An Exhibition of Murder

by An Exhibition of Murder (retail) (epub)

  Chapter Fourteen

  Violet walked as if in a dream. Jasper had come to the theatre. He had found Anton. How, she didn’t understand. But it didn’t matter now. He had found him. He had heard his story. Was that good or bad? She couldn’t tell. Her knees were jittery and her head hurt from crying. She should never have come to the place where he performed. But she had needed to see him, see his face, hear his voice, ascertain he still loved her. Even after her outburst in the park and…

  Did he think she was mad? Would he reject her, leave her?

  She would rather kill him than let that happen.

  She clenched her hands into fists. Jasper appeared beside her, wanting to support her but she shook him off. ‘You’re ruining everything. I asked you to come and protect my father. You let him die and now, instead of looking for his killer, you hound me and the man I love. Can I help it that I love him, or that he loves me? We are both young and we love the same things. It’s only natural we love each other. It’s not natural that I should love a man much older than myself.’

  ‘You mean, Erneste Demain? Has he ever approached you in an unseemly manner? Did you decide for that reason to blame him for Karl Müller’s accident?’

  Of course she had not. But this was a very convenient way out. ‘Yes. On the excavation site he invited me to come and see some discoveries. He told me he valued my company and wanted to get to know me better. I told him I only saw him as my father’s partner. Then he turned mean and said that I would soon enough accept his offer of marriage. I don’t know what he meant by that. But I assume now that he was planning to kill my father, like he had already killed Müller, so I would be forced to marry him and he’d have everything he’d always wanted.’

  As she said it, she could about believe it. That terrible man with his smooth speech and chubby little hands. The idea of him ever touching her was revolting. Jasper would think so too.

  ‘Why would Demain have had to kill your father to marry you? Would your father not have agreed to a marriage between you and Demain? He himself was engaged to be married and might welcome his daughter setting up her own household as well.’

  ‘No, never. He adored me. He was insistent on me and Iris coming to live with him and Beate here in Vienna. He didn’t expect me to marry and move away.’

  ‘But Demain was his partner and a respectable man. He might have won your hand, had he talked to your father.’

  ‘My father would have asked my opinion and I would have told him no in no uncertain terms. He would have accepted that.’ She tried to put conviction in her voice.

  Jasper shook his head slowly. ‘Your father was a practical man who made alliances for his own profit. He became engaged to Beate Herziger, not because he cared for her, but because her father’s connections could have helped him progress in his career. Would he not have given you to Demain if that could help him?’

  Like a toy, a pawn, a thing without feelings.

  She could just beat Jasper for suggesting it. But she caught on to what he had said first. ‘So you are aware my father never cared for Beate? At first she thought he did care. She thought so for a long time. But I think she didn’t think so anymore. When I saw her face after he died, there was no sadness in it. Perhaps she didn’t care for him like she used to. Perhaps she killed him.’

  ‘You think a woman may have killed him?’

  ‘Why not? If the emotion was strong enough. Beate is very proud. She likes to think of herself as some empress. She would never have accepted any form of humiliation. Yes, she could have killed him.’

  ‘I thought you wanted me to believe Erneste Demain killed your father.’

  ‘I think so but I could be mistaken. There were many people who didn’t like my father, who were jealous of him or hated him. Any of them could have killed him.’

  For a moment she was afraid she had put too much fervour into the assertion and that he would ask her, with insidious calm, if she herself had hated her father enough to see him dead.

  But he didn’t.

  Of course not. He had no idea.

  Jasper walked close beside her as if he thought he might have to catch her if she stumbled. She tried to read his thoughts from his expression but it was illegible to her.

  Finally he said, ‘I’m convinced your father had made many enemies. And the exhibition opening presented an occasion where people walked about and could approach him freely. Any one of the people who wished him harm could have gone there. I mean, if even Anton Müller could get in without a problem, it was even easier for those closer to your father, was it not?’

  Perhaps this question was a trap? She wasn’t sure.

  Her palms filled with sweat. She could vaguely recall her outburst at the theatre but not what exactly she had said. Always, when she lost her temper like that, the events faded away quickly and she was left with an uneasy feeling she might have acted wrongly somehow. Hurt someone, even.

  Jasper said, ‘It’s still a long way to your father’s house. You must allow me to halt a cab and escort you there.’

  She nodded. In the cab they would be prevented from speaking about painful subjects. It would save her from herself.

  * * *

  At the house the butler let them in. Iris Phelps came from upstairs. She rushed over to Violet and took her hands in hers. ‘Dear girl, your hands are like ice. Did something happen?’ She cast Jasper a sharp look. ‘We’d better take you up for a rest. Excuse me, Inspector…’ She led the young woman away.

  Jasper said to the butler, ‘I will wait for Miss Phelps in the drawing room. In about fifteen minutes tell her that I’m waiting to speak with her about an urgent matter.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ The butler took him into the drawing room and he seated himself on a sofa, studying the beautiful objects of art placed all around the room. There was no hint a widower lived here. Had Violet done this? If she had, her taste was impeccable.

  The door opened, and Jasper looked up with a jerk. Iris Phelps came in. She crossed to him and stood with her head down. ‘I believed you would want to talk to me from the moment I saw you beside Violet. I wish it had never come to this, but it can’t be avoided now. I can only hope you will treat this matter with the utmost discretion.’ She turned away from him and paced the room. Her agitation surprised Jasper as he had previously believed her to be in control at all times. But she obviously was now torn about her own behaviour.

  He asked softly, ‘Is it about Violet?’

  ‘Yes. We have kept it a secret from the world. To protect her, you see, to ensure she has a future ahead of her, a chance of a good marriage.’ Iris halted and raised a hand to her face. ‘Oh, Inspector, as a woman who never married, I know how important it is to have some sort of perspective. To believe it can still happen. If the truth became known, Violet would be shunned.’

  Jasper eyed her. ‘Is she mentally ill?’

  ‘No, of course not. She’s traumatised. By sudden death around her.’ Iris wrung her hands. ‘First her mother. Then a servant on the estate. At boarding school a classmate drowned when she fell out of a boat during a rowing trip. And then, at the excavation, that poor man Müller. Violet had dreams of him crying for help. She had this preposterous notion she should have somehow saved him. She blames herself for all the deaths. But I can tell you, honestly, she had nothing to do with them. It’s just her impressionable nature.’

  Iris stood and eyed Jasper. ‘After Müller died, her dreams got worse. Her nightmares about blood and… Her father believed she should see someone who might help her. I told him not to do this as it might taint her reputation if even just a whisper of it got out. But he insisted. He was such a persuasive man when he got something in his head. Oh…’ She banged her fist in the palm of her hand. ‘He wanted her to see someone who works with the dream analysis described by Freud. He told her to keep a notebook of all of her dreams.’

  ‘That therapist told her that?’

  ‘No, Sir Peter did. He told her that she had to write down
her dreams and that once he had found the right person to treat her, she could share the book with him. I was against it. I had…’ Iris swallowed. ‘She had told me once or twice what her dreams were about. It was horrible. I didn’t want her to write that down. I didn’t want anyone to know about it. But Sir Peter wanted to have things his way. That was the man he was.’

  Jasper wondered for a moment how far Iris Phelps would go to protect her protégée. Had she killed Sir Peter in an argument about getting treatment for his traumatised daughter?

  Iris said, ‘Violet wrote down her dreams in the book every morning. It made her even more upset because she had to put the horrors into words. She often cried when she was done. I begged her to stop and ignore her father, but she had this silly hope that the therapist could explain the nightmares to her and take the worries from her mind. I agreed that she couldn’t keep living with this idea that she was somehow guilty, so I relented and let her keep a diary of her dreams.’

  Iris raised a hand to her face. ‘But it didn’t get better. Only worse.’ She swung to face Jasper. ‘She walks about the house like a sleepwalker. She is out of doors and collapses. This will damage her reputation for certain. No one will want to marry her.’

  Jasper thought of young idealistic Anton Müller but didn’t say anything. Iris would not be pleased with his interest.

  Iris sighed. ‘Now you know everything. And if you can think of a way to protect her, you must tell it to me. I will not let anyone harm her.’

  If Erneste Demain had died in that room with the golden mask on his face, Jasper would have thought it had been Iris Phelps trying to prevent a marriage to the man who had tried to force himself on Violet on the excavation. But it hadn’t been Demain. It had been Sir Peter, her own employer, the father of the girl she loved so dearly. So it seemed highly unlikely Iris was the killer. Iris was concerned about Violet’s conviction that the girl was responsible for the deaths recurring around her, and would of course never allow Violet to believe in yet another death caused by her or indirectly through her.

  Iris came over. ‘Tell me how to help her.’

  ‘I don’t know. I’m not a psychiatrist.’

  ‘But you do have knowledge of the human mind. You can talk to her and persuade her she has done nothing wrong. If you, a policeman, can clear her, she would believe you.’

  ‘Clear her of what?’

  ‘Of the notion that she killed Karl Müller. That the cries for help she hears in her dreams are the real cries she heard when she caused the burial chamber’s wall to collapse on top of him.’

  Jasper tightened under her tone. ‘Does she think that she caused that? Why?’

  Iris sighed. ‘Müller never liked her. He avoided her and she didn’t know why.’

  ‘Surely, that would have been no reason to kill him.’

  ‘Of course not. She didn’t harm him at all. But after he died, she was certain that her dislike of him, spawned by his dislike of her, had caused his death. That her thoughts of not caring whether he lived or died had somehow—’

  ‘Become a reality.’ Jasper nodded. ‘Do you know if… That servant who died and the girl in boarding school, did Violet dislike them as well?’

  Iris Phelps looked away. That gesture and her reluctance to answer told him enough.

  So Violet Treemore had at certain times in her life disliked people around her and then after a while these people had died. By accident, but still. She had started to believe they died because she wanted them to.

  Jasper didn’t believe in something so intangible. He did know, however, that people could commit crimes and then have no memory of them, or twist the situation around in their minds to present it to themselves in a different light. Was Violet such a person?

  ‘What did you think of her ideas about having caused these people’s deaths?’

  Iris seemed startled. ‘Me? I am but a companion. I read books, yes, but I never went to a fancy college in Oxford. I don’t know about the workings of the human mind. I only wish Sir Peter hadn’t tried to force her to see this therapist. It made it all worse.’

  Jasper thought hard. ‘This dream book of Violet’s, where is it now?’

  ‘I don’t know. It’s not in her room. I looked for it this morning.’

  ‘Why?’

  Again she didn’t face him.

  He asked, ‘Did you look for it so you could destroy it?’

  ‘Yes.’ Her eyes were ablaze with defiance. ‘Can you blame me? A man who never listened to my advice forced his daughter to write down horrible nightmares which made her believe she was somehow a depraved person. He then wanted to send her to one of those therapists who believe dreams are a cry of the soul and betray our deepest feelings. I knew what the cry of her soul was: for her father to love her for her, instead of making her feel like she should have been a boy.’

  Iris almost burst into tears. She composed herself with an utmost effort. ‘I did not agree with what Sir Peter did to Violet. And I want that to stop now that he is dead. But the dream book is no longer there. I don’t know who has it.’

  Did Anton Müller have it? Jasper wondered. Had he read through it and realised Violet was volatile and easy to use? Had he persuaded her to kill her father so the man he hated was removed from the scene and he could flee Vienna with her and the golden mask?

  But why would he take along a girl capable of murder? Someone so unreliable and explosive?

  Of course he had not actually fled with her. And when she had unravelled in the theatre, he had acted helpless and concerned, but never denied that something might be wrong with Violet. Had it been very convenient to him that Jasper had witnessed Violet’s breakdown? Had it all been staged by Anton?

  Like one of his illusions?

  He raised a hand to his face and rubbed his temple. He was going around in circles, getting no nearer to the truth. Truth came in the form of facts and solid knowledge, but in this case he had so little. And he couldn’t acquire it either. Take Karl Müller’s death. He could ask people who had witnessed what had happened. But were they telling the truth?

  They all might have reason to lie. And one of them had the best reason to lie of all. The killer.

  For Jasper was almost certain now Karl Müller had indeed been killed. He had to have been killed, because too many people were disturbed by his death and trying to cover their tracks, pointing the finger at others and muddying the waters.

  Iris Phelps said, ‘I’ve been honest with you, Inspector. Because I believe you will help me protect Violet.’ Her brown eyes stared deep into his.

  He said slowly, ‘Protect her at what price, Miss Phelps?’ He held her gaze. ‘Do we protect her even if she is guilty?’

  He saw the flash of fear in her eyes, the wild denial, then the sadness and the sense of defeat. He touched her shoulder a moment. ‘You did what you could. But it can’t go on. We must find out what really happened. If Violet is dangerous, we cannot let her roam around and harm others.’

  ‘She’s not dangerous.’ Iris shook her head with emphasis. ‘You must believe me. I’ve known her ever since she was a little girl. She’s never harmed anyone, only herself with these terrible thoughts.’ She bit her lip. ‘It’s all because of Jane.’

  ‘Jane?’ Jasper repeated, jerking under the name which Violet had mentioned during her lapse at the theatre.

  ‘Yes. Jane died when Violet was just four years old. She had been playing in the abandoned chapel on the grounds. She often played there although her father had forbidden it. She loved to crawl into hiding places. One afternoon she couldn’t get out anymore. She cried for help and Jane, who had come to look for her to take her in for tea, heard. The kind-hearted girl rushed inside to free the child. She managed to untangle her from the rubble her dress had been caught in and Violet ran outside. Then behind her back it happened: the balcony gave way and fell on top of poor Jane. She died within moments.’

  Buried alive, Jasper thought. Wasn’t it logical that Karl Müller’s dea
th had brought back these memories for Violet and prompted the dreams of him calling for her help? Of course she had felt guilty about the death of young Jane who had saved her from her childhood silliness only to pay for that kindness with her life.

  ‘Jane is the cause of it all really,’ Iris said. She released a long deep breath. ‘After that Violet was never the same. Like part of her had died in that chapel with Jane. I couldn’t bear to see her in such a state. I wanted her to be happy again. I gave her everything. I catered to all her wishes, followed her everywhere to make sure no one took advantage of her. But somehow there was always this shadow. And after Karl Müller died, and her father started talking about the dream book and therapy, Violet got worse. She told me many times she believed the therapist would clear her mind of these feelings of guilt, but—’

  ‘You think she believed the opposite?’

  ‘Yes. She was afraid he would tell her she was guilty.’

  Jasper nodded. ‘And do you know who this therapist is? I would like to speak with him if at all possible. I mean, her father had already engaged someone? Or was the treatment yet to start?’

  ‘Her father had indeed engaged someone. Just two days before the opening. He had asked him to come to the house and spoke with him here about what he, Sir Peter, expected of the therapy. Violet was very upset after the man left. I… I think she listened at the door.’ Iris’s lips twitched nervously.

  And then she decided to kill her father before the therapy started and her guilt was proven…

  Jasper almost shook his head at this macabre thought. ‘I need to speak to this man and learn what exactly he had to look into.’

  ‘Do you have to?’ Iris’s eyes pleaded with him. ‘Can’t you just find the killer? I mean, prove someone else did it? You know how to do such things.’

  ‘I need the name of the therapist,’ Jasper insisted. He had already thought up ways to get it by other means, if Iris did refuse to…

  But she said softly, ‘I trust you will be discreet with what you learn. His name is Kurt Baum.’