by Amanda Cross
“William,” Kate said, “who was shooting the gun, you or . . . ?”
“I was. I had taken it from Leo to sight through the telescopic lens, and I said, ‘Here goes,’ and pulled the trigger. I didn’t think even with a telescopic lens I could hit anything. But of course I had the two hues crossed exactly at her temple. The trigger . . .”
“You could scarcely have missed at that distance,” Grace said, “if you’d been cross-eyed and suffering from astigmatism into the bargain. I used to shoot,” she said surprisingly, “when I was a girl in Montana. We didn’t have telescopic lenses, of course, but I could have hit that woman at that distance in my shooting days with one good eye. Why were they shooting guns, Kate? This may seem an odd time to ask the question, but I didn’t know about this morning target practice until just now.”
“Now that the woman’s dead,” Kate said, “I can’t imagine how I ever allowed such a thing. But when it was a boyish sport, it seemed somehow defensible. I remember defending it at dinner with Mr. Mulligan.”
“So Mr. Mulligan knew about the target practice. Did anybody else?”
“Everybody,” Emmet said. “Let’s face it, Kate, there’s nobody in the whole shining Araby valley who didn’t know, and most of them probably wrote and told their friends and relations. Mr. Pasquale knew, I’m absolutely dead certain Leo told him, and Mrs. Monzoni, and all the boys at the camp and Mr. Artifoni and the counselors.”
“Did Mr. Bradford know?” Grace asked.
“I’ll jolly well bet he knew.”
“Emmet!” said Kate. “Surely he would have said something.”
“Said something? He probably jumped for joy and slipped a bullet in the gun himself.”
“Emmet!”
“All right. And if either of you starts going nil nisi bonum etc., to me about that woman, I’ll scream, I promise you. She was a scourge and a menace, and I can’t see that her being dead means we have to lie to one another.” Emmet bent down to pick up his red cat and held it to him, stroking it. “I’m not saying her husband shot her. Had I been her husband, I would have beaten her to death slowly with wet ropes. What I am saying is that William didn’t really shoot her, and I think we should be determined that the police are going to know that.”
“He shot her in fact,” Reed said, coming into the room. “Kate, should we send Mrs. Monzoni down to help Bradford for a while?”
“How did he take it?” Grace asked, as Kate went off to the kitchen.
“He’s stunned. He went right on milking his cows. Hello, there are the state police.”
“Reed,” said Kate, returning, “the police.”
“All right, I’ll talk to them. Now let’s remember one thing. Ah, the sleeping Miss Chisana at last. Sit down, Miss Chisana, Kate will tell you all about it. For God’s sake, tell the truth, all of you. Don’t try to lie, or be heroic, or hide some idiocy because it sounds suspicious.”
“Is William going to be charged with having shot her?” Kate asked.
“I’m not certain of the legalities in Massachusetts. He’s certainly committed technical murder, probably in the third degree. But of course, as I believe I mentioned to you on another occasion, in another place, the police tend to regard the most obvious man with a certain interest.”
“William had no reason to kill her,” Lina said. “It isn’t as though he’d shot me.” William went over to stand beside her.
“O.K., everybody,” Reed said. “Here we go.”
“What have the police done so far?” John Cunningham asked. He was sitting at the table with Kate and Reed, gratefully consuming a large lunch. The others had gone upstairs except for William and Leo, who were shooting baskets outside.
“Not much,” Reed said. “They haven’t even removed the body, though they’ve covered it. The two state troopers who arrived can’t have been, either of them, a day over twenty-four, and though I guess people had been accidentally shot before, it had never been a question of murder. They have notified the sheriff, and he or his representative will be along shortly, supposedly with photographers and a medical examiner, if that’s what you call him in Massachusetts. It took all my persuasive powers to keep them from taking William away with them.”
“I take it,” Cunningham asked, “you’ve decided there’s no point in maintaining it was an accidental death?”
“Someone accidentally dropped a bullet into a gun?”
“It’s possible, you know. Every day of the week some kid loads a gun, or shoots one off accidentally. Perhaps someone was fooling around, heard someone coming, and left the gun loaded?”
“Who, for example?”
“What about the boy?” Cunningham asked.
“He swears he didn’t load it, didn’t even have a bullet for it or ever see one. I believe him, but I realize the sheriff might not,” Kate said. “Frankly, however, I’d rather believe in murder than try to hang an accidental death on Leo.”
“The gun was in the house always, except when those two morons were playing at target practice, is that right?” Cunningham asked.
“Yes.”
“Had they had their target practice on Saturday morning?”
“Yes.”
“Good. Then sometime during Saturday, or in the very early hours of Sunday, someone slipped a bullet into that gun. Someone who lived in the house is the most likely then.”
“Not at all,” Reed said. “We were all gone on Saturday afternoon. Anyone could have walked in. These country houses are never locked.”
“It’s really great,” Cunningham said, helping himself to more strawberries. “Nobody can have an alibi, because we can’t know when the bullet was put in, or for what time an alibi is needed. Nobody had to be within miles of the gun when it actually went off to have been the murderer. If I understand correctly your rather incoherent explanation of the prevailing situation, anyone, just about, from the families of the boys at that Araby Boys’ Camp sanitarium right down to Miss Fansler herself, had ample opportunity and knowledge to put the bullet in the gun. Furthermore—These are delicious strawberries, by the way; grown locally, I assume. I am glad to discover that the natives do something besides laying nefarious plots for one another.”
“I am happy to allow you your little joke,” Reed said, “and able, with extraordinary broadmindedness, not to envy the disinterest with which you sit there guzzling strawberries and cream. However, I do object to having my explanation called incoherent. The household may be somewhat lacking in, shall we say, the ordinary components of normal domesticity, but my account of it was, I think, exact to the point of crystalline clarity, don’t you agree, Kate?”
“I don’t think this incident can be helping your disposition,” John Cunningham said, “or perhaps you’ve become sensitive over the years, sinking into pampered bachelorhood. Sensitivity is not allowed to us married men with four children, and swarms of in-laws who agree among themselves only in disapproving of the way we raise our progeny.”
“Reed is the least sensitive, in a pejorative way, person I know,” Kate said, with a vigor that surprised her. “Perhaps a practice of criminal law in Boston has accustomed you to the regular appearance of the bodies of neighbors, scattered about. You may not be aware of it, but I am in the delightful position of having either my nephew or his tutor arrested for murder or manslaughter, unless I or one of my guests is arrested instead. I am beginning to think the only solution, as Lord Peter Wimsey would have suggested, is poison for three in the library. In any case, I see no reason for berating poor Reed. He seems to me the only thoroughly sensible person in the whole dismal situation . . .”
“Who will, no doubt,” Cunningham said, picking up her sentence and concluding it for her, “be able to prove that he is neither the murderer nor likely to perjure himself in defense of the murderer, should that person turn out to be a woman he loves or any member of her household. A
ll right, sit down, both of you, and stop thinking you can behave like characters in a Henry James novel with the sheriff and very possibly the district attorney on his way. I am, as you point out, a criminal lawyer. I assume that that, together with an incident in Reed’s and my past, is the reason you called on me at this juncture. Let us, therefore, try to see this whole situation as the police are going to see it, and not as we would like to have it represented in a beautifully wrought novel by a writer of exquisite sensibility. Keep quiet, both of you.
“Now.” Cunningham pushed away, with evident reluctance, the bowl of strawberries. “Assuming that this murder was not the result of any long-seated grudge, and consummated at this moment by an extraordinary stroke of ill-luck because this household had at last provided the opportunity—and I need hardly add that we shall do everything in our power to prove that exactly that is the case—the murder must have been committed by one of a given number of people. To start with those nearest to the victim, her husband or, I should think from what you tell me of her, practically any other member of her family. Does she have any other family hereabouts?”
“Not that I know of,” Kate said.
“Well,” Cunningham went on, “it does sound as though we ought to call the woman’s removal an act of sanitation and let it go at that. Still, a state that can blink at one murder, however desirable, will soon find itself blinking at thousands.”
“If you believe that,” Kate asked, “how can you be a criminal lawyer?”
“I don’t blink at murder. I defend men accused of it. Isn’t that rather a naïve question for a big, grown up girl like you?”
“There is no need,” Reed said, “to be offensive.”
“Nor any intention, I assure you. Still, you’re a district attorney, and when you find yourself with a body on your hands, you call a lawyer.”
“I was thinking of our friendship in law school.”
“Come off it, Amhearst. You two might as well accustom yourselves to a lot of straight talk, because that’s what you’re going to hear.”
“My apologies,” Reed said.
“And mine,” Kate added. “Though my remark was, believe it or not, inspired more by curiosity than malice. No offense in the world.”
“And none taken. Now. In addition to the husband, we have all the members of this household, each of whom loathed the victim, many for personal reasons, the others perhaps for personal reasons we are not aware of. I gather the delightful lady was not above a spot of moral blackmail, and in fact took particular pleasure in walking in on people in awkward situations, which reaches beyond this household to Miss Chisana and to Mr. Padraic Mulligan.”
“You’re not going to have to tell anybody that!” Kate said. “You swore when we were frank about these things that—Look, I have betrayed a solemn trust because of the seriousness of the circumstances, but I did so only on the understanding . . .”
“Of the seriousness of the circumstances. There you go again, all purity and righteous indignation. Remember, the police are going to find out a good deal, and we have got to know more. Whether or not we use our information is a decision which can and must wait for a later time. It’s no good sweeping dirt under the carpet, if the first thing the police are going to do is lift up the carpet and inspect the floor beneath it with a microscope. What was I talking about?”
“Mr. Mulligan?”
“Ah yes, and Miss Chisana. Then we have Mr. Artifoni, according to my list, he of the A.B.C., who appears to have a pretty motive . . .”
“Hardly a motive for murder.”
“Perhaps a motive for a murder that was supposed to be, for all intents and purposes, undetectable. Then there are the Pasquales, of whom Mr. works in your garden, and Mrs. works for Mr. Mulligan. Then there is Mrs. Monzoni, whose loathing of the victim was expressed to every possible person on every possible occasion. These named, we have remaining, apart from person or persons unknown to us, only the members of this, you must pardon me, my dear lady, eccentric establishment. A small boy; his tutor, who seems vowed to a life of celibacy while passionately in love, and suffering from a block in his dissertation. Another doctoral candidate, acting as scholar and researcher, who seems to combine the manner of Oscar Wilde with the sex life of Frank Harris. He is in need of a shot in the arm, academically speaking, and who knows—do you, dear lady?—what he may have found among the late Mr. Lingerwell’s papers—all right, make a note and tell me later. Then we have the two female guests—Lina Chisana, apparently a brilliant young woman of enormous vitality and charm, temporarily encumbered with the weighty burden of virginity, and Professor Grace Knole . . .”
“She is completely without either motive or opportunity.”
“And therefore deserving of special attention.”
“She is seventy and extremely illustrious with no conceivable . . .”
“No doubt you are right. At the same time I could enlighten you with tales of seventy-year-olds of illustrious reputation who went beautifully off the rails in a last, desperate bid for power or experience.”
“Surely,” Reed said, “that occurs somewhat earlier in life.”
“In most cases. Exceptions, while statistically small, may be numerically staggering. To these we add you two, but let’s for the moment assume your innocence established. After all, you’re hiring me.”
“Yes,” Kate said, “about your fee.”
John Cunningham waved a dismissive hand. “Don’t worry about that now,” he said grandly. “We have more important things to discuss. Besides,” he added, “I stopped long enough this morning in my pursuit of relevant information to determine that you are related to the Wall Street Fanslers, half a dozen of whom are, I understand, your brothers.”
“Cunningham,” Reed said, “I hope it is clearly understood that any debts to be incurred by this investigation or defense . . .”
“Reed,” Kate said. “This is my eccentric establishment, as Mr. Cunningham calls it, and it was my maniacal permission which allowed the gun to be shot off, neither of which did you approve of for a single instant. You included, if memory serves, the entire rural ambiance of your condemnation. So I will not have you assuming any financial responsibility . . .”
“Ladies and gentlemen.” Mr. Cunningham stood up. “Perhaps my joking is on the heavy-handed side, though it you get an idea that I’m a crude bastard, we will get along in this investigation rather faster. Let’s talk about fees when we know if there’s any case here at all, and whether this will ever go to court. In the event that either of you turns out to have murdered the loathsome lady in a fit of misspent passion, I shall gracefully retire from the scene, and you can call in Louis Nizer. Ah, a car. The gentlemen, I doubt me not, from the Commonwealth of Massachusetts, Berkshire County, or do you think they’ve called in an assist from the Boston Police Department? Now, let me do the talking at first, except when a question is asked directly of you, and answer then as simply as possible. Remember, the abilities of the police to appreciate the complexities of a novel by Henry James, or even Jane Austen, if it comes to that, are considerably less than mine, and I suppose you’ve gathered by now that mine would hardly win me a bachelor’s degree from a backward agricultural college.”
Reed, coming up to stand behind Kate, put his hands on her shoulders as John Cunningham went forward to greet the authorities.
Chapter Seven
Two Gallants
The two men who entered seemed courteous enough. Kate realized, a bit guiltily, that she had built them up in her mind as ogres. John Cunningham stepped forward to introduce himself and, having introduced Reed as an assistant district attorney of New York County, indicated his own position as counselor to Miss Fansler. The two Berkshire County officials, while greeting with definite cordiality a professional peer, seemed to Kate’s perhaps oversensitized perceptions, to fear his allowing their camaraderie to lead to unorthodox, unwelcome
familiarities. But Reed continued to efface himself, to their relief, and they addressed their questions, mostly to Cunningham, but partly to the room at large. Kate had the impression that should she insist on speaking for herself, she would meet with distinct, if veiled encouragement.
“Your colleagues, I gather,” John Cunningham said, walking to the window, “are proceeding with their accustomed rituals out of doors. They have located the body?”
“Yes, thank you. They’ll be busy for quite a while outside. Then, with your permission, they will come inside. Might I ask to see the murder weapon and the young man who fired it named”—here he consulted a note—“William Lenehan? The men can then get started with the ballistic and fingerprint problems.”
Cunningham turned questioningly to Kate. “The gun is on the back porch,” she said. “I’m certain it will be fraught with fingerprints, if that’s the right phrase. William is outside playing basketball with Leo, About Leo . . .”
“I’m certain,” John Cunningham interceded, “that we need have no fears about Leo, The gentlemen here will talk to Leo, a minor, only in your presence, and with your permission. Perhaps he ought to come in so as not to witness the removal of the body.”
One of the men, at a nod from the other, disappeared to direct the fingerprinting of William and the gun, and the return indoors of Leo. He reappeared shortly.
“Who exactly is the owner of this house?” the first man, who in his companion’s absence had reminded Kate that his name was Stratton, inquired. He had the air of one who begins with simple matters.
“Miss Fansler,” Cunningham suddenly said. “Who does own this house?”
“Miss, or perhaps Sister, or would it be Mother, Lingerwell.”
“I beg your pardon,” Mr. Stratton said.