Murder at Christmas - Chapter 8: The Second Murder

By now it was lunch-time.

Although it was Christmas Day, now-one felt like eating a full Christmas meal. Instead, a cold buffet was set out in the dining room, and most people wandered in there - although a few professed to feel themselves unable to eat anything.

After lunch, the guests separated. Wallace Emerson went to see the Constable, while Oswald and Lucinda sat in the living room, talking over what had happened.

Of the rest, the Doctor declared he would carry out some tests in his room, Madame Escuskiovna declared she would lie down and recruit her strength for the séance that Anja had asked to be held that evening, and Clara Mulchop was asked by Wallace Emerson to prepare a formal letter announcing Anja's death.

After half an hour, Wallace came into the living room. His face was ashen.

"What's wrong, Sir?" said Oswald at once.

"The ... the Constable has just told me ... what the Doctor told him," said Emerson. "Anja came to him ... two summers ago. She ... she was suffering the after effects of an abortion."

"Oh no!" cried Lucinda. "How awful!"

"But ... but that's illegal, Sir!" burst out Oswald.

"Clearly," said Emerson heavily, "she felt she could hardly marry me when six months pregnant with another man's child - or so the dates would indicate."

The other two were silent at this.

"I think ... I think I will go and lie down," Emerson said.

"I'll come and see you settled," said Lucinda. Then she remembered the look she had had from Madame Escuskiovna, and she flushed faintly. "And Oswald will come too," she added firmly.

Oswald looked slightly startled, but nodded.

Thus all three of them made their way up the main spiral staircase to the Bower on the second floor. Emerson, in the lead, moved down the corridor to the Bower's door. He pushed it open ... and stepped in. Lucinda and Oswald followed.

"Oh my God!" he cried hoarsely, and the younger pair moved past him hastily.

Lucinda took one look and gave a loud, involuntary scream. There, stretched out on the carpet, with one shoe kicked off and the hilt of an army-issue dagger still quivering in her chest, was Hermione Smithson.

Doctor Brandon Lawrence sat in his room, staring at the medical kit sitting on the table. He would not take another dose, he would not. He had survived as a doctor this long by self-discipline, keeping his dosage strictly under control. But that discipline had begun to crack since this horrible holiday had started.

First had been the train ride, where he hadn't been able to get any privacy between leaving his office and arriving here. He'd been feeling the early pangs of withdrawal during the car ride from the station (and how advanced was his addiction if he'd been feeling them that soon?). He'd taken a small dose before the drinks, and that had taken the edge off, but the shock of seeing Anja murdered had left him in dire need of another, so he'd taken another (orally, as was usual for him) when he'd come up for his kit.

Another dose this morning, to start the day. But then had come that damned mumbo-jumbo with the cards and that Smithson bit turning on him, feeling like an accusation. A little more to brace him for the interview with the constable where he'd finally spilled Anja's dirty little secret ... and hadn't that gone poorly. Still, no matter how much that had shaken him up, it simply hadn't been that long since his last dose. He would not take another dose now.

But in the end he did, of course. Carefully preparing the syringe, measuring out a small dose at least. Just enough to take the edge off. Just take the edge off. Line the needle up with the vein. It had to be injection this time; he wanted it fast, and to give him the maximum impact for the dose.

And then, the scream. He plunged the needle in too hard, too fast. Even as he felt the soothing effect wash over him, killing the pain of the injection he watched the blood spray. He couldn't go rejoin the others like this, no matter what was going on. Quickly, he bound the wound and cleaned the blood from his arm. But he needed to change shirts now. He tossed the old shirt in his trunk and headed to see what had happened now.

Lucinda's piercing scream echoed throughout the house ... and even outside to the garden ...

Dessard heard the scream from outside the manor house. He threw his cigarette into the snow, where it extinguished itself with a slight hiss.

"What the devil?" he exclaimed, and ran into the manor house, into the foyer. Seeing no one about, he climbed the stairs, seeing the gathering outside the Bower's doorway.

"What's all this about?" Dessard asked, as he came up behind Oswald and Lucinda.

A door hastily opened at the other end of the hall, and hurrying footsteps heralded the arrival of Madame Escuskiovna. The medium was clad in a flowing, pale-blue caftan rather incongruously covered with a woolly dressing-gown of a greyish colour that might once have been lavender.

"What has happened - Oh, my heavens! Miss Smithson! Oh, poor child ... Can anything be done?"

Miles had spent the afternoon toodling around on the piano in the living room. He didn't notice the scream over the Joplin tune he was trying to play, but when people started to rush past the living room door, he left off playing to see what the fuss was about.

Clifford strolled down the hall, curious, and overheard the Russian woman's lamentations. He stopped near the door, shocked, bringing a fist to his mouth briefly. Poking his head around slowly, he gasped at the sight. The knife in the chest, the blood... he began to feel a bit nauseous, and pulled his head out of the door quickly. ~The poor, frumpy creature... I was going to offer her a makeover...~

Pulling his handkerchief out of a pocket, he began to fan himself, and noticed the approach of Dr. Lawrence...

The doctor was slow in arriving, one of the last to do so. "What's all the...oh, bloody hell."

Even from the doorway, he could tell that she was gone, but he hurried to the side of the body and began a careful examination.

Miss Mulchop emerged from her room, "Poirot Investigates" settled into the crook of her arm.

"What is happening?" she asked Oswald, looking over the grim faces of those gathered.

"Miss Smithson has been murdered!" Oswald informed her.

"Oh!" Miss Mulchop exclaimed taking a peek into the room. "The poor, poor girl ... "

"Your room is closest, Miss Mulchop. Did you hear anything?" Oswald asked excitedly.

"I did hear footsteps ... a man's. And then a short time later others'. I thought it was Emerson and … er … Lucinda."

Miss Mulchop took another look at the body of the dead librarian. "Tsk. Such a waste. She seemed like a lovely girl."

Then her eyes widened with inspiration.

"But this killing was messy. Whoever stabbed her must have blood on his clothes ... or might have back in his or her room. We should check everyone's luggage at once!"

"You're quite right, Miss Mulchop," said the Constable, pushing his way past the others. "And your evidence may prove invaluable.

"Where's Jane Blume?" asked Lucinda, suddenly.

After a consensus was taken, it was discovered that since her conversation with the Major of the morning, no one had seen her.

"Someone should go and find her," said the Constable, "in case... in case she has been attacked, as well..."

~Or in case she is trying to dispose of some bloody clothing...~ he thought.

Lucinda volunteered, having had, perhaps, the same thought.

"It's a wonder she didn't come running when she heard the scream, like the rest of us did. I wonder how she could have missed it," she mused aloud.

And faithful Oswald offered to escort her as well, just to be safe.

"Let's start with her room," he suggested. "It's the largest one on the ladies floor, upstairs."

Halfway up the stairs, Oswald began calling, "Miss Blume? Are you up there Miss Blume?"

"Hush" whispered Lucinda savagely. "You'll alert her, and then we won't be able to catch her in the act!"

"The act of what?" asked Oswald.

"Of... whatever it is she's doing..." asserted Lucinda.

They reached the top of the stairs and Lucinda went ahead.

"Just in case she's not decent," she told Oswald.

Jane Blume's door had been left ajar, and the interior was dark. Lucinda poked her head, cautiosly in.

"Jane?" she called tremulously. And then with a bit more confidence: "Jane!"

She swung the door open, and pulled her head out to look back at Oswald, who was just passing the bathroom door.

"She's not there," she said, and took a step inside, looking around.

Lucy heard Oswald give a sudden yell from the hallway, and there was a noise as if someone had fallen, followed by another little screech. She blanched and went to see what was the matter as quickly as she could turn and leave.

"Oswald!" she said as she rounded the hallway.

There stood Jane Blume, with one towel about her head like a turban, and another, larger one at her feet, but otherwise completely nude... and poor Oswald stood against the opposite wall, doing his best to look the other way. Jane turned to look at Lucy, without the least trace of self-consciousness.

"I startled him," she said.

Lucinda gave a nervous giggle.

"Yes, I think you did," she said. She bent down and picked up the towel to hand it to Jane. As she did so she hesitated, frowning, then passed it over.

"Thank you," said Jane, wrapping it around herself again. Then she looked at Oswald, facing the wall.

"Poor thing," she said. "He's mortified."

"Did you have a good bath?" Lucinda asked.

"Smashing," said Jane, without hesitation. "They - I mean, he - has a lovely, large tub."

Then Lucinda looked at the beetroot red Oswald.

"Look," she said, "we had better go. The thing is ... Hermione Smithson's just been killed too ... in the Bower. I think you'de better put some clothes on and join us there as soon as possible ...

"It will be safer."

"Hermione Smithson?" Jane gasped. "But... but - " she made a little sound of frustration.

"Never mind. I'll have to ask you when I've finished dressing."

She paused. "You... you're sure... I mean--" she looked a little pale. "I feel a bit frightened."

Then Lucinda grabbed Oswald ... who was still apparently poleaxed ... and dragged him back into the Bower.

"Mr Skeffington-Nottle, I understand you, Mr Emerson and Miss Dalrymple-Smythe were all together from the time when my interview with Mr Emerson concluded. That puts all three of you in the clear ...

"Therefore, Mr Skeffington-Nottle, I would like you to go with James the footman, who is similarly in the clear have been kindly taking notes during my interview with Mr Emerson. Please examine everyone's luggage for bloodstains. My Dalrymple-Smythe, I would be grateful if you carried out a similar investigation of the ladies' bags ... ring for the under parlour-maid to help you ... She and Gladys were, I believe, setting out tea in the Great Hall at the key time."

"And I would now like to examine everyone here for bloodstains myself. Doctor, I realise you will have bloodstains from the corpse ... " he looked around at them. "Does anyone have any objections?"

Dessard nodded assent at the constable's request. "I have nothing to hide. Mind if I take a look at the murder weapon? Looks to be military issue. Might provide a clue to the identity of the killer," he suggested.

Miles was shocked to see the woman sprawled on the floor, with a knife in her back. He agreed that the suggestion to look for bloody clothing seemed to be a reasonable one, so he voiced no objections.

"I have no objections to Miss Dalrymple-Smythe and her assistant looking at my belongings, Constable," Madame Escuskiovna said, "with the understanding that there will be items that they must not handle. I shall, of course, assist them in any way I can."

Dr. Lawrence had acquired a most unusual expression, such that it was almost impossible to determine what it meant. He made a number of little noises, and seemed to be working himself up to something. Finally, he spoke.

"Mmm. Constable, I feel I should say that I know of at least one piece of luggage which contains bloody clothing...mine."

By now, Miss Mulchop, Jane Blume and Madame Escuskiovna had all left with Lucinda to have their luggage checked.

Oscar, at the door with Major Dessard, Miles Secord and David Smyth, turned at this.

"Really, Doctor," said the Constable. "And would you like to tell me how that happened? Cut ourselves shaving, did we?"

The Viscount poked his head in again, listening to the exchange with interest.

"I...well. Not shaving. I...had an accident with a syringe, when I heard the scream a few minutes ago. Got some blood on my shirt. Not too much, but it's there. Mmm. That's why I was late getting down here...had to get it taken care of, change clothes. Well. I know what it must look like, thought I'd best mention it before it turned up. Yes."

The doctor seemed a bit confused as he spoke, searching carefully for each word, but still not being horribly coherent.

Dessard rose, looking at the doctor strangely. He looked at Lawrence's eyes and mannerisms, and started to slowly move around behind him...

The Constable was watching the Doctor closely. As he saw the Major move ... he gave a faint nod.

"If you like to start the search, Mr Skeffington-Nottle, Mr Staughton, Mr Smyth ... " he said politely. He waited until they had left the room.

Reluctantly (as this seemed jolly interesting, he thought) Oswald led the way downstairs, accompanied by Reginald Staughton, David Smyth and Miles Secord.

"I suggest we do the rooms at the end first," said Oswald, a bit diffident at the thought of searching older and more experienced men's rooms. "That's you, Secord ... and Smyth. Then yours, Staughton.

"If that's all right with everyone," he added, a little unhappily.

Meanwhile, back upstairs, a sly grin grew on Clifford's face.

"I say Doctor... I hope you brought enough for all of us!" he admonished. "To think we had a candyman here all along! Although I wonder how trustworthy the findings of a dope fiend could possibly be..." Clifford added a bit more seriously, looking towards the constable.

"Thank you, Sir," said the Constable gravely. "I'm beginning to wonder that myself.

"So Doctor," he went on mildly, "would you mind telling us what was in the syringe?"

"Just...just a bit of a tranquilizer. Just enough to take the edge off the ... just enough to calm myself down. Just ... "

His eyes darted all around, but when they happened to meet the constable's gaze, they locked in place and the doctor fell silent. Apparently, he saw something there, for a moment later, his shoulders slumped and he looked away, into a corner. "Morphia. I've got a perfectly legitimate need for it, you know, for patients. I just needed to take a bit personally today, to take the edge off. Just a bit," he continued in little more than a mutter.

"And how much would you say 'just a bit' is, Sir?" asked the Constable. He looked thoughtfully at Viscount Fenwick as he spoke.

Clifford returned his gaze with a smile. And a quick wink. He then turned his attention back to the poor Doctor, trying his best not to look at the horrid body nearby...

"Ah...just a few grains. Didn't mean to take the whole dose, only needed a grain or so, but I had the accident when I heard the scream. Never had a problem before. Shouldn't have used the syringe, really." He seemed to have taken no notice at all of what Fenwick had said or of Dessard's movement.

"So Doctor Lawrence is a dope addict." Dessard grimaced. Since the doctor's admission, the major relaxed slightly. Morphine was a depressant, he had seen its effect on me during the War. The doctor should not become violent, he reasoned.

"And we've been relying on him for the autopsy..."

Any sympathy he might have felt for Lawrence was nullified by the gravity of the situation. No doubt the man had become an addict during his service. But here were two murders in 24 hours ... and very little to go on!

"Indeed, Sir," said the Constable grimly. "But what I am rather more concerned about at the moment is that he may have accidentally taken an overdose in his shock of hearing the scream!" He looked at the Viscount. "You see to know about these things ... what do you think?"

Fenwick's smile faltered, and he looked dubiously at the Doctor...

"And if he has, how do we treat him?"

Dr. Lawrence overheard this last bit of conversation.

"What? Oh no, you don't need to worry about that. I wouldn't have prepared that large a dose. It's just...injection causes the whole dose to hit at once. I wasn't prepared for the speed. I'm just...having a bit of trouble thinking clearly right now."

He looked down at his hands, which were steady. "No spasms. Couldn't do an autopsy like this, though. Just give me...give me a few hours. Should have taken it orally. They used to think giving it by injection meant you couldn't get addicted, you know. I'll be better when my body's used it up."

Clifford brightened. "There, you see? Nothing to worry about, my good man!" he said to the constable.

Tucking his handkerchief back into his pocket, the Viscount drew himself straighter and brushed a bit of something from his jacket.

"I suppose I should be finding the others... I expect you'll need to check my luggage as well, am I right? That could very well take awhile, lah!" he finished with a laugh, before turning to leave.

"Indeed Sir," said the Constable a little grimly. "Well, then, perhaps we should start with your room, and the Doctor can sit quietly in a corner and recover while it's checked."

He led the three of them down to begin the search, starting (at the opposite end of the corridor from Oswald's group) with the Viscount's room.

End of Chapter 8