Realizing we were obstructing each other, I fell back and let Aunt Violet enter first. “Sir Jon,” I called over my shoulder. “Fiona is hurt.” I already had my phone out, ready to call for help.
Aunt Violet was on her knees beside her friend, feeling for a pulse. “She’s alive.” Her face twisted in distress. “Who did this to you, Fi? If only we’d gotten here sooner.”
Maybe we could have prevented the attack. Or witnessed it and caught the culprit.
Sir Jon pointed. “That’s what hit her.” A gold sculling trophy lay on the carpet nearby. “I wonder who did it. And why.”
“Look at that.” A silver St. Hildegard’s key chain sat next to a teacup on the coffee table, a couple of keys attached. Aunt Violet’s missing car keys? “I bet the same person who tried to run me over hit Fiona just now,” I said, my fingers fumbling on my phone screen. “Fiona must have figured it out.” The dial screen finally lit up and I hit the right digits, remembering that it was 999 in England, not 911.
“Persephone Brightwell is down by the river,” Sir Jon said. He was standing by the front windows, which faced the long garden to the river. “She’s hailed a punt.”
I hurried to join him, phone to my ear. Persephone was stepping into a punt, one of those for-hire boats, I guessed.
“Let’s go.” I thrust the ringing phone at Aunt Violet. “Talk to the police. Tell them what’s going on and get an ambulance here.” I prayed that Fiona would be all right.
Sir Jon and I burst outside and raced down the lawn in long-legged strides. I was dimly aware of my bruised hip protesting, but sheer adrenaline pushed me onward.
“There’s another punt coming,” he said, pointing. A young man dressed in a trademark striped shirt and boater hat was trolling along, looking for passengers.
We waved frantically and shouted until he saw us and steered over to the bank, pulling up to the house dock.
“Where to?” he asked, glancing between Sir Jon and me. I could almost see what he was thinking since Sir Jon was more than double my age. But he’s fitter than you, I wanted to tell him. Plus, this isn’t a romantic excursion.
“Follow that punt,” Sir Jon said, throwing some banknotes at him before he could quote rates. “And hurry.” We flung ourselves inside, barely rocking the stable craft, and our punter dug in his pole.
“Which one?” he asked, a valid question since the river was busy this morning.
I scanned the other punts on the river, finally focusing in on one holding a lone female passenger. Her gray hair shone in the sun. “That one. With the older woman.”
“I’ll try to catch up,” he said, grunting as he pushed the pole into the river bottom. “He’s moving really fast for some reason.”
She had probably paid him a hefty fee, I guessed. Her punt was skimming along with speed, easily overtaking others.
Sir Jon was on his phone. “Yes, Inspector. We’re heading west along the river. The perp is in a punt. So are we.”
“Did he say perp?” our chauffeur asked me. Punt operators were called chauffeurs instead of punters, which has negative connotations in British slang.
“He did,” I said. “That woman is a criminal.” I didn’t go into details. He’d read about our caper in the newspaper soon enough, I was sure.
Sir Jon finished his call. “They’ll be waiting up ahead. The problem is, she can get out at any point and go anywhere. Unless we catch up.”
“I’m trying,” the chauffeur said, grunting with effort. “Honest.”
I half expected Sir Jon to take over, but instead he directed the chauffeur to pull over to the side. Was he going to run up ahead and try to intercept Persephone when she got out? But what if she went on for miles before doing that? He’d be exhausted.
“Call the inspector with the address,” Sir Jon said as he clambered from the boat. “Side street or bridge. Soon as I reach her.”
Gliding along in our punt again, we watched as he went over to a group of bicyclists. More banknotes went flying and soon Sir Jon was whizzing down the path, dodging pedestrians and baby carriages.
“Who is he?” the chauffeur asked, mouth agape. “This is like something out of a movie.”
“Did you ever hear of James Bond?” I asked, my heart swelling with pride at Sir Jon’s resourcefulness.
“Of course.” His brow furrowed. “You don’t mean he’s a secret agent?”
“The real deal,” I said. “Knighted by the Queen, even.”
Amazement lit his features. “You don’t say.”
A footbridge appeared ahead and Sir Jon halted there, resting the bicycle along the railing. He kicked off his shoes and removed his jacket, setting them neatly next to the bicycle. The people crossing the bridge gave him barely a glance. He was only another odd Cambridge resident.
“What’s that bridge called?” I asked my companion. He gave me the name and I dialed Inspector Ryan to report in. Sir Jon was making a move. What that move was, exactly, I wasn’t sure.
Persephone’s punt continued to sail along, headed right for the bridge. Sir Jon strode back and forth as he waited, estimating where they would cross underneath.
At first I thought he was planning to leap into the punt, which would be a very risky move, but then I saw him remove his trousers. Was he going to jump into the water instead?
“What’s he up to? Swimming’s not allowed in this part of the river,” my companion said. His head turned toward the sound of sirens on the south bank. “Are they coming for her?”
“I sure hope so,” I said, fingernails pressing into my palms as I watched Sir Jon climb onto the bridge railing. I held my breath as he cleanly executed a shallow dive into the river. He landed right in front of Persephone’s punt, which had to slow to avoid hitting him. As for our punt, we were closing the distance rapidly now.
“Halt,” Sir Jon’s commanding voice boomed out. “The police are on their way.”
Persephone’s chauffeur glanced down at her for instructions. “Go on,” she said, making urging gestures with her hands. “I’ve certainly paid you enough.”
“What’s all this?” her chauffeur said. “Move aside, man. I don’t want to hit you with my punt.”
Sir Jon’s answer was to swim over and grip the side. “She’s a killer,” he said. “Do you want a charge of harboring a fugitive?”
“A killer?” The young man dug his pole deep into the river bottom muck, bringing the punt to a halt. “Are you sure?”
“Pretty much,” Sir Jon said. “As you can tell, the police are arriving. So maybe err on the side of caution?”
In addition to the wail of sirens, flashing blue and white lights were now visible. Within seconds, several police cars came into view, racing along the adjacent street while avoiding the other vehicles hastily pulling over.
Sir Jon pointed to a landing on the south bank. “You’d better pull up over there.” He let go and the chauffeur began poling obediently toward the shore.
Persephone didn’t take this betrayal lying down. She stood up in the punt and moved close to the side, bouncing to make it wobble. “I’m going to jump in unless you stop.”
“Ma’am, it’s my license. Sit down.”
But Persephone remained on her feet, her arms windmilling. “I’m innocent,” she shouted. “It wasn’t me.” Then she overbalanced and fell over the side in what seemed like slow motion, landing in the river with a mighty splash.
Her head bobbed to the surface, her arms flailing. “Help! Help! I can’t swim!”
“She should have thought of that before, right?” my chauffeur muttered as he steered us toward the bank. Officers were now disembarking from the vehicles, and I spotted the familiar figure of Inspector Ryan in the lead.
Sir Jon swam to Persephone. “Calm down. I’ve got you.” After a minute of her thrashing around, he managed to cup a hand around her chin and start tugging her toward shore.
Officers, including Sergeant Adhikari, helped the pair onto the landing, water streaming from their clothing. At Adhikari’s command, blankets were wrapped around the swimmers, who had both begun to shiver. Meanwhile, other constables were clearing the area, trying to keep curious onlookers at a distance.
“He tried to drown me.” Persephone’s shrill voice rose above the clamor of voices as I climbed out of the punt.
“That’s absolute garbage,” I said, hurrying to join the group. “Sir Jon and I were chasing you, Persephone.” I turned to the officers. “She hit Fiona Fosdyke with a sculling trophy and took off. Sir Jon, Violet Marlowe, and I had just arrived at Fiona’s house when she ran down the garden and hailed a punt. Plus we found the keys from Aunt Violet’s Cortina, which almost hit me Sunday night. Were you driving, Persephone?”
“You can’t prove any of this.” Persephone’s lips might be blue from the chilly water but she wasn’t going down without a fight. “I was just taking a nice morning cruise along the river.”
“Actually, Inspector,” a constable said. “Mrs. Fosdyke has regained consciousness and identified Ms. Brightwell as her attacker.”
Hurray. Relieved that Fiona was on the mend, I wavered on my feet and my chauffeur had to grip my arm to steady me. I smiled at him. “Bet this is the most exciting tour you’ve had in a while.”
“Definitely.” He stared around at the scene. “Student antics have nothing on this.”
“Don’t go anywhere, Miss Kimball,” Inspector Ryan said. “We’ll need a statement.”
Glad I had his permission to linger, I said, “Whatever you need.”
“Why did you strike Mrs. Fosdyke?” Inspector Ryan asked Persephone.
The poet’s eyes narrowed, her expression growing crafty. “I found out that she killed Myrtle Marsh, my dear friend.” Tears welled up and she sobbed, a piteous mew. She slid a glance at me. “She also had Violet’s keys, which means she tried to run Molly over.”
Oh, brother. “You mean, you killed Myrtle,” I said. “You stole my aunt’s knitting needle and stabbed her. My uncle saw you.” I wasn’t lying. Uncle Chris had seen her. Maybe not committing the actual murder, but physically present in the alley near our back garden.
“Miss Kimball,” the inspector warned. “Let us handle this.”
But it was too late. My accusation had unleashed the floodgates. “I did kill Myrtle. I had to.” Persephone’s lips wobbled and crocodile tears spilled from her eyes. She clasped her hands in entreaty, as though seeking sympathy from the watching crowd. “Years and years I put up with it. Her demands for money, her threats of—”
“Exposing your plagiarism?” I said, earning another dark look from the inspector. But it was worth it. “You stole Joan Watson’s work. I can prove it.” I turned to Inspector Ryan. “She even had the nerve to sign into Clive’s bungalow presentation as Joan Watson. Then dump the other needle there, to frame him.”
That crafty expression slid across the poet’s face again, as much a confession as any words would have been. “Wasn’t that smart of me? When I went over to Myrtle’s flat after the reading, I saw him lurking about. He’s got secrets too,” she said.
He certainly did. “But you didn’t get in that night. Why not?”
Persephone made a scoffing sound. “George was doing something in the hall. Changing a light bulb, I think. I had to come back another day.” And Kelsey Cook had run into her that time. No wonder Persephone didn’t want her picture taken.
“Now we know who ransacked the place,” I said to Inspector Ryan. “And tried to pin blame on Aunt Violet.” Fortunately Persephone hadn’t found the blackmail evidence.
The poet shrugged as if to say, What’s a girl going to do?
“Are you getting all this, Sergeant?” Ryan asked.
Sergeant Adhikari nodded. “I’m recording. Shouldn’t we caution her?”
“No need,” Persephone stood tall, an effort for a woman about five feet in height. “I’m making a full confession and throwing myself on the mercy of the court.” She stroked her long braid, her expression now noble. “I’ve suffered for my art and I’m not ashamed to admit it. Years and years of extortion. But if I’d given in, what would the world have lost?”
“Drama queen,” my chauffeur muttered. Sir Jon rolled his eyes.
“My new book coming out only increased her demands,” Persephone went on. “She wanted all my advance. Do you believe that cheek?” She paused as if waiting for a response.
A man in the crowd shouted out, “That’s highway robbery.”
“Exactly.” Persephone continued to toy with her braid. “So I arranged to meet her for a little chat.” Her gaze fell on me. “The knitting needle was too easy. I’d been by the shop earlier but you were all busy. And there it was, the perfect weapon.”
Busy getting ready for her reading. And to repay us, she had skulked around, looking for a weapon to frame Aunt Violet with. Then killed Myrtle in our garden.
“That’s premeditated murder,” I cried out. “I hope you got that!” I said to the inspector and his sergeant.
“We got it.” Inspector Ryan eyed the crowd of onlookers, which had continued to grow. More than a few held up cell phones, filming everything. “I think we’d better move this operation downtown.”
Persephone’s shoulders hunched as if she were going to resist. Downtown there wouldn’t be an audience. She would be alone in a cold, poorly lit cell, her last performance over. Never again would she hold a group of people captive with her every word.
And I wouldn’t have the chance to ask a final question.
“Persephone,” I said. “About Joan.”
She whipped her head around.
“Did you kill her too?” Painful emotion tightened my chest, making my voice croak. After reading Joan’s journal, watching her talent flourish, I felt connected to her, almost as if we were friends. Or might have been. Now the only role I could fill was that of avenger.
An odd light glowed in her eyes as she shook her head. “No, it wasn’t me.”
My heart sank. Maybe it had been suicide. Discouragement about her work. Heartbreak over Gregory. Feeling lost and alone and out of place in Cambridge.
But Persephone was speaking again, her tone almost dreamy, reminiscent. “Myrtle did it. She told me after I found her tossing pages from Joan’s journal into the fire. Joan was going to turn her in for trying to blackmail Ruth.”
Inspector Ryan and Sergeant Adhikari exchanged glances, stunned by the revelation of a second murder, I guessed.
“So Myrtle added sedatives to Joan’s wine?” I guessed, earning a nod of confirmation. “Why didn’t you call the police?”
Persephone covered her mouth with a hand, trying to hold back hysterical laughter. “Why? It wouldn’t bring Joan back. And besides, I had the poems, didn’t I? I had to look at the big picture.” She lifted her chin. “Joan’s brilliance and talent would live on through me.”
Now there was a creative argument for stealing someone’s work. I had a final question. “But how could she blackmail you, if you knew she killed someone?”
Persephone sighed deeply. “She didn’t do anything for years. Not until my first book was published. By then, all the evidence concerning Joan’s death was gone. It would only be my word against hers.” She bent her head, wrists crossed in front of her body as though already cuffed. “Plus she used a bottle of wine filched from my room.” Which meant Persephone’s fingerprints had been on it. Clever, clever Myrtle.
“All right,” Inspector Ryan barked. “That’s enough. Caution her, Sergeant Adhikari and take her downtown.” He pointed to the constables. “Clear the crowd, please.”
My chauffeur slipped me a card. His name was Fergus. “Call me if you need a punt, all right? I’ll meet you anywhere you like.” He laughed. “Talk about a thrill.”
“I can’t guarantee this level of excitement every time,” I said. “But thank you.” I tucked the card into my jeans pocket, thinking about the relaxing boat tour I’d been dreaming about. Maybe make it a picnic with Kieran?
Sergeant Adhikari cautioned Persephone and snapped cuffs on her wrists. Then, as the poet continued to spout dramatic lines, two officers walked her toward a nearby cruiser.
Realizing that the ordeal was finally over, I couldn’t hold back a yelp of joy. Aunt Violet and dear George had been cleared. And we’d found Myrtle’s killer—and Joan’s.