Chapter 19

Cy Goldman was lying between the big library table and the heavy drapes that were now closed around the window alcove. One of his candlesticks lay on the floor beside him, matted with hair and blood. I didn’t want to look but with that morbid fascination one has for anything gruesome I couldn’t help myself. The back of his head had been smashed in.

“Everyone stand back,” Darcy said. “Out of the room now and nobody touch anything. Someone should call the police.”

“The police? That’s not going to be easy,” Ronnie said. “We’re under the jurisdiction of Ventura County, not any particular city. That would mean the sheriffs and I don’t believe they have anyone stationed anywhere near here, or anyone who is equipped to investigate a homicide. Perhaps they request assistance from Los Angeles—or even from Ventura. I don’t know how it works. I’ve never had to deal with anything like this before.” His usually worried face was now creased into a deep frown and he looked white enough to pass out any second.

“Do we have to?” my mother asked. “Call the police, I mean. Couldn’t we say it was an accident and he fell and hit his head? It probably was an accident, wasn’t it? He drank too much at dinner and he fainted, or had a heart attack. And if we call the police, think of the scandal.”

“This was no accident.” Darcy stared at her. “I think I can guarantee he was murdered.”

“Murdered? My darling Cy?” Stella’s voice trembled. “Who would do that to him? We were all his friends. We all adored him. Let me go to him.” She struggled as Darcy kept her away.

“I suppose he is actually dead?” Algie said, trying to sound flippant, but his voice trembled a little. “I mean he didn’t just faint or something?”

“I don’t think anyone survives his head being bashed in like that,” Darcy said grimly. “This was done with considerable force.”

“Come on, everyone,” Ronnie said. “Back into the rotunda, I suppose. And I’ll see if I can round up any kind of law enforcement, though I’ve no idea where.”

He grabbed Stella’s arm, attempting to pull her away. She resisted, trying to get back to Cy Goldman’s body. “He must have interrupted a burglar,” Stella said, her voice now choking with emotion. “The other candlestick is missing. But I don’t understand it. I mean, we were all here. Only a few yards away from him. How could anyone have come in here unnoticed? There’s only one way in to this estate and it’s through that gate. And our gatekeeper, Jimmy, would never let in anybody he doesn’t know.”

“We have to presume that the gatekeeper is all right,” Darcy said, “and an intruder didn’t bash him over the head to get in here.”

“Jimmy has an alarm button he can push from inside his cottage if he needs help,” Stella said. “And he can telephone through to the main house. And our groundsmen are armed.”

“I expect someone could cut the wire fence if they were determined enough,” Charlie said. “And there must be places where trees have grown up close enough to the fence to make it possible to climb over.”

Ronnie swallowed hard. “I’ll go and put through a call to Jimmy at the gate, make sure he’s all right and tell him not to let anybody in or out until the police get here. And I suppose we ought to have the groundsmen drive around the perimeter to check if the fence has been cut. Oh God. And someone will have to go and tell Mrs. Goldman.”

“I’ll do it, honey.” Barbara patted his arm. “It should be someone she knows and trusts.”

“Are you sure?” Relief flooded Ronnie’s face. “And she’d better get dressed and come down right away if the police are going to be here.”

One by one they staggered out, stepping over the suit of armor.

Stella paused at the doorway and looked back. “It’s like a bad dream,” she said. “I can’t believe he’s gone.”

Darcy remained standing behind the body, and, fighting back my revulsion I went to join him. He was staring down at Mr. Goldman with a sort of horrified fascination. “And to think we were in here with him less than half an hour ago. It doesn’t seem possible.”

I put a hand on his arm. “It’s horrible,” I said.

“If it were any other young lady, I’d have you escorted from the room instantly before you swooned over the evidence,” he said, “but you’re probably more familiar with this sort of thing than I am.”

“I don’t go looking for dead bodies,” I said. “They just sort of happen to me. But we should take this opportunity to think things through before the police get here.”

“You realize what this means, don’t you?” Darcy said, dropping his voice so that he couldn’t be overheard. “It had to be one of us.”

“Oh crikey,” I said. “I suppose you’re right. What a horrid thought. Unless . . .” He looked up at me. “Unless it really was your cat burglar from London. You had a hunch he might be here, didn’t you? If anyone could find a way in here, it sounds as if he could.”

Darcy nodded. “Or she,” he said. “But this doesn’t fit with what we know of him or her. The burglar takes enormous risks, we know that. He’s walked along ledges and gained access from rooftops, so he might have been able to find a way into the estate. I don’t think the front door was locked, so he could have waited until we were all at dinner and slipped into the house and waited to take his chance. But the manner of death doesn’t seem right. At home they refer to him at Scotland Yard as the gentleman thief. It’s always been suspected that he is an aristocrat, or at least moves in their circles.”

“And you don’t think aristocrats kill people?”

He smiled. “Yes, but not bash their heads in. A stiletto through the heart—I’d go along with that. But our thief works with finesse. This killing is brutal, violent, and I don’t think our thief is a violent person. There have been occasions in the past when he was interrupted during a burglary and he just melted away. He might have killed someone then, but he chose to abandon his attempt.”

“He was interrupted, you say? So he has been seen?”

“No. He always managed to slip out of a window or down a hall as someone approached. We know he’s slim and probably dark, but someone did glimpse his shadow. That’s all.”

“It was definitely someone who came here to commit robbery,” I said, “because the other candlestick is missing. The thief was going to take both of them, but Mr. Goldman must have interrupted him and was hit over the head before he could call for help.”

Darcy shook his head. “And then the thief left the second candlestick because it now had blood on it? He must be a thief with sensibilities. Why not make off with both, especially when one can be identified as the murder weapon. It might even have telltale fingerprints on it. And I notice he hasn’t touched the El Greco painting, which must be a lot more valuable.”

The painting still lay propped against a shelf. The colors glowed in the soft light.

“Well, your suspicions about Stella Brightwell certainly don’t apply this time,” I said. “Didn’t you notice? She was devastated by his death. And presumably she could have taken the candlestick anytime she chose, and would never have killed her lover to do so.”

Darcy sighed and nodded. “It does appear that way.” He looked around the room. “We’d better get out of here and not risk touching anything until the police arrive.”

I pulled back the drape cautiously. “I wonder if the window is closed or if the murderer got out that way.”

Darcy took out a handkerchief. “It doesn’t appear to be latched.” He pushed the window cautiously. It swung open.

I took a tentative step toward the window and peered down. Light shone out, illuminating a sheer marble wall and what looked like rocks below it. “But I don’t think anyone could climb out through it,” I said. “It’s an awfully long way down and I wouldn’t want to risk falling onto those rocks.” Outside I heard the roar of a motor and one of the small carts went speeding past. I thought I saw a rifle slung across the back of the person who was driving it.

As I stepped back into the room I noticed something. “Look at that, Darcy,” I said, and I pointed to a bloody fingerprint on the window frame. “That should help the police identify the culprit easily enough.”

“Well, one thing is for sure,” Darcy said. “He’ll have a hard time getting away.”

“If you really think it was one of us, then he’ll stay and hope to bluff it out,” I said. “And if it was your clever burglar then he’s probably already long gone.”

“You know, the awful thing, Georgie,” Darcy said as he ushered me from the room, “I’m not exactly surprised, are you? There was so much tension in this place. Mrs. Goldman arriving out of the blue. That unpleasant fight before dinner . . . the dustup with the Spaniard—Where is he, by the way? I haven’t seen him since dinner and he hardly said a word then.”

“He went off to bed right after dinner. He’s been upset all day.”

“So he was someone who wasn’t accounted for when Cy Goldman was murdered.”

“Yes, but . . . he’s sleeping in one of the cottages, isn’t he? If he’d come in through the front door, he’d have had to cross the foyer to get to the library corridor and we would have seen him.”

“Someone should go and wake him. He’ll need to be awake and alert when the police get here.” He closed the library door and we stood in the darkness of that hallway. “I have a bad feeling about this, Georgie. I’ve heard enough about the American way of justice to know that it’s often shoot first and ask questions afterward. A rural sheriff isn’t likely to have the skills to solve this. I rather fear that it’s up to us.”

“Up to us? How can we solve it? I mean we can hardly question our fellow guests, can we?”

“We can do some preliminary thinking—work out who was where, who had a motive, who had the opportunity.”

“As to that, who could it be? You men were all together smoking cigars with Mr. Goldman. Perhaps the sheriff will try to suggest that you were in a conspiracy and you all killed him together.”

“That’s not even funny, Georgiana. He may well think that.”

“Oh golly. I didn’t mean it seriously. Sorry. I don’t think even a sheriff could believe that Craig Hart killed Mr. Goldman. Craig’s a big star. Mr. Goldman made him one. They needed each other. And had no quarrel as far as I could see.”

“Anyway, Craig has to be in the clear. He and I left the library together. Ronnie left before us.”

“And Algie?” I asked.

“He must have left when we did. Yes, I believe he followed us down the hallway. You know what he’s like—never quite part of the conversation, always hanging around the periphery, hoping to be included.”

“I must say it’s refreshing to have someone more accident-prone than I for once,” I said. “But think, Darcy. If he hadn’t had that accident with the suit of armor, we might not have discovered Mr. Goldman’s body for hours. It would have been more difficult to gauge when he died and the killer could have made an escape with ease.”

“That’s true. Stupid young oaf. It’s a wonder he didn’t bump into the killer and wind up dead himself.”

“Darcy”—I paused at the doorway, staring at the armor still lying on the floor—“I suppose Algie really is as dense and clumsy as he seems? I mean could it possibly be a clever ruse so that nobody would ever suspect him?”

Darcy frowned, then shook his head. “I’ve known him for years and he’s always been a complete twit. When he was a child and we were at a house party together he fell into the lake when he was trying to walk along a wall. I had to dive in and pull him out. He couldn’t swim, of course.”

“Maybe he lost his clumsiness when he grew up but he found it useful to keep up the illusion.”

He grabbed my arm, his fingers digging into me. “Georgie—are you saying that you think Algie could be the gentleman burglar?”

“It’s a possibility, isn’t it? He’s tall and slim and he’s an aristocrat and he wangles himself invitations to parties and things. He’s always hanging around on the edge of conversations so he must hear interesting snippets. Was he attending any of the functions where the robberies took place?”

“I didn’t actually study the guest lists myself but his presence obviously never raised red flags to the English police. I could send a cable to Scotland Yard and ask if his name appears on any of those lists. If I’m allowed to leave this place tomorrow, that is.” He walked down the hall and picked his way over the suit of armor. “I suppose we’d better not touch this either. It does prove that Algie had the best opportunity to do the deed. We have no idea how long he was alone in this hallway, playing with the suit of armor. One thing we know—nobody could have entered or left while he was there. Which makes the window of opportunity for killing Goldman even slimmer.” He shook his head. “I can’t see Algie hitting someone over the head like that, can you? He’d probably miss and smash some priceless object instead.”

“If he really is who he pretends to be,” I said. “But he did look rather green about the gills when we discovered the body, didn’t he? And if he did kill Mr. Goldman, then why draw attention to himself by knocking over the armor and putting the helmet on his head? He could have just slipped in to join the group and probably nobody would have noticed.”

“Unless, as you say, he was being rather too clever. He wants us to say that it couldn’t possibly be him, because he was staggering around with a helmet stuck on his head, being idiotic as usual.”

We looked at each other.

“Darcy, how can we ever figure out who did this?”

“Well, if it was Algie, his fingerprints will be on the candlestick,” Darcy said. “Actually the same goes for the rest of us. Nobody is wearing gloves. . . .”

“Or carrying a handkerchief? Wouldn’t that do just as well?”

Darcy took me into his arms. “You are a cold-blooded little thing, aren’t you? Calmly discussing methods of murder.”

“I’m not always cold-blooded.” I smiled up at him. “And if we ever get a chance I’ll prove it to you.”

He kissed me on the tip of my nose. “I can’t wait.” Then he slipped an arm around my shoulder. “I suppose we should go in with the others and face the music.”