by Cathy Ace
I managed a smile. He was sweet. “It’s Cait. And I’m here, aren’t I? I might be sore, but I’m not dead. I think that’s what they had planned for me.”
Bertrand nodded. “I think so too,” he replied gravely. “I think that is why they will not charge you,” he added.
I was puzzled. “Charge me? With what?” I really couldn’t imagine. I hadn’t done anything wrong.
“The doctor is here. I will be back when he is finished,” he said quietly, and he stood to leave.
“Bertrand—before you go . . . can you ask Moreau if he has told Bud Anderson that I’m safe? It’s important. Please?”
“Commander Anderson knows,” he replied, nodding. He threw a very odd smile my way, then left.
The doctor appeared, looked down at me, a chart in his hand, and smiled. “Glad to see you’re back with us,” he said.
“I’m glad you speak English,” I replied. “I don’t think my French is up to much right now . . . I’m sorry . . .”
“That’s alright, don’t say you are sorry. You have been saying this all night. What is it you are sorry for?”
Now that was a question and a half! I didn’t even dare start to answer it, truthfully, so I just said, “Oh, I’m probably just feeling sorry for myself. How am I, by the way? My head hurts like hell.”
“This is to be expected. You have ten stitches in the back of your head, but the scans suggest no concussion. So, no lasting effects, except the loss of a patch of hair which we had to shave, but the hair should grow back, in time, and cover the scar.” He said should—good grief! “Your left wrist is broken, but it is a good break. Six weeks in this plaster and you will mend. You have some pulled muscles in your left shoulder, but it is not dislocated: you must have put out your left hand to try to stop your fall. Your right side? We cleaned up the blood. None of it was yours. No damage there.”
“Who else’s blood got on me? And how?”
The doctor looked at me with concern. “You do not remember?”
I thought for a moment, but nothing came back to me. “No—I can’t remember anything after my head hit the mirror. What happened?” I was getting quite concerned, and the doctor’s reply didn’t help.
“I think it is better that you talk to the police about this. From a medical point of view I am not worried: I think it may be a normal reaction to the blow to the head and the . . . situation . . . that you do not remember. Maybe one day it will come back to you. I will tell this to the police captain when he comes. I think he will understand.” He wrote something on my chart.
Well, that’ll be more than I do, I thought to myself, but I decided to wait until Bertrand came back to ask what had happened, because, clearly, the doctor wasn’t going to tell me.
“What about these?” I asked, nodding painfully at the needles in my arms.
“I think we can remove them now. You have been sedated. We can allow you to leave here later today, with some pain medication that you will find useful. Your vital signs are good, all your readings are normal. We have treated the traumatic injuries. You can be discharged.”
“What day is it?” I asked. I had no idea.
“It is Monday.” He looked at his watch. “It is two thirty. You were brought here about twelve hours ago.”
“Can I fly?” I asked.
The doctor looked puzzled. “In an aeroplane?”
I smiled and said, “Yes, in an ‘aeroplane.’ I haven’t gone mad, thank you.” Good grief! “I’m due to fly back home to Canada tomorrow. Can I do that?”
The doctor gave it a moment’s thought, then replied, “If the police allow it, yes. There is no medical reason to stop you. You must report to your doctor when you get there. I will make sure that all your records are ready for you to take when you go to the cashier.”
The cashier? Oh bugger. Of course. I hoped that my travel insurance would cover all this. I saw mountains of paperwork in my future.
“Thank you,” I replied absently, then I gave myself a mental poke. I added in a rather more sincere tone, “And thanks to you and all the team for looking after me and sorting me out. I really appreciate it. Thank you.”
The doctor smiled at me and said, “You are welcome. Do you mind if I ask you something?”
“No, ask away.”
“Who is this ‘Bud’? You have been asking for him in the emergency room. You were very upset, crying. Is he your boyfriend?”
A wave of sadness flowed over me as I answered, quietly, “No, not my boyfriend. He is a good friend, a colleague. His wife . . . just died. She was my friend also. I miss them both.”
I could feel a tear begin to spill from the side of my eye, and roll down my cheek.
“Ah,” was all that the doctor said, as he left the room. His expression was enigmatic.
I managed to work out how to move my right arm without dislodging the needle poking out of it, and I wiped away my tears. I also tried moving around a little to see what hurt, and how much. I realized the doctor had been right—my left side had really taken the worst of it, but, thankfully, my right side wasn’t too bad. Being a righty, not a lefty, that was a good thing.
Having established what was in working order and what wasn’t, I looked around for Bertrand. I was alone in a little room whose half-glassed wall divided me from what sounded like a nurses’ station beyond. I kept trying to remember what on earth had happened after I had hit the mirror, but I couldn’t come up with anything: it was like trying to catch a cloud.
I was beginning to get a bit restless when Bertrand finally popped his head in and said, “The captain has arrived. Good luck!”
“Thanks,” I replied, worried about why I’d need “luck.” What the hell had happened? “Bertrand,” I called before he’d left the room, “can you stay and translate? I don’t think I’ll be able to cope with the language right now.” He looked hesitant. “Please?” I tried to make my most appealing face.
“I will ask the captain,” replied Bertrand, and he disappeared.
I could hear Moreau and the doctor talking to each other outside my room. Then the captain appeared in the doorway. His expression was grim. I didn’t like the look of that.
“Professeur Morgan? Bon, vous êtes réveillée. Nous devons parler.”
As he entered and sat beside me, I said, “Could Bertrand translate, please?”
Moreau didn’t answer, but he turned his head and called Bertrand into the room.
“Merci, Capitaine,” I managed. I felt relieved. Bertrand hovered at Moreau’s elbow, and filled his now usual role.
“You will be discharged today, Professor. That is good news.” Moreau spoke gravely.
“Yes, I’m very pleased. I’m due to fly home tomorrow, and the doctor said that would be okay.”
“We will see about that,” replied Moreau. He looked at me intently, then said, “The doctor tells me you cannot remember what happened after you were knocked over at Mme. Schiafino’s apartment. Is this correct? Nothing?”
I shook my head, carefully. “I’ve tried, Captain, but I can’t remember anything. What happened? They said I had blood on me—someone else’s blood. Was someone injured? Who?”
He didn’t reply. He just looked at me. He sucked his teeth and said, “You do not recall beating anyone?”
“Beating someone? Me? Who? When? With what? Why?” The questions tumbled out of me. “I don’t remember beating anyone. I’m not the beating type. What are you talking about?” I was nonplussed.
Again, Moreau didn’t answer immediately. I could sense intense mental activity behind his cold, watchful eyes. He blinked, sighed, and said, “You battered a young man about the head with a champagne bottle last night. The bottle broke. You continued to beat him with the broken bottle. Bertrand here had to pull you off him. You would not stop.”
I was shocked. “Me? I did? When?” I couldn’t comprehend what he was saying. Moreau’s face was grave. “Oh my God . . . he’s not . . . ? I didn’t . . . ?” I couldn’t say it.<
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“He is alive, but in a critical condition. He might lose an eye.”
I sat for a moment, struggling with what the captain was telling me. I could feel my heart pounding. The damned machine that I was hooked up to seemed to beep more loudly. I pushed myself to an upright position. I was struggling to make sense of it all.
“Captain—I’ve never hurt anyone in my life! I’m not a violent person. Who was he? Why would I do that? Oh my God, the poor man! I’m so sorry . . .” It seemed I had more reasons for apologies than I knew about. I held my head. Why couldn’t I remember?
“The young man is called Henry. Henry Tyler-Whyte. He is English.”
“I’ve never heard of him. Who is he? Oh, wait . . . was he the man who was looking for me in the cellars?”
“I believe so. He found you at Mme. Schiafino’s apartment.”
“The last thing I remember is hitting my head against the mirror there. The door flew open and I fell backward. Did I hit him after that? I know I had a bottle of champagne in my hand when I was at the door. But hitting him? I can’t recall that . . .”
“For a woman with a photographic memory, that must be unusual,” said Moreau, suspiciously. “This attack, it is serious, you know.” It wasn’t a question.
I realized I was in big trouble. Why couldn’t I think? I can always think. It’s the only thing I’m good at, after all.
I was babbling, but I didn’t stop. “I didn’t mean . . . well, I don’t know what I meant to do . . . I can’t have meant to . . . Oh, I don’t remember! I do remember I was afraid. I’d heard knocking at the door, and I was trying to listen to find out who it was. It must have been him. He must have broken down the door. Maybe I didn’t lose consciousness for long. I must have been defending myself. I must have been. You’ve got to believe me! But I don’t even know what happened myself . . . so how can I ask you to believe me? Oh God. I’m so sorry . . .”
“Tell me exactly what happened, as you remember it, after you sent the e-mail to me. Take your time. This is important. Tell me everything.” Both Moreau and Bertrand had pulled out notepads, and were poised to record my answers.
I calmed myself, as much as I could, the machine stopped beeping, and I began. “I sent the e-mail to you, then I sent the same e-mail to Bud Anderson, and myself . . . you know, just to be sure. I checked on news stories in Vancouver and, oh God,” I took a big breath and said it fast, “I discovered that Bud’s wife, Jan, had been killed. I didn’t know until then. I felt badly about the e-mail I had sent Bud, so I sent another one, apologizing about the first one . . .”
“I know about Mme. Anderson’s death. It is a terrible thing that the wife of a fellow officer would be killed just because she is his wife, and because people want him to stop hunting them down. I have told him this. He telephoned me at home, in my bed, to send me to bring you to safety. I have also spoken to him today.”
“How is he?” I was anxious about Bud. I wanted Moreau to tell me he was fine.
“He is a strong man. I, too, am a strong man, and I do not know how it would be if my wife died this way. I think he has a difficult time ahead of him. He has asked me to keep him informed about you. He is concerned about you. He helped you a great deal last night, by contacting me. I was on the scene quickly because of his call. Please, continue with your story.”
“It’s not a ‘story’—it’s what happened,” I snapped. He shrugged, and I carried on, regardless of the implication. “I heard voices outside Madelaine’s window. One voice was definitely the man I had heard in the cellars, but the other voice was too muffled for me to know who it was, or even if it was a man or a woman. I thought that they must be the people who’d gone into the cellars to find me, that they’d discovered that I’d run off, and were searching the area around the Palais for me. I thought they’d gone away. Bud phoned me, and I went into the bathroom to talk to him—I thought I was safer in there. Then I called the police, and I finally got through to Bertrand, and he told me to wait, so I waited. When I heard a knock at the door I listened in case it was him. Like I said, the door burst open, I hit my head, and that’s it. Nothing. Until I opened my eyes here, with Bertrand beside me.”
“I saw you at the Palais before the ambulance took you. Do you remember that?” asked Moreau, pointedly.
I shook my head. “Thanks for coming,” I said, a bit sheepishly.
“Do you remember what you wrote in the e-mail you sent me?” he asked sharply.
This time I nodded. “Yes, of course. I can remember everything up to the blow to my head.” It was time to ask the critical question. “Did it all make sense to you?”
Moreau nodded. “It did. And we have them. They did not try to flee. One is very sorry—knowing that wrong was done. The other? Pah—the other is very arrogant. They are not talking. They have lawyers.”
“I’m glad you have them,” I said. “Well, maybe half glad.”
Bertrand was translating very quickly, but looking increasingly puzzled. I suspected that he didn’t really know about everything that had been going on. I decided to try to help.
“Do you know who’s been arrested, Bertrand?” I asked.
He shook his head.
“So Captain Moreau hasn’t told you who the killer is?”
Again, he shook his head. “I have been here the whole night and day,” he said. He looked tired.
“Why don’t you tell him?” I asked Moreau.
“You tell him,” he replied. “Tell him what you told me in that e-mail, which my wife very kindly translated for me on the telephone while I was driving to the Palais.”
“Are you sure?” Was this a sign of trust on the part of Moreau? He nodded, then got up, offered Bertrand his seat, and motioned that he was going outside to make some phone calls. Bertrand didn’t have to translate, so he just listened. He looked pleased to be sitting down.
I began.
“It was complicated, and I was stupid. It took me longer to put things together than it should have done. I think I was a bit distracted so I wasn’t really focused, like I usually am on a ‘real’ case. What finally helped me was the birthday cake, the type of boxes the snails were kept in, and discovering that I could hear Chuck’s voice from Alistair’s balcony.”
“What birthday cake?” asked Bertrand. “I do not remember any birthday cake.”
“Exactly,” I replied. “There wasn’t one.”
“I see,” said Bertrand, but I could tell that he didn’t.
I decided to try another approach. “You’ve heard everything I told the captain in my interviews, right?” He nodded. “You know how I bumped into Alistair, and he invited me to the party, and how he died, and about the break-in at the museum, and my theory that the necklace that disappeared was the Roman necklace that the archives mentioned, and that Madelaine was pictured wearing, and that Alistair was going to give to Tamsin?”
He nodded again.
“It was agreed that everyone, except maybe Tamsin, had a reason to want to steal the necklace.” More nodding. “Okay, so I had to work out if the theft of the necklace was the reason for the deaths, but I realized I couldn’t do that until I worked out how Alistair was killed. I eventually managed to put two and two together: I knew that snails would eat and intensify the taste of dill, which I believe Alistair was feeding them, but I also learned, or, rather, worked out, that snails’ bodies would also intensify the toxic effects of the digitalis in foxglove leaves. There were foxglove leaves in the gardens at the Palais, so all someone had to do was to feed those leaves to the snails and they’d become quite poisonous. Knowing that Alistair often took extra pills when he wanted to feel at his best, they could be pretty sure that he’d be the only one who’d succumb to the total dose—though, to be honest, I don’t think that the murderer cared if anyone else became seriously ill, or even died, so long as Alistair was killed.”
“You could have all died?” asked Bertrand, wide-eyed. This time I was the one nodding, and, thankfully, it didn’t se
em to hurt quite as much. “You were all ill. Wasn’t the murderer afraid they would die themselves?”
“Good question,” I replied, “but the murderer just made sure they hardly ate any snails at all, so they only had some symptoms of digitalis poisoning—enough so that they didn’t stand out from the rest of us. If the killer had poisoned the snails long before they were cooked, then I thought it didn’t matter where everyone was the night of the party. It didn’t matter who went to the kitchen. But it did matter. I realized, much later on, that access to the kitchen was vital, because that’s how the necklace was stolen.”
“So the necklace was in the kitchen?” Bertrand’s eyes were even wider. “Where?”
“In the birthday cake.”
“What birthday cake?”
“Exactly.”
Bertrand threw up his hands. “I do not understand. Why was the necklace in the birthday cake? And where was this birthday cake? I was there when we searched the apartment. There was no birthday cake.”
“That was what I missed. It was stupid of me. You see, when I saw Alistair in the Cours Saleya and he invited me to the party, he told me himself as he was leaving that he was off to collect a very special birthday cake. Later on, Tamsin told me that, on their wedding day, Alistair had hidden a gift for her in a dessert jelly, so I wondered if he’d maybe hidden the necklace he was giving her in her birthday cake. When I’d looked around the Townsends’ kitchen, there was no birthday cake. Now, if there had been one, you guys wouldn’t have taken it for testing, because we were all poisoned before we’d got to that part of the meal. So the cake should have been there but it wasn’t. When I innocently said to Tamsin that I fancied some cake after our meal she got very upset. I always thought it odd that she’d known her necklace was gone, but I finally—finally—worked it out: Tamsin had guessed that her necklace was hidden in the cake, the cake had been placed in the kitchen—ready for presentation later on—and she’d noticed that the cake was missing when she came through the kitchen to the balcony after Alistair’s death. That’s how she knew that her necklace was gone. The murderer had also known of the necklace’s hiding place and had stolen both the cake and the necklace, all in one go.”