Murder in the Queen's Armes (25 page)

Julie jumped in front of him and placed her palms against his chest.

"Whoa."

Impatiently, he stopped.

"Just take it easy," she said. "I’ve never seen you like this. You’re really mad, aren’t you?"

"Goddam right I am!"

Goddam right he was. That vicious, fast-talking kid had not only tried to kill
him;
he’d coolly decided to sacrifice Julie, too, no doubt on the off-chance that Gideon had told her about his tawdry little fraud. And, my God, how close it had been!

"Wait a minute," Julie said, "I’m not sure you’re thinking clearly. I want to ask you some questions."

"Later. Come on, Julie, get out of my way."

She paid no attention. "First of all, are you saying that Leon not only tried to kill you but murdered Randy, too?"

"Probably. I don’t know. I don’t have it all figured out yet."

"Then what was that bit about Colonel Conley being left-handed? I thought you suspected him."

"Conley?" Gideon said, surprised. "
Conley?
Not at all. My mind was wandering, that’s all. I’ve got left-handers on the brain. Today I looked in a mirror and accused Leon of being left-handed. I was wrong about that, but I was sure right about—"

And all at once, everything fitted; everything clicked sharply into place, as with the final twist of a Rubik’s Cube. "He
is
left-handed," Gideon said, bedazzled, not sure if he was marveling at his own brilliance or at his own obtuseness.

"Leon? But you told me he was right-handed."

"He
is
right-handed."

Julie peered worriedly up into his face, trying to see his eyes in the dark. "Gideon, darling, don’t get angry, but I think you’re still a little—"

"I’m not a little anything. What I’m trying to say is that Leon
used
to be left-handed, probably as a kid, but was made to switch over. Parents do that, you know that. Only it wasn’t complete—it hardly ever is. And so of course he might have swung a mallet with his left hand, particularly if he was excited."

"But how could you possibly know that?"

They began to walk again, more slowly. "Look," Gideon said, "you know the way a left-hander typically holds his hand when he writes?"

"Sort of scrunched over, you mean?"

"Right, with the hand curled around like a hook; inverted writing posture, it’s called. It’s the way Conley was writing."

"Yes, I know," Julie said with transparent confusion. "But not all left-handers write that way. My sister Karen doesn’t."

"That’s true, but most of them do, possibly because of the way they’re taught to slant their paper in school. But almost no right-hander does."

"I believe you, but I think something is escaping me."

Gideon stopped as they came from the mud and gravel of Barr’s Lane to the concrete sidewalk of The Street, Charmouth’s concisely named main thoroughfare.

"Julie," he said, "when I looked at Leon in the mirror today and thought he was writing left-handed, it wasn’t the mirror-image that made me think so; it was the
way
he was writing—hook-handed. But with his right hand."

"So…" Julie frowned, seeing what he was driving at. "You think he learned to write that way as a child—a left-handed child—and then just kept the same position when he was made to change, because that was what he was used to?"

"That’s exactly what I think."

"That makes sense, but isn’t it kind of…well, tenuous?"

"But there’s more. There are some problem characteristics that follow when left-handed kids are forced to change hands, at least some of the time, according to a lot of psychologists. And Leon Hillyer’s got ’em." Purposefully, he started across the quiet street toward the Queen’s Armes.

"Well, what are they?"

"He stutters when he’s nervous, and he has a tendency to transpose numbers. He’d written a ‘twenty-one’ on that find card I told you about, then had to cross it out and put in a ‘twelve.’ He laughed it off and told me he does it all the time. Damn! And I never figured it out!"

In the dark doorway of the Queen’s Armes, she stopped

him again, standing in his way. "Gideon, you never stop astonishing me. How do you know such things? Transposed numbers, inverted writing posture—after all, you’re an anthropologist, not a—"

"Julie, do you think I don’t know what you’re doing?"

Even in the darkness he saw her widen her eyes innocently. "Doing?"

"You’re temporizing. You’re trying to keep me out of there because you think I’m mad enough to do something dumb."

"Well, aren’t you? Gideon, if you really think he’s a murderer, what you ought to do is tell the police about it."

"I’ll tell the police later. First,
I
want to talk to him. Now, are you going to get out of my way?"

It seemed to Gideon that he said it with convincing menace, but she didn’t move, except to fold her arms. "Will you stop being so ridiculously macho?" she said. "What are you going to do, for God’s sake, beat him up or something?"

"No, I’m not going to beat him up," he said angrily, but Julie’s arms-crossed, feet-planted, no-nonsense barring of the door made him laugh and then relax. "I don’t know what I’m going to do," he said sheepishly. "I guess I haven’t thought it out."

He laughed again and put his arms around her. "Hey, you were pretty magnificent yourself out there in the meadow."

Headlights suddenly loomed, flooding the entryway with light, and they jumped apart like a couple of kids caught necking. A dark car pulled up to the curb, the light blinked out, and a bulky form slowly emerged.

"Well now," Inspector Bagshawe boomed softly, "no need to look so guilty. I don’t suppose that’s the first time this old doorway’s seen a bit of slap-and-tickle. Mrs. Oliver, I presume? No offense, ma’am."

"Yes, this is my wife," Gideon said, "happily for us all. Julie, this is Inspector Bagshawe."

Bagshawe murmured something and lifted his hat, the first time in a long while that Gideon had seen a man do that. In his other hand he had a large manila envelope. This he handed to Gideon.

"I’ve brought you your photographs. Twenty-four in all; the undeveloped film in Randy Alexander’s camera. Much good may they do you."

"Inspector," Julie said, "there’s something we need to tell you." She glanced nervously at Gideon, who didn’t object; of course she was right.

"It’s Leon, Inspector," Gideon said.

There was a fractional pause. "Is it, now?"

"I’m sure of it. He killed Randy, all right." He smiled. "And he’s left-handed, by the way—sometimes, anyway."

"Well now. And am I to be told how you came to these conclusions?"

"You sure are, but later. Right now, why don’t we go in and talk to him?"

"You mean he’s in there? All wrapped up for me, so to speak? By all means, let’s go in then. Wouldn’t want him scarpering at this point."

As Gideon opened the door, the light from the entrance hall fell on him. Bagshawe’s mildly chaffing manner vanished.

"Good Lord!" he exclaimed. "What’s happened to you? You look like bloody hell!"

But Gideon was staring at the reception desk at the far end of the ancient corridor. There, Andy Hinshore stood, livid and popeyed, dialing the desk telephone and shaking so hard the two parts of the instrument rattled against each other in his hands. He stared at Bagshawe, somehow recognizing him for a policeman.

"Police?" he said. He stared stupidly at the telephone.

"But how …I was just calling…. Someone’s been— there’s been a killing!" He blinked twice, and his Adam’s apple went ratcheting up and down his throat.

Trembling, his hand rose to point to the age-blackened door of the Tudor Room. "In there."

   THEY flung the door open and burst into the room only to stop short on the threshold, stumbling over each other in a Three Stooges–like scramble that would in other circumstances have been comical.

Behind them, in an awed voice, Hinshore said unnecessarily: "By the fireplace."

The room, lit only by the dying fire, wavered between darkness and fluttering, warm orange. Objects on the walls—plates, pictures, old copper utensils—danced in and out of focus. Only the hearth itself was clearly lit, and there, on the stone flooring before which people had sat these five hundred years in comradeship and warmth, a man’s body lay sprawled, his chin tilted rigidly upward, the golden beard glinting like copper wire in the firelight.

"Leon Hillyer," Bagshawe said with interest, and turned on the light.

   "NOW, you just calm yourself, Professor Frawley, and drink some tea," Bagshawe said supportively.

Frawley nodded, brought the steaming cup to his mouth cradled in both hands, and bent his head over it, as a man who had been lost in the snow for two days might lift a mug of brandy.

As soon as Bagshawe had had a quick look at the body, he had called police headquarters, having pretty much to wrest the telephone from the benumbed Hinshore. Sergeant Fryer, lean and dour, quickly arrived with a uniformed constable, and soon after that Dr. Merrill had come. Merrill and the sergeant had at once busied themselves in the Tudor Room with Leon’s body, while the constable stood just outside the open door to the sitting room, keeping watch on the dwindling personnel of Stonebarrow Fell.

Bagshawe had taken over the dining room. First he had conferred hurriedly with Gideon, who brought him as up-to-date as he could in ten minutes. Then he called in Jack Frawley. The pot of tea had been politely requested by the inspector—partly, Gideon thought, to calm Frawley, who looked hideous, and partly to give the agitated Hinshore something to do.

Frawley finally put down his cup. "Thank you. I think I’m all right now," he said without conviction.

"Fine, fine," Bagshawe said. "Now, if you’d just go over it again…?" A small pad was before him on the table, and the tip of his tongue emerged to lick the point of a stubby pencil. He was all friendly patience.

"I came in early," Frawley said dully. "Nobody was in the sitting room yet except Nate and Dr. Goldstein, and Nate was…well, not entirely sober, to be perfectly candid. It was a little uncomfortable, so I went into the Tudor Room—just seeing the place, you know." He was speaking in a very low voice, breathing in and out between the sentences. Now he closed his eyes for a moment. "Leon was lying there all…well, you saw him. I think I just stood there, sort of in a trance. Then I heard the front door open and some people come in. I guess I shouted and everybody came running in. That’s all."

"And who," Bagshawe said pleasantly, "is everybody?"

"Everybody: Dr. Goldstein, Dr. Arbuckle, Sandra… Barry, I think."

"You think?"

"Well, I wasn’t really…I was pretty upset. I think Barry was there. The man who owns the place too. They all came."

"Professor Marcus?"

"No, not Nate. He’s really not in very good shape." Neither was Frawley, from the look of him. His face was the color of parboiled chicken.

"And then?" Bagshawe asked. "Did you touch anything?"

"Me, you mean? Oh, no. I could see he was dead; there wasn’t anything to do." He turned moist and pleading eyes on Bagshawe. "Inspector, I don’t feel very well. If I could lie down…"

"Just a few moments more, sir, if you please. What happened next?"

"I really don’t remember too well. Dr. Arbuckle ran in and felt his heart. Then he gave him CPR—" A violent shudder jerked Frawley’s shoulders.

Gideon understood his reaction. Leon had been an awful sight. A torn, bloody dent had grooved his forehead and crushed the bridge of his nose, and the very shape of his head was awry. Blood was in abundance, and the poker that had only too clearly done it all lay a few feet away. Julie had fled from the room at once and Gideon had very nearly followed her, but he had made himself remain with the pacific, unperturbed Bagshawe, using his old device of looking without quite looking.

"…and then," Frawley was saying, "Mr. Hinshore said nobody better touch anything, and he was going to call the police. We all went into the sitting room, and then you came."

"I see," Bagshawe said. "I’ll just get that down, if you please."

While he did so, Frawley said, "If I could go now—"

"Very shortly, sir. I believe Professor Oliver has something to ask you, about the Poundbury skull."

"The Poundbury skull?" Frawley repeated dimly, as if he’d never heard of it.

"And your conversation with Randy," Gideon said.

Frawley had the teacup near his face. He clapped it shakily down. "Inspector," he said in a feeble show of spirit, "I really think we could go into this another time."

"No, sir, I think now would be the right time. We could do it at headquarters if you prefer."

"No," Frawley said hurriedly, "we can do it here." He looked mournfully at Gideon.
Et tu, Brute?
said the look in his expressive eyes.

The best approach seemed to be to wade in, and Gideon did. "Jack, this morning you said Randy told you that Nate was behind the fraud."

"That’s right, he did. I already told you—"

"Today Leon told me that
he’d
pulled off the Poundbury hoax—with Randy’s help. If that’s true, why would Randy tell you that Nate did it?"

"How would I know? Who knows what he was thinking? I told you what he said, and that’s the truth."

"You’ve told two different stories," Bagshawe put in. "First you told me that the young man hadn’t talked to you at all. And then you said—as Professor Oliver here has pointed out—that he’d accused Professor Marcus—"

"I believe I already explained that. I, ah, may have been in error in withholding information at first, but I meant no harm. I stand firmly on what I said."

"Which time, Jack?" Gideon asked.

"Inspector, do I have to stand for that? I’ll swear to what I’ve said, if necessary."

Bagshawe looked searchingly at him. "Professor Frawley," he said slowly, "I think I must tell you that anything you say may be used—"

Frawley’s complexion went from blue-white to dull red. "Is that what’s called the usual warning?"