Chapter 29

Sheriff Billings looked up in surprise when Belinda and I entered the foyer with Bella Brightwell between us. “What’s going on now?” he said. “Miss Brightwell—who the devil let you out?”

“This isn’t Miss Brightwell,” I said. “The real Stella is still locked up in a bedroom. This is her sister, Bella.”

“Nobody told me about a sister,” he said angrily.

“Nobody knew about her sister,” I said. “I heard from my mother that Stella had a sister and that they had been in show business together. My mother had worked with them when they were little girls. So when people reported seeing Stella and I knew that couldn’t be true I realized that her sister must be on the property too. And that the sister had a distinguished career of her own, as a jewel thief. And she could only be here for one reason—to steal the gold candlesticks Mr. Goldman had brought back with him.”

“So we’ve got the real killer at last.” He looked pleased with himself. “Over here, boys!” he yelled.

“Hold on a minute,” Bella said. “You can’t prove any of this. I came here to visit my long-lost sister, Stella, that’s all. You won’t find my prints on those candlesticks. You won’t find them anywhere.”

“But it was your bloody glove print that we found on the library window frame,” I said. “And the sheriff also found one bloody glove. I bet if we search hard enough we’ll find its mate. Maybe it’s even in your pocket at the moment.”

“I thought you were on my side,” she snapped at me.

“I’m on the side of justice,” I said, “but you don’t have to worry. You did nothing wrong this time in the eyes of the law. You drove in through the gate saying you were Miss Brightwell. That’s true. You are Miss Brightwell. They let you in. They gave you permission to enter. And you went into the library, probably to take a look at the famous candlesticks, found Mr. Goldman lying there dead, got frightened and decided to put one of the candlesticks in your sister’s bed as a cruel joke. Nothing criminal about any of that.”

“So you’re saying she’s not the killer?” Sheriff Billings asked.

“Look at her wrist, Sheriff.” I lifted the arm I was still holding. “She wears her wristwatch on her right arm. That proves she’s left-handed like her sister, don’t you think?”

“Oh,” he said. “Oh, I see. So she went into the library, intending to steal the candlesticks, but found Goldman on the floor instead.”

“I went into the library,” Bella said defiantly. “And I didn’t steal anything. You can’t surmise my intentions. I might like books.”

“Enough of your cheek,” the sheriff said. “You should realize that you are still in a very precarious position, young lady.” He wagged a threatening finger in her face. “I could have you locked up for unlawful entry, trespass, any number of things. I know you were intending to carry off those candlesticks and you only chickened out because you stumbled over the body. But you can do yourself some good if you can help us throw any light on the murder. To start with, how did you get into that library? Everyone in the house swears that nobody was seen coming or going from that hallway.”

“Easy. I let myself into the house while you were all out by the pool, hid in an unused room, then went to Stella’s room while you were all at dinner. I climbed down the wall to the library window.”

“You climbed down the wall?” He sounded incredulous.

“Oh, it’s easy if you’ve got a rough, uneven rock wall like that,” she said. “I do it all the time.”

“Well, dang me.” He shook his head. “Now there must have been only a very brief time frame between the guests’ leaving the library and Mr. Goldman being killed. You must have been in the best position to see or hear the killer. So think carefully—did you see or hear anything that could help us?”

Bella frowned. Then she shook her head. “I don’t think I saw or heard anything, or I wouldn’t have tried to get into the room. As I said, I went upstairs while you were all at dinner. I waited in Stella’s room because it was right above the library. I heard the men saying they were going to have cigars and brandy in the library, so I waited until the lights finally went out, then I climbed down the wall and let myself in through the window. The curtains were closed across the alcove. I stepped out and the first thing I did was to kick something. I picked it up and it was one of the candlesticks. I knew something was wrong then. I turned on my torch and I saw I’d got blood on my glove. That really spooked me. And then I saw him, of course—lying just on the other side of the curtain with his head smashed in.”

“You’re sure you were alone in the room then?”

Bella shrugged. “I’ve no idea. It was dark apart from my little torch. Anyone could have been hidden in one of the other alcoves or even in the shadows at the far end of the room.” She shuddered and hugged her arms to herself. “Well, I just wanted to get out of there then. I knew I could take the candlesticks, but I also knew how bad it would look for me if I was caught with them. So I put back the bloody candlestick exactly where I had found it and then I decided I’d leave the other one in Stella’s room, just to throw people off the scent. Give myself time to get away.”

“And where did you go after that?” the sheriff asked. “Did you climb out of the window again?”

“I heard an almighty crash,” she said, “then lots of running and shouting, so I decided I’d better make myself scarce. After I put the candlestick in her bed, I went across to the other side of the house where I could climb down onto the roof of the garage, then I stayed close enough to listen to what was going on. I realized there was no way I could escape from the estate that night, so I disappeared into the woods until I found an unoccupied cottage and I spent the night there.”

“Thank you, Miss Brightwell,” the sheriff said. “I’m not sure what we’re going to do with you at this point, but I suggest that we all get some breakfast and we’ll see how things turn out. And please don’t think of trying to escape. There’s no way out of here except through that gate and my men are guarding it.”

“Thank heavens for that. I’m starving,” Belinda said.

“You can let go of her now.” The sheriff looked from Belinda to me. “Nice work, ladies,” he said. “Very astute of you, and gutsy too. You English ladies are not the prissy little wallflowers you are claimed to be.” He took Bella’s arm. “Come along, little lady. I want to keep you in my sight.”

“Prissy little wallflowers indeed,” Belinda muttered into my ear as we crossed the foyer. “Odious man. I’m of a good mind to help Bella escape.”

“I don’t think you’d better do that. Darcy wouldn’t be pleased.”

We heard the sheriff’s big boots echoing behind us until we reached the corridor leading to the library, where the sheriff paused. “Before we go and eat I’d like you to take just one more look, Miss Brightwell,” he said. “Just to see if anything else triggers your mind. You never know . . . any little thing.”

He ushered her down the narrow hallway ahead of him. I followed because I was curious. I too wanted to get another look at the library in daylight.

“I don’t know about you but I’m off to breakfast,” Belinda called to me. “I have no wish to see crime scenes or dead bodies. It would quite put one off one’s scrambled eggs.”

The sheriff turned the key to unlock the library door. The heavy drapes were still closed and amid the smell of dust, old leather, and furniture polish there lingered the unmistakable smell of death. When you’ve smelled it once, you never forget it. The sheriff didn’t open the drapes but instead turned on the electric light to reveal the body still lying where it had fallen, although now it was covered by a sheet. Bella gave a little gasp on seeing it. “He’s still there.”

“Yes, well we couldn’t get our hands on the morgue wagon until this morning. It will be on its way now. And the doc wants to perform an autopsy, although the cause of death looks clear enough to me. So take your time. Look around the room. Is there anything you remember now that wasn’t quite right? Anything to tip you off that someone else was still in the room—because I don’t know how the hell he or she got out.”

“I don’t think anyone could have climbed down the wall from here,” Bella said. “That wall below is concrete and quite smooth. And it’s a long drop. And they couldn’t have climbed up, because I would have seen them.”

I was still staring with the same horrified fascination I had felt the night before. I remembered the scene with all of us clustered in the doorway, Mr. Goldman lying on the floor, all that blood . . . And the sheriff hadn’t ever finished interviewing the rest of us in the library, so presumably he had no way of knowing whether any of us might have cracked under the strain of seeing the body of the man they had just killed. But he had interviewed Mrs. Goldman here, even though she had strongly protested that it was inhumane to make her answer questions where her husband’s body was lying.

And then I looked up, frowning as I tried to capture a thought that had crept into my consciousness. Something that had not seemed quite right at the time. Mrs. Goldman protesting that it was cruel to interview people where her husband was lying dead, and Juan saying, “They can pull the curtains over the body if you do not wish to look at him.”

But how did he know that the body was lying half under the drapes in the window alcove? It was a big room. Mr. Goldman could have been lying anywhere. And Juan had been asleep when the rest of us had piled into the library and seen the body.

“Juan!” I burst out. “It had to be Juan.”

“The Spanish guy who claimed he slept through the whole thing?” The sheriff looked surprised. “What makes you think that?”

“Because he knew where the body was lying, but he couldn’t have seen it if he’d been asleep in his own bed.”

“But why would he want to kill Goldman? Hadn’t Goldman just brought him over from Spain to turn him into a movie star?”

“Yes. And then he appeared to change his mind,” I said. “He told Juan he wasn’t ready for the movies. He didn’t like Juan’s accent. In fact, he made fun of it.”

“But you don’t go around killing people because of their accent.” The sheriff shook his head.

“I hardly know any of them,” I said. “There may be another reason. Juan and Stella seemed to have an attraction to each other.”

“You reckon he maybe wanted to steal the candlesticks? Why else would he have come in here?”

“I don’t know. Why don’t you bring him in here and ask him? And when he comes in, see if his eyes go straight to the body. That would prove he knew where it was.”

“Okay, miss,” the sheriff said. “Since you’ve delivered the goods so far I have to think that you know what you’re doing. I’ll send a couple of guys to fetch him.”

“And could I suggest one more thing?” I said. “Tell him that you have proof that he killed Mr. Goldman.”

“But I don’t. Only your word.”

“Please tell him you do. Tell him that Bella Brightwell came to steal the candlesticks and saw him. He won’t know about her. That will throw him off guard.”

“I suppose I could do that. . . .” He looked doubtful. “It’s not what you’d call regular, but then this guy is a foreigner. He won’t know.” He grinned then. “Okay, let’s get him.”

I have to admit that I began to have second thoughts while I waited for Juan to be brought to the library. It seemed he hadn’t put in an appearance that morning yet and the sheriff’s deputies had to go to the Hacienda to wake him. Bella and I stood outside the library beside the sheriff, shivering in the cold drafts coming through the open front door. She didn’t look at me. I didn’t look at her. Now that the first flush of excitement was over I was feeling slightly guilty that I had told the sheriff the truth about her. I wondered if she would be arrested here and then deported back to England. Then I reminded myself that she was a jewel thief. It was only right that she faced justice.

Now that I had time to think, I also began to worry that I might have made a mistake about Juan. Could he somehow have heard where the body was lying? Might Ronnie and Algie have described the scene to him when they hauled him out of bed? I didn’t think they had told him much and he appeared to be half asleep when he was dragged into the house. But was it indeed possible that he had gone to bed and then managed to sneak back into the house without being seen when we were in full view of the front door all the time? Was I going to find myself in trouble for suggesting that he was Mr. Goldman’s killer? The wait seemed an eternity. When my stomach gave a large growl I realized also that I was hungry. Belinda, as usual, was the smart one. She had gone to breakfast. I had somehow managed to involve myself in a crime yet again. When would I ever learn?

We all looked up at the sound of raised voices, the crunch of feet on the gravel outside. The two deputies appeared with an angry Juan between them.

“What is the meaning of this?” he demanded, stalking straight up to the sheriff. “I am dragged from my bed once again? Why am I never allowed to sleep in peace, eh? I am told the sheriff wishes to speak with me. Okay, I say. First I must wash and shave and get dressed, but no. The say I must come now. You treat me without respect because I am a foreigner. I shall complain to your superiors.” He fished in his pocket, took out a cigarette and lit it, inhaling then blowing out smoke in what could only be described as an insolent manner.

“No, son, you’ve got it wrong.” The sheriff looked relaxed, as if he was about to enjoy what was coming. “I treat you this way because I know you killed Mr. Goldman.”

“You know? How do you know?” Juan demanded. “You try to pin this on me because I am foreign. I know how the police work in America. They like to find the—how you say—scapegoat. They don’t care about the truth. But I say this—if I killed Mr. Goldman, where is your proof?”

“Well, as a matter of fact I have my proof right here,” Sheriff Billings said in his slow drawl. “You see, someone saw you kill Goldman.”

“Who? Who saw me? What nonsense is this?”

“This young lady saw you,” the sheriff answered. He stepped aside to reveal Bella.

Juan appeared to notice Bella for the first time. “Wait,” he said, frowning. “You are not Stella. Who are you?”

“She’s Stella’s sister,” I said. “She came here to steal the candlesticks. . . .”

“A common thief?”

“Better than a common murderer,” Bella said defiantly. “And that’s right. I was going to steal the candlesticks, but I saw you kill Mr. Goldman. I climbed down the wall and in through the window.”

“Down the wall? That is not possible. What are you, a fly?” He was still insolent, defiant.

“Do you want me to demonstrate?” Bella started for the window.

The color had drained from Juan’s face, then his eyes flashed with anger. “He deserved to die,” he said. “He insulted me and my culture and my religion and my family. When I met him in Spain he was so polite, so excited. He would make me a big star, he said. And I thought this would solve our problems. My family is no longer rich. We can no longer afford to run our hacienda. I believed I would go home with money and fame. But when I came here, I found out he was a liar and a thief.”

“A thief? What did he steal?”

“He stole my heritage,” Juan said. “Those candlesticks, they came from the convent where my great-aunt is mother superior. My family has always sent our women to that convent, for centuries now. They are simple women. Holy women. I am sure they did not realize the value of what they had. And the convent was badly in need of repair. Mr. Goldman offered them money and they sold their candlesticks. They sold an El Greco painting for pennies. To them it was a Madonna with child, not an El Greco. And that devil boasted he had bought an entire chapel in Spain. He was going to have it shipped here, stone by stone, and rebuilt as his bathhouse. A holy chapel turned into a changing room? That’s when I decided I would take back the things he stole from my great-aunt’s convent. I would do justice on their behalf.”

“So you only pretended to go to bed after dinner?” the sheriff asked.

“Of course. I went to the front door, slammed it, then I went into the library ahead of them and waited behind the curtains in an alcove. When the last men left and Mr. Goldman was alone I decided it was the right time to confront him. I came out from behind the curtains. He was surprised to see me, but friendly. Not worried. ‘Hey there, Juan. Couldn’t sleep after all? Have a brandy,’ he said. ‘Have a cigar. I won’t be a minute while I put these candlesticks back in their box and into the safe.’

“‘You will not do that,’ I said to him. ‘I have come on behalf of the sisters of Santa Theresa to take back their property.’

“He laughed. ‘My property now, son,’ he said. ‘Too late to change their minds. Besides, these’ll look better on my dining table than in their gloomy old chapel.’”

Juan paused, as if in physical pain. “He turned away from me. I picked up the candlestick and I hit him, once across the head. He fell. I dropped the candlestick, appalled at what I had done. Then I crept out down the hallway and hid behind a statue in one of the niches. Then there was a great crash and everyone ran to see what had happened. I took my chance and slipped out and went to bed. And if you ask me if I am sorry—no. I told you. He was a man who deserved to die. I am proud to avenge the honor of my people and my country.”

“You won’t be so cocky when you’re facing the gas chamber,” the sheriff said.

“I spit on your gas chamber,” Juan said. “And I spit on you.”

He spat on the marble floor. Then he turned and ran out of the open front door.