I Saw Him Die Read online

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  To M. F.

  ONE

  I made my way down the grand central staircase, preparing myself to meet a murderer and his—or her—potential victim. The borrowed jewels and a beautiful emerald-green evening gown, a gift from my sister, gave me a false, hollow confidence. I forced a smile in the direction of my friend John Davison, a smile which masked not only a raft of uncertainties and doubts but a deep sense of dissatisfaction, if not anger.

  After all, I was supposed to be having a few relaxing weeks on the Isle of Skye before my wedding to my dear Max the following month. My plan was to travel to this romantic island in the Scottish Highlands with my daughter, Rosalind; my secretary, Carlo; and her sister, Mary. The holiday would give me the chance to rest after a rather hectic year. I would go on some lovely long rambles across the moors, perhaps even lose a few pounds. The fresh air would do me good and I would walk down the aisle of the chapel in Edinburgh with a clear head, a slightly better figure, and a peach-like complexion. The last thing I wanted to think about was murder.

  But that wasn’t how it had turned out. The week before I was due to travel to Scotland, Davison had sent me a note, asking me to meet him at his London flat in Albany. After the preliminaries and polite small talk, my friend, who worked for the Secret Intelligence Service, got down to business.

  “I know the timing could be better,” he said, clearing his throat. “But there’s something that we would like you to do.”

  “What is it?” I asked, taking a sip of soda water.

  “I wouldn’t ask you, but as I know you’re going to Scotland—to Skye in particular—it seemed you were the ideal person for the job.”

  I was so taken aback at his suggestion that I give up my precious holiday that I was lost for words.

  “One of our former agents, Robin Kinmuir, who lives on Skye, believes that he is in danger. He’s received a series of threatening letters informing him that his life will be taken from him.”

  The situation intrigued me and, despite myself, I wanted to know more. “I’m not saying I will agree to anything, but tell me a little more about Robin Kinmuir.”

  “He’s a friend of Hartford’s, or was at one point,” said Davison. “The head of the Service regarded Kinmuir as one of the best agents we ever had. He had a great brain, a photographic memory, and was incredibly brave and fearless. Then he experienced a run of bad luck. His only son, Timothy, was killed in the war, a loss which hit him hard. He took to drink. His wife, Catherine, who was younger than him, left him—or, rather, it seems she simply walked out of their house and disappeared.”

  That word always made my heart miss a beat because of those “missing” days in 1926 when the press reported that I had disappeared.

  “And then… well, in 1916, Kinmuir made a terrible error of judgment out in Maastricht which resulted in the deaths of eleven of our men,” Davison continued. “Although he managed to make it back to Britain, he never forgave himself, and his drinking became worse. In fact, I’m sure he would have died had it not been for Hartford, who sent him off to a place in the country.”

  “And the letters? What do they say?”

  Davison reached for his inside jacket pocket. “I’ve got a copy of one of them here,” he said. “Typed on what looks like an old machine, it warns Kinmuir that his time is up. Here, listen to this.” He unfolded a square of paper. “ ‘I know what you did. Soon you will pay for your crimes with your life. Look over your shoulder—death will come when you least expect it.’ ”

  “Sounds a bit melodramatic,” I said. “How do you know it’s not from some crackpot? What makes you think there’s any substance behind these threats?”

  “One could easily dismiss it if we were dealing with an ordinary member of the public,” said Davison. “It’s Kinmuir’s work for the agency that sets him apart. Of course, there may be nothing to it, but I said to Hartford that we—or I, at least—would investigate. Although Kinmuir lives in this country, it’s not strictly within the remit of the Secret Intelligence Service; as you know, the SIS is primarily a foreign intelligence service. But what happened abroad may well have a bearing on the case.”

  “I see. And are there any suspects?”

  “One line of inquiry is that it’s something to do with the failed mission in Maastricht. Either that or… well, let’s just say that Kinmuir has hardly led a blameless life.”

  “In what respect?”

  Davison paused as he considered how best to express himself. “He had a certain reputation with the ladies. Several affairs and indiscretions, particularly during the time he was drinking heavily. There are also a number of suspect or failed business deals that we’re looking into.”

  “And who would benefit from his death?”

  “Ah, the perennial question! Kinmuir has a substantial estate. Although it goes by the name of Dallach Lodge, it’s actually a huge old pile and sits on hundreds of acres of land. On his death that would all pass to his next of kin: his nephew, James, his late brother’s son.”

  “Well, he’s the obvious suspect,” I said, standing up. “There, you’ve heard what I’ve got to say on the matter. Now, I really must go and finish packing for my trip.”

  “You mean that’s it?” said Davison, barely able to disguise the disappointment in his voice. “You’re not prepared to help?”

  “Davison, I don’t know if you heard, but I’m getting married,” I said, rather more impatiently than I meant to. “I really haven’t got time for this at the moment.”

  “So, you’re prepared to let a man die?”

  “Oh, stop,” I said, reaching for my coat. “Don’t try to blackmail me into this.”

  “Listen, if it’s any comfort, I would come with you. Kinmuir now runs his country house, Dallach Lodge, as a hotel. Of course, he would never call it that: his guests are supposed to feel like old friends who have just come to stay for a few days. Although the estate is a quite valuable one, recently Kinmuir has suffered from a lack of funds. It seems he can’t afford the upkeep of the house without taking in paying guests. A number of people are about to arrive at the lodge, and we suspect that one of them may want to kill Kinmuir.”

  “Why doesn’t he simply cancel their stay? That would be the easiest thing, surely?”

  “That’s what he wanted to do, but we pointed out to him that the best way to catch his murderer—if he or she does exist—would be to act normally and open his hotel as usual.”

  “Yes, I can see that,” I said. “But why can’t you just go on your own—or get someone else to accompany you?”

  “We’ve been through all the different possibilities. You’re the best person suited for the job. What with your sharp mind and your ability to get to the—”

  I cut him off. “I don’t need to hear your flattery, Davison. The truth of the matter is you’ve got no one else. I’m right, aren’t I? Inform Hartford from me that he really needs to sort out his recruitment, especially of those of the fairer sex.” I paused. “Tell me this—and I want you to answer honestly, or with as much honesty as you can muster: What would happen if I didn’t choose to help you?”

  A grave expression crossed Davison’s face. “I’ll be frank,” he said. “Yes, you are the only woman we have free at the moment. If I were to go by myself, or take another
man with me, the murderer might suspect that we were from the police, if not the agency.” He hesitated for a moment. “But if we were to register together, you and me… well, it would give us quite a good cover, don’t you think?”

  “Are you really suggesting that we turn up there as…” I could hardly get the words out. “… as a couple… when I’m preparing to get married next month?”

  Davison must have seen the horrified expression on my face, because the lines of seriousness around his mouth melted away and he burst out laughing.

  “Sorry, but your face was a picture!”

  “How could you be so—”

  “I know, it was beastly of me. I couldn’t help myself.”

  “Look, if you want me to assist you, then the least you can do is show me a little respect.” The words made me sound like a prig, and even though I was beginning to see the funny side of Davison’s teasing, I wasn’t going to let him off the hook that easily. “Really, it’s quite uncalled-for.”

  “I apologize,” he said, trying to compose himself. “No, of course I realize that would be quite an unsuitable arrangement. What I propose is for the two of us to turn up at Dallach Lodge as cousins. You register as yourself—and tell the truth about your forthcoming marriage to Mr. Max Mallowan. You’ll have to do this anyway because you want to register the banns in Scotland. And it will be easy for me to be plain old John Davison, a middle-ranking civil servant. I am here to be your chaperone in the weeks leading up to your nuptials. So, what do you say?”

  He looked at me with a mischievous glint in his eyes. “You never know, you might help save an innocent man’s life,” he said. “Surely that’s worth sacrificing a little of your holiday?”

  “Oh, very well,” I sighed. “But on condition that it’s for a short amount of time only. I won’t do anything that puts the date of my wedding at risk. That wouldn’t be fair on Max.”

  Of course, the man I was due to marry could never know. Max—who himself was seeing various friends in the south of England—thought that I was simply taking a holiday in Skye with my daughter, my secretary, and her sister. But what could I tell my travel companions? It was too late to cancel the trip and they were so looking forward to journeying north with me.

  It was no surprise to learn that Davison had already thought of this. The four of us would check into the hotel in Broadford, on Skye, as arranged, and after a day or so I would receive a telegram from my literary agent, Edmund Cork, requesting my presence back in London. I would say that there were serious problems with the script of my forthcoming play, Black Coffee, which was due to open in December. The director was on the point of quitting the production. My return to London was a matter of urgency: there was too much work to do from such a distance. Although I was sure that Carlo and Mary would offer to accompany me, I would persuade them to stay on in Skye so that they could give Rosalind the holiday she deserved. I would travel back to Scotland as soon as I could.

  What Davison had not counted on in his plan was the sense of guilt I felt at abandoning Rosalind. No doubt this was made worse by the fact it was not the first time. I had left her in 1922 during my ten-month-long trip around the world with Archie, who was then my husband. There was the unfortunate episode of my disappearance in 1926 and then the separation when I traveled to Ur, in southern Iraq, in 1928. During that time in the desert there were times when I doubted I would ever see my daughter again.

  The few days we spent in Broadford with Carlo and her sister, Mary, were a delight. We enjoyed a picnic in a field overlooking the bay and played endless games of cards and cat’s cradle. As I watched my daughter explore the beach, I had to keep telling myself that she was a resilient child. After all, she was now eleven years old, away at boarding school, and her headmistress told me she was a happy and self-sufficient girl. Yet I knew that my separation from her would leave me feeling wretched. I could not allow Rosalind to see my distress, and so, when the day of our parting arrived, I had to steel myself as best I could. As the taxi pulled away from the hotel in Broadford, I pretended to myself that I was just popping to the shops and I would see her in a couple of hours. However, instead of taking me to the ferry and then to the railway station, the car drove me across the island to a deserted spot to pick up Davison.

  Once we had collected Davison, we traveled towards the southeastern side of Skye, past a number of abandoned cottages, moors covered in purple heather, and long stretches of bogland. The drama of the island was on an epic scale: here was a true example of the sublime that I had only previously seen in paintings or photographs.

  Since arriving on the island I had been transfixed by the sky. The atmosphere was constantly changing: one moment the clouds were black and ominous, the next the sun would cast its light down and transform the harsh landscape into a sight of savage beauty. Before I journeyed to Scotland, friends had told me to expect four seasons in one day, and they had not been wrong. During the course of twenty-four hours, one could experience rain, wind, and mist but also the most beautiful pure sunlight I think I had ever seen.

  Eventually we turned off the road and down a lane until we reached a set of gates leading to a drive lined with rowan and birch trees to Dallach Lodge. It was a handsome, gabled, three-story baronial house built from red sandstone, standing on the banks of a sea loch, set within a lush garden with monkey puzzle and red cedar trees. Above it, on a higher ridge that dominated the bleak landscape, was a ruined castle. In the distance, across the Sound of Sleat, one could see the rocky peaks of the Knoydart Peninsula on the mainland stretching up into the clouds.

  “It’s all very Castle of Otranto,” whispered Davison as we stepped out of the car. “In fact, it looks the perfect place for a murder.”

  * * *

  All that had happened in the whirlwind of the preceding few days. And now here I was on my first night at Dallach Lodge. The drawing room was ablaze with candles and the sparkle of diamonds. The ladies wore elegant evening gowns and the men sported dinner jackets.

  A deep voice—upper-class English but with a light Scottish lilt—boomed across the room, followed by the appearance of a huge bear of a man with a ruddy face and enormous whiskers. I knew from Davison that Kinmuir was sixty-seven years old.

  “Here are our two new arrivals. Hello, I’m Robin Kinmuir. Welcome. You must be Mrs. Christie and Mr. Davison?”

  “Yes, that’s right,” said Davison, shaking Kinmuir’s large hand.

  The owner of Dallach Lodge knew of our purpose at the hotel, but he had been instructed to treat us as ordinary guests. At the earliest opportunity we would question Kinmuir about the letters he had received and try to learn more about the other guests who were staying there.

  “Now, what would you like to drink?” A sickly looking butler approached with glasses of champagne. I noticed that his hands were shaking as he held the tray. I didn’t want to appear to be rude, and so after Davison took one I did the same, even though I had no intention of drinking it. “Let me introduce you to everybody,” said Kinmuir.

  Kinmuir had lost most of the hair from the top and back of his head. The little that was left had been combed across his bare scalp to give the impression that he had more hair than he possessed. It also looked as though he had taken refuge in the bottle, dyeing his few remaining strands a garish reddish-brown. “First of all, the ladies. Mrs. Buchanan, please, you must meet the new guests.”

  He placed a friendly if not proprietorial hand on the lower back of a slim, birdlike woman who could have been aged anywhere between forty-five and sixty. She had not lost her beauty, and there was something strangely familiar about her. She wore a long black silk dress, and around her throat a diamond necklace cast a vibrant light onto her face. She had blond hair of a shade a little too bright, which made me suspect that she too had sought the help of a chemical agent. She held herself with a poise and an elegance that made me guess that she had been a dancer, or had trained as one when she was younger.

  “Mrs. Agatha Christie, M
r. John Davison—this is Mrs. Eliza Buchanan,” said Kinmuir. “To me she is an old friend, but you may know her from the world of the theater.”

  “Of course,” I said, realizing where I had seen her before. I knew that, even though her stage name was Mrs. Eliza Buchanan, she had never married. “I thought your Lady Macbeth one of the very best I have ever seen.”

  She beamed at the compliment. “ ‘Out, damned spot! out, I say!—One; Two: Why, then ’tis time to do’t,’ ” she intoned in a breathy, theatrical manner. “But I mustn’t steal the show,” she added, bowing her head and stepping back to allow Kinmuir to introduce the other guests.

  “This is Miss Vivienne Passerini,” said Kinmuir. “I’m told she is a very brilliant botanist and has just returned from her travels.”

  “Oh, I wouldn’t quite put it like that,” she said, laughing.

  Miss Passerini was a beautiful young woman with emerald-green eyes, jet-black hair cut into a neat bob, and an olive complexion.

  “Where did you visit?” asked Davison, taking a sip of his champagne.

  “I’ve just come back from Berlin,” she said. “I’ve been following the trail of the naturalist and explorer Alexander von Humboldt—or at least part of his travels—for a book I’m working on. He was born there, you see.”

  “How intriguing,” Davison replied. “Am I right in thinking that he stopped on the island of Tenerife on his way to Venezuela?”

  “Yes, he did,” Miss Passerini said. The two of them started to talk about the history of exploration, plant classification, and the fauna and flora of various far-flung parts of the world.

  My memories of Tenerife were not pleasant, and as I turned away, Kinmuir introduced me to two handsome men in their twenties.

  “Mrs. Christie, may I present my nephew, Mr. James Kinmuir, and his friend from Oxford, Mr. Rufus Phillips.”

  If Robin Kinmuir were to be murdered, here was—by my own reckoning, at least—the prime suspect for the crime. I would see what I could find out about James Kinmuir.