The Seventh Sinner - Elizabeth Peters [70]
Again her eyes went around the circle. Di Cavallo, who presumably knew the answer, was silent. He was smiling very slightly, but the upward curve of his lips did not warm his expression. Finally—of all people—Michael answered.
“The name of the person who killed him,” he said.
“Yes,” Jacqueline said. “And that is what Albert tried to write.”
“Seven?” Ted said. “I still don’t—”
“You’re still bemused by the number. Hypnotized, as we all were. Forget the number. It has nothing to do with it. Albert didn’t write a number. Look,” Jacqueline said, with a terrible weariness. “This is what he wrote.”
She used the puddle of wine for ink, so the word came out crudely scrawled with the tip of a reddened finger, as the dying man might have written it.
VII.
Someone got it. There was an intake of breath, so sharp it must have hurt the throat that made it. Jean didn’t look up to see who had reacted. Her eyes were glued to the red letters.
“And this,” said Jacqueline, “is what he was trying to write.”
Her finger dipped again into the crimson puddle.
VIRGINIA.
Scoville pushed his chair back. It screamed like a living creature across the marble floor.
“Prove it,” he said. “There are so many possible variations—”
“Not all that many,” Jacqueline said. “The third letter, which Albert never completed, might be any one of a number of letters—E, L, P, B—others. But starting from this, the rest of the case can be, and has been, built up. The motive only made sense after we knew who the murderer was. And there is only one person in this group whose name begins with those three—or two and a half—letters.”
Jean knew then. But she still didn’t believe it.
“You’re all accustomed to nicknames,” Jacqueline said. “Albert wasn’t, though. The first day I met him he insisted on knowing my correct name and title. He had no sense of humor; the joke behind some of your epithets must have eluded him completely. All this is irrelevant, really. What matters is that even before I checked the official records I was able to deduce which of you had a given name that matched Albert’s scrawl.”
For the first time since the talk had begun she looked directly at the two people sitting across the table from her. They always looked a great deal alike; now, in their common horror, the resemblance of their features was uncanny.
“Raggedy Ann and Andy,” she said. “I’m an old-fashioned librarian, you know. As soon as I saw the hair and heard the names I remembered the stories. They were charming characters, those two rag dolls; but I wondered whether parents would really christen their children with those names—particularly when the son and daughter were born a year apart. I noticed that sometimes people called one of you Ginger. That’s a logical nickname for a redhead; it becomes even more logical when the given name is Virginia—Ginnie—you see? I noted also that the other was sometimes called Junior. This can be a term of affection, but it is often a literal designation. Those are your real names, aren’t they? Samuel Junior and Virginia. Albert knew both of you when you were children. He would think of you by the names he used then—not by family nicknames, which would not have been employed by your teachers.”
“No,” Andy said suddenly. “I’m not going to let you get away with this. Of course you’re right about the names; when have we ever made a mystery of them? They’re on all the records, passports…. We’ve used the nicknames for years. All you’ve done is cook