When I emerged into the salon, every face turned to look at me. I said, “He’s a pussy cat, you’ll all be fine. Excuse us. Bud, could you come with me, please?” I added, “Enderby will be out to tell you who Worthington wants to see next. Just all wait here. Thanks.”
Bud and I had the run of the house, and I wanted us to make the most of our opportunity.
As we mounted the stairs, Bud asked, “So, what’s the plan? I’m assuming you have one.”
“Indeed I do, Husband. This is our chance to wrap our heads around a few things, and I want to start at the top – literally.”
I was delighted to be able to see the palace room in daylight for the first time. “Okay, let’s get the lay of the land, so to speak,” I said. We walked around the perimeter of the structure – inside, because I didn’t like the look of the slippery, dangerous walkway one little bit. Bud peered out, over the edge, while I paced around the area beside what I was now mentally referring to as “the smokers’ table”, beside the telescope, and – now that I knew it was okay for me to fiddle with the instrument – I pushed and shoved it in various directions. It moved easily on its pivot, and was obviously well-maintained.
“Hey, be careful with that,” said Bud. “It’s old, but it’s got one heck of a swing.” He was right, it did.
I positioned it so I could see the horizon where London’s iconic skyline rose to meet the leaden skies, and felt a pang of disappointment that I was stuck in one dwelling in south London when there was so much out there I wanted to be seeing and doing. I allowed the telescope to stay in that position, then stepped away and said, “Right, have at it, Husband. See if you can smack it so it ends up resting in the position it was on the night Sasha had died.”
Bud did his best, and the action that made it fall that way was a side-swipe, with a downward motion. We examined the telescope carefully, and Bud found a small, sharp indentation at one point, which cemented my suspicions.
“Okay,” I said, “door next.” I moved to the doorway that had been open when Sasha had died and played around with it; it was another piece of metalwork that swung easily, and it didn’t make a sound. The cold air rushed in as I leaned forward and peered out. I saw the spot where the SOCO had found a cigarette stub, but didn’t dare look over the edge – I’m not good with heights, and was operating at the limit of my realm of comfort in any case. I wobbled back inside, where Bud grabbed me.
“Cait, just ask me to be your eyes when we’re up this high,” he said.
“You’re right, I should, and shall. I’m feeling quite woozy. I’ll have a little sit down, if you can have a quick look around and describe what’s below each of the four sides of the house, please?”
He took a few minutes and talked as he walked. “Okay, the door nearest the smokers’ table overlooks the side of the house where there are a lot of trees and shrubbery; the one at the back of the house overlooks the protruding terraces behind the master bedroom and yellow bedroom; the third looks onto the roof of the back hallway which connects the coach house to the Victorian servants’ quarters. So, the only door that opens onto ‘the best place to jump from if you really want to die’ would be the door which overlooks the front of the house. Is that what you wanted to know?”
I nodded. “Yes. So it had to be that door. Thanks. Next – how’s this place heated? I can tell it is – but how? Can you find any vents in the floor?”
Bud looked puzzled. “Yes, there are vents here…and here. Hadn’t noticed them before, they kind of blend into the floorboards.”
“Excellent – that’s just what I was hoping for. I’ve researched the use of forced air heating in the UK; I know it’s what we have at home in Canada, but it was something I’d never encountered before my migration, so was surprised to discover it went through a flush of popularity in Europe at one time, though it’s never overtaken the use of steam or water-heated radiators in terms of popularity. Given that Beulah House seems to have been the sort of place where various homeowners have been open to ‘improvements’ over the years, the discovery of those vents allows me to explain another few oddities about the case.”
“Oh good,” said Bud. He didn’t sound impressed.
“Let’s have a quick look for the ashtray now,” I said, rising from my seat.
“What ashtray?” Bud sounded a bit testy. “You haven’t told me anything about any ashtray.”
I realized I hadn’t. “It’s big, and made of cut crystal. Trust me, you’ll know it if you see it. Enderby said they didn’t find one up here, but we both know that human error is a real thing – and we also know what we’re looking for.”
Bud grumbled, “We do? Okay, ashtray hunt.”
We gave the palace room a thorough going over, but there was no sign of it. Finally, we searched the massive desk. Every drawer was empty, many were locked, some were just fakes in any case – designed to give the desk its balance and symmetry. Eventually I was finished with the place where Sasha had, I believed, been attacked, and we headed down to the study where the paper upon which the “suicide note” had been written was found.
It was a narrow room, located between the master bedroom and the yellow bedroom, containing a chaise longue, a desk dotted with a few framed photographs, a chair, and a couple of bookshelves. There was no paper in the blotter on the desk – removed by the SOCO, no doubt – then I opened the desk drawers, where I found a plentiful supply of the rich, cream vellum that had been used for the note we’d all seen. There was also a supply of matching envelopes, and several pens bearing the Tavistock and Tavistock logo.
I sat at the desk, pulled out some paper and a pen, and wrote a note – a duplicate of the one Sasha had written – then took a few more pieces of blank paper, popped them all inside a matching envelope, sealed it, ripped it open again, then put it in my pocket.
“What on earth are you doing?” Bud sounded as puzzled as he looked.
“You never know when you might need a decoy,” I replied. “Now let’s give these framed photos the attention they deserve. They’re the only truly personal items in the room, so they must have been significant to Sasha.”
“Good idea,” replied Bud. He held one up. “This is of Sasha and Bella with their parents; the girls look to be aged about four or five, and I think they’re dressed as nymphs of some sort. Oleg and his wife make a handsome couple in their Elizabethan costumes.”
I looked, agreed, and picked up another frame which showed Sasha with her father in more recent times – maybe a decade or so ago. Neither of them had attempted to smile for the camera. Finally, we focused on the third.
I said, “This one’s of Bella and her mother standing on the seafront at Aberystwyth. See those buildings? Unmistakable.” I paused. “But Sasha was the one her mother took to Wales, leaving Bella at home to cram.” I peered at the photo more closely, as did Bud. The girl in the picture was in her late teens, and her long, lustrous hair was blowing in a stiff breeze. She looked desperately sad – her shoulders drooping, chin down, her hands clasped in front of her tummy. Only her eyes were looking at the camera. She was partially turned away from her mother, who was clenching the girl’s arm. The girl had Bella’s curves, but the Welsh setting convinced me I was looking at Sasha. Odd.
“If that’s Sasha, not Bella,” said Bud, “what happened to her figure? I mean, she’s got one there. Puppy fat?”
“Hmm…could mean a lot of things,” I replied. But one significant reason had occurred to me.
I wondered if Sasha had chosen to keep any other similarly personal items in the bedroom she shared with her husband, but when we entered that room, it was a mess. The place had been completely devastated by the combined impact of paramedics and the SOCO team; the floor was littered with remnants of supplies used in the fruitless life-saving efforts expended upon Piers, as well as the telltale signs of fingerprint dust on every surface.
“Nice picture,” said Bud, nodding toward the piece of art that hung above the bed.
“That’s a portrayal of Othello kissing Desdemona just before killing her,” I replied, “which seems an incredibly strange, and even tasteless, choice of artwork to have hanging above a marital bed.”
“Oh, we didn’t do that one at school. Yes, bit of an odd choice, as you say.”
A relatively quick scan told us the room had hardly any personal items within it, and even the adjoining bathroom wasn’t filled with anything other than the usual range of accoutrements. This suite wasn’t somewhere Sasha had taken the opportunity to express her personality, and I began to wonder if there even was such a place. Maybe not. Maybe she’d found an outlet for her psyche through other channels, unlike her sister, whose impact upon her living environment – at the coach house – was not only obvious, but all-encompassing.
We visited the yellow bedroom next, and it, too, was a wreck, as a result of Charles having died in the bath there. This time there was the addition of some water damage.
“It’s strange to see these rooms so completely abandoned and ignored,” observed Bud, “but I guess setting them right hasn’t been top of Bella’s list of things to do in the past few days, with good cause.”
I agreed.
The yellow room was impersonal, held several more gems of Shakespearean ephemera, but told me nothing. Peering out onto the terrace I noted it shared access with the master bedroom to the steps at the side of the house, which was interesting.
Next, we found that the bathroom attached to the blue bedroom was in need of a good cleaning – as Sir Simon’s night of evacuation had left a less than pleasant odor. The best we could do was to open a window, and shut the door to the hall.
Felicity had used the pink bedroom the night she’d stayed – the mess in the bathroom told us that. I remarked, “Look, she dumped all the towels – a couple smeared with make-up – in the bath. I wonder who she imagined would be collecting them to be laundered, given she’d stabbed Julie to death.”
“The cleaning fairy?” mugged Bud.
“Ha, ha,” I replied. “If you track her down, give her our address.”
We then headed downstairs and took the back hallway to the garden, where we bypassed the stable block and headed straight for Bella’s workshop…which was where I’d been dying to have a good poke about since I’d so rudely awoken our two lovebirds a few hours earlier.
The stone building was still surprisingly warm, though the brazier was no longer glowing. I was keen to get a closer look at the chemicals Bella had on hand.
I made a beeline for them, and Bud followed. “Look, Bud, some of these are in ancient packaging, some brand new. Good grief – some of this stuff is really dangerous if it were to be used improperly.”
Bud peered at a few containers. “Some are just plain lethal,” he said. “A poisoner’s treasure trove?” It was an odd mixture, and I counted at least ten different chemicals that could be used to maim or kill, either quickly, or over a prolonged period, including mercury.
“Could you snap a few photos of those, so we have a record for Worthington, please. Though I dare say he’s had people out here snooping around already.”
“Sure.” Bud pulled out his phone and got to work, while I hunted through the detritus on Bella’s workbench. I ignored the containers of gold and precious gems which were scattered among pieces of equipment that looked as though they’d be at home in a torturer’s toolkit, as well as some fancy laser-shooting machines I assumed she needed for fine soldering and cutting. The materials and machinery looked as though they must have all cost a pretty penny; maybe Bella’s business was even more successful than her lifestyle suggested. Eventually, I found a battered old book, which I opened; it was an order book. Items were listed, with names, dates, and reference numbers, and sketches were dotted throughout the pages. It looked a bit haphazard, but it told me two critically important things, one of which was that Bella’s handwriting and that of her sister were almost identical – which I’d guessed it might be, given they were twins, and had probably been taught their penmanship by the same teacher at the same school, at the same time. Now, at least, I had evidence of that fact. Good.
Bud poked at the bedding where John and Bella had spent the night with his foot, and an empty bottle of champagne rolled out. “That could explain a great deal,” he observed, and I sensed a little relief in his tone.
“A night alone, taking the chance for an adventure, sleeping in this ancient hut…celebrating the fact the wedding’s still on?” I ventured.
“I hope so,” replied Bud. “Despite the aisle being littered with corpses.”
“Ours wasn’t much different,” I reminded him.
We shared a grim smile.
We headed back to the house, and Bud pointed out that the rill was finally starting to melt just a little – the day was becoming considerably milder than the previous few had been. As I watched the tiny trickle of water piercing the ice and snow, I was reminded again of how Bella had dropped her mug when she’d seen the men approach her workshop…and wondered what she’d been concerned about – there hadn’t seemed to be anything out of the ordinary in there…at least, not out of the ordinary for a profession that required a person to have any number of lethal chemicals close at hand.