Lisette Rivers & the Crumbling Mansion Affair
by
Brian Sands
ficpic’ (“police drama?”), from a C3C contributor, source unknown. I am fond of these old illustrations. They don’t do them any more
Chapter Five
Suspects
Pain was unavoidable. Hysteria and tears were not. Lisette tried to make the dark hours pass by keeping her mind occupied. There was a lot to think about. She was almost certain that she had stumbled upon a murder scene, had interrupted the killer before he or she could leave the room. Why then wasn’t I killed as well, to remove a witness? The scene was burned into her brain: the way the body sat slumped forward against the desktop, a small revolver in its fingers.
Was it murder made to look like suicide? That seemed a logical conclusion. It helped to explain why she had been KO’d instead of killed. One corpse with a gun in its hand might be considered a suicide; a second corpse would point to carelessness, and murder, and ruin the perpetrator’s careful plan. Instead, she had been tied up very securely and gagged so that she could not raise the alarm until she was found in the morning. One possibility was that having Lisette temporarily out of the way allowed the murderer precious hours in which to do – what? Lisette had a chilling thought. What if the murderer had trussed her up in such a thorough manner because he (or she) intended to return, perhaps to do away with her somewhere outside the crumbling mansion?
Another question was raised in her mind by the way in which she had been tied. Whoever it was knew their business. They knew how to tie up a woman so that she could not possibly get free. They knew how to keep her quiet, to gag her so that she could scarcely make a sound. The latter required a lot of skill because it is difficult to gag someone really effectively, and that raised another point. The person was ruthless, prepared to gag her stringently and accept the risk that she might choke or smother. Would that matter to him - or her? One killing had already taken place. The murderer would not hesitate over another if it served the purpose. Lisette felt cold and clammy at the thought. She was up against someone who was truly evil.
Aside from Sunny Virtue and Jeremy Buddington, she had met the other guests of Weatherstone Mansion only that evening, and briefly. Upon reflection, any one of them might have the mix of proficiency and callousness necessary to truss her up and gag her so deliberately. Authors – no, correct that to “writers” because she was not at all sure that some of them had published anything – authors had some imagination: crime writing (Buddington), science fiction (Simenov), and add the artist Serge Easel who would have an eye to detail and agile hands. She could rule out Jeremy Buddington. She and Sunny had experienced being bound hand and foot by Buddington. None of her bindings, or her gag, felt like they were the work of the crime writer.
Could Agapanthus Woodgreen have done such a job on her? Possibly, thought Lisette. The woman writes historical romances that involve heroines being kidnapped. She may be the only real “author” in the place, apart from Jeremy. Somehow Lisette’s bonds did not feel as though they were the work of a woman, but that had to remain an open question. In her experience women had tied her up very securely on more than one occasion. On the other hand, the murderer might not be among the small coterie of artists at all, but from somewhere “outside” in the village or on one of the farms nearby. There was that forbidding woman who visited her on horseback the day before.
The grandfather clock in the hall below struck four. Lisette found that she had fallen asleep despite the acute discomfort. She tried to shift in her bonds but to no effect. Although she was sitting upon a thick carpet, the long hours of remaining in the same place had her cramped, her limbs stiff, her buttocks and lower thighs numb, and pins and needles shooting up her arms and around her shoulders whenever she strained against the ropes. She could tilt her knees from one way to the other if she chose, but that brought her weight onto one side, a position that soon became unbearable after a few minutes. The best was to sit facing forward with both feet planted flat on the floor and with her knees bent. The hog tie prevented her from straightening her legs.
The gag had not grown easier to wear. Lisette tried to work her mouth around the thick cloth but her jaws were locked immobile by the bindings around her face, and her tongue was pressed into the floor of her aural cavity and had very limited movement. Pushing the gag out of her mouth with her tongue was impossible. There was no feeling in her lips, which were pressed hard against her teeth by the tightly tied silk over-gag. Her mouth was dry. The silk covering, dampened initially by saliva, cut off the passage of air through her mouth and she had to breath through her nose, which felt blocked and stuffy.
Further sleep eluded her. Three hours later, when the clock struck seven, Lisette had a raging thirst, her bladder full to bursting, and a splitting headache pressed all the way around her temples to the back of her head like an iron band. Tears of pain and frustration had come and gone a number of times. At least the person who tied her had not returned for her. From a distance, somewhere in the house below, she heard movement. Muted clattering told Lisette that someone was in the kitchen, probably preparing breakfast. Over the next hour she listened in an agony of frustration to the house slowly coming alive. She could not move, and by now she was unable to make more than the faintest mewing in her throat.
More time passed. The clock struck nine. What’s going on down there? What’s the daily routine? Perhaps no one would find her yet for many hours. She heard footsteps moving along the corridor outside the room where she was captive. As they came level with the door she tried desperately once again to scream through the gag. She succeeded only in retching into the wad of material that filled her mouth, her cry choked off before it started. Lisette’s head swam from the attempt and she sank into a swoon. She was only dimly aware of hearing a loud shriek from a room nearby, and of hearing the thunder of footfalls as people began to run up the stairs to investigate. Someone had found the murder room and its unfortunate occupant.
When Lisette regained her senses and had her breathing under control, she found herself listening to a babble of voices that was loud but the words indistinct. A male voice barked orders and lighter footfalls that were probably those of a woman passed her door. The group followed more slowly, talking in hushed tones, passing Lisette by as she sat alone in the darkened room straining ineffectually against her gag.
Lisette sat in the semi-darkness and listened for sounds that would signal the next steps consequent on the discovery of the corpse, not knowing when her ordeal would end. There’s nothing I can do, no sound I can make to tell anyone that I’m here bound and locked inside this room.
If normal procedures applied, there would be a police investigation: initial viewing of the body followed by a team of forensic experts with their kits for searching thoroughly the crime scene. Police investigators with their wits about them would carry out an inspection of the whole mansion, and then she would be found. If they were sloppy in their work and took no trouble to make themselves familiar with the rest of the building, she could languish there for many more hours. The unbearable had to be borne.
After what must have been half an hour, more footfalls passed her door and muted voices drifted to Lisette’s ears from somewhere along the corridor. The clock below struck ten. A few minutes later Lisette heard what sounded like the unlocking of doors. Between long intervals the sounds came closer until she heard without a doubt the door to the room next to hers being unlocked and opened. There followed another long pause. That door closed and a key turned in the lock. Lisette held her breath. Someone was fiddling with the lock to the door of the room where she sat helpless. The door opened. A figure was silhouetted briefly against the light from the corridor. It reached out an arm and the room was suddenly flooded with its own light. Involuntarily Lisette squeezed her eyes shut. The relatively soft light was blinding after sitting for more than ten hours in almost complete darkness.
There was a sudden hissed intake of breath from the person standing in the doorway. Then: “Inspector! Come quickly!” It was a woman’s voice.
“What is it Constable? Great Scot!”
The two people seemed to be kneeling beside Lisette. The eyes of the bound girl were swimming and, as they adjusted to the light, she was having difficulty focussing on them.
“It’s a young woman,” said the man. “Dashed attractive too. Easy enough to tell even with the gag covering half her face.”
“I’ll get it off her. The poor kid looks all in,” said the woman.
“Before you do, Senior Constable, note how it’s tied.”
“Yes, Sir … A silk scarf, probably her own. The material is thin silk. I have one like it, only a different colour.” Lisette felt the scarf being unfastened from the back of her neck as the woman spoke. “Ahh. A strip of bed sheet in smooth cotton … no, a torn pillowcase. See the remnants on the floor? It’s been knotted, with the knot between her jaws, and it’s holding a huge piece of the same material deep inside her mouth.”
As the Constable was saying this, Lisette felt the band being cut away from the side of her face with a pair of safety scissors. Forefinger and thumb – the hand wearing thin surgical gloves – delicately extracted the wadded gag from Lisette’s mouth. She coughed faintly. Her mouth was dry, though the cloth was damp. Over the hours it had absorbed most of the saliva triggered when it was first inserted.
“I’ll give her some water,” said the Inspector. “Cut her bonds but make sure that you leave the knots intact. They’re important evidence.”
Lisette drank slowly and gratefully from a flask of water held gently to her lips. The cords binding her fell away one by one. There seemed to be a short gap in time during which Lisette knew nothing. When she was aware again she found herself wrapped in a space blanket and being strapped into an ambulance stretcher. She raised her head. The Inspector and Constable were standing by her side looking at her with concern. They were outside the mansion, the font area lit, and an ambulance standing close by.
“Thank you, but, if- if you don’t mind,” croaked Lisette. “I’d rather go home.”
“You need to be under observation, dear,” said the Constable. “You’ve had a rough time.”
“I- I know. But if it’s all the same, I can rest up just as well at home as in your local hospital.”
“Where is ‘home,’ Miss?” asked the Inspector.
“Next door, in Sw-Swallowtail Cottage. So, you see, it’s more convenient for everyone. And I need to go to the bathroom badly,” answered Lisette.
“Very well,” said the Inspector. “Senior Constable Chipps will accompany you, and we’ll arrange for a nurse to stand duty.”
“Thank you. That’s appreciated,” said Lisette. Senior Constable Chipps squeezed her hand reassuringly.
“When you’re recovered it will be necessary for you to make a full statement,” said the Inspector, perhaps tomorrow if you feel up to it.”
Lisette nodded. “Yes, thank you. I’ll be happy to tell you what I know in the morning. Right now I just want to sleep!”
“Hi Lisette, I had to ask how you’re feeling after that dreadful night.”
It was four in the afternoon of the same day and a tousled-haired Lisette Rivers was standing at the door of Swallowtail Cottage, yawning and tying the sash of her satin dressing gown about her waist.
“Hi Sunny,” Lisette replied sleepily. “I would have got in touch with you before, only I slept like a log once they let me out of the village hospital. I asked to be taken home, that is, here, but I collapsed at the front gate. Delayed shock they tell me. A kind policewoman drove me home. Come on it. I was just about to brew coffee. Or tea if you prefer.”
“Coffee will be fine.”
Sunny Virtue followed Lisette through to the kitchen and sat uneasily at one of the chairs as Lisette ground more coffee and emptied the result into the plunger before adding hot water.
“You can take off your coat,” said Lisette with a smile. “I don’t mind if you stay around. There’s a lot we can talk about.”
“Thank you.”
Sunny slipped out of her overcoat, hung it upon a hook behind the kitchen door, and sat once again at the table. She was wearing a pair of faded denim jeans, the boots she had on when she had first visited Lisette, a light burgundy pullover with a V-neck, large diamond-shaped glass ear-rings, and a filmy red silk scarf etched with a pattern of white dots at her throat. Lisette placed a mug of steaming coffee in front of her new friend and invited her to add milk and sugar to taste. They sat opposite each other across the kitchen table sipping their drinks in companionable silence.
Photograph by ‘disscarf,’ Flicker, Scarf Web Site (SWS)
At length Lisette spoke. “You called me ‘Lisette.’ How long have you known?” she asked ruefully.
“Not long,” replied Sunny with a faint flush. “I’m a journalist, remember, and your picture was in the papers only a month ago about that diamond smuggling gang using cat havens as a cover.”
“Fraff?”
As though on cue, Rasputin entered the kitchen, sniffed suspiciously at Sunny’s ankles and, satisfied that she was a known friend, made himself comfortable in her lap.
“Your secret’s safe with me,” added Sunny, absently stroking Rasputin’s thick white coat. “But there was another clue to your, uh, identity. Spencer told me about the discrepancy between the names you gave him and to the other guests.”
Lisette did not reply at first. Then, after a pause, she changed the subject. “I waited for you.”
“Oh dear! I was so upset after our business discussion that I spent some time in the bathroom and left by the front door. I thought you had gone home by then. I’m sorry, Lisa. If we’d left together that might not have happened to you: knocked out, left trussed and gagged until morning. As it is, I’m the last person to see Spencer alive, apart from the killer, so I’m automatically a suspect. The police gave me quite a grilling after they’d finished with you. Don’t be fooled by the way the villagers call them ‘Fish and Chips.’ They’re very thorough with their questioning.”
“What did you and the late Spencer Fforbes talk about that upset you so much?”
“The man wanted to buy the old place from me. He offered a ludicrous price. When I said no, he threatened me.”
“What sort of threat?”
“He said he knew people who for a price would follow me and kidnap me. He became quite mad in the end and asked how I’d like to spend a few days locked away in a dungeon, strapped down on a rack or sealed inside an iron maiden. He was quite a dungeon and castles buff but I never realised that he had that kinky streak. I told him where he could put his dungeons and dragons and stormed off. But I was shaking and had to have a good cry in the bathroom.”
“Do you think that whoever shot him and tried to make it look like suicide heard any part of your discussion?”
Sunny shook her head. “I don’t know.”
“Would any of these people go to that length to protect you? Jeremy for instance?”
“Jeremy? Oh no!” Sunny laughed. “That man wouldn’t hurt the proverbial fly. You saw how flustered he was, and absent-minded, when he tied us up.”
“Yes, but we were tightly bound all the same.”
“I still can’t believe that he’d have it in him,” said Sunny staunchly. “He’s rather a dear.”
“Is there anyone who would come to your rescue that way if they overheard your conversation with Spencer Fforbes?”
“No one. I don’t really know any of the others very well. It was just a coincidence that Jeremy and I knew each other from our earlier acquaintance in London.”
Lisette became thoughtful. “The killer is likely to be one of the people from the inner circle at the party last night, someone who knew Fforbes well enough to hold a grudge against him.”
“Agreed. But how can we find out?” asked Sunny Virtue reasonably.
“We could test a certain MO,” said Lisette slowly, “But it’s risky.”
“How do you mean?”
“We’ve ruled out Jeremy Buddington because, as well as you thinking he’s a dear, he showed no expertise with ropes like the killer. Granted that Buddington did a good job of tying us so we couldn’t escape, all the same, I was tied up very professionally, including certain cinch knots and slip knots that have the police interested. You know, Sunny, most of our suspects have skills of imaginative description as well as in some cases probably a lot of know-how in doing physical things. Take that artist for instance.”
“Serge Easel?”
“Yes. I can imagine he’d be quite proficient with ropes.”
“I don’t understand what you’re getting at.”
“I’m suggesting that we persuade each of the principal suspects to tie one of us up as an experiment, as a way of reconstructing the crime. That can be one of our pretexts anyway.”
“I see, but that’s awfully dangerous!”
“I know.”
“What if it was the murderer. He would have us at his mercy!”
“Or at her mercy. Remember the killer might very well be a woman. One of us could hide close at hand, listening-in from a distance. We could use a mobile phone, set it so that the listener always hears what’s going on.”
“That’s exciting, as well as risky,” Sunny conceded. “Which of us should go first?”
“It should be me,” said Lisette. “I think I’d know whether the man or woman tying me up was the same person or not. I may have been unconscious but my body would remember. If you agree - .”
“Oh yes!”
“Who do you think we should start with?”
Sunny thought for a moment. “How about Serge, the artist you just mentioned? Lily Woodgreen’s given him a contract to draw a cover illustration for her latest story and I agreed to model for him. I think I told you. We can pretend I’m sick and have you take my place.”
“All right. But how can we persuade him to draw a damsel in distress?”
“That’s easy! Lily’s given a short-list of scenes from the novel and one of them is where the heroine is abducted and tied up. We can pretend it’s the scene Lily likes best.”
*****
Detective Inspector Hereward Fysshe sat pensively at his office desk. This was going to be one of those days. In fact, it had not been an altogether inspiring week, with Commander Dogleash of the DORFIS Branch of New Scotland Yard breathing down his neck. They were nowhere near establishing whether their stretch of benighted coastline was the entry point for a gang of drug runners. There were alternative coasts in other districts that one would have thought more promising to the criminal mind.
The irregular tapping of Fysshe’s pencil upon the desktop would have tested the patience of many, but Detective Sergeant Poppy Chipps took it in her stride. She was not only a meticulous woman in forensic logic; she was also an ambitious woman. She had long ago come to terms with her superior’s strange ways, appreciating the sharp mind that resided behind the rheumy grey eyes in the knowledge that DI Fysshe had never yet lost a case. She waited patiently, notebook open upon a shapely thigh that was outlined through the satin of her slim skirt. The navy blue of the skirt contrasted flatteringly with the workaday blouse of fine white cotton.
Now there was a new development, Fysshe ruminated, the killing at that artist’s retreat with the bizarre touch of a very pretty young woman gagged and trussed up overnight in an adjoining room. Was it a different case to plague him and divert his attention from their current investigation? DI Fysshe raised his head and looked wearily up at the ceiling, but no inspiration came from there. He lowered his gaze to rest on the agreeably feminine sight of his Detective Sergeant. The white blouse was almost see-through, the navy skirt pleasingly shiny. Without that note pad and the funny nautical cap one would not have thought that she was a plain-clothes copper.
DI Fysshe cleared his throat. “What do you think, Sergeant, might there be a connection between the shooting of that man Fforbes and a suspected drug ring in this district?”
“If we could uncover a connection, Sir,” replied DI Chipps, wrinkling her brow prettily. “But at present there is no factor that might point in that direction. The deceased was a businessman, not well liked even among his own set, and with a proprietorial interest in Weatherstone Hall. The young woman named Virtue purports to be the heir to the old mansion in a Will that supersedes an original leaving the estate to Fforbes, by virtue of which fact Miss Virtue is an obvious suspect. As for the other young woman, a Miss Rivers who runs a detective agency in London, it seems that she was unlucky, on holiday, to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.”
“Or, conversely, the right place at the right time, Sergeant. There are some people who attract danger. She has solved cases that had DORFIS stumped. In fact, sometimes she liaises with that branch of the Yard. She’s a darling of the tabloids: Intrepid CI Solves Feline Diamond Caper, that sort of thing. She leads a dangerous but surprisingly charmed life.”
“Sir, perhaps she knows more than she was prepared to tell us?”
“In all probability, yes. Sergeant, we shall continue with our investigations into the murder, and, heaven help us, the suspected drug ring. At the same time, we shall keep an eye on that young woman.”
*****
It was several days before Lisa and Sunny could put their scheme into action. The ordeal of sitting roped and gagged all night had taken more out of Lisette than she expected. For the next two days she curled up in front of the fire reading and dozing with Rasputin Thermodux the First crouched sphinx-like by her elbow when he was not curled in her lap. On the third day a mobile phone call came from Sunny Virtue to advise that the first sitting with the artist Serge Easel had been arranged for the following afternoon.
“Is this the place?” whispered Lisa to Sunny as they approached the artist’s cliffside cottage the next day.
“It is. I’ll be in that nature hide,” Sunny answered, indicating a squat shelter of bushes used by local bird watchers that they had passed on the road. “I’ll keep the mobile on and listen. If it sounds serious I’ll phone the police.”
With this reassurance Lisette walked up the narrow pathway to the door of the cottage and knocked. There was a lapse of about half a minute. The door opened the moment Lisette began to knock a second time, leaving her in the ridiculous position of having her hand raised and nothing to knock upon. Serge Easel stood in the doorway looking down at her, blinking in the light.
“Ah, Miss Poole,” the man exclaimed. “Well on time. I was just setting up the studio. Please enter.”
He used my pseudonym. That’s either a clever ruse to help put me off guard, or he really doesn’t know who I am. It could mean that if Serge Easel spoke with the late Spencer Fforbes no mention was made by Fforbes that he’d caught me out. But would that mean this man is not Fforbes’s killer?
It had no certainty, was definitely not evidence and Lisette went forward with her heart in her mouth.
Easel stood aside as Lisette stepped across the threshold and walked into the front room. “My studio is in the back. If you will please follow me.”
The man’s voice trailed off as he led the way through a sparsely furnished living room. They entered what once had been two rooms but was now a single large area set up as an artist’s or photographer’s studio. Cameras on tripods stood arranged in various positions on a polished wooden floor. A platform like a low stage filled one-third of the room. In its centre was a mattress covered with a large patterned rug. A skylight gave the stage area a diffused, more natural glow from the mid afternoon sun. Halogen lamps, as yet unlit, stood at different quarters of the area. A large white screen that Lisette knew was used in film shooting to diffract light stood on a tripod to one side.
“It is very good of you to agree to stand in for Miss Virtue,” said the artist heavily. “I do not think that I made a good impression on you that unhappy night of the dinner party.”
“That’s all right,” said Lisette, a little embarrassed. “I wasn’t very nice to you either.”
“I have genius, don’t you know.” Serge Easel smiled sadly. For a moment the light glinted off one of his canine teeth. “But like many true artists my genius goes unrecognised. In the meantime,” the man shrugged and indicated the photography equipment around them, “I employ my other genius, that of photography and graphic art. It’s not at all to my taste but one must have bread and wine, there are practical exigencies.”
“Doing book cover illustrations?” asked Lisette innocently.
“Yes, unfortunately. But it pays the rent. I did some work for Lily Woodgreen a year ago for a novel that was well received. The Heiress of Mordbrook Manor I believe it was titled. So she’s asked me to do another. It’s not difficult.”
“How do you go about it?”
“I begin by posing my model in different positions and photographing her from several angles. That follows with a number of life sketches. I then match the sketches against the photographic prints. A lot of that can be done later on the computer. Draw in the details, add the background, experiment and produce three samples. Too many samples only confuse the client and two is not enough. If necessary I recall the model if I have not found the right pose.”
“It sounds more technical than I expected.”
“Yes, but that’s of no concern to the model. She poses, I photograph and draw, she’s paid, end of her role. I complete the process and hopefully Lily is happy with the result.”
Lisette took a deep breath. “All right. I’m ready to start whenever you are.”
“Good. There is a costume Lily has asked the model to wear. The novel is set in the nineteenth century you know, so, long skirts, high collars, buttoned boots. The dress is of good silk. I think you’ll enjoy wearing it. Oh, and please will you put your hair up? Try to emulate a nineteenth century style.” He indicated a Japanese screen in the corner of the room. “You may change behind there.”
Ten minutes later Lisette emerged from behind the screen having exchanged her skirt and pullover for a dark green gown whose silken surfaces crackled deliciously across her body every time she moved. It had long sleeves to her wrists, puffed at the shoulder, and a deep scalloped neckline that highlighted her cleavage prettily. The white of a lacy petticoat flashed at her ankles from moment to moment as she walked. She had pinned up her hair in what she hoped was a relatively authentic look. Anyway Serge Easel appeared to be satisfied.
The man nodded his head in approval and indicated the platform. “I’ll pose you here, on this mattress,” he announced. “You understand that this is the first of three scenes that I shall prepare for Miss Woodgreen. The first requires that the heroine be blindfolded, the second that her hands are to be bound.”
“That’s all right,” said Lisette. “Sunny explained it to me.”
I hope she’s listening in without difficulty. I had to leave the mobile in my bag behind the screen. It would have looked suspicious if I carried it to the shoot.
“I have not made up my mind on the third study,” Easel continued as he drew a white silk scarf from his pocket, “but perhaps a pensive, no … frightened pose,” the man walked behind Lisette, “looking back as though in flight, a Gothic castle drawn into the background later, a cliché I know.”
Serge Easel bound the silk scar firmly over Lisette’s eyes as she stood straight and unprotesting.
In a moment I’ll be tied and helpless. Well … I’m helpless already, Lisette added in her thoughts as the man took her firmly by and arm and helped her step up onto the platform.
Ivoire,Distressed Crimefighteress Page, European Wing
“If you will be so good as to lie on the mattress,” said Serge Easel. “Here, I’ll steady you.”
Lisette was lowered to the soft surface of the mattress, laid down upon it and turned onto her side.
“Now Miss Lisette Rivers, please put your hands behind your back. Relax your body, especially your arms. Pretend that you are unconscious.”
Next
Back to The Bondage Fiction of Brian Sands