At that exact moment Phillips pushed me to one side and threw the Giorgione into the fire.
I looked up to see that both Davison and Hawkins were pointing their guns directly at Rufus, ready to fire.
“Don’t shoot him!” I shouted. Justice needed to done.
I watched, mesmerized, as the flames began to consume the corners of the wooden panel, blackening the already dark picture. James Kinmuir rushed across the room, a look of desperation in his eyes.
“What the bloody hell do you think you’re doing?” he said to Phillips.
Kinmuir grabbed a pair of brass tongs and wrenched the painting from the fire, but as he did so, Phillips struck out with the razor, slashing him across the stomach. At first Kinmuir looked only mildly surprised, but then he screamed in pain as he understood what had been done to him and registered the seriousness of the injury. He stared at the small panel, which was still alight, and let it and the brass tongs fall by his feet. His hands grasped his belly in an effort to stem the bleeding, but the thick red liquid oozed out between his fingers, staining his shirt and trousers so that it looked as though he were wearing a bloody apron.
“Watch out!” shouted Davison as he looked down at the burning painting.
Davison tried to stamp out the flames, which were beginning to lick at the corner of the Persian rug, but with each kick the fire only seemed to grow. A moment later the flames caught the tassels at the bottom of the red velvet curtains, and a second or so after that the whole window became a terrifying spectacle of fire.
“Get everyone out of here!” screamed Davison. His words were unnecessary; everyone apart from myself, Davison, the inspector, Rufus Phillips, and the seriously injured James Kinmuir had rushed out of the room.
“Agatha—you too! Go now!” said Davison. “We’ll take care of Phillips and Kinmuir.”
He must have read the concerned expression on my face—what exactly did he mean by take care?—because he added, “Don’t worry. We’ll make sure someone stands trial for all of this.”
“Very well,” I said, as I began to cough from the thick acrid smoke that was beginning to fill the room.
But as I turned to pick up my handbag, I felt a hand encircle my left wrist.
“Where do you think you’re going?” said Phillips, holding up the bloodied razor and kicking my bag away from me.
I should have let the men shoot him.
The fire had started to take full possession of the room now, rippling across the wood paneling, licking its way around the cornices, and consuming the edges of the furniture. The air was blackening, making it difficult to breathe.
I tried to wrench my wrist away from Phillips, but he tightened his grip, digging his bony fingers deep into my flesh. His eyes—once almost girlish in their prettiness—had taken on an empty, hollow quality that frightened me. It was as if he knew he had nothing left to lose now.
“Let her go!” ordered Davison, pointing his gun at Phillips again.
The inspector trained his gun on the artist once more as well.
“There’s no way out of this,” Davison warned.
The fire encircled me now, crackling and fizzing with a manic intensity. I felt the heat of the flames burn my face and the smoke fill my throat. Phillips shunted me towards him so that I stood in front of him, functioning as a kind of shield. He knew that if Davison or Hawkins were to shoot, they ran a high risk of killing me too.
“What… what is it you want?” I managed to ask as the smoke began to choke me.
“I want to see you die,” whispered Phillips.
Davison and Hawkins tried shifting their positions to see if they could take Phillips by surprise or have a clear aim at his back or shoulder, but with each step he outmaneuvered them. He held me closer to him so that I felt his breath against my ear. It was the embrace of a lover, but here that lover was death itself. I tried to struggle—if I could just reach my handbag, I might stand a chance—but with each attempt to break free, he held me more tightly.
“Why did you have to ruin it?” Phillips asked. “You know you made it so much worse. If you’d never come here, there would only have been one death: Robin’s. If you’d never come, the old lady would still be alive. How does that make you feel? Don’t you think you should share the burden of guilt?”
I thought of that night at dinner when I had casually related the details of my conversation with Mrs. Kinmuir. I remembered the melancholy which had shadowed James Kinmuir’s face when I declaimed the “Cock Robin” rhyme.
I tried to answer Phillips, but the smoke was too much for me.
“Move away from her!” shouted Hawkins. “Move or I’ll shoot!”
I heard the click of a trigger and then a moment later an explosion deafened me.
“You hit the fireplace,” said Davison. “Don’t do it again, Hawkins, it’s too risky.”
“But if we do nothing, he’s going to kill her.” Hawkins was coughing so hard that it sounded as though he might fetch up his lungs. “In fact, if we don’t get out, all of us are going to die in here.”
He reached out to try to encourage Davison to leave with him, then staggered to the door. Something cracked above him—a beam or the joists in the room over us—and then a piece of the ceiling crashed down, narrowly missing him.
“Davison—get out while you can!” the inspector shouted before he disappeared through the door.
“Don’t worry, Agatha, I’m not leaving you,” Davison called out.
Again I tried to talk, but the burning sensation in my throat had silenced me.
Phillips brought up the razor and pressed its blade to my cheek once more. The feel of the cold metal as it touched my hot face came as something of a relief.
“So, what will it be?” asked Phillips. “How do you want to die?”
How would I die? Would it be death by inhaling too much smoke, after which the fire would consume my body? Or would Phillips snuff out my life with a quick slash of the poisoned blade across my throat?
I tried to make out Davison’s form through the smoke, but his figure looked as insubstantial as a ghost. Was he taking a step towards the door? Was he going to abandon me after all? There was no point in him sacrificing his life.
I coughed, managed to clear my throat, and rasped out the words “Just end it—end it now.”
But as I finished the sentence, Phillips let out an almighty scream. He pushed me from him and fell down by the burning Persian carpet.
“Agatha—quick—over here!” Davison cried out, his form coming out of the gloom. “Take my hand.”
His fingers closed around mine and at that moment I had never felt so grateful for the touch of another human being.
As Davison pulled me towards him, I glanced down to see Rufus Phillips gripping the bottom of his leg in agony. Kinmuir’s eyes looked at me through the smoke before they settled on the brass tongs which now lay by Phillips’s legs. James had taken them, held them in the fire, and then pressed the hot metal hard onto his friend’s ankle. Phillips began to move with a fury, thrashing out at anything near him. I felt his hand grip my ankle, but Davison wrenched me forward.
The sound of destruction was all around us now. It seemed as if the room—indeed, the whole house—were groaning in pain. Glass shattered, ceilings sounded like they were collapsing, furniture was splintering.
“Here, put this over your mouth and eyes,” said Davison, handing me a piece of cloth.
As he led me through the blackness, I felt the flames singe my skin. I smelt my hair burning. I couldn’t breathe. I heard the crack of a staircase, an implosion rather than an explosion, a scream, or rather screams, and then nothing. I felt hands on me and a splash of water on my face. I removed the cloth from my mouth and took in great gulps of air. I felt a coolness on my face, a spray of drizzle on my skin.
Davison was by my side, administering to me like a nurse with her charge.
“Agatha, Agatha… are you all right?” he asked.
I
nodded, still unable to speak, but behind Davison’s head I saw Dallach Lodge completely engulfed by fire. The flames were so fierce and bright that they lit up the dark ruins of the castle on the ridge above.
Davison must have read the panicked expression in my eyes, because he said, “Don’t worry, all the guests and servants are out of the house—apart from Phillips and Kinmuir, that is.” He placed his hand on my shoulder and brushed some ash from my hair. “It’s over, Agatha. And you’re safe.”
FORTY-FIVE
The house burnt throughout the evening, sending great clouds of black smoke up into the sky and causing the air to turn a sickly, unnatural shade of pink. All of us watched from a safe spot down by the banks of the sea loch as the windows exploded, masonry collapsed, and the roof seemed to melt away into itself before it sent huge billows of dust and dark matter into the air. The noise was terrifying, that of an enormous beast in its death throes.
“Resurgere ex cineribus,” muttered Davison to himself.
“What was that?” I asked.
“The family motto of the Kinmuirs,” he replied. “Do you remember that first day at dinner when Robin Kinmuir told us about the history of the ruined castle? But I don’t think anyone will rise out of the ashes from this, do you?”
“No,” I said as I stood transfixed by the awful spectacle before me. “Phillips and Kinmuir might not have been the only victims. Both of us could have died in there.”
“Yes, I realize that,” said Davison.
“It was stupid of us—stupid of me—to risk so much,” I said, looking down at my dirty hands and blackened dress.
“Perhaps, but what you did was very brave, very brave indeed,” he said. He paused and looked at me as if trying to read my thoughts. “If you feel you can no longer carry on your association with the Intelligence Service, I would understand. After all, what happened here was just awful, ghastly.”
So he had guessed my feelings.
“And you’ve done more, much more, than I or anyone from the department could ever have expected. My only hope, if you decide to sever ties with us, is that we can part as friends.”
I looked at him, tears forming in my eyes. “Of course: friends always,” I said. “After all, you were the one who dragged me out of there. You saved my life.”
“Well, it’s what any gentleman would do,” he said, forcing a smile to keep his emotions in check.
“There’s one other thing I’d like you to do for me,” I said.
“Yes, anything, you know that,” he said.
“John, would you do me the honor of coming to my wedding? I know you must be terribly busy, but it would mean the world to me.” I had risked so much during my days at Dallach Lodge. But now all that was over. Before long I would be a married woman. The idea that I would soon be reunited with Max and Rosalind filled me with joy. “I meant to ask you before now, but it never seemed like the right time, what with everything going on here. You will come, won’t you?”
The question seemed to take him a little by surprise. “Agatha… I would be delighted.” He coughed and wiped his face with his sleeve as he became aware that the Frith-Stratton sisters were walking over to join us.
I smiled and kissed him softly on the cheek. We stood for a moment saying nothing as we looked into one another’s eyes. What we had experienced at Dallach Lodge—what we had survived—would bind us together for the rest of our lives.
The arrival of the sisters shattered the tender moment between us. “Oh, my dear,” said May, beginning to fuss around me.
“Look at the state of you,” said Isabella. “Here, take my handkerchief.”
“Thank you,” I said, wiping the taste of ash and soot from my lips.
“I’m sorry for accusing you earlier,” said Isabella, taking my hand. “Whatever must you think of us?”
“Don’t be silly,” I said. Although I doubted it had anything to do with the investigation, I had a sense that something had been kept from me by the Frith-Stratton sisters. I wasn’t certain how to ask the question. It turned out I didn’t need to.
“There’s something you want to know, I can tell,” said May. “Is it about my baby?”
Isabella cast a warning look at May, but her sister ignored it. “It’s too late for any more secrets, Sister. And I don’t mind telling Mrs. Christie, not after what she’s been through; she nearly perished in there.”
Davison stepped away from us as May took a deep breath and began. “You see, I was once married: Bill was a lovely man, but he died in the war,” she said. “He left me a parting gift, a baby. But when my little girl, Lily, was one year old she caught a cold, which turned into a fever and then pneumonia. The doctor tried to save her, but it was no good.”
May struggled to control her emotions. Her lips trembled and her eyes filled with tears. I remembered how upset she had been when the inspector talked about Amelia Dyer and the murders of those babies in her care. Now she turned away and looked into the distance, across the sea loch, as she continued with her story. “It all proved too much for me, and for a while I had to go… into an institution.”
“May, you don’t need to say all this—not now,” said Isabella.
But May ignored her and carried on. “If it hadn’t had been for dear Isabella’s care, I doubt I would have made it out of the asylum,” she said, taking her sister’s hands. “I thought I would die in there. The screams—such terrible screams. And then there were some other things I saw—such awful things.” Her face became haunted by memories of the past, and she started to cry like a little girl. “I’m sorry,” she said as her sister placed her arm around her. “I’m sorry.”
So I had been right: the strange blankness about the two sisters could be explained by the shared secret and May’s sense of shame regarding her time in an asylum. And what of the writing of the romantic novels? I didn’t want to ask any more—Inspector Hawkins was walking over to join us—but I suspected it was Isabella who bore the greater share of the work.
“I hope I’m not interrupting anything, Mrs. Christie?” asked the inspector.
“No, not at all,” I said, forcing a smile.
He raised his hand and gestured for Davison to come closer. “I don’t know whether you and Mr. Davison would be happy to answer a few questions?” he added. “It’s just that there are some things I need to get straight in my head. We can leave it until later if you like, or if you’d rather come to the station in Portree…”
“No, now will do as well as any time,” I said. Davison agreed.
“Thank you,” he said. “It’s a shame no one will stand trial for all of this, and a great deal of evidence will no doubt have been lost in the fire”—Hawkins looked once more at the burning building and shook his head—“but I suppose death comes as the end for men like Phillips and Kinmuir, whether it’s the gallows or a fire.”
“Indeed,” I said.
“Now, as for the painting by this Italian artist…”
“Yes, Giorgione,” said Davison. “After I overhead Kinmuir and Phillips talking in the attic room, I came down to the library to do some research. I found some books about art history belonging to old Mrs. Kinmuir. One volume about the Italian Renaissance told me that the artist was born Giorgio Barbarelli da Castelfranco around 1477 or 1478. Scholars don’t know that much about him other than that he started quite young with commissions to paint the portraits of powerful men such as the doge Agostino Barbarigo and that he was famous for works such as The Three Philosophers and The Tempest. He’s known for the mysterious nature of his paintings and the fact that there are so few of them in existence. So to find an undocumented one… well, as you can imagine, its value would be tremendous.”
“And the original was upstairs in Kinmuir’s room?” asked Hawkins.
“No, I’m afraid not,” I said. “That was just an invention on my part to try to cause a schism between the two friends.”
“So you let a painting worth—what?—hundreds of thousands of pounds be
consigned to the flames?”
“Yes, I’m afraid we did,” I said. “You see, Mr. Davison and I, well, we discussed all the possible outcomes and we came to the conclusion that this was the best one. We thought that bringing these two men to justice was worth more than any work of art—even such a rare one as this. You see, evil cannot be seen to triumph. And what those two men did was evil, especially framing an innocent young woman, Miss Passerini, for the crimes and murdering poor old Mrs. Kinmuir in that way.”
At the mention of her name Miss Passerini came over to join us, accompanied by Simon Peterson. It was clear he would never want to leave her side again.
“Talking of the old lady, I wanted to ask you something,” said Hawkins.
“Yes?” I replied.
“I still don’t quite understand the full significance of those Italian words that Mrs. Kinmuir said to you during your talk with her—that you in turn repeated to the group that night at dinner.”
By now we had been joined by Mrs. Buchanan and Dr. Fitzpatrick, and everyone was eager to find out the missing answers to the puzzle.
“The words must have come back to her in her dotage,” I said. “As we know, when people are losing their faculties, they may not remember anything about what they have just done—who they saw that morning, what they had for breakfast, and so on. But sometimes they can recall quite clearly conversations they had with people going back years. And the two young men didn’t know what else the old lady might say.
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