Death of a Cozy Writer: A St. Just Mystery (33 page)

“Then you—or was it he?—had a better idea. Clever Ruthven was full of ideas, wasn’t he? Why not foist this child off onto George, ensure its “legitimate” claim to Sir Adrian’s fortune? It was a case of the past repeating itself, wasn’t it? His own mother had done the same, palming Ruthven off onto Sir Adrian. Ruthven must have appreciated that there was a certain symmetry to all of this. A grand joke to play on the old man.”

“The child is George’s. Of course it is. Tell him, George.”

His virility at stake, George repeated manfully, “Of course it is.”

“No doubt blood tests will confirm that,” said St. Just calmly. “In any event, I would urge you, Mr. Beauclerk-Fisk, to investigate that option thoroughly.”

While George mulled this over within the tiny confines of his brain, St. Just went on, speaking again directly to Natasha. She would no longer look at him, but seemed to be studying with great interest the gold bracelet on her wrist.

“Ruthven persuaded you to this scheme. Perhaps you pretended to go along. There was a great fortune to consider, wasn’t there? And poor George would be none the wiser.”

Sarah and Albert exchanged fleeting looks. They had never heard the words “poor” and “George” used together before in the same sentence.

“What did he promise you, Natasha? That you and he would be together once you’d established yourself as the second lady of this house? Did you fall for that? If so, what changed your mind? My guess would be the telephone conversation you overheard him having with his London associate: the other woman in his life. One of the many women in his life.

“Perhaps it was at that moment you accepted the reality at last. He cared nothing for you. You were indeed just the latest pawn in this game. And once you had decided you alone were going to win the game, Ruthven had to die. He knew too much; he was the only one who knew about this child of yours and his. George having sprung his announcement at dinner, there was no time to lose.

“You convinced Ruthven to meet you that night, for one of your usual assignations. You lured him that night to the cellar, stopping to collect your weapon from the selection in the hall, and then you killed him. You killed him, and then carried on with the plan to produce the next Beauclerk-Fisk generation, and collect the money that would go with it.”

“Well, it’s a fascinating theory, Inspector. Oh, and Sir Adrian? While I was on a killing spree I just decided to finish him off, too? Is that it? Before he’d had time to change his will in favor of the child? Silly of me to rush things like that, don’t you think?”

“You didn’t have to worry overmuch about the will—and you are the only one who can truthfully say that. George’s inheriting from Adrian wasn’t essential to this plan. One way or another, you and Ruthven’s child were going to inherit—perhaps later rather than sooner, but eventually. From your mother. From Violet, the new Lady Beauclerk-Fisk.”

MIRROR, MIRROR

_______________________

ALBERT LOOKED AT
NATASHA,
at Violet, back to Natasha. Why the deuce hadn’t he seen the resemblance? Hazy, like a reflection in a pond, but decidedly there. More obvious than the physical similarities, obscured as they were by Violet’s age and Natasha’s youth, was the way they both stood and moved with silent, feline grace. He was suddenly reminded of Mrs. Butter’s Clytemnestra, the daughter a smaller version of the mother.

For his part, Jeffrey understood that from the first glimpse of Natasha, he, too, had registered the physical resemblance: in the planes of her face, in her walk, even in the ungainly hands that Natasha was at such pains to hide behind long, draping sleeves.

“I should have noticed from the first,” said St. Just. “The similarities are evident, once one becomes aware of them. But I didn’t become aware until I saw a photo of Violet taken decades ago. It was like looking at a photograph of Natasha.

“There was a clue Sir Adrian, the mystery writer, left for us,” he went on. “He was found clutching the red leaf of a poinsettia plant, known as the Christmas plant. We assumed this was an accident, something he simply grabbed at, blindly, as he fell across his desk. But we were forgetting the way Sir Adrian’s mind worked. He couldn’t leave an obvious clue—the killer would have simply removed that from the room. But the subtle clue, the clue to the killer’s name, we nearly missed altogether, as did the killer. What he left us was the name, ‘Natasha.’ Natasha, a common variation of ‘Natalia,’ meaning, ‘born on Christmas day.’ Only Sir Adrian’s sleuth Miss Rampling, or his daughter, Sarah, with her interest in the derivations of names, would have realized what he was trying to tell us.”

“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.

ST. JUST IS DENIED

_______________________

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.”

“Sir Adrian’s help?”

“Back in the days when he was plain old John Davies, yes. Madly in love with the delectable, completely unattainable Lady Winthrop, as he was all his life, but having to settle in the end for plain old Chloe. Adrian, as we are the last to know, was part of that whole crowd at the time. He’d fallen head over heels with Violet, who barely noticed he was alive, but found him immensely useful when he offered to testify he was in bed with her at the time of the murder.

“As I shall explain in great detail to Mrs. Romano, her vow of silence to him is now officially broken. She’s coming to the station, and this time to tell all. She knew he was in bed with someone, just that it wasn’t Violet.”

“He paid her, all these years, for her silence?”

“And the big payoff was to come at the end. When he met Maria Romano again, years later, I think it was by chance. He realized: so much time had passed, but she hadn’t told what she knew. I imagine he considered her discretion made her worth her weight in gold, but it would be as well to assure her silence. He took her in, took care of Paulo, left them both extremely well off in the will, at least by Mrs. Romano’s standards. If Paulo isn’t yet another illegitimate by-blow in this case, I’ll eat my hat.”

“Good God, you don’t mean—?”

“I do. Just a guess. But that would explain so much about her silence, would it not? Why not just tell me she worked at the bloody Winthrop castle? Mrs. Romano is basically an honest soul; it’s the one thing she did that didn’t add up, and the discretion of a good servant didn’t entirely account for it. She doesn’t even seem to resent, if she realizes it, that her cut of the will is a fraction of what the others got. Anyway, it’s irrelevant to the case against Natasha, so I’m not going to press her on where Paulo came from— yet. Not if she tells me what she knows about that night: that it was she who was with Sir Adrian. Which of course she was afraid to tell the authorities at the time. I’d bet my last shilling she was in the country illegally, which probably answers to her silence, as well.