I Saw Him Die

by Andrew Wilson

  “Very well,” said the solicitor.

  The arrival of the car had drawn the other guests out of the lodge. As James came over to show Mr. Glenelg and his two men into the house, the inspector took Kinmuir to one side, passed the dogs to him, and informed him of the latest developments. First, he told him of Peterson’s death in the night and then of Simkins’s suicide and confession. Then, as Hawkins revealed to him that Peterson was the murderer and that he had been poisoned by Simkins, James’s face went ashen.

  “So this is well and truly over now?” asked Kinmuir.

  “Yes, it seems so, sir,” answered the inspector.

  “Well, thank you for your hard work,” said Kinmuir. “The strain of living with all of… this… well, it has taken its toll on everyone, and I’m glad that the person who killed my uncle and great-aunt has been identified. But I can’t believe it was Peterson.”

  “Shame he didn’t hang for his crimes,” said Hawkins. “That’s my only regret. That and falsely accusing Miss Passerini, of course.”

  “So the blaggard had the gall to show the young woman some affection and then frame her?” asked Kinmuir. “I can’t imagine what she will feel when she discovers the truth about him. And really, I can’t get over Simkins’s part in all of this. But at least he did the honorable thing, I suppose.”

  James went over to the group by the door and told them about the horrific events of the night. By the time I joined them, Isabella was weeping into a handkerchief, mourning the loss of a man she adored but whom she now knew to be a murderer. Her sister was trying to comfort her, but the words were meaningless. Mrs. Buchanan was telling Rufus Phillips of her suspicions about the butler—there was something unsettling about him, she said; hadn’t she always said so?—but she was surprised that someone like Mr. Peterson could be behind the crimes. I noticed that Davison was still absent. What was he up to?

  I left the group and went inside the house to try to find him. By this time Glenelg and his men were in the drawing room, already busy with their notebooks and ledgers. I went upstairs and checked that the door to Mr. Peterson’s room was still locked—it was essential for everyone to believe that not only was he dead but that he was guilty of the murders—before making my way to Davison’s quarters. I knocked gently on the door.

  “Davison? It’s Agatha.”

  He opened the door and ushered me inside. His face was grave.

  “What have you been doing?” I asked. “So much has happened: Simkins is dead.”

  “I know,” he said. “I was listening at the open window. But tell me everything.”

  “His body was found hanging in the stables,” I continued. “It was another murder. By his body there was a suicide note confessing to his part in the crimes and telling how Mr. Peterson had duped him into placing the curare on Robin Kinmuir’s razor blade. According to the note, Simkins couldn’t live with himself any longer and so he poisoned Mr. Peterson, the man behind the murders of Robin Kinmuir and old Mrs. Kinmuir. But the interesting thing, in addition to the contents of the note, is the style of the letter itself.” I took a deep breath. “You see, it was written in my handwriting.”

  “Now, that is fascinating.” Davison’s eyes lit up. “Yes, I can see now it’s all beginning to fit into place. And there’s something I need to tell you, too. About what I saw last night.”

  FORTY

  There was an atmosphere of liberation about the lodge. Most of the guests smiled to themselves as they put the finishing touches to their packing and discussed their final travel arrangements with one another, content in the knowledge that soon they would be leaving this house of death.

  There were a number of people who did not look in such good spirits, however. In between bouts of weeping, Isabella insisted that she wanted to see Mr. Peterson’s body, a request that was refused by the doctor on the grounds that there was a danger of contamination. James Kinmuir watched with sadness as Mr. Glenelg and his two men went around the house noting down everything for their inventory: the silverware, the pictures on the walls, the furniture, carpets, glasses, bottles of wine and whisky, candlesticks, serving bowls, lamps, picture frames, and every other little worthless knickknack. In an effort to cheer James up, Rufus Phillips suggested that they take the dogs for a quick walk. There was little point in witnessing the inventory—each valued family memento reduced to a mere scribble in a ledger—and surely they could do with a spot of fresh air. The two men disappeared, together with the Labradors, back up to the moor where Robin Kinmuir had died.

  The inspector took Mr. Glenelg’s car and headed to Portree. After what Davison had witnessed, we were confident that Hawkins was not responsible for the deaths at Dallach Lodge. We had a good idea as to who was behind the murders, but we still needed a final piece of evidence. And so we began to plot, talking in Davison’s room of how best to bring about a satisfactory conclusion. As we discussed the case, and how to force the identity of the killer out into the open, I was reminded of the thrill I felt when I was coming to the end of writing one of my novels. Indeed, the skills that I used to write my books—embedding certain clues into sentences so that they seemed almost invisible, working out the various strands of the plot so that they came together at the end, having an intuitive feel for the strengths and weaknesses of a particular personality—came to the fore now. Davison sat back as I held forth, discussing the possible options and possibilities. As I talked I felt anger driving me, anger at the loss of innocent life. Three people had been murdered—Robin Kinmuir, Veronica Kinmuir, and the butler, Simkins—there had been an attempt on my life, and one woman might have gone to the gallows for crimes she had not committed. It was time for all that to end.

  We later emerged from Davison’s suite to join the other guests in the drawing room, where tea was being served. Although we had gone without lunch, neither of us had much of an appetite. I stood back and watched as Rose Stewart, the maid who had found Mrs. Kinmuir’s body, began to pour the tea. Her hands shook as she lifted the teapot and handed around plates of bread and honey, sandwiches and cake. As Rose walked around the room serving the tea, asking if people wanted milk or sugar, I noticed that she looked like a frightened child. No doubt she had heard of Simkins’s death, his suicide note, and the crimes and subsequent murder of Mr. Peterson, so it was no surprise she looked so anxious. Murder, I knew, did not end with the arrest of a criminal. It continued to poison the lives of those affected by it for years afterwards.

  “You can go, Rose,” said James, who had returned from his walk with Rufus. “We can manage from now on.” He turned to the doctor. “I’m just so relieved this awful business has finally come to an end. I must say, you’ve done sterling work, Fitzpatrick. Can’t have been easy for you, though.”

  “No, not at all,” mumbled the doctor.

  I could tell that he still felt uncomfortable lying about Mr. Peterson.

  “Just think,” said Mrs. Buchanan, raising a china cup to her lips, “we will all soon be free from this living nightmare. What a relief it will be to go back to our normal lives. I can get on with my rehearsals. I don’t think the prospect of a few months in London ever looked so inviting. Do you know what time the inspector will return to the lodge?”

  “I would think he will be here at any moment,” replied the doctor.

  “And he’ll come with a mechanic or someone who can replace the tires on our cars?”

  “Yes, I think that’s his plan,” said the doctor.

  I walked over to the table and took a slice of bread and honey, even though I had no intention of eating it. I turned to Mrs. Buchanan and asked, “Do you intend to leave tonight?”

  “Oh, yes, just as soon as my Rolls is fixed,” she said. “I’ll probably stay a night in Kyleakin before I travel to the mainland tomorrow.”

  At this moment James Kinmuir and Rufus Phillips came to join us to pour themselves another cup of tea. Kinmuir stretched out his hand towards Mrs. Buchanan and bowed his head.

  “I know we
’ve never been the best of friends, Mrs. Buchanan, but I’d like to part on good terms if we may?” he said.

  Mrs. Buchanan looked at him with an icy glare, an expression that could have frozen the heart of any man. But then, just as it seemed the temperature in the room was about to drop to arctic levels, her face changed. She smiled, lifted her hand towards his, and nodded her head in a silent gesture of acceptance.

  “Thank you; that means a great deal to me,” said James. “I know my uncle cared for you deeply and I wish only happiness and health for you.”

  The actress did not say anything; she merely blinked, lowered her chin, and allowed herself to be honored by the young gentlemen before eventually moving away. The scene should have been a touching one, but I knew that it was nothing more than a performance, a sham, like so much else that I had witnessed since I had first arrived at Dallach Lodge. Davison and I went to stand by the windows, where I spent a minute or so studying the scene before me.

  Here was a drawing room full of respectable people taking afternoon tea. To an outsider it might appear a perfectly normal gathering. But the guests had endured a horrendous ten days at the lodge. Murder had visited the baronial house, leaving three people dead. But all that was over. The guests were making small talk, discussing their future plans, getting on with their lives. However, some people no longer had lives to enjoy. Robin Kinmuir. Mrs. Kinmuir. Simkins, the butler. Robin Kinmuir was a difficult and promiscuous man, but did he deserve to be poisoned, dying among the heather on the moor like a wild animal? Mrs. Kinmuir was an old woman who was blind and had lost her faculties. But no one had the right to snuff out her life. And in such a brutal way, too, a paper knife plunged into the back of her neck. And as for Simkins? He was a drunk and a nasty blackmailer, but did that merit such a grisly end? I remembered the gruesome sight that I had seen that morning. That swollen face. His tongue lolling from his mouth…

  I shivered and drew my shawl around my shoulders.

  “Are you cold?” asked Davison.

  “Yes, I am, a little,” I said.

  “I’ll see if I can get one of the servants to light a fire,” he said as he cast me a knowing look, an expression of solidarity and resolve, and left the room. Those words were a signal that the final stages of our plan were about to be put into action.

  A minute or so later, Rose Stewart returned to the drawing room and set about making up a fire. Although she must have done the task dozens of times, it was obvious she was finding it difficult. She misjudged the amount of paper and kindling and placed too heavy a log on the pile so that when she tried to light it, the flames died out. She overcompensated by lighting more matches, but her hands were shaking so much that she dropped each one in the grate. After a number of attempts she cleared the whole thing out and began again, replacing the charred paper and kindling with fresh supplies, then successfully lit a couple of matches, and the fire finally began to burn. I went over and thanked her, and the girl nodded her head and made a hasty exit from the room. I was pleased that she would be out of the way when things turned nasty. The last thing she needed was to be forced to witness more violence.

  As I stood by the fire, enjoying the comforting smell of woodsmoke and letting its gentle warmth caress my fingers, I heard the sound of car engines outside.

  “It must be the inspector,” said Rufus Phillips, rushing to the window which looked out to the front of the house.

  “And from the look of that van, it seems as though our cars are about to get fixed,” said James Kinmuir.

  “There’s also an ambulance with a stretcher,” said Mrs. Buchanan. “The sooner that devil who did this is out of this house, the better.”

  “And, oh—no, it can’t be—but, yes, it is,” said May Frith-Stratton. “It’s Miss Passerini!”

  I approached the window to see Vivienne Passerini being helped out of a car by the inspector. Her usual sallow complexion seemed bleached, yet as she walked towards the house she held herself with a certain dignity and composure.

  “What on earth does one say to someone who has been falsely accused of murder?” asked Mrs. Buchanan, who had been only too keen to believe that Miss Passerini was guilty. “I do hope she doesn’t cause a scene.”

  But when Miss Passerini entered the drawing room, accompanied by Inspector Hawkins, she could not have been more stoic. It was obvious that she had suffered and would continue to suffer. Her feelings for Mr. Peterson had been real, and she would have to come to terms with the news that not only was he dead but that it had been he who had planned the murders at Dallach Lodge. In addition, she would by now have learnt that Peterson had also tried to frame her for the crimes. As she entered, part of me wanted to take her to one side and tell her the truth: that Mr. Peterson was alive and was entirely innocent. Of course, I knew I could do no such thing.

  “Would you like some tea, Miss Passerini?” asked the inspector. “Please sit down and let me bring you some.” His tone was obsequious now. “And what about some bread and honey, or some cake, perhaps?”

  “Just a cup of tea, thank you,” she said flatly.

  “As I said, I’m terribly sorry for what you’ve been through,” said the inspector.

  Miss Passerini gave him a steely look before she addressed us all. “You may as well know that, yes, I hated Mr. Kinmuir for what he did, how he treated my mother, and I admit I came to this house to watch him suffer.”

  She was about to say something else, but she stopped herself and took a vacant space on the sofa by the fire. It seemed as if the young woman had lost weight, but apart from that she seemed in good health. Yet there was a dullness to her emerald eyes, as if the spark of life had been extinguished. An awkward silence filled the room, and people looked at everything—the flames of the fire, the pictures on the walls, their own hands or feet—rather than meet the gaze of Miss Passerini.

  The silence was broken by Miss Passerini herself; after taking a sip of tea, she said, “You know I don’t believe it.”

  “What don’t you believe, my dear?” I asked.

  “That Simon was behind all of this,” she replied. “That he could ever do such a terrible thing.”

  The inspector cleared his throat. “I’m afraid, Miss, that the evidence suggests quite the contrary. You see, Simkins’s suicide note tells us that Peterson planned the whole thing. He is the one who must have sent those letters inviting you all here, and I’m afraid to say that if Simkins had not intervened as he did, then you might have hanged. Indeed, if the butler had not taken the very drastic step of poisoning him, Peterson could well have made an attempt on James Kinmuir’s life, too. Such was his deep hatred of the Kinmuir family that—”

  “I realize that it all fits in with the facts, but I still don’t accept it,” she said.

  “Why not?” asked the inspector.

  “Simon’s not the kind of man who would behave like that,” she said. “Someone here must have tampered with my passport and I don’t believe it was him. I know—I knew him and…” Her voice trailed off. “Sorry, I’m not making sense.” She fell silent.

  Hawkins looked at his watch. “If you’ll all excuse me, I will go and see to the… well, I’ll go and talk to the chaps who have come to take away the…” His voice also faded away. “Mr. Kinmuir, everything will soon be dealt with, I promise.”

  “Thank you, Inspector,” said James Kinmuir. “I appreciate all the work you’ve done here.”

  I followed the inspector first out to the hallway and then out to the front of the house, where he was met by four uniformed ambulance men carrying two stretchers, one for Simkins, the other for Mr. Peterson.

  Hawkins spoke directly to the men in a clear voice, devoid of emotion or embarrassment now. Perhaps this was because the inspector had stepped away from the polite atmosphere of the drawing room and felt he could talk freely to fellow professionals, all of whom had witnessed terrible things in the course of their jobs. Or was it because he viewed both Simkins and Mr. Peterson as murderers, men
who deserved little sympathy? “The first body is laid out in the stables; that’s the hanging,” he said. “And the second, he’s upstairs in his room. He was the murderer, the one who was poisoned, so I’d take extra precautions when handling him.”

  As two men maneuvered past us with a stretcher in order to climb the stairs towards Mr. Peterson’s room, I asked Hawkins whether I could have a private word. I needed to slow down the proceedings and prevent the uniformed men from fetching Mr. Peterson’s body.

  “Is it very urgent?” he asked. “As you can see, I’ve rather got my hands full here.”

  “I’m afraid it is,” I said. “I was just thinking about Miss Passerini and her feelings. I wondered whether you might wait until the young woman is back in her room so she doesn’t have to see the stretcher.”

  It was obvious the thought had not occurred to him, but he dismissed it. “I can see your point, but we haven’t got time for sensitivities,” he said. “We need to get the bodies back to Portree as soon as possible. Fitzpatrick will carry out the necessary postmortems and then I can start on my report.”

  “I wouldn’t start writing your report straightaway,” I said.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, it’s just that the situation is a little more complicated than it seems.”

  “I’ve said this before, Mrs. Christie, but it’s probably worth saying again,” Hawkins said. “I am very grateful to you and Mr. Davison for your help, but it’s over now. I’m sorry I didn’t listen to your defense of Miss Passerini. I was wrong about that. But the real murderer is dead. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I really must get on.” He turned to his colleagues. “Right, follow me. The room you need is just at the top of these—”

  But Hawkins never finished his sentence. His mouth dropped open and all color drained from his face. He looked, as the familiar cliché goes, as if he had seen a ghost. At the top of the stairs stood Simon Peterson, flanked by Davison.