G Malliet - Death of a Cozy Writer

“I had no idea. Isn’t the whole point of galleries that they just have walls on which to hang paintings?”

“Oh, my, you are behind the times, Inspector. No, the whole idea is to create an ‘experience’ for the viewer, beyond just looking at things hanging on walls. There’s a science to it, as well as a lot of smoke and mirrors. You’d be amazed.”

“I imagine I would. Now, you came down here this weekend with George. How did that come about?”

“I called him, just to chat. He mentioned this… situation… with his father. He seemed to feel he would need moral support. I gather I was also brought along to prove that little Georgie was becoming a grown-up with responsibilities, at last. I was curious to meet the famous author, Sir Adrian. So naturally I said I’d come along. Rather wish I hadn’t, now, of course. I say, are we going to be held here long? George and I were planning to leave Monday.”

“I’d change my plans if I were you.”

“Would you really?”

“Tell me a bit about what’s gone on in this house since you arrived.”

“Until now, nothing. A bit of argy-bargy last night at dinner- George had warned me the family was quarrelsome but I had no idea. Of course, they all had nearly as much to drink as Albert, which didn’t help. I couldn’t get away fast enough and went upstairs as soon as I could.”

“With George?”

“He came up about an hour later.”

“And you were together all night?”

“As far as I know, yes. Excepting the parts where I was asleep, of course.”

“Hear or see anything unusual?”

“Not a thing. Sorry. Wait… wait-I’d nearly forgotten. Ruthven made a telephone call. Or someone rang him. I overheard part of it, on my way toward the stairs-there’s a phone in the hall there. He didn’t sound happy, whoever it was.”

“Did you overhear a name?”

“As a matter of fact, I did. An unusual name… Manda. I don’t recall the exact words, but it was clear he was trying to-extricate himself from something unpleasant. When he saw me walking toward him, he rang off.”

“I see. We’ll need you to stay around, indefinitely, of course.” He held up a hand, fending off her look of dismay. “No, I can’t tell you for how long. When you’re free to go my sergeant or I will be in touch. Thank you in advance for your cooperation.”

Natasha looked about to say something but decided against it. With a shrug, she rose and glided out. The woman seemed to move on wheels.

“Crikey,” said Fear. “Whatever is a woman like that doing with a prat like George?”

“It’s a mystery, Sergeant. Well, is that it-the whole lot?”

“Well bred, well spoken. One of these modern women, but less annoying than most.”

“Yes, thank you, Sergeant. My impression, generally speaking, as well. Your other thoughts? For example, is she telling the truth?”

“They’re all more or less telling the truth. It’s what they’re not saying that’s important. George didn’t just dislike his brother, he hated him.”

“Right you are. So, who’s left?”

“One more. The other son, Albert. Oh, and the secretary. Jeffrey Spencer.”

“Let’s first see what this Jeffrey person will or will not share with us. At least he may have a more objective view than the others.”

Barely awake, Jeffrey appeared in the conservatory in due course, sleepy eyed and wearing the standard-issue uniform of jeans and sweatshirt.

“I see you played for the Vikings, Sir,” said St. Just. He shook Jeffrey’s proffered hand and then waved him to a seat.

“What? No, no, just showing my support. Paulo told me the news. Jeepers, I can’t believe this has happened.” His blue eyes opened wider, as if that would somehow help him process the news.

Beneath what appeared to be Jeffrey’s genuine shock, St. Just felt he could detect that frisson of excitement so many people seemed to experience at being in the thick of a murder scene. Often, the one who turned out to be the killer seemed just as excited as everyone else.

Just wait until they’ve seen a hundred scenes of crimes, he thought wearily.

“What time was he killed?” Jeffrey was asking.

St. Just saw no reason not to answer, since they had only the vaguest time frame to go on at the moment, anyway.

“At a guess, between ten and two AM. The medical examiner is the only one who can be more specific.”

“I think I can help with that. I ran into-the victim-in the library around midnight, it must have been. He said he was looking for a book.”

“What book was that, sir?”

“ Crime and Punishment . Awful coincidence, what? Then Sarah came in. We spent some time chatting. Well, a long time, actually. A long, long time. Very long.”

Sergeant Fear peered at him skeptically from beneath raised eyebrows. Jeffrey had just earned several stars for his insistence on the time. Fear’s experience was that the more people repeated themselves, the more doubtful it was they were repeating the truth. It was a bit too obvious this bloke was trying to give Sarah an alibi.

“You won’t have to look far for a motive. Cherchez la femme . Like father, like son.”

Albert had to some degree composed himself by this point, although he still looked like a man emerging from a sleep-deprivation experiment. Still, St. Just could see the resemblance to his siblings, who all had that undefined, eerie likeness of brothers and sisters.

“Ruthven tended to philander, like his father, do you mean to say, Sir?”

“Dear God, yes. They once chucked Father out of Yaddo-hardly known as a monastery-years ago. He dined out on that story for ages. Ruthven was worse, if anything.”

“And how did Lillian, his wife, react to this behavior?”

“She didn’t care.”

“Surely, Sir-”

“No need for the ‘Sir’ and no need for the disbelief, either. I tell you, she didn’t give a tinker’s damn. Lillian’s attitude seemed to be, let someone else bonk him-just don’t let it interfere with my shopping.”

“All right. About your brother’s movements before he was killed. Did you see him during the day?”

“At breakfast, yes. And at dinner.”

“What did you talk about at breakfast?”

“He’d dug up the old dirt on Violet. Quite a bit of it, in fact. In brotherly fashion, he shared this news with me. I wish I had done what he wanted, now.”

“And what was that?”

“He wanted me to-what is it they say in the gangster films?- grass her out? Spill the beans on her past. I refused. I doubt it would have made any difference. Oh, I don’t really know if it would. But if you’re looking for a killer, we are reputed to have quite a catch right here. Violet Winthrop. You must have heard of her.”

St. Just barely managed to hide his shock. Fear was drawing a blank, but carefully wrote down the name.

“Yes, I’ve heard of Dr. Crippen, as well. Thank you. Do you know, the others didn’t actually mention anything about that.”

“Not surprising. They know it would antagonize the old man. Lillian especially will be wondering if she’s even in the picture any more, but she won’t want to scuttle her chances.”

“I see. We’ll certainly be following up on that train of thought. But what possible motive could Violet have to kill Ruthven?”

“Do deranged killers need a motive?”

“She struck me as anything but deranged,” said St. Just mildly. “However, to answer your question, they do, without exception, have a motive, these deranged killers. It’s just that it’s not a motive that makes sense to normal people.”

“I can understand why you would look to Ruthven’s near and dear for a motive,” said Albert. “But I can tell you this much: My sister is incapable of this. Absolutely. So am I. My father-I can’t see him having the physical strength. And George doesn’t have the gumption. You’ll need to look elsewhere than the immediate family.”