Murder Most Convenient: A Mrs. Xavier Stayton Mystery (11 page)

   “They were the matches that you were looking for,” Henderson replied.

   All eyes were on the butler.

  “Yes, and I ask again, how would the presence of this match box on you be incriminating?”

   Nicholas blurted out, “What’s this all about?”

   I would not let the inspector take this cake. “Phyllis’s murderer needed as much time in complete darkness as possible, to strike her over the head and step back to where he had been. While the candelabrum was the murder weapon, the matches must have been removed so that I couldn’t use the smaller candlestick that had been the maid’s prop.” I paused for effect and then turned to Henderson. “This way, Henderson had time to retrace his steps and be heard striding toward the light switch, after he had killed Phyllis.”

   The guilty man bowed his head. “I misjudged you, Mrs. Xavier, and for that, I do apologize.”

   Ruth was utterly lost. “Why?”

  On cue, Lucy pushed through the little door beside the fireplace. The junior policeman was behind her, holding a metal lockbox that had been pried open.

   She proudly said, “Henderson’s attempt to extort Mrs. Xavier’s father-in-law, which, of course, none of you knew about, hadn’t worked. All he had was this job, and the hope that the family fortune might rebound so he could try to put the screws to Randolph again.”

   The inspector took the metal box and thumbed through the papers. He looked to Randolph and showed him a faded letter. “Your instructions on selling the abandoned rifles to another munitions house?”

  (I do hate when clues are flung out by writers at the very last of a whodunit; it is quite unfair to the reader. However, until Lucy had poked her head into the library just earlier, I had not known for certain that Henderson had been Randolph’s legman during the war. However, I knew that he was guilty of killing Phyllis because of the box of matches that had made their way into my handbag, an item that Henderson had handed to Lucy. Just as he’d explained, Lucy thought nothing of him handling my purse, as he had seen to having our belongings taken to the foyer. I will allow the editor to drop what he believes to be the right hint ahead of time, as long as the suggestion does not give way to the conclusion.)

   Randolph ripped the letter from the hand of the inspector, and he shouted at Henderson, “You kept these, these damning pieces of evidence? What kind of fool are you?”

  Nicholas lost his wits. “Henderson was your dirty partner? You brought him into my home! You deceived me?”

   Ruth came straight to the point, “Henderson, explain yourself.”

   The man knew he was caught, so he gave a little shrug and said, “Yes, ma’am. As your guests have surmised, Miss Masterson wanted a clear conscience before the eternal slumber, or perhaps nothing so noble. It seemed all that mattered was that Joan was found out by Ruth for what she had done, and caused.

  “I can’t say why, but she couldn’t tell you herself. Thus, she found a way to get Mrs. Xavier to do so. This was all told in the little pantomime of a scorned woman who went seeking vengeance on the man who turned her away.

   “I read the lines, and they were so reminiscent of the talk after Mr. Nicholas’s accident. Every word the culprit said sounded as if Joan had given dictation to Miss Wallace as she typed.”

   The inspector asked, “You killed her to stop the performance and to silence her?”

   “Indeed. It seemed so very convenient. I couldn’t have Mrs. Joan found out for her brazen attack on Mr. Nicholas. She would be thrown to the curb, and Mr. Randolph would follow. I had come with them, so I suspected, I would be expelled as well, as I had been when Mrs. Joan made advances on her stepfather. A man such as myself, in his middle fifties, with a bad record of his conduct in the war, and angry former employers, has little chance of finding employment as comfortable as this.”

   Incredulous, the inspector asked, “You killed Miss Masterson over a job?”

   Henderson, still behaving ever so properly, frowned and replied, “Not a job, young man, my entire way of life.”

   The inspector’s expression suggested he still didn’t understand the man’s motive. He was too young to realize that comfort and security could be just as motivating as greed or lust.  

   I asked, in a strangely kind voice, “How did you know that Joan was the one who tried to run down Nicholas?”

   “She returned home, quite drunk, before the hospital rang and I found out about Mr. Nicholas’s injury. The following morning, I spied on her as she checked the French roadster. She showed little surprise in regards to her brother-in-law’s misfortune; however, she seemed most concerned that the motor car was unharmed.” Henderson gave Joan a sly smile.

   “You knew the truth about Ruth causing Phyllis’s accident too, didn’t you?” I asked.

   “Oh, yes, of course, Mrs. Xavier. Before it happened, Ms. Phyllis had been loyal and dutiful to Mrs. Ruth. Afterward, it was Ruth who became loyal and dutiful to Ms. Phyllis.”

   I had but one more question. “Henderson, why did you put the match box that Inspector Fowler had asked you about into my handbag?”

   The man smiled at me and said, “I knew they were not his, that they were Miss Wallace’s. As you surmised, it stood to reason that the murderer took them.” He paused and tilted his head to one side, and rather sadly, he went on, “Had they been found on you, as I had intended, it would have been rather incriminating. You see, this time, I had hoped that the foreign red herring would, how is it that one in your profession puts it—
hang
.”

   Henderson gave me a polite little smile, nodded his head, and crossed the room to where the inspector stood.

Epilogue

Lucy and I stood on the other side of the street from the prison house. We did our best to blend in with the locals of Bedford.

   I was rather sad for these people; for them, the execution of a complete stranger had been reason enough to deviate from their typical morning.

   Would the gent beside me tell his employer he was late to work just so he could listen to the prison bell ring, and watch as an official tacked up the notice of death? Perhaps he might. Henderson’s trial had nearly shut down the town.

  The papers had called the story
The scandal at Pearce Manor.
Reporters trekked all the way to Holland Park to interview me. I was referred to, of course, as
Mrs. X.

   While I had testified at the trial, Lucy proved herself the true sleuth. She found out that Joan had moved into a lodge in nearby Luton. Randolph had stayed on with his younger brother and sister-in-law. Nicholas was already working with a solicitor, and the estate was on the market. Rumor had it, they intended to move to where Ruth’s family resided.

   Now the day had come. What those who had gathered around the prison to hear, happened. Lucy grasped my hand as the prison bell was struck.

   The man beside me whispered in an eerie voice, “For whom the bell tolls.”

   Lucy glanced at him and then recited Mr. John Donne’s poem, in her lovely English accent.
“No man is an island, entire of itself. Each is a piece of the continent, a part of the main. If a clod be washed away by the sea, Europe is the less. As well as if a promontory were. As well as if a manner of thine own or of thine friend’s were. Each man’s death diminishes me, for I am involved in mankind. Therefore, send not to know for whom the bell tolls, it tolls for thee.”

   A few of those around us clapped their hands; others gaped awkwardly, puzzled by what they had heard. Some walked on, so it seemed the sound of the bell was enough.

   As the crowd thinned, I saw Ruth and Nicholas across the street, near the prison. Both were dressed in black. The poor befuddled Afghan hound was at their side, with a black collar around his neck.

   Twenty minutes passed, the prison door opened, and a hefty man in a drab suit stepped out with a uniformed officer. In a clumsy manner, each in the other’s way, they managed to tack the death notice to the door.

   I looked to Ruth; she leaned into her husband as some of the spectators gave a perverse cheer for the execution of man they had never met.

   Never seeing me, Nicholas raised his hand into the air as he led his wife to the curb. Their dark limousine pulled forward and stopped.

  From inside the car, Randolph swung the rear door open and helped his sister-in-law to the backseat. Nicholas had to scoop up the large dog and shove him in.

   The family bond was unbroken, it seemed. Randolph had brought his brother’s home such trouble. His wife had been the root cause of Ruth’s rage and Phyllis’s injury. His partner-in-crime had been a murderer. However, blood was thicker, as they say.

  Distracted, I was quite surprised when a familiar voice said, “Where are your notebooks, ladies? You’ll want to describe poor Ruth’s reaction to the execution. How she sobbed in memory of her crippled secretary.”

  I could smell alcohol on Joan’s breath. She had been pretty to me, before. Gazing on her at this time, she looked wretched. Her skin was pale and dry. Her eyes were bloodshot and tired. The dress she wore had been expensive, but it showed wear.

  I recalled Joan had made a remark about Lucy looking a vagabond at Xavier’s funeral. She looked little better now.

  A confession must be made. I did not care for Dickens’s novel that Ruth had quoted from, but a few words did come to mind. I spoke them aloud,
“And could I look upon her without compassion, seeing her punishment in the ruin she was.”

 
Joan frowned. “What is that supposed to mean?”

  “Henderson paid the price for the crimes you began, but I pity you all the same.”

   She’d had enough to drink, this by eight o’clock in the morning, that my statement confused her. “You Americans never make sense to me.”

  I made no reply. The woman took a few steps away and then swung her head back over her shoulder. “I hope you publish your damned book. I shall then sue you for slander.” Her ugly bark of a laugh lingered longer than she did.

  A few people had remained to watch our curious exchange. I heard a woman whisper, “That’s Mrs. X.”

   I opened my handbag and took a clove from my little snuffbox before giving Lucy a tug of the elbow. We then walked back to the car park.

   There was the inspector, waiting for us. He tipped his hat and smiled. We continued walking toward the motorcar that the handsome man leaned against.

  “Beautiful automobile,” he said, rather than greeting us.

  I gazed at the white roadster. I had to admit that I owed my ability to drive it to Joan and agreed, “Yes. It is my husband's.”

  “
The one he was driving on the Galapagos Islands when that giant hawk swooped down and caught him?”

 
I gave the inspector the faintest of smiles and replied, “Had it not been for that massive tail feather stuck to the spare tire, we would never have puzzled out what had happened.”

  The man grinned at me, rather bashfully. “Right. Why did you make the drive all the way out here?” he asked.

  “
I wanted to see it through, to the end,” I replied.

   The inspector nodded. “
Have you finished your novel?”

   “
I have but the last page to write.”

 
(Here, Lucy suggests that I omit her from the conclusion and write some romantic ending; such as the handsome Inspector Fowler gazed into my eyes and told me my beauty was only second to my detective abilities. He takes me by the hands, draws me into his arms, and kisses me with much passion. However, this ending did not happen, nor does it suit the character of
Miss X
.)

 
  “
You were waiting to finish your whodunit in case you found out Henderson's last words?” the inspector said intuitively.

 
Hopeful, I asked, “
Indeed. Do you know what his last words were?”

   Sparing dear Lucy, we were all at fault. Phyllis had held the truth, but had a change of heart. Ruth had lost her temper and done a terrible thing, Nicholas and his brother had made the worst decisions, and Joan had been heartless.

   Henderson had done what he thought he must, but my actions, innocent as they were, had stoked coal into the engine that he fought to derail. I hoped he had said something that might absolve me of my secret guilt, something proving his actions were his own.   

  “
Yes, I do,” said the inspector. “He was being led to the gallows, and he gave a queer chuckle before saying, ʻI'll be damned, that daffy American will end her trite little book with the words,
The butler did it
.”

Author's Notes

My thanks to Tammy, Maggie, Melissa

And, of course, Dana.