by Dean James
“I see,” I said. “And do you agree with Mrs. Rhys-Morgan’s estimate of the time you were together?”
He nodded vigorously.
“In that case, I suppose you’re in the clear also,” I said. “It’s a pity, however, that no one else saw you go in or come out of Mrs. Rhys-Morgan’s room, or saw the two of you together.”
Moira bristled with indignation, but Piers simply looked resigned.
“Ah, Simon?”
Cliff Weatherstone claimed my attention. “Yes, Cliff?”
“I believe I can corroborate at least part of Piers’s alibi,” he said, and he did not appear particularly happy to be doing so.
“How so?”
“Because I saw Piers come out of the bedroom at approximately five minutes to eight.”
“Ah,” I said. “And where were you at the time? Coming out of your bedroom?”
“Not exactly,” he said, casting a glance sideways at Giles.
“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” Giles said impatiently. “Don’t be such a pillock, Cliff.” He stared at me. “Cliff was in my room, Simon, and had been for nearly twenty minutes. We were on the point of leaving to come down to the library. That’s when Cliff saw Mr. Limpley, although he had neglected to mention that to me.”
“I thought you were reading in your room,” I said coolly.
“I was,” Giles acknowledged, “until Cliff knocked on my door.”
“And the two of you were just chatting away during this time, I suppose.”
Giles reddened slightly. “More or less.”
That was such a patent lie I forbore to comment. So Giles and Cliff were in Giles’s bedroom, making out, to put it as politely as possible, during those important fifteen minutes. Well, bully for them to have such a spiffing alibi.
Normally, I am in complete control of my emotions, and what happened next frightened me. I was seized with such a rage that I literally saw red. I saw the red of Cliff Weatherstone’s blood spurting from his neck, the neck I longed to rip from the rest of his body.
The vision was so strong that, for a moment, I thought I must have attacked Cliff. A squeak of alarm came from someone, most likely Piers Limpley, and the haze of red began to recede. As I regained my composure, I could see that everyone in the room had drawn back in alarm. Good grief, I thought. What on earth had they seen? And swift upon that, another thought: What the bloody hell was going on with me?
“I beg your pardon,” I said, a trifle shaky. “I fear that all this has given me rather a fierce headache.”
Giles stared at me as if I were someone he had never met. “Is there anything you need, Simon?”
“No, no, Giles,” I said. “No need to worry. I often get these headaches, and fortunately they usually pass quickly.” Lucky for Cliff Weatherstone, I thought bleakly. If this so- called “attack” hadn’t passed, I might have done him fatal damage.
I sat back in my chair and closed my notebook with a snap. “All of this is most interesting. It looks rather as if you are all in the clear—if your alibis hold up.” I shook my head in puzzlement. “That must mean, then, someone from outside the house somehow got into the drawing room and murdered poor Mr. Harwood.”
The relief I felt emanating from several of them was almost palpable. But underlying it all was a thin thread of anxiety. One of them, perhaps more, was worried about something. But what?
“Very interesting indeed,” I said, standing up, “and quite a puzzle, worthy of the combined talents of Hercule Poirot and Miss Marple. If you will all be so kind as to excuse me, I think I had better be off home, to let my head have a bit of rest and recover from this headache. Thank you all for your cooperation.”
Giles got up from his chair and followed me to the door. “Are you certain you’re quite all right, Simon? I’ve never seen you look so dashed odd. I thought for a moment you were going to go berserk and have a go at one of us.”
“I’m fine, Giles,” I lied, “just tired. I’ve been working too hard, I suppose.” I didn’t want to look him in the eye. After what had passed between us just a short time before, I didn’t want to think any further about what he and Cliff had been doing in his bedroom. “Go back to your guests.”
“Well, if you’re sure, Simon,” he said, his voice and his manner still evincing his concern.
“I’m sure,” I said, opening the door. “I’ll talk to you later.”
He stood in the doorway, watching as I made a hasty exit from Blitherington Hall. I couldn’t get out of there fast enough.
I gunned the Jag down the driveway, scaring the daylights out of several members of the press who dallied a bit too long before getting out of my way. I reached home long before they could catch up with me, and I locked myself inside, away from their inquisitiveness.
I went upstairs to the bathroom, opened the cabinet, and pulled out my bottle of pills. I stood there staring at them for a very long time, wondering. Tristan Lovelace had told me I had merely gotten hold of a weak batch.
I wondered.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
I stood staring down at the pills in my hand, my thoughts racing. Paranoia wasn’t one of my usual traits, but I feared I might be succumbing to it now.
Had someone tampered with my pills?
Why would someone tamper with my pills?
Revenge was the most likely answer to that second question. I could think of only one person who might hear me that much ill will.
For someone to tamper with my pills, that person would have to understand the nature of the pills and the “condition” for which they were prescribed.
Possession of that knowledge fit the profile of the person I considered my nemesis.
How had it been done?
♦Author’s note: Kindly remember, if you will, the events recounted in Posted to Death, and no doubt you will reach the same conclusion that I have.
It had to have been done recently, within the past few days. Someone could have sneaked into Laurel Cottage and tampered with the pills, I supposed, while I was in the village on an errand. Certainly it hadn’t happened at night, when I was ostensibly asleep, like the rest of the village, because I would have sensed the presence of any other creature in the cottage.
I spent most nights, when others would be sleeping, working at my computer. I did tend to become rather absorbed in my work, often losing track of time, but I hadn’t thought I could be so oblivious that I wouldn’t sense an alien presence somewhere in the house.
Perhaps I was wrong.
I decided I needed to examine the pills more carefully. I carried them downstairs and into my office. I cleared some space on the desk and rolled the pills out onto the blotter. I pulled a lamp closer and switched it on, then retrieved a magnifying glass from one of the desk drawers.
Picking up one pill after another, I examined each of them with great care. As I worked, I sorted them into two groups. When I had finished, there were eleven pills in one group and about thirty in the other.
The added light had irritated my eyes, and I switched the lamp off as quickly as I could. But the combination of the bright light and the magnifying glass had allowed me see that there were two different kinds of pills in the bottle. Both kinds had a squiggled logo etched on them, but in the group of eleven, the squiggle was a tiny bit shorter. They were all of uniform size, color, and shape. It was the logo that made them subtly different.
The question now was, which group was the real thing? And which was the fake?
I had never examined the pills that closely before, so I wasn’t sure which group of pills bore the authentic logo. I thought perhaps it was the group of eleven that were the authentic pills.
I remembered the small pillbox I kept in my jacket whenever I went out—my emergency supply. When was the last time I had put pills in it? I thought back. Nearly a week ago, I decided. Before the tampering had taken place, as far as I could determine.
I went upstairs to retrieve the pillbox from my dressing table. Back downsta
irs again, I examined the six pills contained in the ornately enameled snuffbox I had adapted for use as a pillbox. All six had the same shorter logo as the eleven pills I had decided were probably authentic.
I got an envelope from the desk and put the fakes inside, sealing it I would send the fakes to the chemist in London and ask him to test them. In the meantime, I had enough of the authentic pills to make do until a fresh batch arrived tomorrow.
For good measure, I popped one of the pills into my mouth and swallowed. I’d have to put my theory to the test I decided. I would find an attractive neck, stare at it for a moment, and see whether I had the urge to bite it.
Very funny, I thought, as I picked up the phone and dialed a number I had now memorized. “Yes, is Detective Inspector Chase available?” I listened for a moment “I see. Then will you please ask him to ring Professor Kirby-Jones at his earliest convenience? I have some important information for him related to his present murder inquiry. Yes, thank you.” I rang off.
I was taking a risk, I knew, by getting in touch with Robin Chase. I intended to ask him to come to Laurel Cottage, and if he came, his would be the neck with which I’d test myself. I needed to talk to him, anyway, and as for my little test, well, que sera, sera, as Dittany Harwood had put it.
While I waited for Robin to ring me back, I sat and thought about the agent employed by Nemesis, as I preferred to call my adversary in the matter of the pills. It hadn’t taken me long to finger the culprit, so to speak. I remembered finding Violet Glubb coming out of my bathroom. I also remembered how Vi had appeared so providentially on my doorstep in answer to my ad.
Where were her references? I wondered suddenly. She had given me a few sheets of paper, which consisted of two brief letters written by former employers and a list of her most recent situations. I dug around on the desk and finally found what I was seeking lodged beneath a few chapters of the latest Daphne Deepwood opus.
The phone rang, claiming my attention. “Hello. Ah yes, Robin, how good of you to ring me back so quickly. I say, can you possibly drop by for a bit? I’d like to talk to you about what I learned this afternoon at Blitherington Hall.” I listened for a moment “Great Thanks, Robin, I’ll see you in a few minutes.” I rang off.
I picked up Vi’s references again. I read through the two letters of recommendation, both of which appeared perfectly legitimate. I had meant to get in touch with the two women who had written them, but somehow I had never done so. I tended to rely on my own judgments of people anyway, and usually this had served me well.
I thought back to one notable exception, however, and now it seemed I had been hoist with my own petard. I had underestimated Nemesis then... and now.
Reaching for the phone, I dialed the number of one of Vi’s references, that of a Mrs. Polly Charles. A childish voice answered, and I asked to speak to Mrs. Charles. The receiver on the other end thumped down upon some hard surface, and I winced. A couple of minutes later, a harassed-sounding voice gasped into my ear.
“Hello. Is this Mrs. Polly Charles of Abingdon?”
“Yes. You’re not selling something, are you? Because I really do not have the time to listen. The children are rather clamoring for something to eat, and I’m much too busy—”
The voice would have continued rambling, I had no doubt, if I had not ruthlessly, and rudely, cut in. “No, Mrs. Charles, I’m not selling anything. I’m calling to speak with you about—”
“Gemma, put that down. At once, do you hear me? Gemma, listen to Mummy, please, and put that down! ” I could hear the voice of a child whining in the background, before Mrs. Charles turned her attention back to me. “I’m sorry, you were saying?”
“Yes, Mrs. Charles, I am calling to inquire about a letter of reference you wrote for Violet Glubb. Did you indeed write Violet such a letter?”
“Gemma, no, I said. Not now. In a minute. Wait till Mummy finishes talking on the phone. Um, yes, I did write a letter for Vi. She was such a treasure, and so good with the children. I quite hated to see her leave. No, Gemma!”
I suspected that Gemma must have had something to do with Vi’s desire to leave the Charles household. She sounded like a perfectly dreadful child.
“Then you found her dependable and trustworthy?” I thought I had better ask what I wanted as quickly as possible, before Gemma destroyed the house.
“Oh, my, yes,” Mrs. Charles said. “She was with me for nearly three years. Mind you, she did have some peculiar ideas about children. I once caught her making Gemma sit in a comer by herself. I told her she mustn’t thwart Gemma’s creative expression, but she didn’t understand.”
I held the phone away from my ear as, once again, Mrs. Charles exhorted Gemma—completely in vain, I was certain—not to do whatever it was she was doing.
When the noise on the other end subsided slightly, I risked another question. “Then you know nothing, really, of a detrimental nature about her? You would recommend my employing her?”
“Oh yes,” Mrs. Charles said, a bit out of breath. I had a sudden vision of her having had to chase Gemma down from the top of some tall piece of furniture. “Everything was fine. That is, until Vi also began working for that rather odd woman who moved in down the road about seven or eight months ago.”
“Oh, really,” I said, trying to sound casual, though I knew I was on to something important with this bit of news. “Odd, you say. How is she odd?”
“Gemma, darling, just a minute longer, please. Gemma!” The receiver thumped down, and I thought the connection had been severed. But in a moment Mrs. Charles, still short of breath, picked it up and resumed our conversation, such as it was. “Odd? Oh, my, yes. Do you know, none of us has ever seen her during the daytime? She says she has some sort of allergic reaction to the sun. Rather potty, it sounds to me, but then, people are allergic to all sorts of strange things these days.”
Bingo! I had found Nemesis.
“And what is this woman’s name, Mrs. Charles?”
“It’s Wickham. That’s all I know. Never heard anyone call her anything but Mrs. Wickham. She’s a widow, I believe. Quite attractive, really. It’s a wonder she’s never married again. Gemma!”
Figuring I had gained as much information from Mrs. Charles as I could before Gemma brought down the house in her attempts to express herself creatively, I hastily thanked her and rang off.
I picked up the second letter of reference, and there it was, cool as you please. Signed “Mrs. J. Wickham, Abingdon.”
Now that I understood the nature of the threat, I felt much better. I had the measure of Mrs. J. Wickham, and I would take steps to spike her guns. She was clever, I’d give her that, but then, so was I.
The doorbell rang, interrupting my plans for exacting my counter-revenge. I went to the door to admit Robin Chase, who was a bit bedraggled from the rain now coursing down.
“Robin, do come in and dry yourself. What a beastly night! I was so busy with work I hadn’t even noticed it was raining.” I took his coat and hung it on the rack in the hall.
“How about some tea to warm you?” I asked as I led him into the sitting room. “Or, better yet, how about a tot of whisky? Are you on duty?”
“Whisky sounds fine, Simon, with a dash of soda, if you don’t mind.” He sat down in his usual chair, looking tired and damp around the edges.
I handed him his whisky and soda, then gestured to the humidor. “And do help yourself to a cigar, Robin, if you like. I think you could do with a bit of relaxing.”
“Don’t mind if I do,” Robin said, reaching for the humidor. “Yes, I’ve not had much sleep since the case began.”
I waited until he had his cigar burning to his satisfaction before relating to him my tea-time interview with the chief suspects. I concluded by saying, “If their alibis hold up, then I’m afraid you will have to be on the lookout for a killer who somehow sneaked in from outside.”
“What did you make of their stories, Simon? Did they seem to be telling the truth?”
> I shrugged. “Their stories are all so simple and so ordinary, it seems hard to believe they’re not the truth. But they’re also dashed convenient, don’t you think?”
Robin nodded. “I took each of them through their stories at least five times, and they never deviated significantly from the first time they told me. If there’s a hole in any of them, I’ve not yet found it.”
“One possibility that occurred to me is that Piers Limpley and Moira Rhys-Morgan are lying about having spent the time together. According to Cliff Weatherstone, Limpley is desperately in love with Mrs. Rhys-Morgan, and I suppose it’s conceivable that he would lie to protect her. I’m not so sure she would lie to protect him, though she does seem to be fond of him.”
Robin nodded. “I had a go at breaking down their story, but they wouldn’t budge. It would help if we could find the murder weapon, or weapons, I should say. But no luck thus far.”
“The only one of them without an alibi is Lady Prunella.”
“And we have only her word for it that Harwood was alive when she left him in the drawing room.” Robin drew on his cigar and expelled the smoke in a frustrated burst. “I simply cannot see Lady Prunella as the murderer, Simon.”
“No, I agree,” I said. “It would help also if we knew how the murderer gained access to the drawing room. Was it by means of that secret staircase, or did Harwood let his killer into the room through the door?”
“No clear answer to that either,” Robin said glumly. “I’ve questioned the staff several times over, and none of them was in that bloody hallway during that time period. They were busy preparing for dinner, and they went in and out of the dining room, but they don’t have to use the hallway for that.”
“Was the front door unlocked?”
“Thompson can’t remember for sure. He thinks it probably was, but he can’t swear to it. The man’s eighty if he’s a day, and his memory is a bit sketchy at times.” Robin sighed through a cloud of smoke.