“Perhaps no one needed to. Perhaps the killer, the mistress, was right here. You, for example, Natasha,” he said.
“Don’t be ridiculous. You know perfectly well my relationship is with George. You even know
George frowned, deeply baffled. What other reason could there be for a woman to be with him, apart from the sheer wonderfulness of it all?
“After Ruthven discarded you, you turned to George, that is true.”
“I say…” began George.
“If you couldn’t insinuate your way into this family one way, you decided to try another, didn’t you? The child you’re carrying is not an invention of George’s, as you led us to believe, but quite real-or so say your NHS records. That was a silly lie; did you count on us not bothering to verify every word you said, just because you were with the Yard? It’s not the kind of secret you could keep forever, now, is it? Perhaps Chloe here can give you pointers on that subject. But the one secret you could keep was that it is Ruthven’s child, not George’s-Ruthven’s. And thus, a child that is no heir to Sir Adrian’s fortune.
“When exactly was it that you met Ruthven, Natasha?”
She gave him a cool smile, but he saw her mouth slip, trembling just for a moment before she spoke.
“Last week, when we were all summoned to the Presence by Sir Adrian, of course.”
“I think not. No, I think not at all. I think you met him in the course of cozying up to George for your investigation. Oh, your story on that score checks out. How was it your superior put it? That you were ‘relentless’ in pursuing a case, like a hound after the fox. I don’t believe he meant that comment on your methods entirely as a compliment, either, even though it often brought him results.
“That is what threw us off course for a while-your story, insofar as what you were doing here, checked out. But the real story is that you met Ruthven and saw in him a finer catch than the one you’d landed. You had to continue seeing George, professional”- and he let his voice dwell on the word-“professional that you were. But it was Ruthven, with his power and money and fame you wanted, not the thief who was stealing from his own father and in due course was headed, with your assistance, for gaol.”
George, his invincible stupidity penetrated at last, looked as if he’d been pole-axed. Sergeant Fear quietly stepped over behind him, blocking a move toward the French doors. He didn’t fail to notice that Paulo had been edging in the direction of the exit, as well.
“Then, as in the nature of these things,” St. Just was saying, “you discovered you were pregnant with Ruthven’s child. You were elated. Here was the tie that would bind Ruthven to you. Now he would leave his wife for you. It’s the same old story, isn’t it? It doesn’t change with the centuries. Far from sharing your joy, Ruthven was appalled. His wife’s money was what had kept him afloat while he waited out his inheritance. He wasn’t jeopardizing that for some commonplace affair. In any event, he knew the child wasn’t Sir Adrian’s grandchild. His mother had let him in on that secret. A child was of less than no use to him in this competition to be favored heir-it might prove to be a danger, in fact. At first he may have told you he wouldn’t acknowledge it, told you to get rid of it. At least, that was no doubt what he was thinking.
“Then you-or was it he?-had a better idea. Clever Ruthven was full of ideas, wasn’t he? Why not foist this child off onto George, ensure its “legitimate” claim to Sir Adrian’s fortune? It was a case of the past repeating itself, wasn’t it? His own mother had done the same, palming Ruthven off onto Sir Adrian. Ruthven must have appreciated that there was a certain symmetry to all of this. A grand joke to play on the old man.”
“The child is George’s. Of course it is. Tell him, George.”
His virility at stake, George repeated manfully, “Of course it is.”
“No doubt blood tests will confirm that,” said St. Just calmly. “In any event, I would urge you, Mr. Beauclerk- Fisk, to investigate that option thoroughly.”
While George mulled this over within the tiny confines of his brain, St. Just went on, speaking again directly to Natasha. She would no longer look at him, but seemed to be studying with great interest the gold bracelet on her wrist.
“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.”
