The Sword in the Stone-Dead, page 19
part #1 of Great Vicari Mystery Series
“If you turn on the Irish charm. And if that fails, try taking your shirt off again.”
“Do you know how cold it is out there?” Malloy protested. “It’s only the beginning of May: I should still be wearing a vest!”
“If you catch cold, I’ll rub goose grease on your chest,” Vickery said.
“Is that what you had to do in the olden days?”
“That and drink raspberry vinegar.”
“I’m surprised you lived past childhood, what with that and the Black Death.”
Vickery gave Malloy his best schoolmasterly scowl. He took a hipflask out of his pocket.
“What’s that?” Malloy asked.
“Brandy.”
“What’s it for?”
“I will give you a clue: it’s not for washing the car.”
“Do you want me to get Delancey drunk?”
“Is that what you usually have to do?”
“Usually I’m the one needs the brandy,” Malloy said.
“Well, here you are then.” Vickery passed him the silver flask and turned to go.
Malloy uncorked the flask and took a good belt from it.
“Watch out Artie Delancey, here comes the Irish Charmer,” he muttered.
Chapter 19
Malloy walked round the keep across the grass by the pond, over to where Vickery’s car had been parked on the circular part of the driveway. He whistled brightly to call attention to himself. A bucket of warm soapy water hung from one hand, and a larger bucket of cold water for rinsing from the other. He had a chamois leather and a linen cloth over his shoulder. He set the buckets down beside Vickery’s car and stretched, trying not to make it obvious that he was looking around for Artie Delancey. Seeing no sign of the young man, and for want of anything better to do, he dipped the cloth into the soapy water, then slapped it onto the roof of the Alvis and began washing it. He quickly became absorbed in the task, forgetting that he was supposed to be seeking Artie.
“What are you washing Vickery’s car for?” Fulbright asked.
Malloy turned, he hadn’t heard his employer approach.
“For two bob,” Malloy said.
“Idiot,” Fulbright said, “can’t you see it’s going to rain?”
“There’s a shame,” Malloy said, “for I won’t have chance to wash the Rolls as well.”
“You and I are going to have serious words when we get back to town tomorrow,” Fulbright said, trying to sound ominous. But Malloy was too distracted to be aware of the threat.
Malloy was more eager than ever to escape Fulbright’s presence, knowing that Artie would never show his face while the big man was there. Malloy looked up at the clouds and made tutting noises.
“I think you’re right about the rain,” he said. “You should probably get yourself indoors before the heavens open.”
Fulbright looked at him suspiciously. Malloy tried on an innocent smile.
“Why do I always get the feeling that you’re up to something, Malloy?” Fulbright turned without waiting for an answer, stomping back towards the gatehouse, muttering.
Malloy watched him pass into the shadow of the archway, then glanced towards the pond, wondering if Fulbright might be the murderer of Eleanor Trenton. He thought he saw a brief movement in the bushes not far away. Not wanting to startle his quarry, he turned his attention back to the car, pretending he’d seen nothing. He glanced up at the clouds again and shivered. Ah well, he thought, it’s in a good cause. He slipped his braces down off his shoulders and let them hang, then pulled his shirt off over his head. He opened the car door and dropped the shirt on the front seat. He stretched, and bent to retrieve the cloth from the bucket of soapy water. In an effort to stop his teeth chattering, he started to sing to himself. After a few minutes he glanced round again, as casually as he could. But he could make out nothing amidst the foliage. Perhaps he had been mistaken before.
“Pretend that you don’t see me.” An urgent voice. Startled, Malloy peered through the smeared wet glass into the car. Artie Delancey sat huddled on the floor behind the passenger seat. How long had been there? Malloy cracked open the door a half-inch and leaned close to the gap, wiping at the paintwork with his cloth as he did so.
“Are you all right?” He asked.
“Been better,” Artie said.
Malloy looked at him more closely. Artie had his arms wrapped around himself; stubble stood out stark on his pale cheeks. He looked unwashed, his red-rimmed eyes staring.
“No one must know I’m here,” Artie said, “I’m in danger.”
“Why?”
“Because of Eleanor.”
“Did you kill her?” Malloy felt he had to ask the question.
“No! But I saw her dead.” Artie began to cry. The streaks down his face said this wasn’t the first time.
“What have you got yourself mixed up in?” Malloy asked. “Whatever it is, we’ll help you. Mr. Vickery will find you a way out of it.”
Artie was shivering violently along with his sobs now. Malloy opened the boot of the car and took out a tartan travelling blanket. He passed it into the back of the car. Artie hid himself under it.
“Do you know who killed Eleanor, Artie?” Malloy asked.
“Who are you talking to?” A voice asked. Malloy turned, looked down. Timothy.
“I was just singing to myself,” Malloy said. He leaned back on the car door so that it clicked shut.
Timothy seemed unconvinced by this answer. “What were you singing?”
“I don’t know what it’s called. It’s something my mammy used to sing to me, when I was little.”
Timothy considered this and seemed satisfied: Why would Malloy lie to him?
“My mother never sang to me,” Timothy said. “Nanny does. Well, she tries to. But she’s a terrible singer. I told Uncle Geoffrey that she sounds like someone strangling a cat.” He snorted laughter at his own wit.
“Don’t let your Nanny hear you say that now,” Malloy warned.
“I’m not afraid of her,” Timothy said, drawing himself up to his full height.
“She’s watching from the upstairs window,” Malloy said.
“She is?” Timothy turned quickly. “I can’t see her.”
“She’s pointing at you.”
“Where? You don’t think she heard, do you?”
“No, but I think she wants you to go inside.”
“You won’t tell her, will you? What I said about her singing.”
“It’ll be our little secret. You run along now.”
And run the boy did.
Malloy opened the car door a little. “You still in there?” He asked.
“Still here,” Artie said.
“What can I do to help you?” Malloy asked.
“I’m hungry. Was sick that night, haven’t eaten since.”
“I’ll fetch you some food,” Malloy said. “Wait here.”
“Not here. It’s not safe. Someone could see me.”
“Then where?”
“The summer house near the lake. Come when the others are at lunch. Just you.”
“Are you sure you’ll be safe until then?” Malloy asked. “Artie?”
Malloy looked into the car. Artie and the blanket were gone.
“That proves he knows how to stay hidden, I suppose.” Malloy reached for his shirt.
* * *
“We’re to meet while the others are at lunch,” Malloy said. “He was terrified. I don’t think he’s the killer.”
“Nor do I,” Vickery said. “But he knows something that will help us identify the murderer, of that I am quite sure. Why else would he be in fear of his life?”
“If the killer finds him before—”
“You said he was quite adept at hiding,” Vickery said. “The murderer is unlikely to find him before lunch time, and so are we. We must decide how best we can help Mr. Delancey.”
“If he will let me, I can protect him,” Malloy said.
“His best protection will be to share with us what he knows,” Vickery said. “While he is the only person who knows it, he is in grave danger. The murderer will try and silence him before he can speak. But once he has told us—”
“All three of us become potential victims,” Malloy said.
“Perhaps, but the risk to Mr. Delancey becomes less once the burden is shared: his death no longer provides the killer with a neat solution.”
“I’ve asked the cook to prepare some food. I’ve said that I want to have a picnic in the orchard. I think she believed me.”
“How could she not?” Vickery smiled.
“What should I do when I get to the summer house?”
“Allow Mr. Delancey to eat, and make him feel safe, as far as you are able. I would suggest taking a walking stick with you, one with a heavy head. Then he will see that you can protect him with it, should you have to.”
“And then?”
“When he feels ready, he will tell you what he knows. From what you have said, I think he will be distressed by what he tells you. You must be ready to provide comfort to him.”
“How do I do that?” Malloy asked.
“Wrap those big arms of yours around him and make soothing noises,” Vickery said.
“He’s not a child.”
“No. But we all feel like children when we are afraid.”
Malloy looked equal parts unconvinced and uncomfortable. “Come with me,” he said.
“Mr. Delancey will be watching. Should he see that you do not arrive alone as promised, he may bolt. And we shall not have another opportunity to help him. Besides, I need to keep an eye on those policeman and make sure they don’t head in your direction.”
“I feel that I’m out of my depth,” Malloy said.
“I can think of no one better-suited to the task,” Vickery assured him.
* * *
On Vickery’s advice, Malloy took a circuitous route toward the summer house, making several stops to determine that he was not being followed. Satisfied that he was not, he now approached his destination. He had a sack over one shoulder, containing sandwiches wrapped in waxed paper and a bottle of cook’s homemade dandelion and burdock beer. He swung a walking stick as he strode along, his hand gripping the smooth knob that was almost the size of a cricket ball. He whistled, the same tune he had attempted earlier, to alert Artie to his approach.
Malloy came out of the trees and stopped a few yards short of the summer house. The air was still. Except for the humming of insects, there was silence. He moved on, stopping again when he reached the open doorway.
“Artie?” For some reason he felt the need to whisper. He received no response, and so tried again, louder. “Artie!”
Stepping inside, he spied the tartan blanket on the floor, the bundle too small for Artie to be hidden under it. Malloy glanced around and under the furniture, satisfying himself that the little shelter was empty. He stepped outside and walked all around the summer house, listening attentively.
“Artie?” He called. “Are you here?” This silenced the birds, and brought no response.
Malloy glanced towards the lake, where the sun glittered on the water. He wondered if Artie might have gone down to the water’s edge. Would he have risked such exposure? He took a few steps in that direction, then stopped and drew a hand up to shield his eyes as the sun was reflected suddenly on something like a mirror. He blinked away the after-image, his brain already subliminally registering the shape that he had glimpsed in the reflection.
Malloy dropped the picnic sack and ran towards the lake.
“No, no, no,” he repeated as he headed for the bright metal that had caught his attention. He stopped at the edge of the water and stared.
Excalibur. Standing up straight in the lake as it did in the legend.
“No!” Malloy said again, drawing out the vowel in his anguish. He waded into the chilly water, towards the sword.
Lying in the shallow water was the body of Artie Delancey. The sword had been driven through his chest, pinning him in place like a pale moth.
Malloy carried Artie Delancey’s body back up to the keep. He took it in through the rear of the house and down the stairs, where he laid it on the wooden table next to Eleanor Trenton. He placed the sword Excalibur down between them.
* * *
“Artie was going to be the Lady in the Lake,” Bannister said, when Vickery broke the news to him. “In the film. He was going to be under the water, thrusting his arm up into the air, holding Excalibur. Poor Artie.”
“Malloy has gone to fetch the doctor again. Then he and I are going to find who killed the Lady in the Lake,” Vickery said. “And we are going to make sure they pay for what they have done.”
“I know you two will do right by Artie,” Bannister said.
* * *
Artie Delancey’s room was not quite how Malloy thought it would be. He had expected to find things scattered everywhere, but instead the room looked almost unoccupied. Clothes were neatly folded and put away, the ones in his suitcase wrapped carefully in tissue paper. His shaving kit was spotless, and everything on his dresser was lined up with regimental precision.
“We’ve only got a few minutes, while the police are preoccupied with Artie’s body,” Vickery said. “I want to look around before they come up here.”
The room was almost identical to that occupied by Eleanor Trenton. They divided the labour as they had before, with Vickery searching the drawers, which were all but empty, and Malloy opening the wardrobe.
“Two dresses, white and blue,” Malloy said. “They’re not quite the same quality as those we found in Eleanor Trenton’s room.”
“Artie didn’t have a wealthy uncle or well-to-do admirers,” Vickery said, pushing the last drawer closed. “I hope Bannister knows where to contact his family.”
“Three pairs of shoes,” Malloy said, on his knees peering into the bottom of the wardrobe. “White and blue, as you’d expect, and also red ones.”
Vickery turned round quickly. “That is the final clue!” He said.
“The shoes?”
“The missing red dress.” Vickery said. “The small cloth-covered button I retrieved from Fulbright’s pocket—was from Artie’s missing red dress.”
“Where do we look for it? We’ve already searched every room,” Malloy said.
“We don’t need to look for his dress, we’ve already found it. We just didn’t know it was lost at the time,” Vickery said.
“Artie’s red dress is... in Eleanor Trenton’s wardrobe!” Malloy said.
“An apple in an orchard,” Vickery said. “The perfect hiding place.”
Chapter 20
“Inspector Debney and I have completed our investigations, and reached our conclusions,” Vickery said.
The guests were all gathered in the drawing room, their chairs arranged in a rough circle, with everyone looking expectantly toward Vickery. Inspector Debney stood beside him: he looked somewhat uncomfortable, but nodded agreement. Two of the constables held positions in front of the exits from the room. Malloy stood off to one side by the sideboard.
“Would you like to go first, Inspector?” Vickery asked.
The Inspector seemed startled by this, as though he had not expected to be asked.
“Er—you go ahead, Mr. Vickery. I will—I will add any details that I think you have missed.”
“Thank you, Inspector.” Vickery gave a little bow in his direction, a half-smile on his lips, then he turned back to the assembled guests. “In a case such as this, there are two versions of events. The first is what seems to have happened: this is what the murderer wishes us to believe. The second is what really happened, and this is what the murderer seeks to hide from us.
“I want to begin with the first version, that which we all initially believed to be true,” Vickery said.
Inspector Dabney gave a slight cough and seemed to see something interesting out of the window.
“At a minute or two after midnight we all heard a scream and the sound of something heavy falling into the pond in front of the keep. We hurried out, and discovered the body of Eleanor Trenton lying in the pond. She had been stabbed with a sword.”
“Excalibur,” Linette said.
“Excalibur,” Vickery agreed. “The murder weapon is what our friends in the constabulary refer to as the means. To prove that someone is a murderer, we need to show that he or she had access to our ‘sword in the stone.’”
“Everyone did,” Garvin said, “it sat in the hall all weekend.”
“Did you try and draw the sword from the stone?” Vickery asked him.
“Didn’t everyone?” Garvin smiled sheepishly.
“And were you able to pull the sword free?”
“Well, no, but there’s a trick to it, isn’t there?” Garvin said.
“Only Fulbright knew how to pull the sword from the stone,” Kimball said.
“Leo Fulbright wanted us all to believe that only he knew the secret for releasing the sword. But that wasn’t really true, was it?” Vickery said.
“I swore them to secrecy,” Fulbright said.
“As magicians, we rely on the discretion of our technicians not to reveal the workings of our apparatus, we call them professional secrets. But sometimes a technician can be persuaded to give up his secrets—given sufficient payment from a rival magician. Or simply out of spite, if they feel their master has treated them unjustly or disrespectfully.”
Fulbright’s colour rose, from anger or embarrassment, perhaps both.
“Sometimes it is only a desire to impress that causes a person to reveal the secret, to be seen as someone special,” Vickery continued. “Artie Delancey knew how to draw Excalibur from the stone, he revealed the secret to me, believing that I may not have divined the trick. Artie learned it from someone on the film set. The secret was passed from one to another, until all knew it.”
“You are saying that anyone here could have pulled that sword from the stone?” Garvin asked.
