Маргарет Миллар - The Murder of Miranda

It was a cold drizzly day, exactly the kind he remembered from his trips to Scotland — hardly any wonder the natives had invented Scotch, it was a simple matter of survival — so he lit the logs laid tepee style in the grate, avocado prunings, grey and smooth and no bigger than a child’s arm. Then, using his thumbnail as a paper knife, he slit open the envelope.

Dear Charles:

I don’t know when or if you will receive this. I am enclosing it in my chess move to Professor Sukimoto in Tokyo, asking him to stamp and post it for me. I have addressed the outside envelope to his office at the university as usual but this time I marked it Hold for Return . I know he is on a research leave in Paris and won’t be back for several months. This fits in perfectly with the plans I’ve made for Miranda.

It won’t surprise you to learn that I’ve worked things out as carefully as my limited mobility allowed. What will surprise you is that you were actually present when the idea took shape in my mind. It was the last time you came to this house for dinner. Miranda, acting out her role of governess, had given the girls some questions to answer, questions for a summer night she called them. Juliet protested that it wasn’t summer yet, so she didn’t have the answers. But I had mine, right away, then and there.

Do you remember those questions? I can never forget them:

Have I earned something today?

Have I learned something today?

Have I helped someone?

Have I felt glad to be alive?

In my case the answers were easy: no, no, no and no. I added one more question. Did I have a reason to go on living? No.

You were right, Charles, in that anonymous letter you wrote warning me about taking a Jezebel into my home. She is exactly what you claimed, a Jezebel. And Cooper is what he always has been, a nice gullible fool. And the girls, my daughters, they will be the victims unless I act to stop it.

I must protect my girls. They will never marry, never create, never be employed. (What happened? Why are they like this? I’ve blamed myself a thousand times and Cooper a thousand more, though the blame game is useless.) But within their limits they can be quite happy if they aren’t criticized or ridiculed, if they’re not at the mercy of a woman like Miranda.

So I have made my plans and I think they’ll work. Even some of the things I didn’t really plan may implicate her in my death. The Dalmane is an example. I took a dozen or so capsules from her medicine chest — I learned from watching Cordelia how easily a lock can be picked — to alleviate some of the suffering which is inevitable. I have endured a great deal of suffering and I can endure more, but I hope the Dalmane capsules will help. I will swallow them after the candle is lit and before I turn on the gas and strike myself on the head with my cane, not hard, just enough to cause bleeding. Heads bleed easily, more easily than hearts, perhaps.

I expect the handle of the cane and the candlestick, both being metal, to survive the fire to some extent. There will be blood on the cane, which should start the police wondering, and no fingerprints on the candlestick because I will have wiped it clean, and that will keep them wondering. Probably none of them will even think of suicide because the whole thing is too bizarre. That’s why I planned it the way I did.

I intend to get Miranda to mail this to Professor Sukimoto, a grotesque little touch I can’t resist. I’ll also see that she walks the dog early. She’s bound to tell the police I asked her to, but will they believe her? Will anyone believe anything she says? Cooper, perhaps. No one else.

Poor Cooper. I feel sorry for him, but he’ll get over my death pretty quickly even without Miranda around to help him. And she won’t be around. She won’t be marrying my husband, spending my money, managing my daughters.

I have unloaded all this on you, Charles, because I have a notion you’d rather not think of me as a victim. I have been a victim of some cruel things in my life but I am in full charge of my own death.

It’s a victory of sorts.

The receptionist in the District Attorney’s office wore a uniform of a mustard color which made Van Eyck quite nauseated.

He said faintly, “Some time ago, July, I believe it was, I wrote the D.A. a letter about the Iris Young case.”

“What is the name, please?”

“My name or the name on the letter?”

“I thought you said you wrote it.”

“I did. But I didn’t sign it. I never do. I mean, there are so many things one can express better without signing a name.”

“I’m sure one can,” the woman said. “But when you do sign a name, what do you sign?”

“I believe in this case it was Fair Play. That’s not important, however. I mentioned my letter to the D.A. merely to introduce — or rather to let it be known that my interest in the case is—”

“Wait here a moment, Mr. Play.”

“No, no. I’m not Mr. Play.”

“But you just said—”

“Forget about the name. The important thing is that I’ve just had a revelation, a most astonishing revelation.”

“We don’t have time for revelations in this department, especially those induced by alcohol. And you have been drinking, haven’t you, Mr. Play?”

“I told you I’m not Mr. Play. I don’t even know anybody called Mr. Play.”

“Then why did you sign his name to a letter?”

“Oh God,” Van Eyck said and turned and ran.

Back home he poured himself another tumbler of Scotch. Then he threw some more avocado logs in the grate and put the letter from Tokyo on top of them.

It flamed briefly, turned black, turned grey, and rode the updraft into the chimney.

Dear me, he thought with a little twinge of surprise. I believe I’ve just murdered Miranda.