A Pocketful of Eyes, page 14
Featherstone kicked a pile of manila folders, which slid in on themselves and then fanned out all over the floor. Bee clamped her hands firmly over her knees so Featherstone wouldn’t notice how much they were trembling.
‘You don’t understand,’ he said between clenched teeth. ‘Cranston. Destroyed. My. Career. What was I supposed to do with the rest of my life?’
‘I imagine the giant pile of money you got for selling him out would have presented you with some options.’ Bee hoped Featherstone wouldn’t hear the tremor in her voice.
‘I spent it,’ said Featherstone. ‘Mostly on getting people to keep my name out of the press. The rest . . . it’s amazing how fast you can spend money when you have it, and it’s all there is in your life. I don’t even remember what I spent it on.’
‘I’m sure it was all about animal shelters and food for the homeless,’ Bee said.
‘Shut up,’ said Featherstone, banging his hand down on his desk. ‘Shut up.’
Bee shut up and wondered how she was going to escape. There wasn’t even a window she could climb out of. Would Security have seen something? Bee didn’t think there were security cameras in the staff-only areas of the museum. But surely someone would come. Eventually.
Featherstone leaned forward and rested his head on his desk. Bee waited.
‘You really think I killed Gus, don’t you?’ he said, his voice muffled.
‘I think you’d do anything to get what you want,’ said Bee.
‘And what is it that you think I want?’
‘Revenge.’ Was it really, though? Revenge was nearly always the justification for murder in detective stories – dropped like a one-word bombshell, just as she had done. But if Featherstone wanted revenge, why not just kill Cranston? Unless . . .
Featherstone sat up and leaned back in his chair. ‘I’m terribly sorry to disappoint you,’ he said. ‘But I’m afraid you’re wrong. Gus wasn’t even working here when I arrived, and when he started I didn’t realise he was really Gregory Swindon, Cranston’s assistant.’
‘Until you found that newspaper article,’ said Bee. ‘You were looking for Cranston. That’s why you came to the museum in the first place.’
‘I wanted to find him,’ said Featherstone. ‘I was hoping if I could just talk to him, explain my situation, he could help me clear my name. The ironic thing is, this museum was the one place on the planet where I could actually get a job. And it was because Cranston was a benefactor. I told Kobayashi that I’d worked for him before, and she welcomed me with open arms. Lucky for me she didn’t check up on the reference letter I gave her.’
‘And then Gus turned up,’ said Bee. ‘I find it hard to believe it was a coincidence.’
‘It was the kind of luck you only dream about,’ said Featherstone. ‘But then, perhaps I was due a little good luck.’
Bee was torn between wanting to bang on the door and scream until someone heard, and wanting to smack Featherstone in the mouth and call him a self-pitying, spoilt child. But she did neither. She was too busy trying to sort out Featherstone’s story in her head, and figure out what questions she could ask to trick him into revealing his secrets. How did Poirot do it?
‘I tried to talk to Gus,’ Featherstone was saying, lacing his fingers together. ‘I tried to explain that I’d changed, that I was sorry—’
‘You’re not sorry,’ Bee interrupted. ‘I’ve never seen anyone less sorry.’
Adrian Featherstone glared at her. ‘Beside the point,’ he said. ‘Gus wouldn’t talk to me. He knew who I was, and he wouldn’t even speak to me. Smug bastard.’
‘He didn’t dob you in to Kobayashi, though,’ said Bee. ‘He could have. He should have. If she’d known what you did to the museum’s greatest benefactor, there’s no way you would have kept your job.’
A small smile scuttled around the corners of Featherstone’s mouth, making Bee wonder for a moment if she’d been too quick to dismiss Kobayashi as a suspect.
‘I’m sure he was just biding his time,’ said Featherstone. ‘Anyway, the afternoon before he died, I saw him in the museum café. He was waiting for something – a milkshake, or a coffee. And he was sitting at a table eating a doughnut. He’d taken off his hoodie because it’s so much warmer up there, with all the natural light. When he went to get whatever it was from the counter, he left his hoodie at the table for a moment. I saw my chance.’
Bee watched Featherstone through suspicious eyes. She was sure he was lying. Someone as sinister and bitter as Featherstone had to have some darker purpose than mere reconciliation. He had to be lying.
‘I swapped our hoodies,’ Featherstone was saying. ‘I thought it might give me an excuse to see him. Talk to him. Explain my case. But it seems I acted too late.’
He folded his hands together and smiled insincerely.
‘Sorry to burst your balloon,’ said Featherstone. ‘But you’re barking up the wrong tree if you think I’m a murderer.’
Bee chose not to point out Featherstone’s mixed metaphor.
‘No,’ said Featherstone. ‘Gus and I were far from being friends, but I wouldn’t have killed him.’ He paused. ‘And if I had, I wouldn’t have been stupid enough to poison him.’
Bee swallowed.
‘I mean really,’ said Featherstone. ‘Not poison. And especially not here. Have you ever thought, Beatrice, about all the ways you could murder someone in a museum?’
‘I can’t say I have,’ said Bee. ‘But then again, I’m not the murdering kind.’
Featherstone’s lip curled. ‘Think about it. I mean the obvious favourite would be the maceration tank. It’s easily big enough for an adult human. I just pop you in there with plenty of water and a bucketful of liquid bacteria, shut the lid and press “go”. You’ll drown within a few minutes, and then the water will heat up and the bacteria will get to work. After two months there’ll be nothing left but clean white bones and a lingering unpleasant smell.’
Bee’s heart began to pound. Featherstone was clearly unstable. If he really had killed Gus, what would stop him from killing her as well now he knew she suspected him, and knew his history with Cranston?
‘Or there’s the freeze-dryer,’ Featherstone continued. ‘Or the flesh-eating beetles, although that might take a while and be a little conspicuous. I believe there’s a few deadly spiders hanging around in the Live Exhibits studio. Or you could always just lock someone in cold storage until they froze to death.’
Bee shivered.
‘Sorry,’ said Featherstone. ‘It’s a little colder in here than the rest of the museum. A regular twenty degrees Celsius and fifty per cent humidity. We store a lot of film negatives and cellulose nitrate, and it can spontaneously combust if it gets too warm. And once it combusts, it burns with a toxic yellow smoke and is impossible to extinguish. So we like to stay cool in here. Of course, that might be a fun way to kill someone as well,’ he added thoughtfully. ‘A warm room and a few old film reels.’
Bee made a mental list of her options. She could:
1. Make a run for it. But Featherstone had locked the door, and she didn’t want to anger him into doing something crazy – and it didn’t look as if that would be hard.
2. Scream – but would anyone hear? Bee hadn’t noticed any severe pregnant conservators around when she entered Featherstone’s room. And screaming might also trigger the crazy-switch.
3. Somehow disable Featherstone, buying her enough time to escape.
Bee looked around the room for an object large enough to crack over Featherstone’s head. A book? His computer keyboard? The chair she was sitting on? She wished she’d done the self-defence course that her mother had suggested.
Featherstone sighed. ‘But I am a conservator,’ he said. ‘So do you know what I think I’d do?’ He leaned over to his drawer and pulled out a sachet, small enough to fit snugly in the palm of his hand.
‘This stuff is called Ageless,’ he said. ‘It’s an oxygen scavenger. It sucks moisture, oxygen and corrosive gases from an object. This little sachet here will absorb up to two litres of oxygen.’
He looked at her speculatively. ‘I’m guessing you weigh about fifty-five kilos,’ he said. ‘And your body is sixty-five per cent oxygen, which is about thirty-three litres. So if I was to put you into an airtight container along with, say, seventeen sachets of Ageless, and leave you in a cool, dark place for a few weeks . . .’ He grinned. ‘When I came back, you’d be a mummy.’
A giggle of hysterical laughter escaped Bee’s lips at the word mummy. A nervous, uncertain look flashed across Featherstone’s face, and suddenly everything fell into place. He was afraid of her. He thought she was laughing at him and that made him afraid.
Bee realised Featherstone wasn’t a homicidal lunatic – he was just trying to scare her. He was trying to hide something, that was certain, but she was almost sure it wasn’t Gus’s murder. Featherstone wasn’t a powerful, cunning killer – he was a weak, snivelling coward dressing up as an evil genius.
‘Oh, come on,’ said Bee, all fear replaced with annoyed relief. ‘Don’t you think that’s a bridge too far?’
Featherstone seemed startled. The wavering, unsure expression returned to his eyes.
‘Enough with the stupid threats,’ Bee said. ‘You’re not going to kill me, so why don’t we just cut to the chase?’
Adrian Featherstone slitted his eyes and tried to look sinister. It was almost comical. ‘You think you’re very clever, don’t you? You think you’ve got me all figured out.’
‘And you clearly think what you’re doing now is intimidating. It isn’t. It’s just annoying. To be honest, I’m surprised you ever managed to pull off something as complicated as you did with Cranston and the horseshoe crab. You’re not an arch-villain. You’re just a bitter loony in desperate need of a haircut and shower.’
Featherstone snarled at her, and Bee feared she might have gone too far. Even bitter loonies could snap.
She thought she heard footsteps in the corridor outside and held her breath, hoping that whoever it was needed to see Featherstone about something. Or maybe it was the security guard come to check on her. If Faro Costa was on duty, he would have noticed. He’d have sensed something was wrong, with his mystical weird spiritual mojo. The footsteps slowed as they grew closer. Featherstone hadn’t noticed yet; he was still spluttering and clutching the sachet of Ageless in his fist.
The knock at the door startled them both. Adrian Featherstone regained his composure and leaned across the desk. ‘If you make a sound,’ he said, his voice barely a whisper, ‘I really will become a murderer.’ He waved the sachet of Ageless in her face.
Bee rolled her eyes at him. ‘Come in,’ she said loudly. She heard someone try the doorhandle.
‘What a pity I locked it,’ said Featherstone.
The door opened. ‘What a pity I have the key,’ said Toby, jangling a ring of keys in his hand and stepping into the room. ‘Thanks awfully for looking after Bee,’ he said, his voice thick with sarcasm. ‘Much appreciated. But we’ll be heading off now.’
Featherstone didn’t reply. His face betrayed no emotion at all. Bee stood up and was surprised at how trembly her legs felt. Toby held out his hand and led her from the room. Bee stopped and turned when she reached the door.
‘What’s hidden in the Red Rotunda?’ she asked Featherstone.
He smirked condescendingly. ‘Buried treasure, of course. Or perhaps a diamond necklace. It’s usually diamonds in Agatha Christie, isn’t it?’
He turned to a folder on his desk and began to take notes, as if nothing had happened.
BEE FOLLOWED TOBY ALONG THE back corridors of the museum, feeling relieved and grateful and a bit embarrassed. A good detective shouldn’t need rescuing.
‘Thanks,’ she said at last.
‘You’re welcome.’
Bee wondered if he was still mad at her about the incident with the flowers. She’d be mad, if it were her. She felt like an idiot.
‘You found my note,’ she said. ‘And where did you get the keys from?’
‘Faro Costa,’ said Toby, holding up the index card that she had left in the taxidermy lab. He didn’t turn his head towards her.
‘Thanks,’ Bee said again.
Toby nodded.
Bee took a deep breath. ‘I’m sorry I yelled at you about the flowers.’
‘It wasn’t supposed to be some kind of grand gesture. Just something nice.’
Bee shook her head. ‘It wasn’t the gesture that was the problem,’ she said. ‘It’s just that we’re not allowed to have fresh flowers in the museum. They carry all sorts of bugs that like to eat fur and skin and paper. You would have been in heaps of trouble if anyone’d caught you.’
Toby blinked. ‘I didn’t know.’ He looked considerably cheered and Bee felt a little tingle of excitement. He had brought her flowers. Flowers meant something.
‘No harm done,’ said Bee. ‘And I’m sorry I snapped.’
They reached the top of a flight of stairs, and Toby pushed open the fire door. Bee felt cool twilight air flow around her, and heard the evening rumble of the city, and crickets chirping in the bushes around the museum. It was good to be outside after being stuck in Featherstone’s cramped little office.
‘You know they have over four hundred distinct songs,’ said Toby.
‘Who?’
‘Crickets. Different songs for different things, during different cycles. So there’s a flirting song and a courtship song, and a mating song.’
Bee didn’t say anything. She remembered Toby’s hands on her body.
‘You’re sure you’re okay?’
‘Yeah,’ said Bee. ‘Just a bit shaken.’
Toby paused. ‘So . . .’ he said. ‘I suppose I’ll see you tomorrow.’
Bee bit her lip. ‘Don’t you want to know what I found out?’ she said. ‘From Featherstone?’
‘Yes,’ said Toby, with a rueful twist of his mouth. ‘Yes, I really, really do.’
‘Right then,’ said Bee, grinning. ‘Let’s go somewhere where we can sit down. And eat. I’m starving.’
They wandered into the city, and ducked into a tiny Chinese restaurant where Bee ordered the biggest bowl of noodles on the menu, and three serves of dumplings. Toby raised his eyebrows and ordered a beer. Bee suddenly remembered that Toby was several years older than her and could do grown-up things like order beer.
‘Well?’ he said. ‘Spill.’
Bee told him about Featherstone’s hatred and resentment of Cranston, his wild spending, why he’d come to the museum. She told him about how Featherstone had swapped his hoodie with Gus’s in an attempt to communicate with him.
‘So he did it, right?’ asked Toby, pinching one of Bee’s dumplings. ‘I mean, it’s just too much of a coincidence that he happens to be working at the museum where Cranston’s faithful employee happens to be killed.’
‘I don’t know,’ said Bee through a mouthful of noodles. ‘Somehow I don’t think he would have told me everything he did if he was trying to conceal a murder.’
‘But he’s insane,’ said Toby. ‘I think that’s been pretty clearly proven at this point. And insane people do insane things. Plus, he probably didn’t think it’d matter if he told you stuff. I’m sure he doesn’t see you as a threat.’
‘Little does he know,’ said Bee, trying to look sinister and spoiling it by having soy sauce dribble down her chin.
‘Quite.’
‘It all comes back to the Red Rotunda,’ said Bee. ‘There’s something there – some secret we haven’t uncovered yet.’
‘You saw Cranston there the day Gus died,’ said Toby, ticking things off on his fingers. ‘Then Gus died in there. And Featherstone’s been seen snooping around there, like he’s looking for something.’
Bee pursed her lips. ‘What, though?’ she asked. ‘What is he looking for?’
Toby considered her, his head on one side, as though he was trying to make up his mind about something. ‘What if Cranston was working on something new?’ he said at last. ‘Something big? What if Adrian Featherstone was trying to steal Cranston’s research all over again?’
‘It’s possible,’ said Bee. ‘Likely, even. It would certainly give him a motive.’
Toby nodded. ‘If he was trying to get Gus on side, and Gus wouldn’t budge, it would have made Featherstone furious.’
‘Furious enough to commit murder?’
‘Why not?’ asked Toby. ‘Judging from your conversation with him, he’s got a pretty black mind. I think he’d stop at nothing to get what he wanted, and if Gus was standing in the way of him getting to Cranston . . .’
‘I suppose it would have the added bonus of revenge.’
‘Exactly.’
‘That’s just it, though,’ said Bee. ‘I thought the same thing, that it was all about revenge. But now I don’t know. He comes across as being this evil genius, but it’s all just an act. He’s greedy and nasty, but he’s weak. He might have killed Cranston, but it wasn’t for revenge. Murderous revenge is too . . . old-school for him.’
Toby laughed. ‘More like Old Testament.’
‘But in any case,’ said Bee, ‘it doesn’t fit together. Featherstone left the building that night at eleven. And what about the fake mercuric chloride? Why would Featherstone pretend to kill Gus with a museum chemical? And how did he kill him, anyway?’
She slurped up the rest of her noodles, which were starting to go cold.
‘I just feel like there’s some trick to it all,’ she said. ‘Like we’re looking at the whole thing from the wrong angle.’
‘What do you mean?’
Bee laid her chopsticks neatly across the top of her empty noodle bowl. ‘There’s this guy, right?’
‘If you say so.’
‘And he and his dad are driving in the country one day. They’re going fishing or something. And they take a bend in the road too fast and slam into a tree.’
Toby winced. ‘That’s no good.’
‘The father is killed instantly. A passing car sees the accident and calls an ambulance. The son is seriously injured and is rushed to hospital. When he gets there, he’s immediately wheeled into surgery. The doctor takes one look at him and says “Oh my God, it’s my son!”. How is this possible?’
