An Old-Fashioned Mystery

by Runa Fairleigh

  “I appreciate your acknowledgment, Miss Cornichon, however belated,” Mr. Drupe said. “But while this latest analysis is certainly dramatic and unexpected, you seem to be ignoring the fact that we all saw Miss Sill’s terribly mutilated body. You’re not suggesting she reconstituted herself while lying in the meat locker?”

  “Obviously I’m not suggesting that, Mr. Drupe. Look, I’m not saying I have all the answers, only that I see the direction in which we have to look. To begin with, there was the very awfulness of the corpse itself. Not exactly conducive to lingering contemplation, was it? What did you all do? You took in the birthmark, the decapitated head, the rest of it. You were all expecting Rosa, so you saw Rosa, and then you averted your eyes. Hell! I examined the body, but I didn’t gaze into Mousey’s dead little bloodshot eyes. Did any of you?”

  “I say! She’s right about that. I caught a glimpse of what lay on that coal pile, and that was enough. I looked at the wall, or the ceiling, or my fingernails, but I wouldn’t look down.”

  “Neither would I, dear.”

  “Sis, are you saying that that wasn’t Mousey?”

  Violet smiled and nodded. “Precisely. Think about it: if it wasn’t Mousey, then it all makes sense. We all know that Mousey’s father—dear Ripley—spread his genes lavishly around the countryside. The Colonel said that there must be dozens of little bastards around, all bearing the distinctive Sill birthmark. Well, if Ripley passed that along, why not other characteristics as well? Look at Cerise. If you took off her make-up, and changed her hair style and colour, she’d look a lot like Mousey. The similarity wouldn’t stand up to much scrutiny, but if you saw her only briefly, at a distance and in poor light, you could take her to be Rosa. Especially if you were expecting to see Rosa.”

  There were murmurs of surprise as everyone studied Cerise, and realized that Violet was correct about the resemblance.

  “Hey!” Cerise said. “You’re not saying that I’m involved, are you?”

  Violet shook her head. “You’re here, therefore you’re not.”

  “Or that I’m Rosa, or something?”

  “Hmm. That’s an interesting idea…But no. I’m saying that with such a large sample to choose from, it wouldn’t have been that difficult for Mousey to have found someone who looked sufficiently like her to serve as a stand-in. Especially since death—particularly violent death—can dramatically alter appearances. Especially when she could ensure that the remains would be so grisly that no one would look closely at them. And especially when she knew that people tended to look through her, that no one ever paid enough attention to her to know what she really looked like anyway. And if all that was not enough, a little judicious application of make-up would take care of the difference.”

  “Oh, dear,” Budgie said, putting a little hand on her bosom. “Another pair of doubles. This is getting too confusing for me.”

  “So you’re saying that was not little Pinky that we found, but—”

  Violet nodded to Derrick. “But another illegitimate half-sister.”

  “But why? Why would Pinky do this, kill an innocent stranger?”

  “It’s clear Mousey was deeply disturbed and bore festering grudges against most of us. It’s equally clear she went right over the edge. She decided to get even once and for all. She decided to kill us, came up with a plan, and put it into action. Not only did she want to kill us, but she wanted the pleasure of seeing us struggle, groping blindly after the answers. And what better way could there be for a murderer to deflect all suspicion from herself than to appear to be the first victim? We would look in every direction, but never at Mousey…the pieces of whom, after all, were sitting in the freezer. And once she’d decided to kill ten or so people, I doubt that she troubled herself much about the innocence of the eleventh.”

  “My little Pinky?” Derrick said, pale beneath his dark tan. “But how could she manage it all?”

  “That’s the other half of it,” Violet said. “She’s the only person who could manage it. The house was a labyrinth of secret passages, as I discovered too late. Apparently old Augustus liked to spy on his guests or jump out and scare them…a nice host. But Mousey did him quite a few better. There were stairs and tunnels and passages going all over. Mrs. Argus knew all about them—and used them—because she’d been in the house before. The only other person who could’ve known about them was Mousey herself, either from seeing her grandfather’s plans, or from coming out to the island and investigating. With the freedom of movement that the secret passages provided, she could do virtually anything. That’s why we thought someone was looking at us. That’s why the murderer was able to strike at will and remain invisible and undetected. Think about it,” Violet said, smiling, feeling pretty good about things. “It all fits. It can only be Rosa herself.”

  The stunned silence that greeted Violet’s pronouncement lasted only a few seconds before Sebastian merrily cried, “Wrong again, Violet!”

  “Oh, I’m wrong, am I?” Her eyes flashed. “If I’m wrong, why isn’t she here? Huh? Where is she?”

  “Actually, Violet,” Father Knox said stepping forward, “it was determined that Rosa didn’t have to stop here. She went right on to her final destination.”

  “Oh,” Violet said softly, and then pointed up, raising her eyebrows.

  Father Knox shook his head.

  “Then where the hell is she?”

  “Right you are, this time.”

  “What? You don’t mean—” Violet pointed downwards.

  Father Knox nodded.

  “But Mousey didn’t do anything. Oh, she was a drip and a twerp, but that’s all. Everything was done to her. If she was crazy, it was only because we—and everyone else and everything else—conspired to make her so. She was the victim.”

  “Be that as it may.…” Father Knox shrugged.

  “But it’s not fair.”

  The priest stared incredulously at Violet, then put his hand over his mouth and turned away so he wouldn’t laugh in her face.

  Sebastian, not nearly so polite, did laugh.

  “Real funny, huh? You think you’re so damn smart? You think you can do better?”

  “Maybe not better,” Sebastian said. “But certainly more correctly.”

  “Oh, yeah? Then enlighten us. Please.”

  “Well, Sis, it came to me when I realized we really were being observed. It wasn’t nerves or imagination; we were being watched. Still are, if you’ll notice. And you were right that someone wanted to see us squirm, liked seeing us stumbling around in the dark. Enjoyed watching our discomfiture, enjoyed seeing us dance to a lunatic tune. This is someone who’s a voyeur, who’s obviously a sadist, who possesses abundant knowledge of the ways in which pain and death can be inflicted. Who likes to see it done. I said it was someone who is simultaneously the most and least obvious suspect, and it is. It is someone who is always with us, looking at us so to speak, but who is invisible, whom we can never see.”

  “Get on with it, would you?” Violet said. “Who is this spectre?”

  Sebastian looked around the table, then stood up. He began to pace, eyes straining to pierce the pearl-grey empyrean overhead. With a satisfied grunt, he located the spot he was seeking, and pointed. His back arched, and he pointed.

  His arm stretched out, a long elegant index finger extended, and he pointed.

  He pointed through the glowing grey canopy, through the luminous firmament, and beyond.

  He pointed right off the page you are now looking at.

  He points, in fact, directly at you, Reader.

  He points right into your face.

  He points, and he glares at you, and he shakes his finger, and he screams, “J’accuse!”

  II

  “Oh, dear.”

  “I say!”

  “Damned cheek!” the Colonel said, brandishing his cane while straining unsuccessfully to see through the greyness overhead. “If I get my hands on you—whoever you are—you’ll be damned sorry, I promise y
ou.”

  Mr. Drupe sniffed. “Most irregular.”

  Violet sighed and shook her head resignedly. “Perhaps irregular, Mr. Drupe, but none the less effective. We were led on a merry chase, all right, and I was always in the front. Damn! How could I have been so foolish?”

  “Practice, Sis?”

  It was a sign of Violet’s almost total dispiritedness that this remark passed without rebuttal. “But you know what really gets to me, Sebastian? It’s that you didn’t work at it. I looked for clues, I followed trails, I pieced together facts, I tried to make sense of the whole thing. But you? You didn’t do anything. It was just inspiration. Intuition. A goddamn lucky guess.”

  “Well, Violet, as your career until now has amply demonstrated, it’s far, far better to be lucky than to be good.”

  Violet sighed again. “Sebastian, I never thought I’d hear myself say this, but I’m afraid I have to agree with you. About everything.”

  Sebastian smiled sympathetically at his sister, hardly gloating at all.

  Father Knox stepped forward and put a comforting hand on Violet’s shoulder. “There’s something you should know, Violet.”

  “What?”

  “About your agreeing with Sebastian.”

  “Yes?”

  “I’m afraid you’re wrong again.”

  Violet looked up at the priest, blue eyes alarmingly round and large. She opened her mouth, but the only sound that came out was a kind of whimper from deep in her throat.

  “She is?” Sebastian said. “I am?”

  “Hee, hee, hee.”

  “Oh, shut up!” Violet snapped, recovering quickly. She heard herself sounding very much like her brother, and she wondered what—considering where they were—would happen if she throttled the damned old bat.

  “What do you say, Cerise?” Father Knox asked. “Is Sebastian right or wrong?”

  Cerise looked at Sebastian and smiled apologetically. “You’re wrong.”

  “Really? Golly, and I was so sure I had it. Oh well, easy come, easy go.”

  “Actually, Sebastian,” Father Knox said, “you did quite well. You were right as far as you went; you just didn’t go far enough. But you were certainly correct to comment on a highly suspicious situation. The reader must bear his or her share of the responsibility for what happened to you all on Komondor Island. After all, the reader encouraged those events, indeed expected them, and looked forward to them. Had the reader not wanted them to happen, they would not have happened. In fact, if the reader had not been there, they would never have occurred at all. And then, once things started to happen, once the bodies started falling, the reader enjoyed seeing it, and wanted it to continue. Certainly the reader made no attempt to stop it. And it was within his or her power to do so, merely by slamming the book shut in disgust. The fact that this was not done signifies at least tacit approval. So the reader most definitely has a share—perhaps a significant share—in the guilt. But it is that of accessory, both before and after the fact. It is not that of perpetrator. For no matter how much the reader wanted the murders to occur, and no matter how familiar the reader may have been with the methods employed, the reader still lacked the opportunity. No, only one person had all three: motive, means, and opportunity.”

  “Why does everyone feel obliged to draw this out as long as possible?” Violet said. “Get on with it, already. Who the hell was it?”

  Father Knox looked at Cerise.

  “There’s only one person left, isn’t there?” she said, smiling. “The author, of course.”

  “What?” Violet squawked.

  Mr. Drupe looked up at the grey canopy and said, “I would advise you to remain silent.”

  “Oh, dear.”

  “It’s a damned outrage!”

  Sebastian laughed. “Well, Mrs. Argus did say she’d met her Maker.”

  Father Knox smiled. “Exactly.”

  “Oh, come on!” Violet said. “What’s going on here? This is hardly fair.”

  “Fair? Fair!” Father Knox said, his cheeks shaking and flushing, his fringe of white hair bristling. “Fair! My dear Violet, that’s the second time you’ve used that word. And you of all people should know better. Weren’t you the one who, in Chapter Ten, contemptuously said to your brother, ‘Since when is anything in this world fair?’ Well, didn’t you?”

  “Maybe. I don’t recall. But still—”

  “Still! Really, Violet! As far as I’m concerned, anyone who places his or her trust in some unknown writer’s sense of fair play either deserves whatever happens, or needs to be placed under supervision. This poor retarded dolt will also probably believe in the institutional advertising of oil companies and the half-baked pie-in-the-sky promises of sleazy, power-mad politicians. Fair play? It’s about time all these innocents were introduced to the real world, where self-interested madmen are leading them by the nose right to the hamburger factory.” Father Knox paused, took several deep breaths, then smiled sheepishly. “Sorry about that. That subject always sets me off.”

  Violet, who had scrunched down in her chair, grumbled, “I still think it’s pretty crummy.”

  “Come on, Sis, loosen up. Don’t be so stuffy.”

  “Yes, don’t,” Cerise said.

  “Oh, keep quiet. It’s all right for you two. Sebastian almost got it, and you did figure it out.”

  “It’s no big deal,” Cerise said. “It was just luck. It started at the end of Chapter Four, when I had the feeling—no, the conviction—that we were being watched. I knew it wasn’t just atmosphere, but something real. As things progressed, that belief strengthened, and I began to get the idea that it was not someone like us, but an individual much more powerful. Just after Budgie was killed—when the room looked like it had been torn apart by a giant hand—I even said that it was like we were being manipulated in somebody’s fiendish game. I kept thinking about all this, and about some of the other things that were said. Then, that evening after we found Sebastian in the barrel, I was walking down by the water. It was a clear night for a change, and I could see a light from a neighbouring island. Then I saw a figure, and I knew it was her. She lives alone on an island close to Komondor, you know.”

  “Not for much longer,” Father Knox said. “But go on.”

  “There’s nothing more. As I said, I knew it was her. At first I thought about trying to contact her, but I realized her mind was made up, and that it would do no good. I knew it was just a matter of time. I didn’t see much reason to wait, so the next morning I forced the issue. I started to tell what I’d guessed, but I knew she wouldn’t let me finish. She didn’t.”

  “It is very obvious,” Sebastian said, “once you see it. The killer did seem to be invisible, ubiquitous, and omnipotent. For a very good reason: she was.”

  “Unfair,” Violet muttered, sulking.

  “Well, Sis, I hate to say it, but I think you’re wrong about that, too.”

  “Oh, yeah?”

  “Yes. Besides the things Cerise mentioned, quite a few of us had feelings or premonitions that pointed in the right direction.”

  “That’s right, dear,” Budgie said. “I said that something awful was going to happen.”

  “And you were right,” Sebastian said. “Violet, even you had a strange feeling at the end of Chapter Two.”

  “Big deal.”

  “No, Sis, it’s not a big deal. But if you take all these little things together, it starts to add up. Why, you remember that Mrs. Argus said that Death was present, and that Death was a woman, and that She was walking the halls. Well, She was.”

  “Christ! Who pays attention to the ravings of a demented old woman?”

  “If you’ll recall, Violet,” Father Knox said, “no one believed the prophecies of the original Cassandra either. Like her namesake, Cassie here only spoke the truth and was always correct.”

  “That’s right!” Derrick said. “Only we never listened. We just naturally assumed she was nothing but an annoying character who was there solely to
make an uncomfortable situation even creepier.”

  “It would have been hard to think otherwise,” Father Knox said, nodding. “And, without getting too philosophical about this, what conclusions can you draw about a world in which curses and prophecies come true?”

  Mystified silence greeted this question, until Cerise said, “That prophecies come true suggests that events are not casual or random, but that there is a controlling power in effect.”

  The priest smiled. “Exactly. A controlling power. If not actually a divine power, then someone who occupies that role in relation to all of you. After all, who else but your creator could—as Cerise said—manipulate you however she wanted for her little game?”

  “And not just us!” Sebastian said excitedly. “She manipulated everything. She put physical objects—all the clues we kept finding—wherever they’d do the most good, where they’d be the most suspicious or dramatic. Even the weather—or especially the weather—was controlled for maximum dramatic effect. Why, she even had the thunder provide cosmic commentary. We should have noticed. Any world in which pathetic fallacy operates is hardly one where you’d look for realism, self-determination, or common sense.”

  Father Knox nodded and smiled.

  “Theological mumbo-jumbo!” Violet said. “This was just a goddamn little mystery, and you’re handing out anagogic analyses. Gimme a break!”

  “Don’t take it personally, Violet,” Father Knox said. “This is just the nature of the beast. In an ordered universe, there can be no accident or freedom; only manipulation and control. Why else would so many of you act so consistently contrary to your own best interests? Even so, Violet, you were not subjected to anything different than what hundreds of thousands of your confrères have experienced in similar stories.”

  “So? For all your talk about order, this looks very much like anarchy to me.”

  The priest shrugged. “Perhaps it just depends on your point of view. You were so sure that one set of principles was in operation that you failed to see that it was another set entirely. Why, Violet, you even recognized this possibility yourself in Chapter Fifteen. Remember? You realized that ‘with the right frame of reference, things that otherwise seemed isolated and incomprehensible were suddenly seen to fit together and make perfect sense.’ Unfortunately, you immediately went on to discount the possibility that you were in a world that—how did you put it?—was ‘buffeted to and fro according to the whims of laughing, indifferent deities.’ Which was, of course, precisely the world you were in.”