G Malliet - Death of a Cozy Writer

“I could have told you… about the name… You never mentioned the plant…” began Sarah. She looked over at Natasha in wonder. Natasha, a killer?

St. Just nodded. “The plant was a clue straight out of one of his novels, and we nearly missed its significance. It was the only thing close to hand that he could use to point us to his killer, without leaving a clue so obvious the killer would realize what he was doing.”

“Oh, come on, Inspector,” said Natasha. “I mean, really. You’ll have to do better than that. My birthday is December 25. That proves exactly nothing. Sir Adrian didn’t know that; he didn’t ask. Why would he?”

St. Just’s look was piercing.

“He didn’t have to ask. He knew as soon as he heard your name, as did Sarah. Among his hundreds of reference books are half a dozen of those baby-naming books containing the etymology of every name imaginable.”

“He used those to come up with his characters’ names,” put in Sarah.

“Everywhere I went in this case,” said St. Just, “I was nagged by the thought that it was connected with Christmas, and I couldn’t think how. This time of year, we’re surrounded with reminders.

Even my sergeant’s mobile, with its blasted ‘Jingle Bells’ ring.”

“My name has nothing to do with this,” said Natasha.

“Names, lineages, inheritances-they have everything to do with it.”

She shrugged. “All right, yes, so Violet is my mother. What a brilliant deduction on your part, Inspector. You’re positively wasted out here-we could use you in London. The rest is bollocks and you know it. You can’t prove a thing.” But her voice was harsh, strangled, no longer ringing out with quite so much confident authority as before.

Turning to Violet, St. Just said:

“When did you tell your husband just who Natasha was?”

Violet, eyes hooded, said nothing.

“We’ve had enough lies from you. The truth, now.”

It seemed Violet didn’t dare look at her daughter as she spoke.

“That afternoon he died, when we were alone together in his study-yes, I lied about that; haven’t I had enough of the police in my life? But I told him then. Natasha had asked me not to, because she was working undercover. She didn’t give me any details about George. I was used to that, all this skullduggery that went with her line of work. I never really knew what Natasha was up to-what was real in her life, and what pretend. But the longer the deception went on, the more awkward it became not to say anything, especially once Adrian heard about the baby on the way. He was over the moon. How could I not tell him that this grandchild and its mother were even more… special… than he realized.”

She hazarded a glance at her daughter.

“I did swear him to secrecy, Natty.”

Natasha returned the look of appeal with one of scorn.

“I should have known better than to trust you,” said Natasha.

“That is just not fair.” Violet might have forgotten anyone else was in the room. “Everything I’ve done I’ve done for you. I told you: He was talking about changing his will again. He had to know there was a double reason for-for arranging things totally in my favor and yours. This was not just his grandchild, but his and mine. And I was right about telling him, whatever you may think.”

“Shut up,” said Natasha.

“So you told Sir Adrian about your daughter, born of a liaison while you were ‘in exile’ on the Continent. One-” He turned to Sergeant Fear. “What was his name again, Sergeant?”

Sergeant Fear flipped back a few pages in his notebook.

“Count Madalin Landeski.”

“Count Landeski. Thank you, Sergeant. Interpol has been most helpful, haven’t they? Frightfully efficient. Yes, Miss Landeski, even country bumpkins like Sergeant Fear and myself know how to ring the experts at Interpol.”

Sergeant Fear smiled at them all. It was rather a terrifying smile; he was enjoying himself immensely by this point. He fixed his eyes on St. Just with something like adoration.

“And then you told Natasha that Sir Adrian was in on the secret- that you had ‘blown her cover,’” St. Just said to Violet. “Thus helping to seal his fate. Sir Adrian was anything but discreet, and Natasha knew it, even if you did not. The whole setup-a stranger in his house posing as someone else, Ruthven’s murder, this pregnancy- was bound to make him suspicious, start asking questions. Sir Adrian knew all about false paternity, after all. And what proof had he-had any of you?-that all this wasn’t just a typically short-sighted scheme on George’s part?”

“What do you mean, short-sighted?” said George, thoroughly affronted. “The old man might have been dead long before we had to decide what to do about the kid.”

“Thank you for illustrating my point so nicely. As it happens, the ‘old man’ was.

“Natasha wasn’t planning to reveal her identity-at least to the necessary extent-until well after Sir Adrian was dead and the inheritance secure. But once her mother spilled the beans, she couldn’t risk having Sir Adrian start snooping into her affairs. So she moved up the timetable for Sir Adrian’s death, which I am certain she had planned from the first. When the time was right, she would strike. With Ruthven dead, George took his place as heir; her mother had already secured rights to the proceeds by her marriage. Everything was in place. Why not, then, strike now? She would win either way. But her relationship with George, cold and calculated as it was, must not be subjected to analysis.

“What did Sir Adrian do, Natasha, when you went for your friendly little chat with your new stepfather? Suggest a blood test, that very subject being so fresh in his mind? Just as I did to George, just now?”

Natasha held her silence, but her expression told him the game was up. If she hadn’t chosen to tell so many direct lies-about the child, just for one-she might have gotten away with it.

Wonderful, he thought, what a good line of bluff can produce. Didn’t she know: The National Health released medical records to the police only under threat of torture. And sometimes, not even then.

AS THEY DROVE AWAY some time later, Sergeant Fear’s mind was still following the strings that had led his superior to Natasha. He drove slowly this time, but distractedly; several times St. Just had to warn him off a ditch on the narrow drive away from the house. Natasha, George, and Paulo had been taken into custody on their various charges and been driven off to be sorted out on their journeys through the legal system. George would be out in a few years; there was little, so far as St. Just knew, to stop him inheriting Adrian’s precious title, but he wondered how easy a time he and Paulo would have getting their hands on the money, under the circumstances. Somehow, he felt a good solicitor might be able to sort all that out. It seemed a shame, but there it was.

“Will it stick?” Fear asked at last.

“Oh, yes, I believe so. George, her ‘alibi,’ isn’t going to stand by their mutual story for a minute. Then there are Ruthven’s phone records, his credit card receipts, his appointments calendar- somewhere, I would be willing to bet, there’s at least one waiter who saw this unforgettable beauty dining with Ruthven in London. But most of all, there’s Ruthven’s child. We’ve got her for lying straight down the line. Circumstantial? Some of it. But the prosecution will have more than enough to go on when George caves, which he will.”

“There’s one thing I don’t understand, Sir,” Sergeant Fear said at last. “Just who in hell did kill Winnie Winthrop?”

“You want my guess or my certainty? We’ll have to wait in part for Mrs. Butter’s complete translation to confirm it. But Violet, of course, with Sir Adrian’s help in the coverup. You can put five stars by her statement regarding her deep love for Winnie Winthrop. She wanted out, and she wanted the cash to go with her.”