Black Moonlight Part 11

"At what time was this?"

"About eight-forty-five."

"Are you certain?" Nettles pressed.

"Yes. I remember looking at the drawing room clock before I left."

"Really?" Marjorie challenged. "Because at eight-forty-five, I was on the path that leads from the house to the outbuildings. If you had been on it, I would have seen you."

"I-I m-must have been wrong about the time, then," George stammered.

"You seemed positive about it a few moments ago," Nettles interjected.

"I ... don't want to answer any more questions."

"What are you trying to tell us, George?" Nettles pressed.

"Nothing. I'm not telling you anything. I promised my mother that I wouldn't."

"Not talking to us makes you and your mother appear guilty," Marjorie pointed out. "Don't do it, George. Just tell us what happened."

The young man rose from his chair with a final "No!" and stormed from the room.

Their questioning at Black Island complete, Marjorie and Nettles boarded one of the small boats the harbormaster had provided for the Police Service. Nettles directed the pilot to steer a course for Hamilton. Pulling away from the pier and out of the cove, they watched as uniformed policemen swarmed the property in search of clues to the murderer's ident.i.ty.

"You must be glad to get out of there, if only for a little while," Nettles remarked.

"It is a relief, yes," Marjorie admitted. "Especially with our last victim having been killed in the middle of the day, in the middle of a police investigation."

"I don't think I've ever dealt with a criminal quite that bold," Nettles averred.

"Or desperate," Marjorie suggested.

"Somehow, I find that the more terrifying of the two."

"So do I," Marjorie stated in earnest. "Speaking of desperation, couldn't you have taken George into custody? Just to get him to talk."

"I probably could have arranged something. But I'm not sure an afternoon with Jackson at the station is what that lad needs right now. With all he's learned and experienced the past few days, he's just about set to burst."

"Granted, but we need him to tell us what he knows. Especially if ..." her voice trailed off.

"If he's the murderer," Nettles completed the sentence. "Do you think he is?"

"I'd like to think he wasn't. He's a very intelligent, polite, responsible young man but, if we're talking about these murders being crimes of pa.s.sion and desperation-"

"He certainly fits the bill," Nettles interjected.

"Yes, one of the strongest motives of anyone in the house. Not to mention, we can't account for his whereabouts for either murder."

"That's right. Miller said he saw him come in from outdoors around the time Ca.s.sandra was killed."

"Exactly. However, if he is the murderer, the thing that doesn't fit is the note," Marjorie explained.

"What do you mean?"

"My father-in-law received that threatening note before Creighton and I arrived on the island. But George only learned of his paternity the night of the murder."

"Meaning that the note wasn't referring to his paternity," Nettles allowed. "However, George still had enough reason to be cheesed off prior to the night of the murder. Remember, Ashcroft had denied him the money to go on to University."

"True, but I don't think so," Marjorie shook her head. "When he mentioned it to Creighton and me, he seemed more disappointed than angry. Selina on the other hand ..."

"Was she angry?"

"She didn't appear to be, but she certainly wanted the issue to be addressed. She even brought it up to Creighton." A gleam ignited in Marjorie's eyes, "Hmm ... she writes the note to scare Ashcroft into forking out the money. Only the plan backfires. Between the threats and the note, she's pushed too hard. Instead of paying out tuition, Ashcroft takes away the only weapon she has left in her a.r.s.enal: George's paternity."

"So Selina murders Ashcroft," Nettles deduced.

Marjorie nodded. "Ashcroft forgot a very important principle: that a woman will go to extraordinary lengths to protect her child."

Nettles rubbed his chin meditatively. "It fits, I'll give you that much."

"It certainly does. It explains George's reluctance to talk. And it puts a very sinister spin on Selina's words to me in the dining room that night, 'I'll take care if him.'"

"That's troubling, isn't it?" Nettles remarked with a loud gulp. "And what about Ca.s.sandra? Where does she factor into the equation?"

"Perhaps Ca.s.sandra could identify Selina as the killer."

"You have proof of that?"

"No, not hard evidence, but if you could have seen Ca.s.sandra on the verandah that night ... she was, well, angry. I suppose that was the word I was looking for earlier. Smug. She knew something, mark my words."

"Oh, I believe you. But how did Selina murder Ca.s.sandra? She's been asleep all day."

"You've never pretended to be asleep?" Marjorie challenged. "There were several times today where she was left unattended. She could easily have seen Ca.s.sandra from her cottage window, followed her to the stables, and bam! Or ..."

"Or she could have asked George to do it," Nettles a.s.sumed.

Marjorie nodded again, this time somberly. "When did the doctor say we could talk to Selina?"

"This evening. We'll do it as soon as we get back to the island."

As Nettles made this announcement, the pilot brought the boat to rest in Hamilton Harbor and tied off to one of the many cleats that lined the dock area.

After instructing the boat pilot to wait for them, Nettles and Marjorie set off on the short walk to the Hamilton Police Station. The station was a small, gray, two-story limestone building at the corner of a busy intersection. Nettles escorted Marjorie across the carriage- and bicycle-filled street and up the station steps, where the voice of Sergeant Jackson wafted through the open windows.

The pair stepped inside to find Jackson, seated at a large mahogany desk, a telephone receiver to his ear. "Yes ... well, that's very interesting, doctor ... and when can we speak to her? ... what do you mean she refuses to speak to anyone? ... yes, I know her mental state is fragile ... yes, but ... well, she's a suspect in a murder investigation ... no, I understand you need to guard your patient's health ... very well, then ... I will call again tomorrow to see how Mrs. Ashcroft is progressing. Good day." He slammed the phone back onto its cradle.

"You two won't believe this," Jackson greeted Marjorie and Nettles. "Although there were traces of Seconal and Benzedrine in her bloodstream, Prudence Ashcroft did not suffer an overdose."

"That's good news," Marjorie declared. "Yet somewhat puzzling ..."

"There's more," Jackson continued. "She refuses to speak with the police because doing so is too distressing. Ridiculous! Her doctor, whom I just spoke with, backs the decision. Doesn't he realize that I have two corpses on my hands? The fool should have his medical license taken away."

Nettles rolled his eyes at Jackson's indignation while Marjorie stared off into the distance, deep in thought. "We may not need to speak with Prudence," she announced.

"Not speak with Prudence?" Jackson repeated. "You're just as mad as she is!"

Marjorie ignored him. "Do you have the pill bottles we took from Prudence earlier?"

"Yes. The constable brought them back here after he dropped Prudence at the hospital. Why?"

"I'd like to see the Seconal bottle, please. I'll give it back when I'm done."

Jackson looked at her, skeptically, and then retrieved the Seconal bottle from his desk drawer. "Here," he thrust it at Marjorie.

Marjorie scrutinized the details of the handwritten label provided by Goldberger's Drug Store on First Avenue in New York City.

Rx: Seconal Sodium Tablets For: Mrs. Prudence Ashcroft Date: August 8, 1935 Directions: Take 1 tablet twice a day Qty: 100 Doctor: H. Morgan Much to Jackson's consternation, she proceeded to unscrew the cap and dump the contents onto his desk blotter.

"What are you doing?" the Sergeant shouted.

"Hold on a minute," she exhorted as she placed the pills, two by two, back into the bottle. When she had finished, she paused a moment, smiled briefly, and spilled the pills back onto the blotter. "You do it this time," she told Nettles.

"Do what?" the Inspector asked.

"Count," Marjorie replied matter-of-factly.

Nettles threw her a questioning glance, but leaned over the desk and, without a word, started counting. When he was through, he stood upright and announced, "Sixty-seven."

"That's what I got," Marjorie concurred.

"I'm happy the two of you are in agreement," Jackson said with a mocking smile. "But, in heaven's name, what am I supposed to do with that information?"

Marjorie rolled her eyes. Certainly a former Scotland Yard detective should have been able to figure it out on his own.

She held the bottle, label side up, for Jackson the read. "According to the label this prescription was issued thirteen days ago on August 8. It also says there were initially one hundred pills in the bottle. Now, if Prudence followed the directions, there should be seventy-four pills in the bottle. Maybe seventy-three, if she took one this morning."

Jackson's eyes narrowed and his lips began to move noiselessly.

Marjorie glanced heavenward and issued a silent prayer for patience. "Two pills a day for thirteen days is twenty-six pills," she explained. "Twenty-six from one hundred is seventy-four."

Jackson's mouth formed an 'O' in recognition. "But there's not seventy-four pills. You and Nettles counted only sixty-seven."

"That's right. So where are the other six or seven pills?"

"Prudence might have taken an extra one here and there and not have noticed it," Jackson offered.

"She might have," Marjorie allowed, "but that's a lot of forgetfulness in thirteen days time. That would mean that just about every other day, she took an extra pill."

"Well, what do you propose?" Nettles asked.

"I think Prudence counted her pills this morning, just like we did. I think that counting her pills in order to determine if she had missed a dose was probably a common practice for her. It's common practice for many people, but especially for someone as emotional as Prudence. This morning, in particular, was an especially rough one. Who can blame her if she can't remember whether or not she took her pill? So she dumps the pills out, counts them and realizes that she's missing more than she should be. She's not missing one or two, she's missing a few. Quite a few." Marjorie folded her arms across her chest. "If you recall, when I asked her how many Seconal she had taken, she couldn't answer."

Nettles smiled and pointed, "That's right. The question completely unnerved her."

"Because she had no idea where those pills had gone," she added.

"I have to hand it to you, Mrs. Ashcroft," Jackson praised. "That's an interesting observation you have there. But it's all conjecture. You have absolutely no-" He stopped and did a double take at Marjorie. "Wait, what are you doing here, anyway? I thought I told Nettles here to keep you on the island."

"Nettles did keep me there, for a time. And he'll bring me back there too," Marjorie stated defiantly. "But right now, I wish to see my husband. I a.s.sume you're keeping him here."

Jackson laughed. "At last, a correct a.s.sumption."

"I'd like to see him, please," Marjorie reiterated, this time in a much sterner tone than the first.

"Certainly," Jackson replied, his nose slightly out of joint. "This way."

He led Marjorie to a back room lined with barred cells. To the far right, she could see Creighton seated on a low cot, his elbows resting on his knees. At the sight of his wife, he leapt to his feet. "Marjorie!" he called.

"Creighton!" She ran to his cell door and reached through the bars for his hand.

"Ah, ah, ah," Jackson scolded. "No manhandling the prisoner."

"Manhandling the prisoner?" Marjorie exclaimed. "I'm not manhandling. He's my husband."

"No matter. Keep your hands outside the bars, please."

Marjorie pulled a face and then returned her attention to Creighton.

"So," Creighton whispered, "how are you faring with the Bermudian equivalent of Jameson and Noonan?"

Marjorie's eyes grew wide. "That's who they remind me of!"

"As a famous writer once said, 'Are you joking? You only just noticed?'"

"Well, I've been slightly busy trying to clear you of murder charges," she said snarkily. "But now that you mention it, they're carbon copies of each other."

"Like the negatives produced by a camera," Creighton agreed.

"Their physical appearances," she listed.

"Their mental acuity," he added.

"Even their initials!" she exclaimed.

Creighton's face went blank. "Huh?"

"Patrick Noonan, Philip Nettles. Roger Jackson, Robert Jameson."