After the rooms had been searched and all the evidence found and turned over to the Constable, everyone went down to the living room for tea. The Constable said he would join them when he has examined Miss Smithson's body (and covered the remain decently). Various people no longer wished to talk to each other. Lucinda and Oswald had a whispered conversation, after which they both glared accusingly at Major Dessard ... and looked with nervous alarm at Reggie Staughton.
Madame Escuskiovna, again soberly clad in grey tweeds, was one of the first down to tea in the Great Hall. She seemed rather subdued and pensive, collecting a cup of tea and one or two small sandwiches before sitting down in an out-of-the-way corner. As the opportunity arose, she again approached Wallace Emerson.
"Mr. Emerson . . . I realize that Miss Ericsson desired a seance to take place this evening, and I am still quite willing to oblige in this. However, if in view of the recent events, you would think it too upsetting, I shall not insist."
"A seance?" he said slowly, wonderingly. "Yes ... she wanted that. She thought it would be ... "
He broke off, his eyes a little distant. Then suddenly he turned and seized Madame Escuskiovna's hand.
"Do it," he said simply. "Do it for Anja - it is what she would have wanted."
"Very well, Mr. Emerson," Madame Escuskiovna said gently, patting his hand. "As long as I do not raise . . . false hopes. You must understand -- we do not summon. All the impetus comes from the Other Side."
"How awfully convenient for you, then!" came a sarcastic quip from the spiral staircase.
It had been hurled lightly by the Viscount, who was descending into the room. As he stepped down, he made a beeline for the sidebar, ignoring the tea service completely. While walking, he addressed Wallace, as if he hadn't spoken to Madame E at all.
"Oh, Wally!" he bemoaned, "that boorish constable is never going to catch poor Anja's killer! He's just too ... simple!" On reaching the bar, he set about fixing a gin and tonic... deciding that a martini would take too long.
Doctor Lawrence sat in a corner, where he had apparently been for a while, rather disheveled. When he spoke, the tone of his voice was easy, almost relieved, at odds with his words. "For all our sakes, I hope you're wrong. My life's likely ruined anyway, but being part of an unsolved murder - pair - of murders - would be just the icing on the cake. He'd best find the murderer or we'll all have a cloud over our heads for the rest of our lives."
He paused and a look of surprise passed briefly over his face. "Murderer...or murderers. Though it's certainly the simplest possibility, there's nothing that says Miss Smithson was killed by the poisoner. They say that criminals tend to repeat their crime, but we've got two different types of killing here. Poison's an indirect murder, while a knife's as personal and involved as you can get."
"You're forgetting something doctor - Opportunity." Dessard smiled thinly.
"Anja's - or for that matter Emerson's - death may have been meticulously planned, but what if poor Miss Smithson stumbled upon the murderer's identity? She may have to be done away with quickly, with the knife, before she could tell anyone of her suspicions." The major pointed out. "Thus its likely that the murderer is the same individual that killed Anja. I can't believe that we have two seperate killers, unconnected in any way, staying in the same manor house in the country for Christmas! Such an idea strains the limits of disbelief!"
"Not, apparently, if you're a dope fiend..." Clifford muttered around his drink straw.
"Constable, did you interview Miss Smithson? What did she say?" Dessard asked, seeing the man had joined them.
"I did interview her," responded the Constable, " and she told me nothing that added materially to the evidence given by the rest of you. Whether that was in fact the whole truth, I cannot really say.
"What is more interesting is the document I found clutched in her hand. It would seem , from its nature, and the position of her fingers, that she was holding it when she met her death. Whether the murderer saw it and believed it to be something else and it led to her death ... I cannot say.
"I am not even sure whether he allowed it to stay in her hand when he realised what it was ... or whether something disturbed him before he could examine it."
Davyd raised a hand respectfully, and waited for the constable's nod of approval to speak.
"Call me any type of idiot you like for this, but could we possibly stop referring to the murderer as 'he', unless of course you've had reason to eliminate all of the ladies from your enquiries..."
Dr. Lawrence waited for someone to ask the obvious question. When no one else did, he scowled and snapped, "Well, what was it, then?"
He wasn't in a good mood at the moment. Neither the feelings of a somewhat too large dose nor of withdrawal were very pleasant, and it was possible to slide from one to the other more quickly than he'd like, the body not being able to simply apportion the effects out over time.
"It was," said the Constable. "A birth certificate. Supplying rather interesting information ... "
He looked at all of them rather thoughtfully.
"Well?" Dessard asked with a snort, "We're waiting."
Madame Escuskiovna, who had directed a somewhat wide-eyed look at the Constable when he mentioned a birth certificate, actually seemed to relax a bit as he thus elaborated.
"Then," said the Constable imperturbably, "you will wait a long time. I believe that this piece of paper has an important role to play in helping me to track the killer."
"Wonderful." Dessard smirked sarcastically. "Keep the information to yourself. Maybe Scotland Yard will give you a medal after you solve three murders. Or four or five. Or perhaps you'll solve the crime through process of elimination - after all, whomever is alive at Staughton Manor by the end of the week-end must be the murderer." He muttered, "Provincial twit." under his breath.
Jane Blume breezed in... with perhaps a bit more focus than she has heretofore shown. There was an edgy smile on her poisonous lips, and darkly lined eyes scanned the room, as if she was deciding - exactly - where she should go to settle.
"Don't listen to him, Constable!" Jane cut in, suddenly. There came a strangled sound from the back of her throat. "Heavens! I mean... that is, it could be important that you keep some things to yourself, so you don't risk alerting the murderer how much you know.
"I suppose," she said aloud, thoughtfully, "I suppose having a pleasant cup of tea with this crowd is likely out of the question. Everyone will be afraid to drink it."
Her eyes rested on the Viscount stirring his gin and tonic.
"Oh," she said, moving that way. "Oh, Cliffie. How I do need a drink! Would you be a darling and fix me up a nice Martini?"
She threw a look at the Constable, then turned back to the smaller man, adding, "Don't bother with the vermouth. Or the olive..."
"Certainly, my sweet," answered the Viscount, with a bit less enthusiasm than usual. Setting his drink where he could see it, he set to work on Janey's drink, then handed it to her.
"There you are... cheers," he said, clinking glasses with the young model before downing half of his gin and tonic. He eyed Dessard coldly over his straw.
She downed hers... all of it, rather... directly after the cheery clink.
"Why, Cliffie, darling," she said, lowering her voice a bit... though perhaps not quite to a whisper.
"Whatever is the matter?" she asked. "You seem perfectly livid..."
Miss.Mulchop fawned around Madame Escuskiovna. Pratteling on & on, asking what one item or another was for. "How exciting!" seemed to be the basic punctuation of every sentence. She stopped abruptly however as poor Dessard appeared to be having a minor breakdown..
As Madame Escuskiovna prepared for the seance, Dessard sat in an armchair, smoking and looking around at all the others distrustfully. He ignored the looks from Oswald and Lucinda, though he was curious as to what prompted the glares. Finally, exasperated, he stood up and walked to the center of the room.
"While the Constable tends to poor Miss Smithson, I think its time we all put our cards on the table," Dessard began.
"Maybe if we combine what we know, we can stop the murderer from killing again," he suggested.
"I'll even go first: Anja Ericksson brought up the subject of penalty for betrayal at dinner. I told her that the tribesmen of Africa usually kill those who betray them. After dinner, she is poisoned.
"The only people I knew before of coming to Staughton Manor were Emerson, through a mutual acquaintence I took on safari, and Miss Janey Blume. Miss Blume had a clandestine relationship with a French photographer, though I don't know why their affair was a secret. She admitted it freely enough to me."
Jane looked rather pale, and cast a meaningful glance at Lucinda.
"Doctor Lawrence is addicted to morphine. The viscount has a sketchbook filled with what I presume to be pornogaphic drawings."
"Posh!" squealed the Viscount. "You presume falsely, sir!" he added, puffing madly on a cigarette...
The Major continued, "Davyd Smythe has something against Miles Secord. And Oswald came here at the behest of his father to check out and possibly invest in Emerson's South American business venture."
Dessard sat back down and lit another cigarette. Clifford frowned, glancing around to see what effect this ridiculous display had on the rest of the people.
Davyd rose to address the company. Casting a look at the Viscount, he made a mental note to make some ... professional enquiries about that sketchbook...
Following Dessard's cue with a cigarette of his own, he spoke. "Here's what I know: Our luggage search turned up a plethora of German memorabilia in Secord's room, a dagger sheath which presumably held the murder weapon in my baggage, and a bloodied shirt bearing the name 'Staughton' in Reginald's...
"Also, the late Hermione had a soft spot for our host, Emerson. I'm not making any implications about the nature of this," he hastened to add, with a genuine look at the man.
"Hermione!" exclaimed Jane, growing a bit breathless with the excitement. "Why, and I thought it was-- well. I thought it was someone else, all along!"
"Finally, and I don't care if anyone thinks that I'm shell-shocked or that I have it in for him. Or that I'm mustard-gassed," he added with a significant look at Miles, "but our war-hero here is definitely hiding something about the War. This may or may not have any relevance to the matter at hand, but I'm sure we'll all agree that this really isn't the time to be keeping any secrets..."
He seated himself without another word.
"Oh!" cried Jane, suddenly, putting down her empty glass. Her gaze wandered the room a trifle vaguely, and she pressed a hand to her forehead, and one to her throat.
"This is all - too, too much!" she declared. "I feel ill," she said softly.
"I believe..." she said faintly, "...that is, I think I am going to..."
Her knees buckled beneath her, and she began to fall...
Davyd was on his feet, the cigarette resting in an astray as soon as it became apparant that she would swoon. Catching the lady easily in his arms, he found himself at a loss. He'd learned to tourniquet grotesque wounds, administer morphine to a dying comrade, how to come out on top in an unarmed melee. But not what to do when a lady fainted...
Looking to Doctor Lawrence, he raised an eyebrow. "Err...help?"
Dr. Lawrence snorted. "Now she decides to swoon."
But then a look of uncertainty crossed his face. "Unless..." He quickly got up and headed for her, wondering if they were seeing a second poisoning and mentally cataloging what he had in his medical kit....apart from the morphine, of course, which was looming large in his mind right now.
Dessard stood in alarm even as Davyd moved to catch the swooning young woman.
"There's really no mystery or great secret," said Miles quietly as Jane is being caught fom her swoon. "We were sent over, and like happened so often, the men in my company were cut to bits. By some fluke, I made it across and found myself behind the Huns' lines. I stayed there scavanging an existance for three days before I was able to surprise a German officer on his own."
He took a sip from a brandy he had poured himself when they joined the crowd. "After I took care of him, I stole his uniform, and snuck back over under cover of night. The whole thing would have been unimportant, except that I was able to supply our Intelligence boys with information about Bosch troop strengths and movements."
"But while we are sharing information, I would like to present a puzzle concerning our latest victim, Hermione." He took another drink, "Back when I was doing some research in Boston, I believe I met our poor librarian. The meeting was most casual, and I only remember it because of how vehemently she claimed to destest Anja. And yet, when I see her again at the train station, Hermione claimed to be president of her fan club. I tried to ask her about it, after the card reading, but she couldn't be bothered to explain."
He looked around the room, "I have no idea if that means anything, but that's basically all I know about anyone else that came to this shindig."
Dr. Lawrence moved forward to examine Jane, and Dessard eyed the viscount warily. Clifford had just mixed Janey a drink. Upon hearing the doctor announce that Miss Blume had just fainted, Dessard visibly relaxed and moved towards the bar to fix himself a whiskey.
"Once she comes round, might as well get this seance nonsense out of the way. The only spirits I have any use for are the ones behind the wetbar."
The major scowled, waiting for the others to be seated.
It didn't appear to be a poisoning... only a sudden preciptious drop in blood pressure. After a few moments, her eyes fluttered weakly open, and she asked for a spot of water...
"I'll be fine," she protested.
"Let's simply humor the madame, and get the seance over with. I'm tired," she pouted, "and I want to be done with this mess."
End of Chapter 10
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