Amelia Peabody Omnibus 1-4 (75 page)

‘Forgotten to take his shaving tackle,’ Emerson interrupted. ‘I knew then that the murderer must be a woman. No man would overlook such an obvious – ’

‘And,’ I said, raising my voice, ‘no man could have made Arthur’s bed so neatly. Remember, he was resting on it when he was attacked. The killer had to remake the bed so that the counterpane hung all the way down to the floor and concealed his unconscious form. The longer the delay, the more difficult it would have been for innocent persons to establish an alibi. Those neat hospital corners were a dead giveaway.’

‘Good, good,’ crooned Mr O’Connell, scribbling. ‘But how did she commit the crime, Mrs E.? That is the most baffling thing of all.’

‘With a hat pin,’ I replied.

Exclamations of astonishment followed. ‘Yes,’ I went on. ‘I confess that I puzzled over that for a long time. Not until yesterday afternoon, when Lady Baskerville was trying on her trousseau, did I realise how deadly a hat pin can be. Lady Baskerville had been a nurse, and she had known – er – been acquainted with – medical students and doctors. A sharpened steel needle inserted into the base of the brain will penetrate the spinal column and kill the victim instantly. A small puncture, hidden by the victim’s hair, would not be observed; or, if it was, it would be taken for an insect bite. She killed Mr Armadale the same way.’

‘But why Armadale?’ O’Connell asked keenly, his pencil poised. ‘Did he suspect her?’

‘Quite the contrary,’ I replied. (My breath control is much better than Emerson’s; I could start speaking while he was still inhaling.) ‘Mr Armadale thought
he
had killed Lord Baskerville.’

A gratifying burst of surprised exclamations interrupted me.

‘It is only conjecture, of course,’ I said modestly, ‘but it is the only explanation that fits all the facts. Lady Baskerville had cold-bloodedly seduced Mr Armadale. Mary noticed that he was distracted and depressed for several weeks preceding Lord Baskerville’s death. More significantly, he did not renew his offer of marriage. He had found another love, and the torment of knowing he had betrayed his patron was tearing him apart. Lady Baskerville pretended to feel the same. She informed Armadale that she intended to tell her husband the truth and, professing fear of his reaction, asked the young man to wait in her room while the confrontation took place. Not unnaturally her husband began to shout at her. She screamed; Armadale rushed in and struck the enraged husband, thinking he was protecting his mistress. As soon as Lord Baskerville fell, his wife bent over him and cried, “You have killed him!”’

‘And Armadale believed her?’ O’Connell asked sceptically. ‘My readers are going to love this, Mrs E., but it’s a little hard to swallow.’

‘He loved her,’ Arthur said weakly. ‘You don’t understand true love, Mr O’Connell.’

I reached for Arthur’s wrist. ‘You are flushed,’ I said. ‘You are becoming overexcited. We had better adjourn.’

‘No, no.’ The sick man took hold of my hand. His golden beard had been neatly trimmed and his hair arranged. His pallor and emaciation made him handsomer than ever, like a young Keats (except, of course, that the poet was dark).

‘You can’t leave the story unfinished,’ Arthur went on. ‘Why did she attack me?’

‘Yes, why?’ Emerson said, catching me off guard this time. ‘I’ll warrant even my omniscient wife does not know that.’

‘Do you?’ I enquired.

‘No. It makes no sense. Arthur never saw her; she entered his room while he was asleep, and why she did not use the handy hat pin on him – ’

‘She had to render him unconscious first,’ I explained. ‘The insertion of the needle into the pertinent spot requires some dexterity; it cannot be done while the victim is awake and capable of resistance. Once she had struck him, she believed him to be dead. Perhaps, also, she was afraid of being interrupted. In Arthur’s case she had to act during the daylight hours. Something may have startled her, and she had only time to hide him under the bed. The question is, why did she feel it necessary to silence you, Arthur? If someone had become suspicious of how Lord Baskerville died, you were the obvious suspect. Your naive folly in telling no one of your identity – ’

‘But I did tell someone,’ Arthur said innocently. ‘I told Lady Baskerville, barely a week after I came here.’

I exchanged glances with Emerson. He nodded. ‘So that was it,’ he said. ‘You did not mention that to my wife, when you bared your soul to her.’

The young man flushed. ‘It hardly seemed cricket. Mrs Emerson had told me in no uncertain terms what she thought of my stupidity. To admit that Lady Baskerville had encouraged me to retain my anonymity would be to accuse her…’ He broke off, looking startled. Handsome Arthur Baskerville might be; wealthy and endowed with all the good things of this world. Outstandingly intelligent he was not.

‘Hold on now.’ O’Connell’s pencil had been racing across the page. He now looked up. ‘This is all good stuff, but you are not following the right order. Let’s go back to the murder of Armadale. I presume that she persuaded the poor booby to flee after Baskerville collapsed and then did his lordship in with her hat pin. Hey – wait a minute. No one mentioned a bruise on Baskerville’s face – ’

‘Dr Dubois would not notice if the man’s throat had been cut,’ I said. ‘But, to do him justice, he was looking for the cause of death, not a slight swelling on the jaw or chin. Lord Baskerville seems to have been astonishingly prone to self-mutilation. He probably had many bruises, cuts, and scrapes.’

‘Good.’ O’Connell wrote this down. ‘So Armadale ran away – disguised himself as a native, I suppose, and hid in the hills. I am surprised he didn’t flee the country.’

‘And leave his mistress behind?’ I countered. ‘I doubt that the young man’s mental state was quite normal. The horror of what he thought he had done was enough to turn his brain and render him incapable of decisive action of any kind. If he
had
wanted to confess, he would have been deterred by the knowledge that by doing so he must incriminate the woman he loved, as an accessory after the fact. But when Lady Baskerville returned he could bear it no longer. He came to her window at night and was seen by Hassan. That foolish man tried to blackmail Lady Baskerville – for of course he had seen which window Armadale approached. She disposed of both of them the next night, Armadale at the cave, where he had told her to meet him, and Hassan on the way back, when he intercepted her. I am not surprised that she appeared so exhausted next day.’

‘But what about – ’

‘No more at the present time,’ I said, rising. ‘Arthur has had all the excitement he ought to have. Mary, will you stay with him and make sure he rests? As soon as the good Sister finishes her well-deserved nap, I will send her to relieve you.’

As we left the room, I saw Arthur reach for Mary’s hand. Mary blushed and lowered her lashes. I had arranged that matter as well as I could, they must do the rest. Avoiding Mr O’Connell’s reproachful glance, I led the way to the sitting room.

‘There are a few more loose ends to tie up,’ I said, taking a chair. ‘I did not want Mary to hear us discuss her mother’s death.’

‘Quite correct,’ said Karl approvingly. ‘I thank you, Frau Professor, for – ’

‘That is all right, Karl,’ I said, wondering why he was thanking me, but not really caring very much.

Before I could continue, the door opened to admit Mr Vandergelt. He gave the impression of having shrunk several inches since the day before. No one knew what to say, until Emerson, rising to the sublime heights of which he is sometimes capable, uttered the mot juste.

‘Vandergelt, have a drink!’

‘You’re a real pal, Professor,’ the American said with a long sigh. ‘I think maybe I will.’

‘Did she send you away, Mr Vandergelt?’ I enquired sympathetically.

‘With language that would make a mule-skinner blush,’ was the reply. ‘She sure enough took me in. I guess you think I’m a blamed silly old fool.’

‘You were not the only one to be deceived,’ I assured him.

‘
Aber nein
,’ Karl exclaimed. ‘I had for her always the most respectful, most – ’

‘That is why I refused your offer to stand guard with me last night,’ said Emerson, from the table where he was pouring whisky for the afflicted Vandergelt. ‘Your respect for the lady might have prevented you from acting, if only for a split second; and even that brief time could have meant the difference between life and death.’

‘And naturally you turned
me
down,’ said Vandergelt gloomily. ‘I tell you, Professor, I’d have been too flabbergasted to move if I had seen her.’

Emerson handed him the glass and he nodded his thanks before continuing. ‘You know that confounded woman expected me to marry her after all? She started cursing at me when I said I had to respectfully decline. I felt like a rat, but, gee whiz, folks, marrying a woman who has already murdered one husband just isn’t sensible. A fellow would always be wondering if his morning coffee tasted peculiar.’

‘It would also be impractical to wait twenty or thirty years before enjoying the pleasures of connubial bliss,’ I said. ‘Cheer up, Mr Vandergelt; time will heal your wound, and I know happiness awaits you in the future.’

My well-chosen words lifted a little of the gloom from the American’s countenance. He raised his glass in a graceful salute to me.

‘I was just about to discuss the death of Madame Berengeria,’ I went on. ‘Will it pain you too much to hear…’

‘One more whisky and it wouldn’t pain me to hear that Amalgamated Railroads had fallen twenty points,’ Mr Vandergelt replied. He handed his empty glass to Emerson. ‘Join me in the next round, won’t you, Professor?’

‘I believe I will,’ Emerson replied, with an evil look at me. ‘We will drink, Vandergelt, to the perfidy of the female sex.’

‘I will join you both,’ I said gaily. ‘Emerson, your jests are sometimes a bit ill-timed. Mr O’Connell is sitting on the edge of his chair, his pencil poised; explain in your own inimitable fashion the meaning of the little fairy tale we discussed last evening, and why that seemingly harmless story caused a murder.’

‘Ahem,’ said Emerson. ‘Well, if you insist, Peabody.’

‘I do. In fact, I will be barmaid and wait on you both.’ I took Vandergelt’s empty glass from his hand. Emerson gave me a sheepish smile. He is pathetically easy to manage, poor man. The slightest kind gesture quite softens him.

‘May I impose on your good nature too, ma’am?’ O’Connell asked.

‘Certainly,’ I replied graciously. ‘But none of your brash Irish gestures at the barmaid, Mr O’Connell.’

This little sally completed the atmosphere of good humour I was endeavouring to create. As I served the gentlemen – including Karl, who thanked me with a smile – Emerson took the floor.

‘Madame Berengeria’s death was in its way a masterpiece of tragic irony, for the poor stupid woman did not have the slightest intention of accusing Lady Baskerville of murder. Like all the good ladies of Luxor, who, in their infinite Christian charity spend most of their time dissecting their fellow women, she knew Lady Baskerville’s reputation. “The Tale of the Two Brothers” was a slam at an adulteress, not a murderess. And it could not have been more apt. The heart in the cedar tree is the heart of a lover – vulnerable, exposed, trusting in the love of the beloved. If the object of adoration proves false the lover has no defence. Lord Baskerville trusted his wife. Even when he had ceased to love her he did not think of defending himself against her. It is a tribute to some long-buried streak of intelligence and sensitivity in Madame Berengeria that she sensed the meaning of the metaphor. Who knows what she might have been, if the vicissitudes of life had not proved too great for her will?’

I gazed at my husband with tears of affection dimming my sight. How often is Emerson misjudged by those who do not know him! How tender, how delicate are the feelings he conceals beneath a mask of ferocity!

Unaware of my sentiments, Emerson took a stiff drink of whisky and resumed, in a more practical vein. ‘The first part of the story of the Two Brothers concerns a faithless wife who turns one man against another by her lies. Think of that story, gentlemen and Peabody, in terms of our tragic triangle. Again, the metaphor was apt; and Lady Baskerville’s guilty conscience led her to choose the wrong reference. She thought herself in danger of exposure – and it was so easy to slip a fatal dose of opium into Madame Berengeria’s bottle of brandy. What was one more murder? She had already committed three. And what was the death of one dreadful old woman? A blessing in disguise, really.’

Silence followed the conclusion of his remarks. Then he addressed Mr O’Connell, whose pencil had been racing across the page. ‘Any questions?’ he said.

‘Wait, just let me get the last part. “What was the death of one dreadful …”’

‘Old woman,’ Emerson supplied.

‘Silly old fool,’ Mr Vandergelt muttered, staring into his empty glass.

The door opened and Mary entered.

‘He is asleep,’ she said, smiling at me. ‘I am so happy for him. He will so enjoy being Lord Baskerville.’

‘And I am happy for you,’ I replied, with a meaningful look.

‘But how did you know?’ Mary exclaimed, blushing prettily. ‘We have not told anyone yet.’

‘I always know these things,’ I began.

Fortunately I said no more; for even as I spoke Karl von Bork crossed to Mary’s side. He put his arm around her and she leaned against him, her flush deepening into a rosy glow.

‘We have you to thank, Frau Professor,’ he said, his moustaches positively curling in the ardour of his happiness. ‘It is not proper to speak of this so soon after the unhappy, the unfortunate occurrence we have been discussing; but my dear Mary is quite alone in the world now, and she needs me. I have confidence that you will be to her a true friend until comes the blissful time when I can take her to the place which is – ’

‘What?’ Emerson exclaimed, staring.

‘Begorrah!’ cried Mr O’Connell, flinging his pencil across the room.

‘Silly old fool,’ said Mr Vandergelt to his empty glass.

‘My very best wishes to both of you,’ I said. ‘Of course I knew it all along.’