And then he saw it. At once a dreadful suspicion stole over him.
There was a loud crash from the direction of the billiard room. Michael ran down the stairs and almost collided with Mr Sloane in the hall. Together they ran towards the noise and burst in to discover Pyles collapsed in a chair, having dropped his tray to the floor.
‘I came in to collect the empty glasses,’ he said. ‘And then I saw –’
Their eyes followed his trembling finger. Mark Winshaw was slumped against the wall. At first Michael thought that his hands had been tied behind his back: then he realized that the body had been horribly mutilated. The missing axe from the suit of armour, its blade red and sticky, had been left on top of the billiard table; and protruding hideously from the two pockets at the baulk end were Mark’s severed limbs. To complete the macabre joke, a message had been scrawled in blood on the wall.
It said: A FAREWELL TO ARMS!
CHAPTER FIVE
A Lady Mislaid
‘Now the important thing,’ said Thomas, ‘is that we all remain calm, and civilized.’
They were gathered in the dining room again, sitting amidst the debris of their supper. Their faces, for the most part, were chalky and haggard. Tabitha alone was blissfully unmindful of the latest shocking turn of events, while Pyles, who had now joined them at the table, wore a crooked, fatalistic smile, having already delivered himself of the helpful opinion that ‘There’ll be more to come, before the night is out! Many more!’ The only (living) member of the family not in attendance was Dorothy, who for the time being was nowhere to be found. Out of doors, there seemed little promise of an end to the storm.
‘I suggest that we proceed on the assumption,’ Thomas continued, ‘that a madman is loose in the house, bent on the random slaughter of anyone with whom he comes into contact.’
Michael sighed. ‘You don’t get it, do you?’
The others looked to him for explication.
‘There’s been nothing random about these killings so far,’ he said.
‘Would you care to explain yourself?’
He turned towards Hilary. ‘All right then: what were your first words when you saw that Henry had been stabbed in the back?’
‘I can’t remember,’ said Hilary, shrugging carelessly.
‘They were “How appropriate”. They struck me as rather curious, even at the time. What did you mean by them, exactly?’
‘Well …’ Hilary gave a guilty laugh. ‘We all know that personal loyalty wasn’t the most obvious distinguishing feature of Henry’s political career. And certainly not towards the end.’
‘Quite. He was a turncoat, and, indeed, a backstabber. Can we all agree on that?’
From the ensuing silence, it appeared that they could.
‘And as for Mark, I don’t think we need have any illusions about what he was up to in the Middle East. Hence, I suppose, the message written on the wall above his body.’
‘Your theory, insofar as I understand it,’ said Roddy, ‘seems to be that each of us is on the point not only of being killed, but of being killed in a manner … appropriate, as it were, to our professional activities.’
‘That’s correct.’
‘Well, it’s a ridiculous theory, if you don’t mind my saying so. It smacks of the scenario to a third-rate horror film.’
‘Interesting that you should say that,’ said Michael. ‘Perhaps some of you saw a film called Theatre of Blood, made in 1973?’
Mr Sloane tutted reprovingly. ‘Really, I think we’re getting a long way from the point here.’
‘Not at all. Vincent Price plays a veteran actor who decides to revenge himself on his critics, and murders each of them using methods inspired by some of the grisliest scenes from Shakespearian tragedies.’
Roddy stood up. ‘Boredom, if nothing else, compels me to suggest that we abandon this wearisome line of inquiry and take some practical course of action. I’m worried about Dorothy. I think we should split up and go looking for her.’
‘Just one moment,’ said Thomas. ‘I’d like to play our film expert at his own game, if I may.’ He settled back in his chair and looked at Michael with the light of challenge in his eye. ‘Isn’t there a film where some crackpot – he turns out to be a judge – invites a lot of people to a remote house and does ’em all in: the point being that they all have guilty secrets to hide, and he sees himself as their executioner – a sort of angel of justice?’
‘The plot is from Agatha Christie’s Ten Little Niggers. There are three different film versions. Which did you have in mind?’
‘The one I saw was set in the Austrian Alps. Wilfrid Hyde-White was in it, and Dennis Price.’
‘That’s right. And Shirley Eaton, I seem to remember.’
Michael glanced at Phoebe as he said this; and noticed, in passing, that Roddy was now looking at her too.
‘Well,’ said Thomas, ‘doesn’t that little set-up seem remarkably close to what appears to be going on here tonight?’
‘I suppose that it does, yes.’
‘Fine. Now listen to this: what was the name of the fellow who did the killing? The one who organized the whole shindig? Can’t remember? Well I’ll tell you.’
He leaned forward across the table.
‘He called himself Owen. Mr U. N. Owen.’ Thomas paused triumphantly. ‘Now: what do you say to that?’
Michael was taken aback. ‘Are you accusing me?’
‘Damn right I am. We’ve all seen parts of that nasty little book of yours. We all know exactly what you think of us. It wouldn’t surprise me if you’ve lured us all here as part of some insane scheme of your own.’
‘Lured you here? How would I have done that? You’re not accusing me of organizing Mortimer’s death as well, surely?’
Thomas narrowed his eyes and turned towards Phoebe. ‘Well, perhaps that’s where Miss Barton comes in.’
Phoebe laughed angrily and said: ‘You’ve got to be joking.’
‘It makes sense to me,’ said Roddy. ‘I know for a fact she has a grudge against the family. And look at it this way: she and Owen go upstairs to look for Henry together – five minutes later, he’s dead. That makes them the prime suspects, in my book. What do you think, Hilary?’
‘I agree entirely. Apart from anything else, have you noticed the way they’ve been looking at each other all evening? Lots of little meaningful glances have been passing back and forth. I don’t think this is the first time they’ve met at all. I think they’ve known each other all along.’
‘Well, is this true?’ said Thomas. ‘Have you two met before?’
Phoebe gazed at Michael helplessly, before admitting: ‘Well, yes … We did meet once. Years and years ago. But that doesn’t mean —’
‘Ha! So now it’s all coming out!’
‘I’ll tell you another thing,’ said Roddy. ‘Owen’s already condemned himself out of his own mouth. Hilary and I were both upstairs when Mark was found: so was Dorothy, and so were you, Thomas – looking for Pyles. Now, Owen says that he was standing at the top of the staircase looking at the suits of armour all this time. So if any of us had tried to leave the billiard room and get past him, he would have seen us, wouldn’t he? But he says that nobody came by!’
Thomas rubbed his hands. ‘All right,’ he said to Michael. ‘Talk your way out of that!’
‘There’s a perfectly simple explanation,’ he answered. ‘The murderer didn’t enter or leave the billiard room by the door. There’s a passage from that room. It leads to one of the bedrooms upstairs.’
‘What the devil are you talking about, man?’ Thomas thundered.
‘It’s true. Ask Tabitha: she knows. She knows because Lawrence used to use it, during the war.’