Murder Knows No Season

by Cathy Ace

  ‘That’s not so odd,’ I said as I finally rejoined Peter at the door, ‘I mean, Jean’s not exactly the warm, fuzzy type, is she? Who would want to be like her?’

  ‘True,’ replied Peter, still thoughtful.

  I nipped into my own room, pretending a need for the loo, made a call on Meg’s cellphone, then rejoined Peter. As I made my way toward the top of the stairs, Peter called to me, ‘What about Adrian’s room? Don’t forget that one.’

  ‘Oops, I almost did,’ I lied. I pushed open the door and did my thing again with the flashlight. It was odd, but I didn’t get any sort of frisson from looking into drawers that contained Dax/Adrian’s underwear and socks; I’d thought there might have been, but there was nothing. Nothing except the mounting excitement I was beginning to feel as the case clicked into place in my head. By the time I closed the door to Adrian’s room, and Peter and I had rejoined the group, I was pretty sure in my mind about who had killed Meg, and why. Now all I had to do was decide what to do about it.

  When you look into the face of someone you know has killed, and who is lying about it, you can see their lie in so many ways. And when I walked back into the Great Room, I knew I was right; Meg’s murderer was giving away their identity so obviously . . . why hadn’t I seen it before?

  I told myself not to be so tough on myself; I’d needed to work out the method and check everyone’s room before I could possibly have been sure, whatever my suspicions. And even then, it was still hard to believe. But, there it was – body language, affect, tone of voice, micro-expressions, interactions, relationship to physical surroundings . . . everything was screaming: ‘I did it’, followed closely by: ‘I don’t care if you know it.’

  Which was almost as interesting.

  I had to remind myself that I was working with a theory . . . I didn’t know for certain that the person I believed had killed Meg had actually done it. But I could see no alternative.

  I wished there was someone there with whom I felt enough of a trusting connection to discuss my theory; someone whose opinion I would value. But there wasn’t. True, I liked a couple of my co-suspects, but as for the decision I had to make? No, I had to decide alone, then follow through – and live with the consequences.

  The group had, apparently, moved as one to the kitchen when Peter and I had gone upstairs, but it seemed they’d realized that cooking by gas with only the aid of candles might sound all well and good, but that it can get messy in a hurry, so by the time we returned to the Great Room there was a meal of cold cuts, bread, salad, and a giant cheesecake on offer.

  As we all served ourselves, the light of the re-built fire flickering, the candles that had been lit lending a warm glow to the room, I could sense that everyone was feeling worn out by the tensions of the day. My watch told me it was five p.m.; it felt much later. I was achingly hungry, so told myself my decision about exactly what I should do, or say, should wait until after I’d eaten. But all the food tasted bland; I knew my body needed me to eat, but my palate wasn’t up to it. Even the Bombay and tonic, that had been so tortuously long in coming, didn’t refresh me.

  I was beyond the comfort of gin – it was a tragedy.

  By the time we’d all had our fill of savories, I knew that a difficult moment was approaching. I looked at the cheesecake that was, presumably, to have been Meg’s birthday cake. I knew I wasn’t alone in wondering about whether eating it was something we should, or shouldn’t, do.

  ‘I’ll cut the cake,’ said Jean Jones, determinedly, ‘but I’d like to say a word or two first.’

  A low murmur spread through the group. No one objected to Jean’s suggestion.

  She stood in front of the blazing fire, holding a cake knife. She created a dramatic silhouette; the long, serrated blade looked especially large in this tiny woman’s hand, and it glowed with the reflection of the flames that burned behind her. The victim’s grieving mother spoke loudly, her reedy, wavering voice just about cutting through the roar and crackle of the logs that sparked and shifted in the hearth.

  ‘Meg wasn’t a nice girl, and it sounds like she didn’t grow up to be a nice woman . . .’ It wasn’t what people had expected from the mother of the deceased, that much was obvious. ‘She made people miserable – that’s what you’ve all been saying all day, isn’t it? She made all you lot miserable anyway, and before you lot, she made me miserable too. Never applied herself as a girl, and she seems to have come by all her new-found wealth and fame almost by chance. I bet anyone who spent four years just swanning about on buses, and doing the odd job here or there, could write a book. I bet I could, anyway. No sense of responsibility, that girl. And not many morals either, by the sound of it.’

  I could tell by my fellow guests’ faces they were all wondering what might come next.

  ‘But she’s gone, now,’ continued Jean, still in harsh tones, ‘and they say you shouldn’t speak ill of the dead. So I won’t. But I haven’t got anything nice to say about her . . . so let’s eat the cake.’

  And with that, she walked to the little table where the cheesecake had been placed, and sliced into it. She cut piece after piece. Sally sprang to her side, passing plates and forks to everyone around the room.

  ‘Junior’s,’ said Joe to Martha, who smiled and ate greedily.

  There were no other words spoken; what little conversation had bubbled through the savory course, was now over. Maybe, people were taking time to explore their own thoughts about Meg, as they ate the birthday cake she’d never share.

  Personally, I was still grappling with what to do next, and trying not to choke on the cheesecake as I swallowed. It had a good texture, but I couldn’t taste a thing. I knew Joe’s comment to Martha meant the cake had come all the way from the famous Junior’s in New York, and I wished I could have enjoyed it more . . . but I couldn’t. Such a waste of a good cheesecake.

  Eventually we’d all finished and, once again, there was a general movement toward the kitchen – everyone carrying something. Because it was so dark we all agreed the washing up could wait . . . which left us all with the dreadful feeling that we just didn’t know what to do next; it wasn’t as though someone could suggest board games, or charades, or anything like that.

  We all wandered aimlessly back toward the Great Room, like a tide ebbing and flowing across the entry hall. Everything seemed unreal: we were all tired out, but it was far too early to retire to our rooms; we all wanted the day to be over, but knew we probably wouldn’t sleep; none of us wanted to be there, but there was nowhere else to go.

  Limbo doesn’t sound unappealing, until you’re stuck in it.

  As we each tried to settle in our own way, Adrian – who was sitting between me and the fire – said, ‘So – whodunit, Cait? Do you know yet? Or do we all have to lock our doors tonight and pray the murderer is fine with killing just Meg?’

  I knew this was my moment.

  Should I lie and say I didn’t know? Or should I tell the truth and explain what I believed had happened? Did I have the guts to go through with it? And, if I did . . . what would happen afterwards?

  That was my main concern.

  Would we all agree to lock the culprit away for the night and wait for the police? Would we all stay huddled in the Great Room and take it in turns to ‘watch’ the killer, thereby ensuring our safety? It all seemed ridiculously melodramatic . . . but that was the aspect of the thing that had held most of my attention.

  The Aftermath.

  I made my decision.

  ‘Yes, I’m pretty sure I know who did it, how they did it, and why they did it,’ I said flatly.

  There was certainly no ‘Ta-Daa!’ about my statement, but the effect was pretty much what it would have been if I’d swung naked from the antler chandelier above our heads: shock, horror, and fear.

  A quiet chorus of ‘Who?’, ‘Why?’ and ‘How?’ rippled through the room. Suddenly the air was charged with anticipation. Any doubt I might have had about the identity of the killer would have evaporated whe
n I saw their reaction; they stared into the fire saying nothing at all.

  ‘Are you going to tell us?’ pressed Adrian.

  ‘Yes . . . I’ll tell you what I think happened . . . but then we’ll all have some very big decisions to make. You’ll understand what I mean when I’ve finished. This is complicated . . .’ I sorted out my thoughts, and began to tell a story. I had to begin the right way; that would be important.

  ‘The motive for Meg’s murder was love. You have to understand that, to be able to understand anything else.’

  Of course I had everyone’s attention, but what impacted me was the reaction of one person in the room to my opening words. I was right, the motive had been love. And the removal of that love from the killer by Meg.

  I knew I’d be talking for a while, so sipped my Bombay and tonic; it cooled my throat. ‘It was love of a strange and warped kind; a love that depended upon ownership. A love that didn’t place Meg at the center of the murderer’s world . . . but which allowed the murderer to blame Meg for not loving them in the way they thought they should have been loved. As we look at each face around this room I think we can all agree that description could apply to quite a few people here. Peter, Adrian, Dan – Meg dumped you all; she didn’t love you the “right” way. Martha – she didn’t love you like a mother, but, Jean, she didn’t love you like a mother either. Joe – she dumped you too, and I think your engagement was on the line Luis, right?’ I didn’t expect anyone to react to my rhetorical questions . . . but you never can tell, so I paused for a moment or two before continuing.

  Nothing. Move on.

  ‘You each drew me a different picture of Meg – Sally, you didn’t know her, so, in total, you gave me seven different Megs to choose from . . . and I added my own Meg, of course. The Meg I knew was fun, wild, a bit of a daredevil, and had a brilliant creative mind – but it flitted about, never resting anywhere for long; she found it hard to buckle down and study, she didn’t like to be with people who criticized her, or who couldn’t keep up with her, and you were right when you said she never took the blame for anything, Adrian . . . she didn’t, not during her school years and not, according to all of you, at any time after that either. Each of you met a Meg who was an increasingly damaged person; she dealt with the damage in her own way . . . which seems to have mainly consisted of ignoring it. But you can’t ignore damage forever . . . it’ll get to you in the end.’

  The faces in the firelight were all looking anxious, and thoughtful. I knew they were digesting what I was saying, and, so far, no one seemed to want to disagree with me. I pushed on. I was trying to get them to understand.

  ‘When Meg took off on her four-year bus journey, writing her blockbuster novel, she did so as a woman who’d had to face some tough times; she’d removed herself from everything she’d ever known, and left it behind for a new reality – alone. She’d known an idyllic life that was shattered by a tragic death with Peter; she delivered a stillborn child, and lost any chance to ever bear any more with Adrian; she lived through a psychologically challenging time way outside any comfort zone she’d ever known with Dan, and she’d had a disastrous affair with a young addict, who dumped her, and probably made her feel foolish, and used. Now – you might say that she’d brought much of this damage upon herself . . . and you’d be right. But what’s interesting about we human beings is not that we cannot cope with what life throws at us, because we can; what’s truly interesting is how we cope. And Meg coped by running away. She ran away from Wales, then away from Peter, from Adrian, and from Dan. She was running away from you, Joe, and you too, Luis. She’s always run away; that was Meg’s way of coping. Which led me to think that maybe Meg had decided she’d run away one more time . . . and that she had, in fact, killed herself.’

  I knew this statement would draw gasps, and it did. Gasps of disbelief, and gasps of relief . . . it was about fifty-fifty. Which, again, was interesting.

  I waited for people to re-settle themselves. It didn’t take long – they wanted to know . . .

  ‘It was quite clear to me that Meg’s body had been moved after her death. She died sitting up with her legs extended in front of her, and stayed that way for a couple of hours after death. Then she was laid in her bed curled on her side, the way we found her this morning. Luis, did Meg run a bath when she went to bed last night? Her bathroom connected your rooms – possibly you would have heard the water running.’

  ‘She did not. It was odd. She bathed every night before bed. She . . . she told me this. She did not like showers, but she liked to feel clean sheets on clean skin. She had clean sheets put onto her bed every day. But I did not hear water before I went to sleep last night. If she took her bath last night it must have been very late, I think.’ To be fair, Luis did appear to be thinking as he answered.

  ‘It was very late, Luis,’ I said, ‘it must have been not long before four a.m. I’m surprised you didn’t hear her.’

  ‘I sleep very heavily,’ replied Luis, a little defensively.

  ‘How do you know Meg took a bath at four a.m.?’ It was Adrian. He sounded genuinely interested.

  ‘Because that’s the only way it all works out; Sherlock Holmes famously said something along the lines of: when you’ve got rid of all the ideas that don’t or can’t work, then what you’re left with is the only explanation, however odd it might seem. And that happened here. Peter helped a lot . . . thanks, Peter.’ Peter half-smiled; he clearly wasn’t sure that helping me was a good thing. I decided to keep plugging away.

  ‘Martha said that the power was still working at four a.m.; that means Meg wasn’t killed until after that time, because it was her murder that blew the fuse panel. That was Peter’s helpful suggestion.’

  Faces turned toward Peter; they were the faces of people trying to work things out for themselves. They were the faces of people who were failing to do so.

  ‘Meg was killed by electrocution, in her bath,’ I announced, there were gasps. ‘Peter told us about the blown fuses; I knew Meg’s hair had been wet when I held her. I knew there could only be one explanation, but I don’t know much about exactly how electricity works; I know it can pass through the human body without leaving much of a mark, but I also know that the “Hollywood” way of just dumping a hairdryer, or a space heater into a bathtub won’t kill anyone . . . because the circuit will trip to “off” before any damage is done. But Peter explained that this house isn’t fitted with those newer outlets . . . which means that whoever did this to Meg either knew all about how electricity works, and knew that tossing an electrical appliance into the tub would kill Meg because those safety outlets weren’t going to kick in . . . or they knew nothing about it at all, and just threw something into the bathtub believing it would do the trick.’

  Again I waited for a few seconds, allowing people to think through what I was saying. ‘Then there’s the question of premeditation. Did the culprit plan to kill Meg – and to kill her this specific way – or was it the act of a moment of anger, with an electrical appliance to hand? I noticed there was no hairdryer in Meg’s bathroom. Now, to be fair, there wasn’t one in mine when I arrived either. Knowing we were to be staying at a lodge, as a guest, rather than a hotel, I brought my own; we women with long hair need to be able to dry it, or sit around for hours with it wet. Meg had long hair, and she was hardly the type to not have all necessary comforts with her, so I had to assume she’d brought a hairdryer with her too. But, as I said, there wasn’t one in her bathroom. Would she really have gone to bed, or back to bed, with wet hair? No. I think what happened was that Meg had thrown herself into bed in a bad mood after leaving us last night, found she couldn’t get to sleep, so decided to take a bath to calm herself. She died in her bath, sitting up, with her legs extended. I believe she would have locked her room when she left us all – if you recall she was in a conflicted state of mind – so I think she opened her door to her killer, and felt comfortable enough with them to take a bath in their presence.’

  Glances
were exchanged around the room. Everyone was trying to think who would be eliminated by this assumption.

  ‘She might allow an ex-husband to see her that way, a current fiancé, a mother, a confidante, Martha . . . but probably not an ex-agent, Joe, or someone she hardly knew, Sally.’ The field was narrowing, but not by much.

  ‘So,’ I continued, ‘an appliance was dropped into the bath; possibly Meg’s own hairdryer, which is missing. Meg suffered a fatal electric shock, the fuse panel blew, and the power went out. What happened then? Well, I can tell you that the murderer calmly put their hand into the bathwater with Meg’s dead body still in it, and pulled out the plug; her body didn’t show any signs of the puckering that would signify she’d been lying in water for hours, but it did show cooling, and that suggested she’d lain exposed to the air. Then, around six a.m. this morning, the murderer went back to Meg’s room, lifted her from the bath, dried her off and put her onto her bed, on her side. Lividity had set in when she was in the bath, but rigor had set a little when she lay on the bed. The hardwood floors in her room didn’t allow for there to be any visible drag marks, and Meg’s body, as I discovered when I lifted her myself, was remarkably light. I reckon anyone here could have done it – getting her out of the bath would have been the toughest part, but the position of the claw-foot tubs in these bathrooms would have allowed for someone to hook their arms under Meg’s armpits from behind, and pull. It would have been difficult, and wet, work despite the bath having been empty for a couple of hours, but the killer managed it. They also dried off the bath, and replaced all Meg’s wet towels with dry ones. Which, by the way, was a mistake.’

  Once again, there were suspicious looks flying around in the firelight. I was almost finished.

  ‘The killer would then have put Meg’s nightdress on her, tucked her in, and would have presented themselves as a member of the group that discovered her body, carefully concealing their guilt.’