There was a peculiar look in her eyes, and an edge to her voice—as though inside her a harsh laugh was rising uncontrollably—that gave Sebastian a decidedly uncomfortable feeling. He went outside and joined Violet and Derrick, who were staring up at the window out of which the rope descended.
“Whose room is that?” Violet asked.
Sebastian looked up at the second floor. “There’re so many rooms, I’m not sure, but I think it’s the old bat’s.”
“Mrs. Argus’s?” Violet looked around. “Where is she?”
“She’s always disappearing,” Derrick said.
“Never for long enough,” Sebastian muttered.
“I guess we’d better have a look,” Violet said.
They went back into the house, looking first in the lounge, but Mrs. Argus was no longer there. Then, with Violet leading the way and Cerise trailing, they went upstairs and found that Mrs. Argus’s room was indeed the source of the rope. The end of it was tied securely around the foot of the radiator in front of the window.
They stood just inside the doorway for a minute, staring at the scene that, in its simplicity, was almost more sinister than the grisly spectacle down below. Then Derrick, with an interested expression, crossed the room, bent down, and examined the knot in the rope. He stood up and thoughtfully rubbed his sleek chin.
“You know, that’s a sailor’s knot,” he said.
“Oh, really?” Violet said. “Didn’t Budgie tell me that Mrs. Argus had been quite a sailor in her youth? Of course! And that Mousey’s mother had died in an accident when they were out together.”
“That’s right, she did say that,” Sebastian said. He started to add something, reconsidered, then decided to go ahead anyway. “I know this might strike some of you as being a little too simple,” he smiled at Violet, “but might not this be another ‘Purloined Letter’?”
“What?” Derrick said. “Is another letter missing?”
Sebastian, displaying remarkable restraint, merely sighed. “I meant, isn’t it possible that the solution is so very obvious, so out in the open, that we’ve failed to see it?”
“Huh?”
“We’ve been looking for a maniac, right? Well, all the time, there’s been one person flitting around who’s unquestionably deranged.”
“You mean one besides you?”
Sebastian smiled at his sister, who, he knew, had difficulty accepting with much grace a good idea not her own. “I’m not denying that I may be a bit off-centre, but still.…”
“You mean—” Derrick motioned to the room they were in, and Sebastian nodded.
Violet rolled her eyes. “Oh, come on. He’s just saying that because he doesn’t like the woman.”
“Of course I don’t like the old bag. She gives me the creeps. But does that mean she couldn’t be the one? As I said, is it too obvious for you, Sis?”
Violet didn’t answer, but sat down heavily on a small, chintz-covered armchair.
“I say, Violet. I think your brother may have something.”
Oh, he undoubtedly had lots of things, Violet thought, none of which any sensible person would want to catch. However, she just looked at Derrick and asked, “Why?”
“Well, for starters—like your brother said—she is crazy. That’s pretty clear.”
“And?”
“And she’s always disappearing and then popping up when we least expect it.”
“And?”
“And she keeps saying things are going to happen, and they do. Why, not ten minutes ago, she said that Death was at the door, and it was.”
“A dead person was at the door. That’s not the same thing.”
“It’s close enough for me. And that’s not the first time she’s done that—said things were going to happen before they did. Now, how could she do that unless she was the one who was doing them?”
Violet made a face. “You just said she was crazy. One of the things that makes her crazy is that she says crazy things. If you want to attribute all kinds of meaning to her cryptic remarks, that’s your affair, but isn’t it more reasonable simply to ignore them as the ravings of a mad woman? ‘Death is at the door.’ What the hell does that mean? And because Mr. Ching was hanging there, it doesn’t follow that she killed him. It seems more likely to me that she saw him, but didn’t tell anyone.” Violet shook her head. “No, if she’s the one who’s doing all this, what’s her reason?”
“If she’s bonkers, isn’t that reason enough?”
“You’re not suggesting that she’s Frances Hacker, are you?”
“I don’t know. She could be.”
“No, she couldn’t be,” Violet said. “From things that Budgie said, she recognized her. So she knew her from before. So she’s not Hacker.”
“But she’s still crazy.”
“So what? You can be crazy without being a killer, and you can be a killer without being crazy. What’s been happening here is either random, senseless slaughter, or it’s been motivated, it’s had a purpose.”
It would have been difficult to fault the logic of this proposition, and even more difficult to blame Violet for not perceiving that it could be both at the same time.
“So far,” Violet went on, “you haven’t shown me anything to indicate that Mrs. Argus fits either of those possibilities.”
“How about this, Sis?” Sebastian, who had been wandering around the room casually looking at things while Violet and Derrick talked, now stood next to the built-in bookcase, holding a sheet of paper in his hand. “I was looking at some of these old books, and I found this stuck between two of them. It’s another page of your friend Mousey’s letter. Page one, in fact.” Sebastian smiled pleasantly as he waited for the commotion to die down. “Relax. It’s not about any of you. If you’ll be quiet for a minute, I’ll read it. It’s not very long. It says: ‘I have recently learned that my mother did not die in a boating accident. She was drowned, but it was not an accident. She was murdered. My godmother, Mrs. Cassandra Argus, killed my mother. She did this because she was in love with my father. She thought that if my mother was out of the way, my father would marry her. But he loved my mother and he wouldn’t do this. And so to pay him back, Mrs. Argus killed him, too. Thus the oldest and closest friend of my parents killed both of them, and made me an orphan.’”
Derrick broke the shocked silence that followed Sebastian’s reading. “I say! Do you think we might now have a motive, Violet?”
Violet shifted uncomfortably in her seat. “Possibly. But there was also a page in the letter about Mr. Drupe, and we know that he wasn’t responsible for anything.”
“But this is murder. That’s really a secret to keep hidden at any price.”
“Maybe.”
“Come on, Violet,” Sebastian said. “If the old bat had already killed twice, why wouldn’t she kill a third time to protect herself? Don’t you remember? You presented that at various times as a sufficient reason for murders presumably committed by both Mrs. Hook and Mr. Ching. Why isn’t that good enough now?”
Violet again shifted position. “Okay. Maybe there was a reason to kill Mousey. But what about the others? Not only is there not a reason, there’s nothing even to link her to those killings. And there’s got to be, because I still say we’re dealing with only one killer. Where’s a link?”
“Mr. Ching was dropped out of this room,” Derrick said.
“It could be a frame,” Violet said, “to cast suspicion on Mrs. Argus.”
“The sailor’s knot?”
Violet dismissed this with a flick of her hand.
“And the letter?”
“Another frame.”
“Okay, then. She was the one who found Mrs. Hook.”
“So? Cerise found the Colonel.”
“But Mrs. Argus never showed up when we found the Colonel,” Cerise said, speaking for the first time since they had come upstairs.
“So? Neither did Derrick.”
Derrick blushed, then looked down at the floor, and shuffled his shiny sho
es.
“Come on, Sis. Just because the Society-Girl Detective didn’t figure it out, doesn’t mean it can’t be right.”
Violet moved uneasily in her chair as she narrowed her eyes and gave her brother a cold blue stare. “No, but you need more.”
“All this taken together looks pretty good, Sis.”
“I still say you need something more. Something less coincidental. At least one more good solid link.” Violet again changed her position. “What the hell is that?”
She lifted herself up from the seat, put her hand under the cushion, and felt around. She found whatever it was she’d been sitting on and brought it out. She uttered a terse and not very polite exclamation of displeasure. In her hand, looking very much like a remnant of the Cheshire cat, were Mr. Drupe’s missing dentures.
“What was it you wanted, Sis? Something solid? Something you could sink your teeth into?”
Cerise giggled.
“Actually, Sis, it looked like you were trying to sink your something into those teeth.”
“Sebastian!” Violet stood up and gave her brother a look that made it clear that if he made another tooth remark, he might well find himself missing a mouthful of them.
“I say! Take it easy,” Derrick said, trying to pour oil on troubled waters. “We’ve got to decide what to do.”
“How about exterminating the old hag?” Sebastian suggested.
“Hee, hee, hee,” Mrs. Argus laughed behind them.
Everyone literally jumped in the air, whirling around, and before they came down they were shouting accusations, demanding explanations. They wanted to know about the letter, the body, the teeth, her frequent disappearances, and all the other strange things she’d done and said.
Mrs. Argus’s expression through all this was one of interest, but she seemed to be listening to something other than their questions. When they’d finished and were waiting for answers, she looked from face to face, giving each of them the same enigmatic, faintly unsettling, thin, bloodless smile. Then the smile broadened.
“No one will leave here alive,” she said, quietly, as though passing on an obvious but still interesting piece of information
The four of them backed nervously away from Mrs. Argus.
Was it a threat? Or a prophecy?
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Later that night, all except Mrs. Argus were again in the lounge. While they would have liked to know where the old woman was and what she was up to, that uncertainty was still preferable to the uneasiness her presence would have caused, especially with her habit of regarding each of them as though his current animation was merely a passing phase. Best of all, of course, would have been to lock her up somewhere—Sebastian suggested some place with a very limited air supply—but Mrs. Argus had already gone off again, and no one much felt like looking for her.
Violet was writing in her notebook, but with less enthusiasm than before. Not only was she annoyed that she had not come up with the answer, she was also a lot less than thrilled with what that answer had turned out to be. In fact, the result was so unsatisfying that she thought it might well detract from the story’s intrinsic interest (and, consequently, from potential sales). She could see it now: “…a marvelously intriguing situation; unfortunately, the ultimate resolution does not fulfil the expectations that were built up in the reader.” No matter that she told it the way it had happened; that assessment wouldn’t be far wrong. After all, Sebastian had settled on the answer effortlessly, like a butterfly on a flower, and even Derrick had been able to put together the elements of the solution. Maybe, she thought, she could work a kind of reversal in which the solution’s very obviousness could be used to deflect attention from it.
Violet sighed. Unsatisfying though it was, it did seem to be correct. Still, even though the murderous rampage was an act of madness, Violet continued to believe that—at least initially—there had been a reason, a purpose, behind it all. Maybe the reason had been quickly lost or forgotten or abandoned, but it had been there in the beginning…and the beginning was Mousey. Violet remained convinced that Mousey’s death was intended; whether to hide something, or to get something, or to keep the girl from doing something, there had been a reason for the murder. And, although Violet had downplayed it at the time, that page of the letter Sebastian had found made it clear that—mad or sane—Mrs. Argus had had a very good reason to kill Mousey.
More to the point, Violet thought, no one else—at least none of those left alive—seemed to have a motive. Certainly Sebastian didn’t—he hadn’t even known the poor girl. She looked across the room at Derrick and Cerise who were seated together on a couch, engaged in quiet conversation. She wouldn’t put it past him, but even Derrick was bright enough to know you had to wait until you had actually married your rich fiancée before you killed her for her money; to do it before the wedding would just waste the effort expended on the courtship. And while Violet thought there was something strange about Cerise, she apparently had no more reason to kill Mousey than Sebastian did. That left only Mrs. Argus.
Or Frances Hacker, she thought, looking at Cerise. Or Francis, looking at Derrick. Or, looking up at the glassy-eyed animal heads, an intruder who had thus far managed to remain invisible.
Violet shook her head: no, no, no; it had to be the old woman. Now, if only there were some way to make it more interesting, a final twist, something.…
Violet frowned across at Derrick and Cerise, who seemed to have moved slightly closer together. He looked to be really turning on the charm, talking persuasively, while she appeared to be listening with considerable interest. Judging from Cerise’s expression, Violet assumed that Derrick was no longer discussing old map-making techniques, about which he had droned on earlier.
“What do you suppose they’re talking about?” Violet said to her brother.
Sebastian was sitting at the other end of the couch from her, turning the pages of an ancient magazine and wondering what it would have been like to live in a time when everything seemed so simple and straightforward. Boring, probably. He looked across the room and shrugged. “Whether it’s his place or hers?”
“Hmm. I wonder.…”
Violet shut her notebook and stood up. Sebastian gave a big yawn and also rose. After saying goodnight to Derrick and Cerise, they went upstairs and into their rooms.
A little while later, the door to Violet’s room slowly and silently swung open, and her head appeared. She checked the hallway, then stepped out, carefully closing the door behind her. Soundlessly, she went down the corridor to the front of the house, pausing outside Derrick’s and Cerise’s rooms, but hearing nothing. She stopped at Mrs. Argus’s door, pressed her ear against it, then quickly opened it and went in.
Meanwhile, Sebastian was in his room, standing before the full-length mirror, admiring what he saw. He struck a pose and touched his blond hair. “Not bad,” he said softly, moving closer to the mirror and making a minor adjustment. “Not bad at all, kiddo.”
Later that night Mrs. Argus was walking across the gentle slope that ran from the stone terrace outside the lounge down to the water. Clouds hid the stars, and there were few lights on in the house, but despite the thick darkness, Mrs. Argus moved without difficulty. She seemed equally untroubled by the damp and the cold, even though she wore only her long black dress.
Near one of the large empty birdbaths—actually, it was more like a fountain, and big enough to accommodate a flock of swans—she suddenly stopped and held her gaunt body rigidly motionless. She sensed a presence close by. Slowly she turned, then stopped, then smiled.
“Oh, so it’s you, is it?” she said. “You know, I thought it might be. I said so, didn’t I…in a way, at least…I really was pretty close, wasn’t I?” Mrs. Argus grinned again. “Is it my turn now?”
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
When Violet came down the next morning, Derrick, Cerise, and Sebastian were already in the dining room.
“Oh, there you are, Violet,” Sebastian said ch
eerfully. “We were just wondering if maybe you’d bought it during the night.”
“I appreciate your concern.”
“Actually, it was a question of whether we should save this English muffin for you, or not.”
Violet gave her brother a pitying smile and gestured that he was welcome to the muffin. She poured herself a cup of coffee and sat down at the place next to Sebastian. She took a couple of sips, then looked up. “Has anyone seen her this morning?”
Derrick and Cerise shook their heads. Sebastian suggested that perhaps she’d lost her grip while she was asleep and had fallen on her head.
“You know,” Violet said, “we’re going to have to figure out what we’re going to do about her.”
“What did you say to her last night?” Cerise asked.
“Who?”
“Mrs. Argus, of course.”
“What are you talking about? I didn’t say anything to her. I didn’t even see her.”
“Sure you did,” Derrick said. “We saw you.”
“What are you talking about?” Violet repeated.
“Cerise and I were sitting in the lounge, and we saw you and Mrs. Argus walking across the lawn outside.”
“That’s right, Violet,” Cerise said. “It was pretty dark, but there was still enough light to see you. You had on that nice jumpsuit of yours.”
“Yes,” Derrick said. “The two of you walked together, and then you passed out of our line of sight. Cerise and I wondered what you were doing.”
“That’s right. We did.”
Violet looked across the table at Derrick and Cerise. “All right. Just what’s going on here?”
“What do you mean?” Derrick said.
“I mean just that. What’s going on? What kind of game are you playing?”
“We’re not playing anything, Violet,” Cerise said. “We’re just telling you what we saw.”
“Only you didn’t see it.”
“Of course we did. Derrick and I both saw you. Besides, what reason could we have to make up something like this?”
An Old-Fashioned Mystery Page 17