“You offered him the benefit of your insights?” Mallory asked. “You’ve spent a whole weekend with these people.”

  “I made some suggestions. They were not well-received.”

  “Eleanor Trenton deserves better than his bumbling efforts,” Malloy said.

  “I have been instructed not to interfere,” Vickery said.

  “Then you cannot investigate the murder,” Malloy said. “But you were asked here to investigate the poison pen letters: did Inspector Debney say you could not pursue that enquiry?”

  “He did not,” Vickery said. He smiled.

  “In the case of the poison pen letters, what would be your next move?” Malloy asked. “Is there anything I can do to help?”

   

  Chapter 14

  Malloy stood on the threshold, feeling uncomfortable about entering. Vickery had already stepped into Eleanor Trenton’s room.

  “Is something wrong?” Vickery asked.

  “It feels like an intrusion,” Malloy said.

  “Does it?” Vickery asked. “You are wondering how Miss Trenton might feel about us going through her private things. But Miss Trenton no longer has feelings, Mr. Malloy, someone has seen fit to put an end to them.”

  “I understand that. But it still feels—strange.”

  “When conducting an investigation, we must put aside our own emotions, and we cannot be diverted from our purpose by a wish to avoid hurting the feelings of others. To be a detective is to be beyond the confines of common decency.”

  “And beyond the law?” Malloy asked.

  “Sometimes justice must be sought outside that which is, in the strictest sense of the word, legal. You have some experience of this, you know how I work. We may need to act in accordance with what is morally right, rather than what is strictly prescribed in law.”

  “Do you really think Eleanor Trenton could have sent the poison pen letters?” Malloy asked.

  “It is a possibility that we must consider,” Vickery said. “Particularly if we need an excuse to search her room.”

  “We are doing it for her,” Malloy said, to convince himself. He crossed into the room, and his shoulders relaxed. “Can’t remember the last time I was in a lady’s bedroom,” he said, his smile nervous.

  “I do not think we shall need to be here long,” Vickery said. “I fear that someone has been in before us.”

  “The police?”

  “They have not yet begun their searches.”

  “Perhaps the maid?”

  Vickery shook his head. “The Inspector asked that she leave the room undisturbed until the police have seen it. No, someone has been here, and almost certainly taken away anything that might have proved useful to us.”

  “What had you hoped to find?” 

  “Clues, Mr. Malloy! Something that will tell us why someone might wish Eleanor Trenton dead.”

  “Photographs or letters?” Malloy suggested, glancing around the room without touching anything.

  “Perfect,” Vickery agreed. “Or a diary or some other revealing document.”

  As he was speaking, he opened drawers and peered into them, shifting garments with quick movements of his hand. He pushed one drawer shut and opened another. Both men were wearing their leather driving gloves.

  “Can I help?” Malloy asked.

  “Try the wardrobe.”

  It was a big old bow-fronted wardrobe, veneered with highly polished walnut, the inside smelling faintly of mothballs.

  “Three dresses,” Malloy said, “and matching shoes for two of them—the black and the peacock blue. No red shoes.”

  “She was wearing the red shoes,” Vickery said, without looking up. “High-heel open-toe sandals in patent leather.”

  “You are also an expert in women’s fashion?”

  “Margot described them to me.”

  “She must have liked this dark red colour,” Malloy said, feeling the soft fabric of the dress.

  “Indeed. She has matching lipstick and nail polish here on the dressing table,” Vickery said. “Help me pull the bed away from the wall.”

  They shifted the heavy bed and examined the gap between the bed and the wall. Then they dropped to their knees and peered under the bed. All they recovered for their efforts was a stray hair grip.

  “We are wasting our time,” Vickery said. “If there was anything here, it is gone.”

  “Handbag?” Malloy said, passing the heavy leather object to Vickery.

  Vickery emptied it on the counterpane and ran his hands over the contents. After a quick glance, he scooped everything back into the bag.

  “Nothing?” Malloy asked.

  “Miss Trenton had a fondness for liquorice pastilles. She occasionally suffered from acid indigestion, and she recently took a pair of shoes to the cobblers to have them re-heeled. She has a ten shilling note and a handful of change in her purse. Beyond that, all her handbag tells me is that she had a recurrent problem with her teeth, there are two receipts from a dentist, and that she was taking dancing lessons with a gentleman called Ramone, with whom she may recently have had a disagreement.”

  “How could you know that?”

  “An appointment card. The last entry, dated three days from now, has been scored out heavily, and the card has been torn in two.”

  “Perhaps she discovered that dancing just wasn’t for her.”

  “I think we can safely assume that Miss Trenton was able to dance quite as well as she could sing. No, I rather think that ‘Ramone’ may have attempted to lead where she had no intention of following.”

  “Does that make him a suspect?” Malloy asked.

  “No. I am sure that Ramone is quite used to having his advances rebuffed by attractive female students. I think we’re done here, don’t you?”

  “Do you think we should search the other rooms?” Malloy asked, as they closed the door behind them.

  “That would not make you feel uncomfortable?”

  “We need to find the murder weapon, don’t we?” Malloy said.

  “I think it unlikely the murderer would have hidden it in their own room. They would know that the police would instigate a search as soon as they arrived.”

  “In which case, they might have hidden it in someone else’s room, in order to throw suspicion on them?” Malloy suggested.

  “That is a possibility we should consider,” Vickery agreed. “You should search the other rooms while I go downstairs. Start with Fulbright’s—and see if you can find any of the missing pages of the poison pen letters while you are there.”

  “And what will you be doing while I do that?” Malloy asked.

  “I shall be distracting Fulbright so he doesn’t come up and find you rifling through his things. Don’t want him hitting you again, just as the bruise is beginning to fade.” He touched his fingers to Malloy’s discoloured jaw. “And I will keep an eye on our friends from the constabulary.”

  “Is this how it is going to be?” Malloy asked.

  “How what is going to be?”

  “Working together. I get the dangerous jobs, while you keep lookout?”

  “Mr. Malloy, you are entirely free to choose what you will and will not do. I hold no power over you, and would not wish to.”

  “You will give me a signal if Fulbright or one of the policemen come this way?”

  “I promise that I will.” Vickery turned to go. Malloy grabbed his arm.

  “Wait! What will it be? The signal? I wouldn’t want to mistake it or ignore it.”

  Vickery thought for a moment. “I shall shout ‘Someone’s coming!’ at the top of my lungs.”

  “I was expecting something a little more subtle.” Malloy sounded disappointed.

  “You were? Why?”

  “Won’t that rather alert them to the fact that I’m here up to no good?”

  “Hadn’t thought of that.” 

  Vickery reached forward, and Malloy felt the fingers brush his neck just behind his ear. 

  “I shall blow this station master’s whistle instead,” Vickery said. He seemed to have retrieved said whistle from behind Malloy’s ear.

  “Where did you get that?” Malloy asked.

  “A station master’s jacket pocket,” Vickery said. “I used to pick pockets as part of my stage act. Meet me downstairs in half-an-hour.”

  Malloy looked at his wristwatch, only to discover that his wrist was bare. He looked up to find Vickery with the wristwatch in his hand, comparing the time on it against his own pocket watch.

  “A couple of minutes slow.” Vickery adjusted Malloy’s watch.

  “When did you take that? I didn’t feel—”

  “I distracted you, when I touched the side of your face.” He handed the wristwatch back. “Nice watch.”

  “A present from an admirer,” Malloy said.

  “‘Bertie’ has very good taste,” Vickery said.

  “How—no, wait, it’s engraved on the back.” He grinned triumphantly.

  Vickery smiled. “Downstairs in half-an-hour. I’ll have the cook prepare coffee and cake. She admires you as well, I think.”

  He left Malloy blushing in the upstairs corridor.

  * * *

  Vickery found Fulbright sitting alone on the terrace, staring morosely at his hands folded in his lap. Whether he was upset for Eleanor Trenton or for himself, it was impossible to tell. He looked up and scowled, then seemed to think better of saying what he had intended to say. He looked back down at his hands.

  “I was just thinking about her,” Fulbright said. “Eleanor. She wasn’t a great actress. She could never have dominated the stage like Margot. But motion pictures are different, the camera can be closer than a theatre audience. Expression can be more subtle. She could have been great on the screen...”

  “But we will never know,” Vickery said. “People have said that the early footage was a little disappointing.”

  “That was my fault. I terrified the poor girl, so that she didn’t know—”

  “—a goblet from a goblin?” Vickery said.

  “You heard about that? Of course you did, actors are such dreadful gossips.”

  “And now the film is lost?” Vickery said.

  “Lost?” Fulbright seemed confused. “You mean the print we brought to show here this weekend? Yes, that’s missing. But the negative is still at the studio. We can have another print off that easily enough. If we decide to.”

  “The future of the film is in doubt?” Vickery asked.

  “It always has been. Eleanor’s death just makes it—” He shrugged.

  “Could Eleanor have been murdered in order to put an end to Arthur and Guinevere?” Vickery asked.

  “There are much less drastic ways of sabotaging a production,” Fulbright said. “And more effective ones.”

  “But still, removing the leading lady—?”

  “Everyone seems to think that Guinevere was a much bigger role than it is. There are only a dozen lines spoken—”

  “Forty-seven,” Vickery said.

  “Eh?”

  “Forty-seven lines. In the photoplay. Excluding one-word responses. I checked,” Vickery said.

  “It’s still only a few minutes of screen time. Most of the existing footage is salvageable, and the rest of what she’d done we could reshoot in an afternoon. We would have to have redone most of it anyway. To suggest that she was murdered to sabotage the film is ridiculous. And besides, who would benefit from it?”

  “Two names suggest themselves,” Vickery said.

  “Do they?” Fulbright asked.

  “Your sister for one,” Vickery said.

  “Veronica? What would she get out of it?”

  “You are spending her inheritance on your motion picture.”

  “It is not being spent, it is being invested. We shall get our money back and a good deal more besides.”

  “She gave her consent for it to be invested?” Vickery asked.

  “I don’t need her consent.”

  “No, you control everything. But perhaps as a courtesy...?” Vickery said.

  “Veronica doesn’t care about the money, as long as there’s enough for her to live in comfort and security,” Fulbright said.

  “She did care about George,” Vickery said.

  “What’s he got to do with anything?” Fulbright asked.

  “Revenge? As a motive for murder,” Vickery suggested.

  “Revenge?” Fulbright said.

  “Veronica believes that you took away her only opportunity for a life of happiness with the man she loved,” Vickery said.

  “Pshaw!” Fulbright said.

  “Perhaps she decided to punish you by taking away someone you loved?”

  “Eleanor? I did not love her.”

  “But you allowed people to believe that you were lovers,” Vickery said.

  “Veronica didn’t kill Eleanor, out of revenge or any other motive. George left her a long time ago, she’s over that now. And my sister trusts me to do what’s best for her. Ask her. Yes, she attacked me once, but she is better now. And I’d prefer it if you didn’t go around suggesting otherwise to the police. And please do not go putting ideas into her head and upsetting her. She is not the murderer.”

  “If what you say is correct, we must look for another culprit,” Vickery said.

  “Me?” Fulbright said.

  “I was about to suggest another name,” Vickery said. “But since you put your own name forward, we should consider if you might be responsible for Miss Trenton’s death.”

  “I’m not,” Fulbright said flatly. 

  “Inspector Debney knows you weren’t with everyone else after dinner,” Vickery said.

  “I went up to my room after dinner. I worked for a while, preparing my notes on the script pages for the next day of shooting on Arthur and Guinevere. Then I turned out the light and went to sleep,” Fulbright said.

  “You were alone throughout this time?” Vickery asked.

  “Margot and I have separate rooms here, as you know,” Fulbright said.

  “An attempt was made on your life the previous evening,” Vickery said

  “Someone shot a crossbow at my head,” Fulbright said. “Whether they intended to kill me or just scare me, it is hard to say.”

  “And prior to that you had received a number of threatening letters,” Vickery said. “It might help to identify the murderer if you could share with me the content of those letters.”

  Fulbright shot an angry glance at Vickery.

  “I shall be quite happy to provide full details of these poison pen letters—to the Inspector.” Fulbright’s glare dared Vickery to push the matter further.

  “You asked me to find out who sent the letters, but you will not give me information that could help me to do so. Even now, when it might help name a killer.”

  “You said you had another name,” Fulbright said. “Who else do you suspect?”

  “Why, Margot, of course,” Vickery said.

  “Margot!”

  Vickery made his exit before Fulbright was recovered enough to give vent to his thoughts regarding this suggestion.

  * * *

  “Inspector,” Vickery said. He stood in the open doorway of the library.

  Inspector Debney was sitting behind Sir Geoffrey’s desk, seemingly lost in thought. If at all possible, he looked less happy than he had previously.

  “Mr. Vickery?”

  “When we spoke previously, I neglected to pass on to you an item that was picked up near the pond when Miss Trenton’s body was found.”

  Vickery approached the desk and placed the small red button in front of the Inspector.

  “From Miss Trenton’s dress?” Inspector Debney said.

  “Miss Trenton’s red dress had no buttons,” Vickery said.

  Inspector Debney looked at it, but didn’t pick it up.

  “Perhaps a coincidence?” He said. “Dropped at some other time.”

  “Perhaps,” Vickery said. “But it was retrieved from the wet mud, and it is unstained: it cannot have lain there long.”

  “Did anyone else wear red this weekend?”

  “Not that I am aware of,” Vickery said.

  “And you picked this up beside the pond just after midnight?”

  “I did not pick it up, Leo Fulbright did.”

  Inspector Debney frowned. “Everything seems to lead back to him,” he said. “There is the absence of an alibi, his violent and overbearing nature, the watch chain. And now this.”

  “I agree, Inspector. Circumstances are such that it appears Leo Fulbright is guilty of the murder of Eleanor Trenton. And that is what the killer wishes us to believe. He wishes us to accept at face-value that which appears to be true. Fortunately, Inspector, you and I are able to see beneath this too-convenient façade, and can already see glimpses of what really happened. Is that not so?”

  “Er—of course,” the Inspector said. “The murderer must believe we are amateurs if he thinks we would fall for his ruse...”

  “The button is an important clue, I think,” Vickery said.

  “Yes, well, now I have this,” Inspector Debney still didn’t touch the little red button. “I can see things beginning to fall into place—”

  “Excellent! Then I should not disturb you any longer, Inspector. It is customary, I believe, to bring all of the suspects together in the drawing room when you name the murderer. Let me know when you’re ready to do that, and I will assemble the guests,” Vickery said.

  “I—er—I will, thank you.” 

   

  Chapter 15

  “No sign of the sword,” Malloy said. “The police haven’t come up with anything, and I checked all of the rooms, including the empty ones. But this place is such a warren, there could be hundreds of places we haven’t checked.”

  They were standing on the path by the kitchen garden between the keep and the little orchard.

  “There is also rumoured to be a secret passageway,” Vickery said, “though I think even Sir Geoffrey doesn’t know where it is. And Victorian folly builders were fond of adding fake priest holes. So as you say, there could be many places where Excalibur could be hidden. There is one more obvious one that I think you should check, but we can talk about that later. Am I right in thinking that you did not discover any of the missing pages of Fulbright’s poison pen letters?”

 

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