Sebastian rolled his eyes. “Really, Violet! If it had been your silver lamé party dress, perhaps…but I wouldn’t be caught dead in that jumpsuit thing. Besides, that’s got to be your hair that Derrick found.”
“Or yours.”
“Mine’s too short.”
“What about this?” Violet reached in her purse and pulled out a blond wig that was almost exactly the colour, length, and shape of her own hair. “I found this in your room twenty minutes ago.”
“I say!”
“My God! Sebastian!”
Sebastian blushed, then went pale. He shrugged, and tried a laugh that didn’t come out quite right. “So? I never denied that I like to dress up every once in a while. Didn’t any of you ever want to pretend you were Doris Day? I know it’s kinky, but it’s not a crime.”
But it was clear from the way Derrick and Cerise were regarding him that they thought he was guilty of a lot more than a little harmless make-believe.
“Hey, wait a second!” he said. “Don’t you see what’s going on here? Violet’s turned everything around. She’s doing exactly what she claims I did. Every reason she’s given for my guilt can apply equally well to her. She desperately needs a success. Her reputation—and consequently her business—is sinking fast. The only way she can reverse things is by having a spectacular triumph. Since no appropriate situation presented itself, she had to create one, and the more complicated the problem, the greater the glory when she solved it. But she had to solve it. It wasn’t enough to have a series of bizarre and sensational and apparently insoluble crimes. She also had to have a perpetrator. But since she was the perpetrator, she had to come up with somebody she could frame—which you just saw her do with a most interesting double bluff. She intended that you see her with Mrs. Argus last night, so she could turn it around and say it was me posing as her. Really quite impressive, Violet. And what a solution it gave you! As if the situation wasn’t extraordinary enough, the detective’s very own brother turns out to be the culprit. Sensational! They’d beat down the doors to get the Society-Girl Detective’s own story. What were you going to call it, Sis? My Brother’s Catcher? Have you already got yourself a good literary agent?”
“No, Sebastian, I do not have an agent.” Violet tried for a condescending tone, but merely managed to sound strained.
“No, of course not. It would look a bit peculiar if you got one in advance.” He looked at Derrick and Cerise. “Violet says I’m jealous of her success. Well, for years now, she’s been eaten up with bitterness over the fact that circumstances gave me all of our parents’ estate while she was left with nothing. Even though this wasn’t my fault, Violet has never forgiven me. Now, it looks as though she thought she’d finally found a way to get even. By pinning the murders on me, she not only gives herself a wonderful triumph with a stunning twist, she also gets her revenge on me for being four minutes older. And as my only relative, she’ll get control of my assets when I get put into the loony bin. Yes, Violet, there is still more than enough left to bail out Cornichon Cosmetics several times over.”
Violet stood with arms folded, tapping her foot and looking bored. Derrick and Cerise, however, looked anything but. Their eyes moved between Violet and Sebastian, and their expressions displayed growing confusion, puzzlement, and uncertainty.
“And speaking of motives,” Sebastian continued, “I never made any secret about my feelings for the late, unlamented old bat.” He nodded towards the birdbath. “But what about Violet? She had only contempt for her so-called friend, Mousey, who apparently was no longer going to let Violet take advantage of her. She despised Mr. Drupe. She hated the Colonel on sight and was furious when he tried to grope her. She probably thought that Budgie was such a pitiful creature that she should be put out of her misery. Mrs. Hook talked back to Violet and did not treat her with proper deference and respect. Mr. Ching? I’m not sure about him. Maybe Violet saw him as an interesting bit of plot development. And Mrs. Argus was necessary to frame me. If I were you,” he said to Derrick and Cerise, “I’d be very careful. You’ve both made Violet angry at different times. You may have noticed that she angers easily. She also tends to bear long grudges. Maybe her new therapist told her to express her anger—let it all out—and this is the result.”
“I told you,” Violet said, barely moving her lips, “that I’ve never been in therapy.”
“And I told you, Sis, that Binky Edwards saw you coming out of that office.”
“Then he’s either lying or mistaken. As far as I know, it was you that he saw.”
“Well, Sis, you’re so loopy that as far as you know, it could’ve been you that he saw, only you don’t even know you’re in therapy.” Sebastian stopped and looked quizzically at Violet. “Maybe I’ve done you an injustice. Or else given you more credit than you deserve. Maybe there is no plot here. Maybe you never meant to frame me. Maybe you’ve been seriously following the trail, all the while never realizing that the trail leads back to you. The Society-Girl Detective finally solves the crime, only to discover that she herself is the murderer—that through the whole thing, the murdering half was laying false clues for the detective half to follow. How’s that for a twist, Sis?”
“Highly implausible,” Violet said, “unless you’d like to apply the principle to yourself.”
Sebastian started to say something in rebuttal, then stopped and nodded to his sister in acknowledgement. He turned to Derrick and Cerise and smiled. “Well, there you are. Quite a situation, isn’t it? Right out of Pirandello. Which of us is it? Which twin do you believe? Who is lying, and who is telling the truth? Maybe we both think we’re telling the truth, but one of us is mad. How can you tell which? We’re both pretty convincing…both ways. It’s a poser, all right. Unless one of us turns up dead, it will be difficult to resolve the matter. My advice would be to—” Sebastian suddenly stopped, looking very surprised. He gazed up at the slate-grey sky, then snapped his fingers. “Of course!” Slowly he looked from Violet to Derrick to Cerise. “I know who did it,” he said, smiling smugly. “It is the least obvious and also the most obvious. It is the only person with a motive for all the crimes, ample opportunity, and the necessary familiarity with the different methods employed.” He smiled at each of them again, then said, “Toodle-oo,” and started towards the house.
The three of them watched in silence until he disappeared inside.
Two hours later, it was Derrick who discovered Sebastian’s body. He’d been killed in a most unpleasant way.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Violet, Derrick, and Cerise stood in one of the pantries next to the kitchen, looking at Sebastian’s body. Or rather, at the lower half of his body, which was what hung over the top of the barrel of vinegar into which he’d been put head first and drowned.
“Well,” Violet eventually said, “it looks like the murderer shares Sebastian’s sense of humour.”
Cerise looked at Violet, then started to giggle. Derrick said, “Huh?”
“Don’t you see?” Cerise said, still laughing. “A Cornichon is in a pickle.”
“Huh?”
Violet looked at Derrick, shaking her head, then turned to Cerise and regarded her with more than a little curiosity. “It also looks,” she said, “as though Sebastian was right when he said he knew who it was. Certainly, someone’s silenced him.”
Derrick moved a couple of steps away from Violet, and looked at her with a serious expression. “Your brother also said that we’d be able to tell which of you was lying if one of you turned up dead.”
“So that means I’m the one?” Violet shook her head. “All it means is that it wasn’t Sebastian. He’s innocent…of everything, including masquerading as me last night.”
“Then you’re saying that it was you we saw.”
Violet looked coldly at him. “It didn’t work the first time. It hasn’t improved with repetition.”
“But Violet,” Cerise said, “we did see you.”
With an effort, Violet swallow
ed the roar of hatred and fury that was rising in her throat, and kept her voice and her gaze level. “All right. We’re back to where we were this morning. The lines have been drawn. You have your story. I just have to find out why. And when I do, I guess you’ll have to shut me up as well. Or try to.”
“Please, Violet,” Cerise pleaded. “You’re wrong. We don’t want to hurt you.”
“Of course you don’t. If something happened to me, there’d be only the two of you left. That could be awkward, couldn’t it?”
“Violet, please—”
Derrick cut Cerise off. “Don’t discuss it. If this is the way she wants to be, let her. Just be sure that you’re never alone with her, or that you never let her get close to you.”
“But it’s all right if she gets close to you?” Violet said. “Is that it? You know, when we were speculating about it being Mrs. Hook, you seemed to react very strongly against the idea of a conspiracy. That struck me as odd at the time, but now I see your reason. You wanted to divert attention from the idea of a conspiracy, because that was exactly what was involved.”
“You’re mad,” Derrick said. “I reacted that way because the idea was ridiculous then, and it’s even more ridiculous now.”
“Is it?”
“Violet, there’s no conspiracy,” Cerise said.
“You won’t convince her of that,” Derrick said. “She’s been chasing shadows from the beginning, because she can’t face the truth.”
Violet’s eyes narrowed. “And what have you been chasing, Mr. Slick? Mr. Gambler? Mr. Deadbeat? Mr. Lady-Killer?” Violet paused, then smiled. “Mr. Fortune Hunter?”
Derrick flushed. “You stupid, meddling bitch! If you don’t—”
“If I don’t what? Mind my own business? I already have a pretty good idea of what your business is. ‘GOLD—716147.’ Have you figured that out yet? I have.” Violet smiled as Derrick tried unsuccessfully to appear indifferent. “But what I haven’t figured yet is where Cerise fits in.”
“Violet, I don’t. There’s nothing for me to fit into.”
“I told you it does no good talking to her,” Derrick said to Cerise, moving over next to her. “Violet’s already made up her mind, and is not interested in having reality interfere.”
Cerise looked at Violet, then at Derrick, then nervously stepped back from him. “Keep away from me!” she shouted. “I don’t know what Violet’s doing. I don’t know what you’re up to. I don’t know what’s going on. But I do know that you’d both better stay away from me.”
Violet smiled. “Nice try, sweetie, but it won’t wash.”
Cerise looked desperately from Violet to Derrick. “My God!” she sobbed. “Is this a dream? When will it end? Or are we all mad? Don’t you see what’s happening? Mrs. Argus was right: none of us will leave here alive.” Crying, she ran from the pantry.
Violet and Derrick warily eyed one another.
“You’d better go after her,” Violet said. “Your partner seems to be fraying a bit around the edges.”
Derrick stood for a minute, then quickly strode out of the pantry and turned in the opposite direction from Cerise.
Violet remained in the small room, looking at her brother’s legs hanging out of the barrel but with her thoughts elsewhere. It was no longer a question of success, or her reputation, or publicity, or even paperback rights. No, none of that seemed important any longer. Now, it was a question of her life.
Violet slowly nodded her head once, as though accepting a challenge, and left the pantry.
So much had happened so quickly that Violet knew there must be a good deal that she had overlooked…not to mention the many things she had noticed but couldn’t make sense of. Maybe, she thought, if she went over everything from the beginning, she could find some detail that she’d missed, and that would give her the key that she needed. Thus, later that afternoon, Violet was in her room going over the notes she had made when she’d been planning to turn author.
She had not gotten very far—only to the notes about the first morning—before she found something. And it was no trifle either, she thought, making a face, and then laughed. She’d hoped for a key, and she’d gotten a lock…or rather a locked room. In the excitement of the moment, the fact that Mr. Drupe had been found in the classic locked room had somehow failed to register.
Only locked rooms were never really locked; they were merely apparently locked. Violet knew that if you could discover the means of entry—or exit—you could probably determine who’d employed it.
She thought back to that morning—just over three days before but already seeming incredibly distant. They had all run to the study, but the door had been locked. Then…? Then Cerise—Cerise!—had said she’d check the terrace windows, and before anyone could stop her, she’d run off. And, if Violet remembered correctly, it had taken her an unaccountably long time to return, and she had seemed slightly winded and flustered. Violet wondered if this was what Sebastian had been thinking of when he talked about one person having the opportunity. She still couldn’t see the why, but if she could find out the how, she’d have the who. And then the reason would no longer matter.
Violet hurried down to the study. Everything looked exactly the same as on that morning. She quickly crossed to the French windows, but a careful examination of them convinced her that, unfortunately, what had seemed a good idea upstairs had nothing to support it down here. Both windows were securely bolted at the top and bottom, and the other windows in the room were fixed and could not be opened at all. No, unless some terribly complicated mechanism had been employed, which Violet very much doubted, Cerise could not have entered the room, killed Drupe, and left, locking the windows behind her, in the time available. So much for that theory.
Likewise, the door from the corridor did not seem to lend itself to any manipulation or sleight of hand. It had truly been as it had seemed—locked and bolted.
Violet, a puzzled expression on her face, went back to the desk and sat heavily in the chair in which Mr. Drupe had been found. As she pondered this latest complication, she let her eyes roam over the papers the lawyer had taken out of the safe.
Absorbed as she was in the problem of the locked room, Violet at first failed to notice a familiar name on one of the sheets. Indeed, she was two pages beyond it before she realized what she had seen. She flipped back, and there it was among some of the old household accounts, in a list of the servants who had worked for Mousey’s father. No, Violet thought, it couldn’t be coincidence; it had to be the same.
The why that had thus far stymied her was no longer a mystery. There was a reason—a reason for murder, a reason for conspiracy, a reason that explained a great many things, including a reaction at the dinner table the first night that Violet had wondered about. Two reactions, she corrected herself, as she suddenly recalled the details of a particularly nasty story that Mousey had once told her. And that letter fragment she’d found in Mrs. Hook’s hand! With a laugh, Violet realized it was not about Mr. Ching, nor had it concerned anything illegal. Oh, yes, she thought, it all fits together.
Purposefully, Violet stood up and began walking around the room. During that stunning explosion of insight and inspiration, she’d also remembered something she’d once heard about Mousey’s grandfather and this house.
Once Violet started tapping on the oak walls, she located the right spot almost at once. It took her much longer to find the hidden switch that caused the section of panelling to slide open, giving access to the secret passage behind. Violet smiled and shook her head: no, a “locked room” was never really locked.
Taking a pocket flashlight out of her purse, she entered the passageway, shutting the secret door behind her. She didn’t have to go very far to discover that the passage she was in intersected with several others, and that the house was, in fact, honeycombed with a hidden network of them. Well, Violet thought, the house that old Augustus Sill built had certainly made it easy for him to indulge his twin passions—eavesdropping and jumping
out and scaring people; no wonder guests had been less than thrilled to receive invitations to the island. And no wonder, she added, as she climbed a built-in wooden ladder to the second floor, that Mrs. Argus had been able to disappear and reappear so unexpectedly. No doubt she had discovered the passages when she’d stayed at the house years before.
Now Violet needed to know who else had discovered the secret. And, in a passage on the second floor, she found what she was looking for. There, beside one of the passage’s access points, was the old map that had been taken from the wall of the study. On the floor next to the map was the Colonel’s cane, its silver lion’s head all brown and crusty.
So this is the end of the line, Violet thought as she turned off her flashlight. Wondering into whose room she would emerge, she opened the sliding panel.
At first she couldn’t understand why it was so dark. She put her hand out in front of her and almost cried out when she touched something soft and furry, then realized that she was in a large wardrobe. She listened a moment before opening the closet door. From the fine fabrics she had brushed up against in the closet, Violet already knew she would step into Derrick’s room, and she did.
The temptation was great, but Violet didn’t linger in the room. She doubted that she’d find much of anything, and anyway she already had more than enough.
She crossed the room and opened the door. She stepped out, then froze as she saw a door open at the other end of the hall. It was the door to her room. It was Derrick who came through it. He too stopped in place as he saw Violet. They stared the length of the hallway at each other but did not speak or move. Then they each shut the doors and went in opposite directions, so they would not pass one another.
It was late afternoon. Cerise was walking alone on the shore, gazing out at the water. For the first time since their arrival, the clouds had lifted. The air was cold, but brilliantly clear. It was so clear that, even at a distance of several miles, Cerise could see a light on another island. Indeed, it was so clear that, as she looked in that direction, she thought she could almost make out a figure moving in front of the light.
An Old-Fashioned Mystery Page 19