Breaking the Circle, page 25
‘Tall, quite broad shouldered. Wearing rather a lot of mascara.’
‘That could be a lot of people.’
‘Eusapia agrees. I was talking to her earlier and she says that many of the women at the séance last night could fit that description. But I think she exaggerates; she has quite a wicked sense of humour, for an Italian peasant.’
‘Robert tells me we have you to thank for bringing Miss Palladino to London. I am only sorry I couldn’t have been there.’
‘But I think you were there, Miss Exeter. There is something about you which I recognized and I think that is because you were sitting around the table last night, opposite me, a few seats down from Hilda Ransom. By the way, how did you end up with a golden ticket? Did you steal it?’
‘As a matter of fact, I didn’t. I actually got one fair and square. Though I would have stolen one had it been necessary, as I am sure you can imagine. I had some money, in case I had to bribe someone, naturally. But I thought you professors only dealt in facts.’ The voice was becoming waspish.
‘I’m not a professor, but thank you anyway. It was hard to tell in the dim light, but I thought I recognized someone I knew and struggled hard to remember what it was. You know how it is, when something is on the tip of one’s tongue, so to speak, but you can’t bring it to mind. I’m not a woman interested much in clothes, as you may have spotted, but some things catch my eye. There was something about the silhouette that struck a chord and it is a chord which has only just begun to make sense to me. Like all of these ephemeral things, it needed a little more information, and that has just come to me now, an old piece of information from the mists of time.’
In spite of herself, the woman was clearly interested. ‘Mists of time is what you do, isn’t it, Dr Murray? Do let me know what little nugget has emerged.’
‘Are you sure you want a history lesson right now, Miss Exeter? I thought you were about to poison my sherry.’
‘That can wait,’ the woman said. ‘I do love history and also love to learn. So let me be your last ever student, Dr Murray. It would be such an honour.’
‘If you insist. When I was a girl – I was born in India, you know – my education was somewhat piecemeal, to be polite to it. I went to live with my uncle, who was a vicar in Rugby, and I had a governess but she wasn’t the greatest intellect, lovely woman though she was. However, my uncle was friends with some of the masters from the school and they would come round after church on a Sunday. One or two of them were kind enough to talk to me.’
‘Lovely for you.’ The sardonic voice came low and menacing. ‘Get on with the lesson.’
‘I’m just letting you know where my information comes from. All good researchers know that provenance is all.’
‘Just tell me this amazing gobbet. You’re right, I really should be getting on with poisoning you.’
‘One of the assistant masters, the Reverend Percival, liked to teach me little bits of church history, which you may well think was probably not that exciting. But of course, the further back you go, the more church history is mixed with the history of the country and so in the fifteenth century, families who provided, as it were, the incumbents of bishoprics were very important people indeed.’
‘Nice to know. You have a minute to come to the point.’
‘And so, in the reign of Richard III – a much-maligned king, but that may be a lesson for another day – I just happen to remember, for no particular reason, the name of the family which was very connected with the See of Exeter was Courtney. I’m not sure of the spelling – I was only a little girl and not given to researching as I am now – but then, I’m not sure of your spelling of it either.’ She smiled in the gloom. ‘Shall I call you Miss Exeter still, or should I call you Courtney?’
There was silence for a while. Then, the woman spoke. ‘Do you know, Dr Murray, you may be the most intelligent woman I have ever met? You tell a darned fine tale as well. I would imagine that you are going to be a difficult lecturer to replace. I understand that yours are the most popular classes in the whole college. Even William Flinders Petrie would probably agree with that.’
Margaret chuckled. ‘Oh, dear me, no. William would never give me that accolade. He believes, and quite rightly, that he is the best lecturer in this or any other university. But I do flatter myself that my students and friends will miss me when I’m gone, Miss Exeter. I have decided, as you will have noticed, to err on the side of formality.’
‘What gave me away?’
‘Well, it has taken me the best part of twenty-four hours to work it out, so it wasn’t a giveaway as such. But you are far too fond of the hunting attire as a look. It suits you, it really suits you, and I don’t criticize your taste. But it’s very memorable. You wore it the day you came to the museum, do you remember? You brought Mr Merrington’s easel over for him and we just met, very briefly, in the corridor. You were wearing it then and I was struck by it. Very … unusual.’
‘I don’t dress like the common herd.’
‘And why should you? You should do as you wish, Miss Exeter. Unless, of course, that runs to killing people. In that case, I think you should perhaps stop this side of the law.’
The room was almost completely dark and the woman sitting in Margaret’s chair had a suggestion. ‘Do you think we could bear to have a little light on the subject, Dr Murray? Now you have, as it were, unmasked me, then it doesn’t really matter, does it? Nothing bright, just the kind of light to have a final chat by.’
‘I think that would be splendid.’ Margaret leaned forward, forgetting the dressing gown cord tied around her waist. ‘There are matches in the top left-hand drawer and a candle stub on the shelf behind you. There is an overhead light – no expense is spared here, even up in this eyrie – but that will be a bit harsh for the business we have yet to transact.’
‘Candlelight,’ Miss Exeter said. ‘How romantic. Is that for your little trysts with William Flinders Petrie?’
Margaret smiled. ‘A fond memory for my final moments. That’s very kind of you, Miss Exeter. William and I are not that fussy about the ambient light, to be honest. We just enjoy each other’s company.’
‘As fine a euphemism as I could wish from a woman of your intellect, Dr Murray. You don’t ask how I know.’
‘Please don’t make mysteries where there are none, Miss Exeter,’ Margaret said, sharply. ‘I should imagine everyone in the college knows by now. I made the mistake of telling Maurice “Blabbermouth” Burton of the Human Physiology department about it in confidence at the Christmas party a few years ago and I might as well have taken out an advertisement in The Times. But no one is hurt by it, so where is the harm?’
There was a scrape of a match and the candle flame sprang into life, lighting the cheek and some curls of auburn hair of the woman who, even as she blew out the match, was planning to kill Margaret Murray. ‘That’s the thing that annoys me, Dr Murray.’ The lips were stretched in an angry crimson line. ‘You speak of not hurting anyone, you and your paramour, and yet you are horrified by the deaths of three pointless women.’
Margaret Murray had heard some hubristic statements in her time, but this had to take the garibaldi. She hadn’t really been angry until now, because she had little to be angry about. True, she was being threatened with death by cyanide. But that hadn’t happened yet, and she was quite comfortable in her favourite armchair, and she even had an atavistic hug from William from his dressing gown cord. Mrs Plinlimmon was at her back, wishing her well. So there were worse positions to be in. But now, this woman, this evil woman was comparing her relationship with William to killing three innocent women and making them the wrongdoers. This she would not tolerate. She leaned forward again but the woman just chuckled.
‘Don’t forget you’re tied down, Dr Murray. I don’t expect you to feel as I do, so don’t try to talk me round. One of those women, or at least, I thought it was one of them, has something belonging to me. All right, I was wrong about it being one of them, but it is one of their evil kin, that’s certain. And I will keep killing them until I find what I am looking for, my inheritance, my birthright. Then I won’t have to work for people who don’t know anything about art, about style, about anything that matters at all.’
This was confusing to the archaeologist. She wasn’t a great adherent to the Flippant School as followed by Kirk Merrington, but the man did have talent when pointed in the right direction. Her putative murderer was being a little harsh and she said so. ‘I should think that there are many women in London who would be pleased to be Mr Merrington’s … helpmeet.’
‘Ha! Don’t cast me in that role. If you think that that worm and I are anything but employer and employed, you must think again, Dr Murray. We don’t all climb into bed with the boss, let me tell you. No, if anything, Kirk Merrington is led by me. I am the arbiter and he the follower. He tells me everything and then I have to do his dirty work. I take the risks. He gets the accolades.’
‘Miss Exeter …’ The last thing that Margaret Murray wanted was for the woman to get excitable. If death had to come, let it be by cyanide in a nice Amontillado drunk from a glass from the second century BC, not by being clouted upside the head with the poker.
‘What?’
‘What is this birthright? You’re going to kill me, so I may as well know.’
‘Hmmm. Why not? It would be good to get it off my chest, to tell you the truth. I was orphaned quite young and went to live with an uncle. Much like your good self.’
‘Oh, no,’ Margaret was quick to distance herself. ‘I wasn’t orphaned. I was simply sent home from Calcutta, as most English children were.’
‘I see. It doesn’t matter. My uncle was a little … unusual, in the way he made his money. But money was made, oh, yes, and most of it spent as well. Uncle G was not a frugal man. But whenever he got what he called a windfall, he would buy bonds with at least a quarter of it and he kept them in a strongbox, always kept in his desk, wherever we were living.’
‘And were you his heiress, according to his will?’
‘There was no will,’ the woman said shortly. ‘But everyone knew about our relationship to each other and his solicitor said there would be no problem. There is another relative living but … well, he is unlikely to make old bones, let’s just leave it at that.’
‘And so, I assume, in the fullness of time, your uncle died.’
‘Died. Yes, you could say that. Some might say murdered.’
In the light of the candle, guttering now in a growing pool of melted wax, the woman’s eyes burned.
‘By you?’ No questions were out of bounds now. Even Mrs Plinlimmon held her breath in excitement.
‘No. By the law. He was hanged for a crime he didn’t commit.’
‘Goodness. There’s a lot of it about, or so I understand from the gutter press.’
‘That’s so like you,’ the woman spat. ‘Secure in your little world of mummies, and owls and professors in your bed. What about us, the orphaned, the dispossessed, the robbed!’
‘So, why do you think a medium has your uncle’s bonds?’ It was imperative to get the conversation back to calmer waters, if any waters were calm in this maelstrom of emotion.
‘Because all his life, my uncle was obsessed with séances. He would take notes and, at first, I thought he really believed. But of course, what he was really doing was noting down details of the dearly departed, so he could go round later and make friends with the widows.’ A harsh laugh almost blew out the candle. ‘That’s what he used to call it. “Making friends”. It was only when I walked in on him one day, “making friends” with a fat widow from Hounslow, with his hairy arse in the air and her blubbery thighs round his waist that I saw him for what he was.’
‘That must have been a shock for a sensitive girl.’
‘Don’t say that word! Don’t say “Sensitive”. That’s what he used to call those women, as gullible as the ones he took for every penny, stupid, stupid fools. But, towards the end, when he was starting to lose his looks and the women didn’t fall as easily, he began to believe, I think. His housekeeper – I had moved out by then – said he would have them round and would be strange for days when they had been. And then, when he … died, I went to the house and the box in the desk had gone.’
‘Given to a medium?’ It seemed the only obvious answer.
‘Given to, or taken by. It makes no difference. His housekeeper described the last one to the house. My God, you have no idea how many women there are in London who look like that! Why couldn’t he have taken up with one with auburn hair, a squint and a wooden leg?’ Again, the harsh laugh broke out, halfway to a sob. ‘Then, only one would have had to die. If that, if she had seen sense.’
Margaret Murray sat quietly. There was a lot to take in. She knew instinctively that what she did and said in the next few minutes could have an irrevocable effect on the rest of her life, mainly whether it was going to be long or unbelievably short. She breathed deeply, using her abdomen as she had been taught by her ayah, who had learned about yogic breathing. She felt calmer and only wished she could pass that feeling on to her companion.
‘So,’ Valerie Exeter said, ‘that’s my story. Now, I think it’s time for a nice little drinkie, don’t you?’ She reached down to the bottom drawer of the desk and brought out the Amontillado. Margaret noticed with surprise how low the level in the bottle was. She made herself a mental note that, should she survive against all the odds, she must reconsider the wisdom of having a little nip of an evening before going home. She seemed to be getting through the alcohol at an unseemly rate. The cork came out with a satisfying plopping sound.
‘I do like that noise, don’t you?’ she said, in a friendly tone, pouring about half a glass. ‘So convivial, I always think.’
‘It is a very comforting noise,’ Margaret agreed. ‘Makes me think of old friends.’
‘That’s nice.’ Miss Exeter smiled and Margaret saw the thin lips stretch again over her slightly prominent teeth. The lipstick was too dark for her colouring and her rouge was applied very thickly. Margaret waited for the coup de grâce as the cyanide would mingle with the sherry. The woman rummaged in a pocket in her skirt and came up empty. There was a moment’s shock in her eyes and then she laughed. ‘Forget my head if it wasn’t screwed on,’ she said, as if talking about a train ticket or lost handkerchief. ‘It’s in here.’ She slid her hand into the front of her jacket and, after a little fiddling about, came out with a tiny vial, which she held up to the light.
‘You’d hardly imagine, would you,’ she said, ‘that in here is enough cyanide to kill a horse. I’ll use it all, I don’t like carrying opened vials around with me. I prefer it to be safe behind the chemist’s wax seal until I use it.’
‘How do you get it?’ Margaret asked, interested in everything to the last.
‘I go to different chemists, around London,’ she said. ‘Depending on the time of year, I say it’s for rats, or wasps. This one was to dispose of a wasps’ nest in the butler’s pantry. As long as you make the setting fairly upmarket, you can get away with it nine times out of ten. And of course, if they ask questions, you just go away and say you’ll check and never go back. This one,’ an elegant hand swam into the candlelight and turned the vial to the light, ‘was apparently bought by Florrie Winters, to kill wasps. I’ve got very good at forging signatures that don’t look like any other I have used. So you see, Dr Murray, I think of everything.’
‘I didn’t expect otherwise,’ Margaret replied. ‘An eye for detail, not something everyone has. Tell me, why the feather, and the card, and the page from the book?’
‘Artistic licence, dear Dr Murray. A bit of flippant fun. It was a bit of a facer when Eusapia came out with them, though. And the St Nicholas. I never thought anyone would get that.’
‘Eusapia is a cunning old soul,’ Margaret said. ‘She sees things others don’t, that’s for sure.’
‘She almost made me believe in the tosh,’ the woman said. ‘We’ve had such a lovely chat.’ She was getting up, having added the cyanide carefully to the glass. ‘I take care not to inhale,’ she said, lifting the glass in a toasting gesture. ‘I made the mistake of breathing in the fumes when dear Muriel passed Beyond the Veil and very nearly joined her.’
‘You could have asked your uncle first-hand where his bonds were,’ Margaret said, still intent on lightening the mood.
‘You can’t take it with you, though, can you?’ the woman said pensively, coming round the corner of the desk.
‘So they say,’ the archaeologist said. ‘Although I think the pharaohs would have a word or two to say on that particular subject.’ She grabbed the ends of the arms of the chair and braced her back, turning her face away from her oncoming doom. She could almost hear the celestial clock ticking her last few moments away.
‘Please.’ The woman sounded almost sad. ‘Don’t struggle. Let’s just make this as peaceful as possible, shall we? You can talk to all those musty old mummies as they were when they were alive. You can ask them why they thought having their brains pulled down their noses would make them live for ever. You’ll know everything, won’t you? That will be good, surely?’
With her head still averted, Margaret Murray took a deep breath and lunged forward. The knot on the dressing gown cord gave way as she knew it would. There had been many very memorable mornings when William had brought her her early morning tea, his dressing gown parting as he entered the room, all due to the silk cord not holding a knot worth mentioning. It was a risk, but with a glass of cyanide heading her way, a risk worth taking. Her head hit her assailant at about navel height and the woman folded in half like a deckchair.
The crunch as her head hit the floor and the hiss of the air leaving her lungs sounded like the purest music to Margaret Murray as she lay for a second prone across the angular body. As the woman fought for breath beneath her, she sat up and straddled the skinny hips. She reached forward and pulled the wig off the lolling head.
‘Oh, Mr Merrington,’ she sighed. ‘You nearly fooled me, you really did.’
