“But Ruthven-”
“Yes. What the murderer didn’t know was that Sir Adrian’s dreams for Ruthven had already been demolished. How frustrating- maddening-it must have been, to learn all the ‘effort’ of killing Ruthven had been wasted. Sir Adrian had already stopped caring about Ruthven-instantly, in the way a man of his nature could turn his limited affections on and off. No matter that Ruthven had been raised as his son; he was not his flesh and blood. He ceased to matter once Sir Adrian learned the truth.”
St. Just closed his eyes as they nearly ran the car up into the back of a lorry.
“Slow down. It can all wait. Some of them have waited years, after all.”
Fear, after talking with St. Just in Cornwall, had telephoned ahead to Waverley Court, telling Maria that the inmates were to gather and await the pleasure of the Chief Inspector. The car having returned to a velocity somewhere below the speed of light, St. Just continued:
“We know that Sir Adrian liked to play games with his will. A game of Russian roulette, as his solicitor called it. Perhaps a better comparison would be that his heirs were all perpetually riding a Ferris wheel. When one of them was at the top, it meant the rest were below. They’d almost become used to this over the years, resigned to it. What, after all, could they do about it but hope, when the old man finally did go to his reward, they’d be the one who happened to be riding at the top when the wheel stopped?
“But then, the unexpected happens. He’s added a new player, yet another person to ride this infernal wheel with them, reducing the odds in their favor even further. That, I thought, was what made them-made someone-finally snap. Sir Adrian had fatally underestimated the extent to which his lack of feeling might finally, fatally, antagonize one, or all, of the members of his little family.”
“That explains why Sir Adrian was killed, perhaps, but it doesn’t explain Ruthven’s death-unless, as you say, that was a mistake on the killer’s part,” said Fear. “But if one of them wanted to kill off the competition, so to speak, surely the most likely target was Violet- the newcomer?”
“Of course, you’re quite right about that.”
“And?”
But, again, St. Just didn’t appear to be listening. At times like these the DCI could be maddening. If he, Fear, was so right, why was Violet still hanging about? Fear slowed the car just enough to fishtail into the drive.
St. Just continued thoughtfully:
“Adrian, as we have sensed from the beginning, was the catalyst for murder. He certainly had everything to do with setting in motion the machinery that led to Ruthven’s death. And eventually, even inevitably, he became the catalyst for his own death.”
“With his remarriage, you mean.”
“We have to keep in mind that Sir Adrian’s character combined the wanton destructiveness of a child with all the untrustworthiness of a detective novelist. He was bored. He was old and he was bored, jaded and discontented, in fading health. Disappointment over Ruthven may have driven him over the edge, who knows? So he spins the wheel again, just for mischief ’s sake.
“He has to do something that will make them all come running. He knew if he announced his wedding after the fact it was unlikely to cause a stampede to his door. Quite the opposite, in fact, was likely to happen. Oh, they would carry on and gnash their teeth, but they’d all stay in London to do that-and where was the fun in that? Eventually, curiosity might have brought one or two of them to Waverley Court. But not all-and perhaps not the one he most wanted to see: Ruthven. I think what he had in mind was to disown him publicly, a final, dramatic humiliation-on top of his remarriage-for Chloe.
“In any event, he stages this phony engagement or pre-wedding party, whatever you want to call it. That, he knew, would bring them all on the run. Especially Ruthven, the control freak. There was still a chance, you see, of changing their fates, preventing the wedding. Or so they thought.”
A final spurt of gravel, and Fear brought the car to a halt at the door of Waverley Court.
St. Just gazed balefully at the coat of arms over the imposing door.
“‘Blood alone moves the wheels of history.’ But I don’t think blood lines are quite what Mussolini had in mind.”
Something about the golden light shimmering off the dark mahogany fittings onto the group made him think of spiders trapped in amber.
They were arranged in an artful tableau, like stage actors holding their poses just before the curtain went up for the next act, clustered in pairs or groups reflecting their current, no-doubt constantly shifting, alliances.
Natasha stood near the mantelpiece, wearing a clinging gray dress that made her look as ephemeral as one of the puffs of smoke going up the chimney. George was at her side in one of his studiedly casual slouches designed to display his Armani to best effect.
Mrs. Romano and Paulo had tucked themselves into a far dark corner, standing, just the pair of them, distancing themselves from the rest. Her hand, he noted, lay protectively on her son’s arm.
Sarah had acquired a new partner: She sat on one of the sofas, flanked by Albert on one side, Jeffrey on another, an arrangement that served to point up the physical resemblance between the two men.
Violet, Chloe, and Lillian, all now in black, sat together in silence in a triangular grouping of chairs, watching him warily as he took up a position before the fireplace. The smoke from their cigarettes created a literal screen in front of them. Natasha and George withdrew at his approach, taking up a position behind the three women.
He paused, taking them all in, sizing them up, like a washed-in-the-blood minister about to exhort them to repent before it was too late.
It was Violet who spoke first. After all, he thought, it was her house, now.
“Do you have any idea of the hour, Inspector?” She stabbed out her cigarette in an angry gesture, swatting away the smoke. “Don’t you think we’ve been through enough?”
“I do indeed, Lady Beauclerk-Fisk. But I felt certain you would share my interest in solving the mystery of the murder of your husband, whatever the hour.”
“Have you solved it?” She wouldn’t meet his eyes; she might have been asking the ashtray.
“I have indeed. Although I doubt you will care to hear what I’ve learned,” he said.
He saw her large hand freeze in the act of lighting another cigarette, an infinitesimal hesitation that told him the arrow had struck home. As she tensed for further attack, he turned instead to Chloe.
“There is a tradition in this country of which I am certain you are aware: Lying to the police is deemed a crime. You failed to mention during any of our interviews Adrian’s involvement in the Win-throp murder. You even failed to mention he was there at the time.”
“You didn’t ask, Inspector,” she said. Her low voice was even, unconcerned. “Do you really imagine it had anything to do with Ruthven’s death? It couldn’t have done. And his death is all I care about, certainly not Adrian’s. I’d like to pin a medal on the person-”
“What if I told you your son’s death sprang directly from the death of Winthrop?”
A slight start of distress, followed by her usual quick recovery.
“I would say you were mistaken. Yes, Adrian was there. It was how we met. He was laid up with that ‘sprained ankle,’ or so he said, so he was mincing about the house with the women while the others were out shooting. Always his preference anyway, the company of women.” She angled a glance in Violet’s direction. “In a strange way, that murder brought us together. When I ran into him again in Paris, later in the season, it gave us something to talk about, didn’t it? Nothing like being suspects in a notorious crime to bring people together.”