“Ruthven persuaded you to this scheme. Perhaps you pretended to go along. There was a great fortune to consider, wasn’t there? And poor George would be none the wiser.”
Sarah and Albert exchanged fleeting looks. They had never heard the words “poor” and “George” used together before in the same sentence.
“What did he promise you, Natasha? That you and he would be together once you’d established yourself as the second lady of this house? Did you fall for that? If so, what changed your mind? My guess would be the telephone conversation you overheard him having with his London associate: the other woman in his life. One of the many women in his life.
“Perhaps it was at that moment you accepted the reality at last. He cared nothing for you. You were indeed just the latest pawn in this game. And once you had decided you alone were going to win the game, Ruthven had to die. He knew too much; he was the only one who knew about this child of yours and his. George having sprung his announcement at dinner, there was no time to lose.
“You convinced Ruthven to meet you that night, for one of your usual assignations. You lured him that night to the cellar, stopping to collect your weapon from the selection in the hall, and then you killed him. You killed him, and then carried on with the plan to produce the next Beauclerk-Fisk generation, and collect the money that would go with it.”
“Well, it’s a fascinating theory, Inspector. Oh, and Sir Adrian? While I was on a killing spree I just decided to finish him off, too? Is that it? Before he’d had time to change his will in favor of the child? Silly of me to rush things like that, don’t you think?”
“You didn’t have to worry overmuch about the will-and you are the only one who can truthfully say that. George’s inheriting from Adrian wasn’t essential to this plan. One way or another, you and Ruthven’s child were going to inherit-perhaps later rather than sooner, but eventually. From your mother. From Violet, the new Lady Beauclerk-Fisk.”
25. MIRROR, MIRROR
ALBERT LOOKED AT NATASHA, at Violet, back to Natasha. Why the deuce hadn’t he seen the resemblance? Hazy, like a reflection in a pond, but decidedly there. More obvious than the physical similarities, obscured as they were by Violet’s age and Natasha’s youth, was the way they both stood and moved with silent, feline grace. He was suddenly reminded of Mrs. Butter’s Clytemnestra, the daughter a smaller version of the mother.
For his part, Jeffrey understood that from the first glimpse of Natasha, he, too, had registered the physical resemblance: in the planes of her face, in her walk, even in the ungainly hands that Natasha was at such pains to hide behind long, draping sleeves.
“I should have noticed from the first,” said St. Just. “The similarities are evident, once one becomes aware of them. But I didn’t become aware until I saw a photo of Violet taken decades ago. It was like looking at a photograph of Natasha.
“There was a clue Sir Adrian, the mystery writer, left for us,” he went on. “He was found clutching the red leaf of a poinsettia plant, known as the Christmas plant. We assumed this was an accident, something he simply grabbed at, blindly, as he fell across his desk. But we were forgetting the way Sir Adrian’s mind worked. He couldn’t leave an obvious clue-the killer would have simply removed that from the room. But the subtle clue, the clue to the killer’s name, we nearly missed altogether, as did the killer. What he left us was the name, ‘Natasha.’ Natasha, a common variation of ‘Natalia,’ meaning, ‘born on Christmas day.’ Only Sir Adrian’s sleuth Miss Rampling, or his daughter, Sarah, with her interest in the derivations of names, would have realized what he was trying to tell us.”
“I could have told you… about the name… You never mentioned the plant…” began Sarah. She looked over at Natasha in wonder. Natasha, a killer?
St. Just nodded. “The plant was a clue straight out of one of his novels, and we nearly missed its significance. It was the only thing close to hand that he could use to point us to his killer, without leaving a clue so obvious the killer would realize what he was doing.”
“Oh, come on, Inspector,” said Natasha. “I mean, really. You’ll have to do better than that. My birthday is December 25. That proves exactly nothing. Sir Adrian didn’t know that; he didn’t ask. Why would he?”
St. Just’s look was piercing.
“He didn’t have to ask. He knew as soon as he heard your name, as did Sarah. Among his hundreds of reference books are half a dozen of those baby-naming books containing the etymology of every name imaginable.”
“He used those to come up with his characters’ names,” put in Sarah.
“Everywhere I went in this case,” said St. Just, “I was nagged by the thought that it was connected with Christmas, and I couldn’t think how. This time of year, we’re surrounded with reminders.
Even my sergeant’s mobile, with its blasted ‘Jingle Bells’ ring.”
“My name has nothing to do with this,” said Natasha.
“Names, lineages, inheritances-they have everything to do with it.”
She shrugged. “All right, yes, so Violet is my mother. What a brilliant deduction on your part, Inspector. You’re positively wasted out here-we could use you in London. The rest is bollocks and you know it. You can’t prove a thing.” But her voice was harsh, strangled, no longer ringing out with quite so much confident authority as before.
Turning to Violet, St. Just said:
“When did you tell your husband just who Natasha was?”
Violet, eyes hooded, said nothing.
“We’ve had enough lies from you. The truth, now.”
It seemed Violet didn’t dare look at her daughter as she spoke.
“That afternoon he died, when we were alone together in his study-yes, I lied about that; haven’t I had enough of the police in my life? But I told him then. Natasha had asked me not to, because she was working undercover. She didn’t give me any details about George. I was used to that, all this skullduggery that went with her line of work. I never really knew what Natasha was up to-what was real in her life, and what pretend. But the longer the deception went on, the more awkward it became not to say anything, especially once Adrian heard about the baby on the way. He was over the moon. How could I not tell him that this grandchild and its mother were even more… special… than he realized.”
She hazarded a glance at her daughter.
“I did swear him to secrecy, Natty.”
Natasha returned the look of appeal with one of scorn.
“I should have known better than to trust you,” said Natasha.
“That is just not fair.” Violet might have forgotten anyone else was in the room. “Everything I’ve done I’ve done for you. I told you: He was talking about changing his will again. He had to know there was a double reason for-for arranging things totally in my favor and yours. This was not just his grandchild, but his and mine. And I was right about telling him, whatever you may think.”
“Shut up,” said Natasha.
“So you told Sir Adrian about your daughter, born of a liaison while you were ‘in exile’ on the Continent. One-” He turned to Sergeant Fear. “What was his name again, Sergeant?”
Sergeant Fear flipped back a few pages in his notebook.
“Count Madalin Landeski.”
“Count Landeski. Thank you, Sergeant. Interpol has been most helpful, haven’t they? Frightfully efficient. Yes, Miss Landeski, even country bumpkins like Sergeant Fear and myself know how to ring the experts at Interpol.”
Sergeant Fear smiled at them all. It was rather a terrifying smile; he was enjoying himself immensely by this point. He fixed his eyes on St. Just with something like adoration.
“And then you told Natasha that Sir Adrian was in on the secret- that you had ‘blown her cover,’” St. Just said to Violet. “Thus helping to seal his fate. Sir Adrian was anything but discreet, and Natasha knew it, even if you did not. The whole setup-a stranger in his house posing as someone else, Ruthven’s murder, this pregnancy- was bound to make him suspicious, start asking questions. Sir Adrian knew all about false paternity, after all. And what proof had he-had any of you?-that all this wasn’t just a typically short-sighted scheme on George’s part?”