by Dean James
Violet went deathly pale and began swallowing convulsively. She couldn’t speak for a moment. “Oh, Lord, Mr. Kayjay. I never meant no harm, honest I didn’t! Mrs. W., she said she knew you and was just playing a friendly little joke on you. She assured me, she did, that them pills wasn’t for anything serious and you wouldn’t get sick or nothing like that. Else I wouldn’t ha’ done it I never would!”
Her voice had risen steadily in pitch through the last few words, by which time she was wailing away.
I regarded her with some pity. I held no rancor against her, because she had been an unwilling dupe and the damage, such as it was, had been short-lived.
“It’s okay, Vi, no real harm done. It wasn’t a particularly funny joke, but you still shouldn’t have done it.”
“No, sir,” she said, between sobs.
“It was also a pretty elaborate joke, wasn’t it?” I said. “After all, you had to move here from Abingdon. Didn’t that all seem a bit strange to you?”
Vi nodded emphatically. “Oh, yes, Mr. Kayjay. It did.” She looked down at her hands, still playing with the scarf. “But I didn’t have much choice, like.”
“Why not, Vi? Were you in some kind of trouble?”
She wailed again. It took me several minutes to calm her down enough to get her to talk without breaking into sobs after every other word. After that, the sordid little tale was soon told.
Vi had a liking for pretty things, and when she couldn’t afford something she liked, she simply “adopted” it. Mrs. Wickham had caught her one evening helping herself to a valuable Staffordshire figure and after that, Mrs. Wickham would threaten to turn her over to the police if she didn’t do as Mrs. Wickham asked.
“Right wicked she is, Mr. Kayjay.” Her secret out, Vi now turned indignant. “But what am I to do? Now she’ll shop me to the police for sure.”
“I wouldn’t worry too much about that for the moment, Vi,” I said kindly. “Mrs. Wickham is going to be a bit busy for a while, and she won’t have time to think about that. Besides, I’ll send her a little note, warning her that if she should try to bother you again, I’ll see to it that she’s the one who gets in trouble, not you.”
“Oh, Mr. Kayjay, you are a love, you really are!” She beamed at me as she wiped away the tears. “You’d do that for me, even after what I done to you?”
“Yes, Vi, I would,” I said. “But you must never have anything more to do with Mrs. Wickham. And you must promise me that you’ll do your best not to ‘adopt’ anything that doesn’t belong to you. If I catch you at it, you’ll have more to worry about than Mrs. Wickham, I assure you.” I treated her to a rather ferocious smile, and she paled again.
“Oh, no, sir, I won’t I promise you, on me dear mother’s grave. I’ll be good.”
I had my doubts about that, because if she were a kleptomaniac, she wouldn’t be able to stop herself. But I figured she had been punished enough, at least for the moment.
“I’ll hold you to that Vi,” I said, rising from the sofa. “Now I suppose you had better get on with your work.”
“Yes, sir,” she said, jumping up happily from her chair. She disappeared in the direction of the kitchen. I supposed I was taking a risk by keeping her on, but better the devil you know, as the saying goes. Vi might yet need protection from Nemesis, and I was in a good position to provide that.
I sauntered back to my office and sat down behind my desk. Staring at the phone, I willed it to ring. It was by now almost nine-thirty, and surely Gosling would be ringing me soon with the results of his researches.
The phone rang.
I grabbed up the receiver. “Hello? Is that you, Gosling?”
“No, Simon,” came the response. “It’s Robin Chase. And I have some good news. We’ve found the murder weapons.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
“That is good news indeed, Robin,” I said. “I was actually going to call you, because I’d had an idea about the murder weapons. It seems that I needn’t have bothered.”
Robin laughed. “For once, Simon, I’m delighted to say, I got there ahead of you.”
“Oh, piffle, Robin,” I said. “Now tell me, what were they?”
“We should have spotted them sooner, I must admit,” Robin said. “But with the benefit of more complete information from the postmortem, I was able to work it out.”
“Now, Robin, stop teasing and tell me.”
“Very well, Simon,” he said, and I could hear the smile in his voice. The two wounds, each made by a different-shaped object had one thing in common. Each of them left behind a minute amount of black paint and iron flake in the wounds.”
“And did you find any iron objects, painted black, in the drawing room?” I asked, already guessing at the answer.
“No, Simon, we did not,” Robin said.
Before Robin could continue, I interjected, “Instead, you found two iron objects that had recently been painted red.”
An exasperated snort came through the line. “And just when did you figure out that bit, Simon?”
“Sometime last night,” I said. “I was going to ring you this morning, Robin, and tell you what I had guessed. But you found them without my help.”
“Yes,” he said. “But that makes it all the more strange. The killer uses both of these small, but heavy... iron sculptures we’ll call them, for want of a better word, kills Harwood, then calmly takes the time to paint them both red before putting them back into position near the fireplace. We’ve found the can of paint and the brush our chappie most likely used, but I doubt we’ll find any useful prints.”
“The killer had to act quickly,” I said. “Particularly if the murder took place before eight o’clock. If it took place after we had all gathered in the library, he or she would have of course had a bit more time.”
“Yes,” Robin replied. “The time of death is of no help, since the body was discovered so soon after the murder occurred. The police surgeon can’t pinpoint it any further than saying it occurred within an hour before we first arrived on the scene.”
“Rather frustrating,” I said. “But I believe I have figured out how it was done, and by whom.” I told him.
Robin listened in silence to my theory. That’s a bit elaborate, don’t you think, Simon?” He was skeptical, but he hadn’t offered any better theory of his own.
“Yes, it is,” I admitted, “and it hangs on at least two pieces of information. I hope to obtain the answers shortly. If I’m right about what I expect to hear, then I believe I’m right about the whole thing.”
“And what is it you’re waiting to hear? And from whom?”
“Now, Robin,” I said. “I must protect my source. I promise you, once I obtain the information, you will easily be able to verify it, and never mind how I got it I’ll let you know as soon as I can. Shouldn’t be long now.”
“Very well, Simon,” Robin said, but he was not best pleased by my answer. “I shall expect you here at Blitherington Hall within the hour.”
“Most likely,” I said before ringing off. Robin would be stewing a bit, but I couldn’t help that I couldn’t do anything more until I heard from Gosling.
The phone call came about half an hour later. While I waited, none too patiently, I could hear Vi moving about the cottage, humming and cleaning. I was too distracted to try to work while I waited, so I simply sat staring at the phone.
I snatched up the receiver on the first ring. “Hello?”
“Gosling here,” he said. “Found what you wanted. Have a pencil handy?”
I jotted down notes while he talked. First item, Jessamy Cholmondley-Pease, nee Macleod. Thirty-two years ago, when she was just seventeen, Jessamy Macleod had given birth to a child out of wedlock, a daughter. The father was listed as one Hezekiah Harwood. Gosling found a record of a marriage between Jessamy and Zeke three months after the birth of the child. When the daughter—who had been named Desiree—was about two years old, Jessamy had decamped, leaving her child in the care of the father.
Gosling had found no record of a divorce.
Desiree, I reckoned, must be Dittany. So Zeke had been her father, not her brother. That explained the gap in age between them. Not to mention Dittany’s dark mutterings about “family,” with which she had threatened her father.
Jessamy had had no further contact with father or daughter that Gosling had been able to determine. In fact, Jessamy had disappeared, more or less, until she had resurfaced in Snupperton Mumsley about fifteen years ago. Upon her marriage to Desmond Cholmondley-Pease, Jessamy Macleod Harwood had assumed a more socially advantageous position, particularly when her new husband’s political star began to rise.
A charge of bigamy, however, could tarnish that star. Jessamy did have, after all, a good motive for murder. But had she actually done it?
“Thanks, Paid,” I said. “You’ve done well, not that I expected anything less. But I do need one further bit of information, if you could oblige.”
“Not a problem, Simon,” he said. “What do you need?”
“A phone number,” I said. “I fear it may be ex-directory, however.”
Gosling laughed. “Piece of cake. Whose number you want?”
“I need the number of the flat of one Dittany Harwood, in London.”
“Hang on a tick,” Gosling said, and he set the receiver down. After a moment I heard the rustling of pages before he picked up the phone again. “You’re right Simon. I’ll have to make a quick call, if you’ll hold.”
“Certainly,” I said, and I waited.
Within three minutes, Gosling was back on the line. “Called a bloke I know, and he gave me the number.”
I jotted it down. Thanks, Paul. Just send me a bill, per usual.”
“Will do, Simon,” he said and rang off.
Useful chap, Gosling, as well as discreet he always seemed able to find out what I needed, and he never asked questions.
I picked up the receiver again and punched in the number Gosling had given me. After two rings, I heard a voice on the other end. Smiling, I hung up the receiver without saying anything.
Bingo. I was right.
Now I knew how it had been done and probably why.
Time to head for Blitherington Hall. I picked up the paper with Dittany Harwood’s phone number on it and slipped it into my jacket pocket along with my notes from Gosling’s researches.
“Vi,” I called. “Where are you?"
After a moment she appeared from the kitchen. “Just having a spot of tea, Mr. Kayjay. Is there summat you wanted?”
“Just to let you know that I’ll be going out for a while,” I said, pulling on my gloves and picking up my hat and sunglasses from the hall table. “Should anyone call, you have no idea where I’ve gone. Particularly if any member of the press should call or come to the front door.” I figured the press would be too busy haring off to Abingdon or camping out at Blitherington Hall to show up at Laurel Cottage, but you never knew.
“Right Mr. Kayjay. I’ll keep mum, never you fear.” Her smile was pathetically grateful.
“There’s a good girl, Vi,” I said. “If I’m not back by the time you’ve finished, just let yourself out the front door. It will latch behind you.”
Outside the sun still shone brightly, though clouds seemed to be moving in. Whistling merrily, I headed the Jag in the direction of Blitherington Hall. This would all soon be over, and Snupperton Mumsley would be all abuzz with Detective Inspector Chase’s clever solution to the murder of Zeke Harwood. I intended, as usual, to remain in the background, as far as the public were concerned.
The press cadre were at about half-strength in the lane leading to Blitherington Hall. I smiled. Even now, some of them must be on Mrs. Wickham’s doorstep in Abingdon, hopefully playing merry hell with her existence there. One good turn deserves another, after all.
Thompson answered my ring right away. No doubt Robin had told him to expect me.
“Good morning, Thompson,” I said, handing off my hat and gloves and tucking my sunglasses into my jacket “Is Sir Giles about anywhere?”
“Yes, Professor,” he said, “but the detective inspector did say as he wanted to see you straightaway upon your arrival, sir. Begging your pardon.”
“I’ll see him as soon as I’ve spoken with Sir Giles,” I assured him. “It won’t take but a moment but I must ask Sir Giles something first”
“Very good, sir,” Thompson said. “You’ll find Sir Giles in his sitting room, I believe.”
“Thank you, Thompson,” I said. I made haste for the stairs, because I wanted to be out of the way should Robin come looking for me.
Moments later, I knocked on the door to Giles’s sitting room. Obeying the command to enter, I walked into the room.
“Morning, Giles,” I said. “And how are you this morn-ing?”
“You seem rather chipper this morning, Simon,” Giles said, coming forward to greet me with a kiss. “I take it that you have this bally thing worked out?”
“Oh yes,” I said. “It will soon be over.”
“Would you mind telling me who did it?”
“In a moment, Giles,” I said, seating myself in a chair across from him. “But first were you able to ask Cliff what I wanted?”
Giles nodded. “Yes, Simon, I was. I believe you’ll be pleased with his answer. He said he couldn’t be entirely certain which door Limpley had come out of. It could have been either the door to Mrs. Rhys-Morgan’s room or the door of Harwood’s bathroom or sitting room. At that distance, and in that light, he couldn’t be positive. He had just assumed it was Mrs. Rhys-Morgan’s door, because afterward he had heard Limpley say he had been with Mrs. Rhys-Morgan.”
“Good enough,” I said. “Now, to answer your question.”
Giles sat with admirable patience as I ran through my explanation, which took a few minutes.
“That’s beastly complicated,” he said, his eyebrows knitted together in a frown of concentration. “Are you sure?”
“Pretty much,” I said. “I know it’s complicated, but I believe that’s what happened. It does sound like something out of a 1930s mystery novel, doesn’t it?”
Giles laughed. “It most assuredly does. But if you say that’s what happened, Simon, then I believe it must be true.”
“Now to prove it,” I said, “and there’s the rub.”
“You should be able to prove parts of it,” Giles said, “and if those parts are provable, then the rest must surely follow.”
“I think so,” I said. “But we’ll see. Now I must talk to Robin and tell him everything I’ve just told you.”
“Then what?” Giles said.
“Then, I think,” I said, smiling, “we must gather the suspects in the library, where All Will Be Revealed.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Giles and I proceeded downstairs to the library, where Robin and his sergeant, Harper, were discussing the case and waiting rather impatiently for my arrival.
“Hello, Robin, Sergeant Harper,” I said. “Sorry to delay you, but I had one more bit of information to collect before I joined you.”
“And what was that, if I might be so bold as to ask?” Robin was a mite testy, but I couldn’t really blame him. I felt a bit like Lord Peter Wimsey making the police dance to his time.
“Just this,” I said, then explained what Giles had learned, on my behalf, from Cliff Weatherstone.
“That does help, I suppose,” Robin said, though his tone was doubtful.
“It will, you’ll see,” I said, “but I think you’ll find this a bit more solid.” I pulled my notes from my pocket and informed him of the connection between Jessamy Cholmondley-Pease and Zeke Harwood.
“Well, I never,” Harper was moved to comment. Robin shot him an admonishing glance.
“Very damaging, Simon,” Robin said.
“Oh yes, and it will be quite embarrassing for the fair Jessamy when this gets about. She won’t be able to hold her head up in the village after this.”
“That might be the le
ast of her worries,” Robin said, grim-faced.
“Perhaps,” I said. “Now, Robin, do you have your mobile with you?”
Puzzled, Robin reached into a pocket and withdrew his phone. “Yes, why?”
“Be so good as to call this number,” I said. “It’s the number to Dittany Harwood’s flat in London.”
Robin forbore to assert that I had gone completely round the bend. Instead, he complied with my command. In a moment, someone answered at the other end. He was so startled he almost dropped the phone.
“Um, no, Thompson, thank you,” Robin said. “I believe I dialed this number by mistake.” He ended the call and tucked the mobile back into his pocket.
“Quite clever, wasn’t it?” I said. “It’s called something like Call Divert, I believe. We call it call forwarding in the States. Very handy when one’s going to be away from the home phone for a while and one doesn’t want to miss any calls.” I smiled. “Or if one wants to set up a fake alibi.”
“So much for her alibi, then,” Robin said. “Now I begin to see what you’ve been getting at, Simon.”
I smiled modestly. “Thank you, Robin. Of course, all this still remains to be proven. I have an idea about that, if you’ll play along, that is.”
Robin drew in a deep breath, as if anticipating bad news. “And what, pray tell, is this idea of yours?”
“Since I’ve been playing Miss Marple to your Inspector Craddock,”—Robin winced and did his best not to look in Harper’s direction—“or, if you will, my Poirot to your Japp, why not take it a step further? Assemble all the suspects here in the library, and let me have at them.” Harper could no longer restrain himself. He shook with mirth, and nothing Robin said could quell him, for at least five minutes.
“Be quiet, man,” Robin said finally, in complete exasperation. “This whole thing is bloody ridiculous, a right farce. Do you know what would happen to my career if this got out?”
“Now, Robin,” I said soothingly, “I’m sure Detective Sergeant Harper wouldn’t tell tales out of school. And once it’s over, and you’ve got the case wrapped, I doubt your superiors will care. This will look like a brilliant success for you. I assure you, I intend to take no credit for this. It’s all yours for the asking.”