Cerise giggled nervously, Derrick looked blank, and Mrs. Argus stared up at the grey sky.
“No, it wouldn’t have,” Violet said. “That’s why I think he either killed or helped kill Mousey. I said at the time that I thought a skilled hand had been at work. And killing Mousey would have been necessary because she was the only one who knew Mrs. Hook and Mr. Ching were impostors. Then, if I’m right that Mrs. Hook was Hacker, all it took was that fresh taste of blood to start her off again. She did the next three on her own, Mr. Ching got scared, and he went back to his cleaver to take care of her. I know that’s another guess, but it does fit what’s happened. I also saw Mr. Ching sneak out of Drupe’s room, and he’s acted suspiciously at other times as well. It didn’t make any sense before, but now maybe it does.”
“And you know, Sis, I always had the idea that Mr. Ching knew more than he let on. He tried to look unconcerned, but I thought he was actually paying very close attention to everything. I think, though, that Mr. Ching may be this Hacker person, not Hacker’s accomplice. Don’t psychopaths often have a tendency to react violently to very slight provocations? Mr. Ching certainly did—positively exploded quite a few times for no apparent reason.”
Violet nodded. That was a good point, and one that she hadn’t considered. She made a mental note to be sure to include it in her account.
“I’m still confused,” Derrick said. “Is Mr. Ching Hacker, or is he the accomplice? Is he a psycho, or is he someone who found himself in a situation that was more than he bargained for? All these different things you’ve said don’t quite fit together.”
“Maybe not,” Violet said, “but there’s no point in worrying about that right now.”
“Thank God!” Cerise sighed, letting out a deep breath. “The nightmare is finally over.”
“I say! It is, isn’t it? At last!”
“That’s right,” Violet said. “We might as well all relax and try to enjoy ourselves until we’re picked up.”
Derrick, Cerise, and Sebastian nodded at each other, and smiled, and even laughed a little in relief. Their bodies suddenly felt loose and light, as the gigantic weight of tension and uncertainty and fear lifted, dissipating in the fresh cool breeze that had just started blowing across the water.
Violet smiled. Right, she thought, you all try to enjoy yourselves, and forget about everything that’s happened; I’ve got an outline to work on.
Mrs. Argus sniffed at the wind, then grinned and nodded her head.
“What is it?” Derrick asked. “Is a storm coming?”
Mrs. Argus grinned again. “I smell mortality.”
CHAPTER TWENTY
Mrs. Argus’s cheery forecast diminished no one’s sense of relief and release. Not only did Sebastian not make one of his usual comments, he even smiled somewhat tolerantly and sympathetically at the demented old bat. Even the task of carrying Mrs. Hook up to the house did not much dampen the rising spirits. For probably the first time since they arrived on Komondor Island, everyone felt pretty good.
After the body was deposited in the freezer, the others went off, but Violet lingered behind. She opened the freezer door and looked in. It was not a pleasant scene—large pieces of animals hanging from hooks and mutilated corpses lying on shelves and the floor—but Violet felt she had to study it in order to be able to describe it accurately. She thought that this might even be a good place to begin: “As I gazed into the walk-in freezer filled with the ghastly contents it was never intended to accommodate, I felt.…” Violet paused; what did she feel? She shivered. Chilled, mostly. “.… I felt a frisson of terror move up my spine. The nightmare was over, but the violent, terrifying events of the last three days would not be forgotten for a long, long time.” Hmm? Not bad.
Violet took Aunt Budgie’s pocket camera out of her purse. Thus far she had diligently photographed all of the crime scenes, but it seemed appropriate that the last frame on the roll should record this makeshift morgue. No other single picture could so dramatically epitomize their ordeal. She had originally taken the pictures to provide the police with necessary evidence. Now, while they were still welcome to a set of prints, that was all they would get. Her photographs would be a valuable addition to the book—“With eight pages of dramatic photographs of the events on the death island”—not to mention the pretty penny they would bring in from international wire services.
Violet shifted around, trying to compose the picture, but the angle of the lens was not wide enough to take in everything. Determinedly gritting her teeth, she stepped into the freezer, took Mrs. Hook by the arms, and pulled her a foot and a half towards the centre of the floor. She was about to let the arms drop when she noticed something interesting. The housekeeper’s hands had been clenched in fists at the time of death, and Violet now saw that there was a tiny piece of paper held between the thumb and the side of the forefinger. The fragment was so small that only a portion of one edge was visible, and thus it had been easy to overlook.
Taking a deep breath, Violet grasped the clammy hand and carefully pried up the stiffening thumb. The paper dropped to the floor. Violet put a card under it, picked it up, and examined it. The edges were ragged, but it was rectangular in shape, roughly one-half of an inch by one-quarter. From the smallness of the sample, it was difficult to be certain, but Violet thought the paper was the same as that used by Mousey for her letter accusing Mr. Drupe. The ink looked the same, too, as did the writing, though the fragment contained only five letters. While Violet was no longer actively detecting, she could not help being curious about the letters “illeg” that she looked at. Obviously, another page of that letter had turned up with Mousey accusing someone else of doing something illegal. But who? And what? And why did Mrs. Hook have the letter in her hand at the time of her death? Maybe she was a blackmailer after all, and the letter accused Mr. Ching of some illegal practice. But then neither Mrs. Hook nor Mr. Ching could be Hacker. Or maybe Mrs. Hook still could be if—
Violet shook her head. Derrick was right, this was awfully confusing. Violet was glad she no longer had to have all the answers. In fact, in a way, the more mysterious, complex, and convoluted this got, the better.
She put the letter fragment into a small glassine envelope that she had in her purse, and put it with the other pieces of evidence that were similarly protected. She must remember, she thought, to have all this stuff photographed before she handed it over to the police.
Violet went back to the doorway, saw that the scene through the viewfinder was perfect, and took the shot with a satisfying click. She closed the freezer door, and went upstairs.
As soon as Violet stepped into her room she sensed that something was wrong. A look around verified this. Although great care had been taken, and although there were no overt signs of disturbance, Violet was sure that someone had been in her room, going through her things. So, she thought, someone else is doing a little snooping, too. It was fortunate that she never left anything important lying around. Still.…Another quick inspection, and Violet had the impression that something might be missing after all, though she couldn’t figure out what.
She looked speculatively at the door to the bathroom connecting her room and her brother’s.
“I wonder…,” Violet whispered to herself.
It was early evening when Cerise came into the lounge. Sebastian was alone there, seated on a couch. He had changed into a T-shirt, on the front of which was printed, “If you have nothing good to say about anybody, come and sit next to me.”
Cerise smiled and did just that, bouncing a couple of times on the overstuffed cushion. The signs of strain that had been increasing on her face over the last three days had vanished, and she seemed happy and relaxed.
“My, my,” Sebastian said. “We’re certainly in a good mood, aren’t we?”
Cerise again smiled broadly.
“What was it you were worried about before?”
“About being killed, of course!” she said quickly. “Weren’t you?”
> “Sure. But I also got the idea there was something else.”
Cerise shook her head. “Don’t be silly. What else could there be?” She suddenly seemed very interested in the pattern of the carpet under her feet.
“Nothing, I guess.” Sebastian looked at her for a minute, then asked softly, “You thought it was you, didn’t you?”
She stared at him, her eyes round with alarm, and started to protest. Then she stopped and silently nodded her head.
“Why?”
Cerise hesitated a moment, then shrugged and smiled weakly. “For a while now I’ve been worried that I might be cracking up. You know, really going crazy.”
“Why in the world should you think that? Golly, compared to the people I know—even compared to the people around here—you could be selected Ms. Mental Hygiene without any competition.”
Cerise tried another smile but didn’t quite succeed. “Well, you see, I have these blank periods. I don’t know if I black out or doze off or go into a trance or what. All I know is that some time has passed—usually not all that much—and I can’t account for it.”
Sebastian nodded. “I thought that might be it. Look, didn’t I tell you this morning that that happens to me all the time? It’s no big deal. Why, I once lost an entire year—1974, I think. I can remember being at a New Year’s Eve party and feeling that I had to rest for a few minutes. When I woke up, the party was still going on—only it was a different party, a year later. Talk about blanks!”
Cerise looked sceptically at Sebastian, then laughed.
“No, really!” he said. “The only way I was able to reconstruct that year even partially was through a stack of credit-card bills and several lawsuits that were waiting for me.” Cerise laughed again and Sebastian smiled. “Besides, what makes you think that you do something awful during these blanks? You probably go out for a walk, start thinking about something, get lost in thought, and the next thing you know you’ve gone several blocks and you have no idea how you got there. Everybody experiences that. Have you ever found yourself doing something terrible, something violent, something really out of character?”
“No, but—”
“Well, there you are.”
Cerise seemed unconvinced. “There is some instability in the family.”
“Welcome to the club.”
“And there was an incident a few years ago.…”
“Connected with these so-called blanks?”
“Not as far as I know. But thinking about it now, I’m not so sure.”
“Then stop thinking about it, silly. Look, as far as I can tell—and having had lots of experience, I’m a pretty good judge of these things—the only thing at all crazy about you is that you think you’re going crazy. That in itself should reassure you. The ones you really have to watch out for are those who think they’re on top of things and everyone else is out of step.”
“You’re sweet to say that, but still—”
“But, but, but!” Sebastian said. “You want more reassurance? Just look around you. Mrs. Argus has been listening to a different drummer for so long that she’ll never get back to the parade. And speaking of blanks: our friend Derrick seems asleep on his feet half the time; that hum you hear when you stand next to him is the sound of disengaged gears. I’ve told you about my little adventures. My sister has had her share as well.”
“Violet? Really? She always seems so in control of everything.”
Sebastian shrugged. “Well, maybe she is now—I don’t know—but it wasn’t always that way, believe me. You talk about doing things you’re not aware of, there were times when she was younger when her left hand literally did not know what her right hand was doing. This usually occurred during times of stress. Why, I can remember one time when she cut up all her clothes—ripped them to shreds in the midst of some adolescent trauma—and then had no recollection of doing it. So when she saw them, she naturally got very upset. She accused me of destroying her wardrobe, and I don’t believe she ever accepted the fact that she herself was responsible. Very strange. And then there was the business of the butchered cat.…”
“Cat?”
Sebastian shook his head. “No, forget I said that. I may have had my suspicions, but we never knew for sure what had happened to the poor creature.”
“You think that Violet.…”
“No, forget it. I don’t think anything, and besides it was a long time ago. The point is, you can see that your fears are really pretty minor league, and seem to be based upon very little.”
Cerise slowly nodded her head and relaxed. “I know you must be right. I guess I was just being neurotic. And besides, it couldn’t be me anyway, could it?”
“Not any more, it couldn’t.…By the way, I wouldn’t mention any of this to Violet. She tends to be a little sensitive about such things. I mean, she won’t even admit she’s in therapy. Now, really! Who cares?”
Just then the subject of Sebastian’s confidences looked in the doorway. “Did you notice that Mr. Ching laid out dinner on the sideboard before he left?”
“Yes, I saw,” Sebastian said. “Very thoughtful of him. What do you suppose is in the big pot?”
“I think it’s a stew of some kind.”
“But it’s all sort of green and slimy.”
“Yucko,” Cerise said with a shudder. “Considering the circumstances, I think I’ll pass.”
“Wise decision,” Sebastian said. “But considering what we’ve been served so far, the circumstances hardly matter. Rather than eat another of Mr. Ching’s creations, we’d be better off tucking into one of Mrs. Hook’s strychnine soufflés, or her arsenic en croûte.”
All except Mrs. Argus seemed to agree with this, and while the others opened a few cans for themselves, the old woman happily put away a large portion of what Mr. Ching had prepared. Sebastian remarked that that was proof of her severe derangement, but to his disappointment, Mrs. Argus apparently suffered no ill effects from her foolhardiness.
After their meal, the five remaining members of the house party were again in the lounge. Cerise and Sebastian sat together. She giggled almost continuously as he related an outrageous narrative involving people and events that might have been absolutely factual, heavily embroidered, or wholly wishful. She had no idea which, nor did she care. Violet scowled at each new burst of laughter, but continued to scribble furiously in the notebook resting on her knees. Derrick, deeply immersed in a book on eighteenth-century cryptography, occasionally grunted to himself and jotted down the odd note on a piece of scratch paper. Mrs. Argus sat quietly, hands folded, looking as though she were waiting for something. Outside, the wind was blowing harder.
Suddenly, there was a pounding on the front door that made everyone except Mrs. Argus jump in his seat.
“Thank God!” Cerise said. “Help has come at last! We can finally get away from this place!”
Mrs. Argus laughed indulgently. “There is no help. Death is at the door.”
“Oh, shut up for once, you old bag!” Sebastian said. “Do you have any idea how tedious and boring you are?”
Led by Cerise, they left the lounge. Mrs. Argus, murmuring happily to herself, remained behind.
The light in the entrance hall was out. As they approached the front door, they felt that something sticky had been spilled on the floor, but in the darkness they couldn’t see what.
“Well,” Sebastian said, “Mrs. Hook’s housekeeping was about as good as Mr. Ching’s cooking. Sis, your friend Mousey sure could pick ’em.”
There was another bout of heavy pounding on the door, but for some reason, they all held back. Finally, Cerise took the last two steps and pulled open the door.
At first she was confused, not understanding what she was seeing. Then she understood. Then she screamed. Then she screamed again.
She was looking into the pale face of Mr. Ching. Only for the first few seconds it seemed to her that he didn’t have any body. Then she saw that he was hanging upside down, his head directly in fron
t of hers.
He was wearing the missing wetsuit and swim fins. He was suspended by a rope tied around his ankles. His throat had been cut, almost from ear to ear.
He was very, very dead.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
“My, my,” Sebastian said. “he’s certainly well hung. Which, in my experience, is unusual for Oriental—”
“Sebastian, will you please shut up!” Violet said. “There are times when your irrepressibility should be mercilessly squashed.”
Irrepressibleness must have run in the family, though, because it seemed that the Society-Girl Detective was once more back on the case.
Or at least there was now a case to get back on…a thought that hit each of them almost like a physical blow.
“I hate to mention it, but what do you suppose it is we’re standing in?” Sebastian said, shifting his feet with a sickeningly squishy sound.
“I say! My Guccis!” Derrick cried, leaping backwards.
Cerise was not worried about her canvas shoes, but she too backed away from the door, eyes riveted with horrified fascination upon the thing that swayed in the opening. She began to shake her head from side to side, as though in denial of some terrible accusation.
Sebastian moved next to her. “Hey, you’re not thinking that you might have…I mean, you’re not still worried about what we talked about before, are you?”
Cerise looked at him but said nothing.
“Well, you do know that we’ve all been together for quite a while. What were you doing before you came down?”
Cerise continued to stare at him, then said, “I took a nap.”
“Well, then, there you are. You were asleep.”
She moved back a step. “Was I?”
An Old-Fashioned Mystery Page 16