An Old-Fashioned Mystery

by Runa Fairleigh

  The Colonel grunted appreciatively as he watched the dry, grey slices fall off with perfect uniform precision. He glanced up to see who was doing such nice work, and for the first time saw their cook. His eyes bulged and his face turned a dangerously dark shade.

  “He’s an Oriental!” the Colonel said, pointing an accusatory finger.

  “Golly,” Sebastian said. “And I thought you weren’t supposed to be very perceptive.”

  “The last time I saw an Oriental holding a knife, he was coming towards me through the jungle, intending to plant it in my gizzard.”

  Mr. Ching glared at the Colonel, who frantically groped around the legs of his chair for his cane.

  “Now, dear,” Budgie said. “It’s only the cook.”

  “Cook my eye! I wasn’t in military intelligence for nothing. The man’s an enemy agent if ever I saw one!”

  Mr. Ching’s dark eyes flashed. He spat out a terse Mandarin phrase, then raised the carving knife and fork high overhead like a banderilla at a bullfight. The Colonel’s eyes bulged even further. He gasped and pushed back in his chair as Mr. Ching suddenly lunged forward.

  With a rattle of crockery, the cook plunged the knife and fork deep into the table in front of the Colonel, and stalked out of the room.

  Startled silence, then much throat clearing and nervous laughter around the table, until finally Sebastian, who’d always had a well-ordered set of priorities, got things back on track.

  “Well,” he said, “who’s going to carve now?”

  “How about Cerise?” Derrick said. “She should be able to do a good job. She went to medical school.”

  “Did you?” Sebastian asked.

  “For a while,” she reluctantly admitted.

  “Then you’re elected.”

  They managed to get the implements out of the table, and passed everything down to Cerise. She began carving, and, in fact, seemed to be nearly as proficient as Mr. Ching.

  “Why’d you leave med school, sweetie?” Violet asked as she watched Cerise work.

  “I didn’t like it.”

  “Oh? I thought I heard something else. Maybe I’m wrong, but didn’t Mousey tell me there was trouble, or a scandal, or—”

  “Carve your own damn roast!” Cerise said. She shoved the platter across the table towards Violet, and sat down heavily, folding her arms and staring stonily up at the cobwebs in the corner of the ceiling.

  Violet raised her eyebrows, then shrugged, and began to hack away at the meat.

  “Oh, dear,” Budgie said as she felt the temperature in the room drop still further. She glanced at Cerise, then quickly turned to Derrick on her left. “Have you been to university, too, dear?”

  “Why, yes. I studied history. Mostly Revolutionary War stuff, you know.”

  “Ah,” Drupe said from the opposite end of the table. “If memory serves, I recall that there was an incident involving this very island. Was there not?”

  Derrick momentarily went pale beneath his dark tan, then flushed. His brow furrowed deeply. “I’m afraid I never heard about that,” he said, staring down at his empty plate and fidgeting with his silverware.

  Budgie looked at him, then hastily said to Mr. Drupe, “My husband’s read all about that. Haven’t you, dear?”

  The Colonel, who’d been regarding Derrick with a peculiar expression, started. “What? No! Never heard of it! The woman doesn’t know what she’s talking about.”

  “But, dear—”

  “I said, old scout, that you don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  Budgie held her husband’s gaze, her little mouth pursed in tense annoyance, her body stiff, trembling slightly. With an effort she turned to Sebastian, trying to smile. “Did you go to university, dear?”

  “No, I didn’t. But I do study some chemistry. It’s kind of a hobby of mine.”

  “Oh, that’s interesting.”

  Violet looked up from her carving and smiled. “What Sebastian means is that he takes a lot of drugs.”

  “Oh.” Budgie looked between the identical faces of Sebastian and Violet, and could think of nothing else to say.

  The roast and the overcooked vegetables were passed around, and for a while the party ate in silence. Then the Colonel remarked that the meat tasted suspiciously like water buffalo, and that thought started him recounting, loudly and to no one in particular, his adventures in Mandalay.

  Budgie leaned over to Cerise and whispered. “You know, dear, don’t you, that the closest he ever got to Mandalay was a tube of Burma Shave.”

  Cerise looked at Budgie, smiled, then giggled.

  The Colonel, however, stopped in mid-sentence and glared furiously at his wife. “Watch it, old scout.” His voice was a throaty, threatening growl. “I think it’s time you went upstairs and got ready.”

  “But—”

  “Old scout, I said it’s time.”

  Budgie looked at her husband, then, averting her eyes from the others, stood up and left the room, her small, soft body shaking.

  This was the kind of incident to which observers could only respond with embarrassed silence, and thus the only sound for a while was that of the Colonel chewing energetically and hmphing from time to time.

  Finally, it was Derrick who spoke. “Mr. Drupe, you knew little Pinky’s father. What was he like?”

  “Why do you ask?”

  “Just curious. Little Pinky says she thinks I’m a lot like him.”

  Before the lawyer could make his usual judiciously noncommittal reply, the Colonel looked up and snorted.

  “Old Ripley!” he said. “You should be so lucky, old son. Now, there was a man for you. Quite a one for the ladies. I’ll say! No creature in skirts who was still warm was safe from him.”

  Derrick chuckled in a confident, man-to-man kind of way that indicated he too was known to indulge occasionally, and he seemed to puff up a little at the thought.

  Violet looked between Derrick and the Colonel, an expression of growing distaste on her face.

  The Colonel was now also chuckling. “Oh, yes. Quite something, I tell you, old son. You, of course, know about the Sill birthmark—that little sort of fin-shaped strawberry mark that every member of the Sill family has. Why, there must be all kinds of little bastards around the countryside with that mark on them. Yessir. Old Rip’s gone, but he’s not forgotten.”

  The Colonel and Derrick again began to chuckle. From across the table, Sebastian saw his sister’s blue eyes narrow threateningly and her hand involuntarily contort into a claw. He began a mental countdown, but to his surprise, the explosion occurred to his immediate left.

  Cerise leapt to her feet, overturning her chair. “You pigs! You vile, disgusting pigs!” she screamed, then ran out of the room.

  The Colonel looked after her and snorted. “Damned girl! What she needs is a damned good spanking.”

  Sebastian noted with interest the Colonel’s expression as he said this. “Tell me, Colonel,” he said pleasantly, “do you beat Budgie? Or do you have her beat you? Do you wear costumes? Is that what you meant by getting ready? Why, I bet that she has to wear a leather hood, while you put on something like—oh, I don’t know, maybe a little frilly tutu.”

  Sebastian grinned. From the Colonel’s look of mounting shock and horror, he knew he had just made one of those insanely wild shots that somehow end by miraculously hitting the mark dead-centre.

  The Colonel’s eyes seemed about to erupt out of his head, his face took on the appearance of an over-ripe Concord grape, and those around the table were convinced they were about to witness a massive hemorrhage. Instead, the Colonel made incoherent sputtering noises, and quick-marched from the room, the pounding of his cane marking time with every furious step.

  “I’m afraid poor Budgie’s going to have her little hands full,” Sebastian said quietly to himself.

  Just then Mrs. Hook set down the silver tray holding cream and sugar for after-dinner coffee. She sighed wearily as she cleared the abandoned plates fro
m the now-empty places, and slowly moved her grievously overworked body towards the door.

  Sebastian lifted the lid of the sugar bowl and looked inside, appearing dubious about what he saw. “I hope Mrs. Hook didn’t make a mistake and put the rat poison in the sugar bowl,” he said with a wink and a smile.

  Behind him there was a crash. Mrs. Hook stood as though paralysed, broken dishes scattered around her feet. She stared at Sebastian, a frozen grimace of utter terror and hatred distorting her square, flat features. Then she grunted, shook herself, and stomped out, crunching china beneath her sensible shoes.

  For the five remaining at table, what little appetite they’d started with was rapidly waning, and they poked listlessly at the food on their plates.

  “Well,” Derrick said, looking at his watch, “in just a few hours, my little Pinky becomes one of the wealthiest young women in the country.” He paused, then, trying to sound casual and unconcerned, asked, “Just how large is my fiancée’s estate, Mr. Drupe?”

  The lawyer squinted at him, and clicked his teeth. “Young man, that is hardly a proper question.” Drupe rose, picking up his briefcase from beside his chair, and left the room with an odd, crablike gait, as though he expected an assault from behind.

  Derrick repeated Drupe’s reprimand, attempting not altogether successfully to mimic the lawyer’s dry, raspy tones in his own mellow, oleaginous voice. Then he made an angry noise. “Hypocritical crock! One of the first things little Pinky’d better do tomorrow is get herself a new attorney.”

  “Assuming she shows up to do so,” Violet said.

  “Yeah. Damn Sillikins. What the hell is she doing?” Derrick paused, and his forehead creased as he suddenly recalled something that had puzzled him. “You know, a little while ago, she told me she’d always wanted to have a surprise party, but no one had ever given her one. Then she got a strange look on her face, and said this year’d be different.”

  “But that doesn’t make any sense,” Violet said. “You don’t throw a surprise party for yourself.”

  “I know. But that’s what she said.”

  Mrs. Argus, who’d sat quietly throughout the meal, looked up from the bone on which she was gnawing, her eyes shining manically. “Oh, there’ll be a surprise, all right!” She laughed in a way that made the listeners’ nerve endings tingle and shrink. “You’ll all have a big surprise.” She stood up and suddenly turned to Derrick, as though seeing him for the first time. A long, bony finger pointed. “You bet on black. But it came up red. It always comes up red. The colour of blood!” She cackled again, and sailed from the room, her black robe billowing behind her.

  “The booby’s hatched again,” Sebastian scowled. “She should’ve been put down years ago.”

  Derrick looked a little green beneath his tan, apparently quite shaken by Cassandra Argus’s delphic remarks. “What did she mean by that?”

  “Must’ve been about your gambling, don’t you think?” Violet said, offhandedly.

  “What are you talking about?” Derrick’s voice slid perilously up the scale.

  “You’re a gambler, aren’t you? Haven’t I heard that—”

  “No, you haven’t!” Derrick said, jumping to his feet. “I don’t know who’s saying such things, but it’s a lie. It’s a damn lie!” He threw his napkin to the table, and almost ran from the room.

  Sebastian watched the departure with raised eyebrows, mumbled something about protesting too much, then turned back towards Violet. “My, my. Everyone seems a bit on edge tonight. Well, I guess now it’s just the two of us, Sis.”

  “Sebastian, I have probably asked you a million times not to call me ‘Sis.’ It sounds like a slow leak.”

  With that, Violet stood up and walked stiffly from the room, leaving her brother alone at the long table.

  “More wine, Sebastian?” he said out loud. “No, thanks. I don’t think I will.” He tried to sound cheerful, but the large empty room muffled his voice, making it fall flat as soon as it left his mouth.

  He looked up at the high ceiling. The thick shadows on the wall seemed to him to be shaping themselves into pointing fingers and grasping claws.

  In the distance, there was a long roll of thunder. It seemed to speak of danger and menace.

  Sebastian, ordinarily irrepressible, shivered. He’d suddenly had one of those odd feelings of deep uneasiness that some of the others had already experienced.

  He got up and left the dining room, shutting the heavy door.

  The chandeliers moved slightly in an unseen draft. The shadows danced.

  The thunder rolled again.

  Nearer this time.

  CHAPTER SIX

  An hour or so later, the party had regrouped in the lounge. The outbursts of the dinner table had passed, but not without leaving a residue of embarrassment, discomfort, and tension. The feeling that something was about to happen was now more widespread, giving the room the atmosphere of a small-town bus station in the middle of the night, with the inter-state local two hours late and no new estimated time of arrival posted.

  Whatever conversations took place were quiet, sporadic, and desultory. Aunt Budgie knitted. Others leafed through the twenty-five-year-old magazines that they’d found. The rest just sat—thinking, dozing, or waiting.

  The ancient floor-model radio, as large as a liquor cabinet, was playing. The only station they were able to get featured music from the Big Band era. Reception was poor, with much static and many interruptions, as though the transmission had to come over not only many miles but many years as well.

  “I think we’re caught in a time warp,” Sebastian said to Cerise.

  The party seemed to emit a silent collective sigh when the approaching storm finally announced its arrival with a spattering of rain against the French windows. This was shortly followed by the full force of a late-fall storm—howling winds, flashing lightning, and thunder claps growing ever louder, as the storm centre moved closer.

  Suddenly there was a tremendous crash and an impossibly brilliant, green-white flare illuminated the room, followed almost instantly by a giant crash of thunder. Then the room was plunged into darkness.

  Startled cries and gasps, then laughter at the initial reaction.

  “Oh, dear!”

  “I say!”

  “Too damned close!”

  “Not close! Here! It is beginning!”

  “A fuse must have blown.”

  “That bat’s fuse blew a long time ago.”

  “Whoever you are, if you don’t remove your hand immediately, you’re going to lose it.”

  “You can put it here.”

  “Shut up, Sebastian.”

  “I guess a body’s got to do this, too,” Mrs. Hook said from the doorway. Then they heard her move complainingly down the corridor, open the door to the cellar, and clomp down the stairs.

  Silence for a long two minutes. Then a scream of total, absolute terror rose out of the basement, nearly shaking the house with its intensity.

  Sounds of surprise and confusion swirled around the lounge—“What was that?” “What happened?” “What should we do?”

  “Let Sebastian investigate,” Violet finally said.

  “Why me?”

  “Because you’re the one who’s explored the house.”

  “But Sis, you’re the one who should be able to see in the dark.”

  “Sebastian!”

  “Meow.”

  “Sebastian!”

  “Oh, all right. I’ll go.”

  Another few minutes passed slowly, then the lights came back on, soon followed by Sebastian’s return.

  He went over to Violet. There was a curious expression on his face, and he seemed even paler than usual. He held his lightly scented handkerchief up to his nose.

  “Your friend, Mousey—” he said, “—does she have short, light-brown hair?”

  “Yes. Dull brown.”

  “And that funny birthmark—sort of here?” He pointed to a spot on his shoulder.

&n
bsp; “Yes. What is this? Is she here? Have you seen her?”

  Sebastian hesitated, taking another deep breath behind his handkerchief. “Well, I’ve seen parts of her.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  “My god!”

  “Look at that!”

  “How terrible!”

  “I’m going to be sick!”

  The entire party, including the cook and housekeeper, stood in a semicircle around a heap of coal in the basement, trying to look anywhere but at the horribly mutilated, dismembered body of Rosa Sill.

  “Well,” Sebastian said, doing a quick estimate, “I guess that’s most of the hostess.”

  Cerise started to giggle, then quickly swallowed it. She averted her eyes and turned a bright red.

  “Sebastian!”

  “All right, Sis.” He held up his hands and moved to the other side of the basement.

  “Oh, dear. What do we do now?” Budgie said.

  “I think we’d better examine the…uh…” Violet gestured towards the coal pile.

  “What for?” Derrick said, a note of hysteria in his voice “Signs of life? My God!”

  “I think it would be preferable not to interfere with anything, Miss Cornichon,” Drupe said, squinting at Violet.

  “In a homicide investigation,” Violet said, evenly but with considerable authority, “the period immediately following the discovery of the body can be crucial. If proper steps are not taken on the spot, vital information could be irretrievably lost.”

  “Or irrevocably destroyed by blundering amateurs.”

  “I am not exactly without experience, Mr. Drupe.”

  “Yes, but of what sort? As an officer of the court, I must—”

  “You must do everything you can to further an investigation, not hinder it…as you have, from time to time, been known to do.”

  Drupe started to reply, but then clicked his dentures and fell silent.

  Violet turned to Cerise. “Sweetie, you’ve had the formal training. Do you want to do the examination?”