The Curse of the Pharaohs - Elizabeth Peters [128]
In reality, he had discovered these facts only that morning, when Lady Baskerville broke down and confessed all. I wondered how many other facets of that most interesting confession would turn up, in the form of deductions, as he went along.
“So she killed her husband in order to preserve her good name?” Mary asked incredulously.
“To preserve her luxurious style of living,” I said, before Emerson could reply. “She had designs on Mr. Vandergelt. He would never have married a divorced woman—you know how puritanical these Americans are—but as an unhappy widow she did not doubt she could capture him.”
“Good,” said Mr. O’Connell, scribbling rapidly. “Now, Mrs. E., it is your turn. What clue gave away the murderer’s identity to you?”
“Arthur’s bed,” I replied.
Mr. O’Connell chuckled. “Wonderful! It is almost as deliciously enigmatic as one of Mr. Sherlock Holmes’s clues. Elucidate, please, ma’am.”
“The evening we found our friend here so near his end,” I said, with a nod at Arthur, “his room was in disorder. Lady Baskerville had tossed his belongings around in order to suggest a hasty flight. She had, however—”
“Forgotten to take his shaving tackle,” Emerson interrupted. “I knew then that the murderer must be a woman. No man would overlook such an obvious—”
“And,” I said, raising my voice, “no man could have made Arthur’s bed so neatly. Remember, he was resting on it when he was attacked. The killer had to remake the bed so that the counterpane hung all the way down to the floor and concealed his unconscious form. The longer the delay, the more difficult it would have been for innocent persons to establish an alibi. Those neat hospital corners were a dead giveaway.”
“Good, good,” crooned Mr. O’Connell, scribbling. “But how did she commit the crime, Mrs. E.? That is the most baffling thing of all.”
“With a hat pin,” I replied.
Exclamations of astonishment followed. “Yes,” I went on. “I confess that I puzzled over that for a long time. Not until yesterday afternoon, when Lady Baskerville was trying on her trousseau, did I realize how deadly a hat pin can be. Lady Baskerville had been a nurse, and she had known—er —been acquainted with—medical students and doctors. A sharpened steel needle inserted into the base of the brain will penetrate the spinal column and kill the victim instantly. A small puncture, hidden by the victim’s hair, would not be observed; or, if it was, it would be taken for an insect bite. She killed Mr. Armadale the same way.”
“But why Armadale?” O’Connell asked keenly, his pencil poised. “Did he suspect her?”
“Quite the contrary,” I replied. (My breath control is much better than Emerson’s; I could start speaking while he was still inhaling.) “Mr. Armadale thought he had killed Lord Baskerville.”
A gratifying burst of surprised exclamations interrupted me.
“It is only conjecture, of course,” I said modestly, “but it is the only explanation that fits all the facts. Lady Baskerville had cold-bloodedly seduced Mr. Armadale. Mary noticed that he was distracted and depressed for several weeks preceding Lord Baskerville’s death. More significantly, he did not renew his offer of marriage. He had found another love, and the torment of knowing he had betrayed his patron was tearing him apart. Lady Baskerville pretended to feel the same. She informed Armadale that she intended to tell her husband the truth and, professing fear of his reaction, asked the young man to wait in her room while the confrontation took place. Not unnaturally her husband began to shout at her. She screamed; Armadale rushed in and struck the enraged husband, thinking he was protecting his mistress. As soon as Lord Baskerville fell, his wife bent over him and cried, ‘You have killed him!’ ”
“And Armadale believed her?” O’Connell asked skeptically. “My readers are going to love this, Mrs. E., but it’s a little hard to swallow.”
“He loved her,” Arthur said weakly. “You don’t understand