts.
The inspector, confident that he had found the murderer, had told us that although we were free to leave the hotel, we should stay on Skye until he gave permission to go. Statements had to be checked and a few extra questions would no doubt need to be asked. The other guests said they would have liked to have been given leave to take the ferry back to the mainland, but at least it was a partial release.
The news was received with a collective sigh of relief. The lodge had come to be regarded by some as a prison, and soon they would be free of it. All the horrors of the past week or so would be over and soon everyone could return to the normality of their own lives. Later, I had no doubt they would look back on this ghastly episode with incredulity. Had they really been involved in such a thing? How had they endured it? In addition, they would have to face the fact that they had been lured to the island by the thought of revenge. They had wanted to see Robin Kinmuir punished for what he had done. And he had been. He had been murdered, together with his aunt. Surely that knowledge would serve as a constant shadow, darkening their consciences for the rest of their days. But I believed one or more of the people in the house to be incapable of feeling guilt. He or she—or they—had plotted the whole thing. And it looked as though they were about to get away with it.
A sense of relief had replaced the funereal atmosphere that had filled the house. The inspector had the killer in custody. The guests were free to leave. A dinner party was being prepared. Yes, a wicked crime had been committed at the lodge, but life was moving on.
The ladies retired to their rooms to change for dinner—the Frith-Stratton sisters, who had forgotten their differences, were clucking like a pair of hens about which dresses and jewels they should wear—while Simon Peterson, James Kinmuir, and Rufus Phillips decided to take the dogs out for a walk before they too dressed for dinner. Dr. Fitzpatrick said he was retiring to his room to catch up on his paperwork. Davison and I were left with the inspector, taking tea in the library. We had decided that the best course of action would be to try to lure Hawkins into a false sense of security.
“You must be thrilled to have caught the murderer,” said Davison.
“ ‘Thrilled’ is hardly the word,” replied Hawkins. “ ‘Satisfied’ is more like it.”
“So it really does seem as though the evidence is strong enough to convict Miss Passerini?” I asked.
“Certainly, we have that classic trio: the means, the motive, and the opportunity,” he replied. “Miss Passerini is a botanist, with an expert knowledge of plants and their poisonous properties, and she had recently returned from South America, the source of the curare. And now we have uncovered her motive: her loathing of Mr. Kinmuir resulting from the circumstances surrounding her own birth. On the morning of Robin Kinmuir’s death she must have stolen into his room and smeared some curare onto his razor blade.”
“And, of course, you found Miss Passerini’s earring in the attic room,” I said.
“Yes, that’s right,” he said. “My only doubt was the motive behind that killing—why she decided to murder poor old Mrs. Kinmuir.”
“What’s your theory?” I asked.
“My only guess is that she has a loathing of the entire Kinmuir clan,” said the inspector. “I believe that if we had not caught her, then Mr. James Kinmuir would have been next.” Hawkins took a sip of tea as he looked out at the sea loch. “Whether she would have used the curare again, or the paper knife which she had used to kill Mrs. Kinmuir, or another method, is unclear. But I’m certain she would have made an attempt on James Kinmuir’s life.”
“Did you inform Mr. Kinmuir of this?” asked Davison.
“Of course,” replied Hawkins. “He was shocked by the news, as anyone would be. Then that sense of shock and outrage turned to gratitude, which is why he has made me guest of honor at the dinner tonight.” The inspector looked more than a little embarrassed at this announcement. I got the impression that he was not, for the most part, an arrogant or proud man, but the cachet must have gone to his head. “I don’t mean to blow my own trumpet, but—”
“No, I quite understand,” said Davison. “It was a first-rate investigation on your part. Absolutely perfect. I’m only sorry we couldn’t do more to help.”
“I don’t know,” said Hawkins. “Mrs. Christie here did provide some valuable leads. There was the tip-off about the passport, for one thing. And then that background information about the nursery rhyme. Yes, that really was very interesting. There’s nothing like a little diversion in the midst of a brutal crime. Lifts one’s spirits, don’t you think?”
I felt like speaking my mind, but of course I smiled politely and let him continue.
“To be honest, I’m still trying to work out exactly what it was you were saying about the nursery rhyme,” he said. “All that business about the Latin root of something or other.”
“I suppose it doesn’t matter now, does it?” I said in a rather simpering manner. “The case is more or less closed, isn’t it?”
“Yes, I suppose it is,” said Hawkins. “I’ve a few more reports to type up. And I’ll still try to get a confession out of the woman, but I don’t hold up much hope that she’s going to crack now. She’s a tough one, that Miss Passerini.”
I knew Hawkins’s case against Miss Passerini was all wrong, particularly when it came to the all-important psychological aspect of the crime. If she was indeed the killer, motivated by hatred of the Kinmuirs and bearing the surname “Sparrow,” surely she would have confessed to the crime? No, the i
nspector’s theory was flawed. But I didn’t say anything about that.
“It’s extraordinary how a crime can have its origins far back in time,” I said. “What’s that line from the Bible about the sins of the fathers being visited on the children to the third and fourth generation?”
I watched the inspector closely as I said this. But, apart from a slight twitch of the skin above his right eye, Hawkins remained impassive.
It was Davison’s turn to speak. “Yes, I once knew of a case where a feud took that long—yes, as long as three generations—before it resulted in murder.” Davison tried to talk casually, as if the story had only just come to mind. “It was a falling-out between two families, where one family stole the other’s land. Terrible bad blood between them, as you’d expect, but the resentment rumbled on for decades until finally one of the members of the aggrieved family took it upon himself to shoot his counterpart in the opposing group. And just to think: the original offense had been carried out years before, by the men’s great-grandfathers!”
“That’s all very fascinating,” said the inspector, standing up, “and I would like to hear more about it, but I really must get going. As I said, there’s some work I need to do before dinner.”
After Hawkins had left the room, Davison and I took care to talk about meaningless subjects such as the weather and our future travel plans, journeys that we knew we had no intention of taking. Davison then checked the door to make sure Hawkins was not listening before we began to discuss his behavior.
“Cool as a cucumber,” said Davison. “That’s Hawkins.”
“Indeed,” I said. “And it’s difficult to know whether he realizes that we know about his family’s connection to the Kinmuirs.”
“If it was he who killed the two Kinmuirs, then he’s doing a very good job of covering it up,” said Davison.
“Next to murder, lying is easy,” I said.
THIRTY-TWO
“Talking of lying,” said Davison, “I think we need to have a word with Dr. Fitzpatrick, don’t you?”
I Saw Him Die Page 21