He would not lie, but he cannot bring himself to speak the truth. Ah, how he withholds! It is a form of lying—a very effective one, for there is no spoken lie to be contested. -- Sophie Hannah, The Monogram Murders
Yo-han spent the entire meal expecting someone to drop dead. Lennox was the only person who seemed truly at ease, and his attitude struck Yo-han more as someone who simply didn't care any more than someone who was actually enjoying himself.
He noticed that Lennox ate very little. That was worrying when he was already so thin.
Miss Patton pushed her food around her plate without eating much of it. At the other end of the table, Mrs. Lennox looked about as happy as a dental patient undergoing a root canal. Her friends sensed the uncomfortable atmosphere and quickly gave up their stilted attempts at conversation.
Yo-han couldn't have said what was served for dinner. Between discussing photography with Lennox and wondering if Mrs. Lennox was really a poisoner, the meal passed quicker for him than for the others. That didn't make it any less uncomfortable. Especially when the ladies retired and the four men suddenly found themselves with no one to talk to but each other.
The second guest, whose name Yo-han still didn't know, simply settled down on his chair and went to sleep. That left Lennox, Yo-han, and the politician's son.
A very uncomfortable silence fell. Yo-han felt as if he'd wandered into a room filled with gunpowder while carrying a burning candle.
The politician's son stayed in his original seat for about five minutes. Then he got up and moved closer to the head of the table. Lennox watched him with an eerily blank face.
A chill ran down Yo-han's spine. The last time he'd seen that sort of expression had been in 1915, on a ship, from Leopold Colman.
The other man acted as if Lennox wasn't there. To Yo-han he said, "I don't believe we've been introduced. I am Çelik Bey."
His accent was mainly American with a slight hint of something else. Yo-han's mind contained a veritable encyclopaedia of names, surnames and titles in at least fifty languages. He ran through Romanian, Persian and Egyptian Arabic before finally settling on Turkish as the most likely. "I am Seo Yo-han," he said politely but warily. There was a chance this man was conspiring with Mrs. Lennox to kill her husband. No need to be too friendly.
"Chinese?" Çelik Bey asked.
"Korean."
Judging by his blank reaction, Çelik Bey had never heard of Korea.
"Mr. Seo is a detective," Lennox said quietly.
Yo-han noticed two things: Lennox pronounced his surname almost right, a rarity among foreigners. (Not exactly right — Miss Patton was the only foreigner who got Yo-han's surname exactly right and that was only through repeated practice — but closer than anyone else today.)
And Çelik Bey paled.
He reached for the decanter in front of Lennox, then realised it contained only orange juice.
"You're crazy," he hissed at Lennox. "You can't even drink alcohol like a normal person!"
Lennox still spoke quietly. His voice seemed to come from a great distance away. "I thought your religion forbade alcohol. Of course, it also forbids a few other things, but that doesn't seem to bother you much."
Çelik Bey stared at him, then at Yo-han. Yo-han had no idea what his own expression was — mainly because he had no idea what to make of the unfolding drama — but Çelik Bey didn't like it. He forced a laugh. "This guy's crazy. He should be locked up in a padded cell. You aren't here because you believe that story he told you?"
Yo-han looked at him levelly. "What story?" He let Çelik Bey squirm for a moment before he added, "We share an interest in photography."
There was no doubt about it: Çelik Bey looked relieved. "Then you're not here as a detective?"
"Is there some reason I should be?" Yo-han asked.
The silence that followed was the most awkward one yet. Çelik Bey poured himself a glass of orange juice in spite of his earlier objections. He drank it in one go. As he set the glass down his eyes fell on something behind Yo-han. A startled look crossed his face.
"What the—"
Yo-han turned. It was only Eames, blank-faced as ever, and not even looking at Çelik Bey.
"Do you want the fire banked in your study?" he asked Lennox.
Yo-han didn't listen to Lennox's reply. He watched Çelik Bey, who in turn watched Eames. His surprise gave way to suspicion, then to disgust.
When Eames was gone he said, "So that's the—" He said something in Turkish. Yo-han didn't understand him, but from his tone he knew it was extremely rude.
Lennox stared at him. "The what?"
"Nothing," Çelik Bey said, but he gave a very nasty smile. "If he was a girl I could see the appeal."
Yo-han put several things together. Some details now became clear. The situation in general began to make sense. There were still unanswered questions, but the chemist's report would solve most of them.
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"That was a horrible experience," Phil said.
Behind them the house loomed like some fairy-tale monster. The curtains were drawn so the only light was from the streetlamps below.
"Indeed," Mr. Seo said.
"Have you solved the mystery?"
"Not entirely. I'm still unsure if Mrs. Lennox is poisoning her husband. But whatever the answer, my advice will be the same: they should get a divorce."
That was the most sensible thing Phil had heard all night. "I think she is poisoning him. You didn't hear how she talked. She was very insulting about you, and she implied something nasty about her husband. I don't know what she meant."
"I believe I do."
Phil looked at him curiously. He didn't seem inclined to enlighten her.
As they reached the gates they came across a most unexpected scene. A man was pacing in circles under a streetlamp, muttering to himself. He was clearly drunk. Phil could smell the stuff from here. He had to keep one hand on the lamppost to stay upright, which was why he was walking in circles.
Mr. Seo's hand went to his pocket. Phil looked back towards the house, then along the street to her own. It wasn't far, but they would have to pass the drunkard.
He spotted them. He straightened up with a belligerent air.
"Now you listen here," he began, slurring his words together.
"Go home," Mr. Seo interrupted. "You're drunk and making a spectacle of yourself."
The man said a few extremely rude things. "Your fine lady thinks she can fire my daughter and get away with it, well, she can't!"
It struck Phil that there might be some useful information here. "Do you mean Lady Kilskeery fired your daughter?"
The man's language got even worse. Mr. Seo took his hand out of his pocket. Something was concealed in his hand.
When the swear words were removed from the man's speech, his story was, "Gave her the worst reference so she can't get another job, and what did my poor girl ever do to her? Told her what she thought, that's what! Well, I won't stand for it! If my Jenny doesn't get her job back I'll wring that woman's neck!"
He raised his hands to demonstrate, but overbalanced and fell flat on the ground.
"That's quite enough from you, my good man," Mr. Seo said coldly. "I have a gun aimed at you right now. I advise you to leave."
At the mention of a gun the man sobered up. He leapt to his feet and scurried away at an astonishing rate for someone so drunk, still swearing under his breath.
"Do you really have a gun?" Phil asked incredulously.
Mr. Seo opened his hand, revealing the key to her front door. "No, but he doesn't know that. I doubt he'll be back in a hurry."
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In the middle of the night a boat crossed the river. It was rowed by someone who had clearly done this before. It reached the pier safely even though the only light came from the distant streetlamps.
Another person was waiting on the pier. The two of them had a whispered conversation. At once point it turned into an argument. Some words were said too loudly for discretion. Then they both froze. Two pairs of eyes turned to a house on the other side of the river. It wasn't Lennox House, as might be expected, but instead the house owned by Miss Patton.
Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings.
When no lights appeared in the windows they relaxed and continued whispering. Finally they reached an agreement. The person in the boat rowed back across the river. The second person turned and walked back to the shore.
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The next day nothing important happened. No visitors came from the big house. No news came from the chemist. After a morning of indecision Yo-han finally decided to spend the day sight-seeing. Along the way he stopped at the local newspaper's office and searched the back-issues for references to the Lennox family.
After going all the way back to 1850 he had made some discoveries. The problem was that none of them had anything to do with the case.
The family name had originally been Burke. One Joseph Burke started out as a carpenter and ended up as a railway contractor. He made a fortune and bought a baronetcy. His wife was from the small village of Kilskeery, roughly nine miles from Enniskillen.
Their son Bernard became a director of the railway company. When he was elected to Parliament he became the target of jokes; apparently it was rumoured he was related to the serial killer of Burke and Hare infamy. He had married a Scottish woman, so he changed his surname to his wife's. A few years later he was promoted from baronet to viscount — something previously unheard of, and said to have cost him a staggering amount in bribery. So Bernard Lennox became the first Lord Kilskeery.
He died in 1902 and was succeeded by his son Alfred, who had four children: three daughters, all married, and a son. Alfred died in February 1916 and was succeeded by his son Alexander. The newspaper had a great deal about Alexander's wedding in January 1916, especially about his rich American bride, but very little about Alexander himself.
The last mention of the Lennoxes was a very short notice in the "Births" columns from October 1916: Viscountess Kilskeery safely delivered of twin sons.
Yo-han returned the papers and left with a feeling of having wasted his time. Was it important that Bernard Lennox had bribed his way to a title? Possibly, if he had been investigating corruption, but what had it to do with a possible murder?
He returned to Miss Patton's house. Mr. Király was waiting for him.
"Telegram from the chemist," he said, holding it out.
Yo-han read it eagerly. His heart sank.
No trace of poison.
Good news from one perspective, extremely baffling news from another. If he wasn't being poisoning, why was Lennox ill?
Yo-han looked at the clock. After five. He didn't feel like another trek up to the Lennox house this evening. It wasn't an emergency. It could wait until tomorrow.
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At dinner Yo-han discovered he had been lucky enough to miss a very annoying group of tourists.
"They parked their boat right beside our garden!" Mrs. Király complained.
"Moored," Miss Patton corrected her.
She continued as if her sister hadn't spoken. "And then they came right into our garden and had a picnic! Máté told them to get out and they complained he was being rude! I told you we need a no-trespassing sign. Then would you believe it, they moved further along and parked — oh, all right, moored — at the Lennoxes' landing stage! Someone came down from the house and yelled at them to move along. What a lot of shouting!"
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Rude trippers and picnickers were unfortunately a common sight along Lough Erne. Mr. McCullagh, head groundskeeper at Lennox House for almost thirty years now, had grown used to them by now. No amount of "No Trespassing" or "Stay On the Path — Forest is Private Property" signs would make them mind their own business. Neither did the perfectly good public jetty a little further upstream stop them mooring on other people's property. It was annoying but there was no way to stop them.
Unfortunately Mrs. Lennox hadn't grasped that yet.
She barged into McCullagh's office as he was getting ready to go home for the day.
"Why aren't you doing your job?" she yelled. "A whole boatload of tourists landed at my pier! They traipsed through my forest and smashed a window in my greenhouse!"
It didn't escape McCullagh's notice that she spoke as if she personally owned everything. That did not endear her to him. Especially when she acted as if the trippers were somehow his fault.
"If they ignore the signs there's nothing we can do," he said.
She sniffed. "Well, put up a fence! Call the police! Do something to stop them coming back!"
Putting a fence beside the river was impractical and expensive. Calling the police to deal with parties of sightseers was also impractical when they weren't actually stealing something. But what was the use of telling her that? She never listened when anyone tried to tell her something she didn't want to hear.
"I'll put another sign on the pier," McCullagh said wearily.
After Mrs. Lennox left he reluctantly got out a piece of wood and a paint pot. He painted "Trespassers Will Be Prosecuted", then went down to the pier and put the sign beside the already-existing ones. It would make no difference, especially when the trespassers wouldn't be prosecuted, but it might prevent some unpleasantness.
The pier was a little distance away from the boathouse. McCullagh had to walk past it to get back to the house. He glanced at it in passing, then stopped and looked again.
The boathouse was always kept locked. It contained two small boats, lifejackets, ropes, oars, sails, and other equipment that could be stolen. Only two people had a key: McCullagh himself and Lord Kilskeery. McCullagh hadn't opened it this year and Lord Kilskeery hadn't gone near it since his health deteriorated. There was a spare key somewhere in the house, but McCullagh couldn't remember where. Certainly no one had asked for it recently.
Yet the door was ajar.
McCullagh shoved it open and stepped in. The boats were safely moored. Everything was in its designated place. He took a quick inventory of the fishing rods, boots, and anything else that could be easily carried off. Nothing was missing. Next he checked the things that could be less easily carried off. A coil of rope was missing. So was one oar. Only one, which made no sense.
"Strange," he muttered to himself.
A examination of the lock revealed it was still working. How had the thief opened it?
Those wretched trippers! Mrs. Lennox must have disturbed them so they only took whatever they could get their hands on, he thought.
It wasn't a satisfactory explanation, but it was all he could think of. Tomorrow he'd call the police.
He locked the door again.
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We must speak in private. Meet me outside the greenhouse tomorrow morning at six.
Çelik Bey memorised the time and place then put the letter in the fire. It was odd Gwladys would want to meet so early in the morning. Whatever she had to say must be very important.
She's finally going to leave her husband! he thought.
With that idea in mind he began to pack, just in case Gwladys wanted to elope early tomorrow morning.
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We must speak in private. Meet me outside the greenhouse tomorrow morning at six.
Six? Gwladys thought in disgust. Of all the times Çelik Bey could have chosen, why so early? Ten would have done just as well.
It must be important, she thought.
That led her to wonder about what could be so important. Within a few minutes she'd conjured up images of Çelik Bey begging her to leave Lennox and elope with him at once. She lost herself in daydreams for a while. She wouldn't go of course — Lennox couldn't live much longer when he was starving himself like that, and as soon as he was dead she would get his money and could do what she wanted — but it was nice to dream.
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If someone had been looking towards the greenhouse that evening just after sunset, they might have seen a figure dragging a strange, bulky object inside. It looked like a coil of rope. A few minutes later the figure emerged, ran into the forest, and returned carrying something that looked like a branch. They put it in the greenhouse too.
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"McCullagh said the tourists have broken into the boathouse and stolen something." Alec pushed his food around his plate without eating any of it. "We'll have to tell the police."
David barely heard him. He was too busy watching Alec's plate. He pointedly took a spoonful of his own dinner. "I made this myself."
It was only scrambled eggs. Experience had taught him that Alec could only manage bland, soft foods now. It was a struggle to get him to eat even those.
Thank god, Alec finally began to eat.
"Any news from the detective yet?" David asked.
Truth be told he didn't think Gwladys was poisoning Alec. Not physically, at least. She'd done enough damage to his mind to put the Borgias to shame. But perhaps Alec would recover if an expert assured him he wasn't being poisoned.
"No," Alec said quietly.
David tried to change the subject. "Gibson complained rabbits are eating his cabbages again. He wants me and McCullagh to help him shoot them. Can I borrow your gun tomorrow?"
"Of course," Alec said. "You know where it is."
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Alec went to bed at nine. Strangely, judging by the silence throughout the house, so did Mrs. Lennox and her guest. David sat up until half nine planning Alec's meals for the rest of the week.
If he caught enough rabbits tomorrow he could make stew. Maybe add some roast potatoes, if he could get Cook to agree. She didn't like letting him work in her kitchen. She thought it reflected badly on her skills.
He would have to check on the twins. Gwladys had no time for them, though she refused to let Alec near them. She left them in the care of a nanny. David knew the nanny drank. If he could catch her at it he could force Gwladys to fire her.
He closed the notebook. For a minute his fingers hovered over the drawer where the photos were stored.
Instead he opened another drawer, one concealed behind a carved decoration. Inside was a stack of letters tied up with a ribbon.
He already knew them all by heart. He read them again anyway.
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Yo-han stopped on the landing. He pushed the curtain back and stared very hard out the window. The river was faintly visible in the moonlight. The garden below was in darkness. The opposite shore might as well not be there for all he could see of it.
If there had been a light in the empty house he couldn't have missed it. But there was nothing.
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Under Mrs. Skinner the household had been run like a battleship. She had made sure everyone did their jobs thoroughly. Anyone caught sleeping in had better be sick. If dinner was served ten minutes after five, or if the windows weren't washed properly, or if there was the faintest footprint left on the carpet? May God have mercy on the person responsible, because Mrs. Skinner wouldn't.
Under Mrs. Lennox things were very different. Most of the original staff had been dismissed. Their replacements were lackadaisical, throughother, and generally incompetent. No one got up earlier than seven. The cook's repertoire was extremely limited: porridge for breakfast, soup or stew for lunch, mutton for dinner, and if you wanted supper you had to get it yourself. When Mrs. Lennox held her parties she had to hire another cook to prepare fancy meals.
It wasn't unusual for Mrs. Jenkins, the cook, to arrive in the kitchen and find Eames already there. This always raised her hackles, because in the morning he always made porridge too.
For some incomprehensible reason Lord Kilskeery could eat his porridge but couldn't stand hers. Eames had the audacity to say she cooked it too long. What did a foreigner like him know about it? He didn't even have the decency to drink tea like a normal person. He insisted on coffee, which in Mrs. Jenkins' opinion was a foul-smelling and worse-tasting poison. He had already brewed a pot; the kitchen stank of the stuff.
She scowled at him as she put on her apron. He ignored her, as usual. He poured out a cup of tea, put it beside the bowl of porridge, and headed for the door without a word.
Mrs. Jenkins craned her neck to get a look at the porridge. "You've drowned it in milk! No one can eat that!"
Eames still didn't bother to answer. Mrs. Jenkins muttered to herself as she checked the teapot. He hadn't put enough water in it. She added more and waited for it to boil.
Eames used a small pot to make his porridge. Mrs. Jenkins removed it and got out her much bigger pot. She poured a good deal of oats into it, added milk, and turned on the gas. While it was simmering she turned her attention to the dishes left over from supper.
A used cup in the sink showed that Eames had already had his coffee. She picked up the coffee pot and poured the rest of the stuff down the drain.
Footsteps and voices in the hallway showed the rest of the domestic staff were awake. Mrs. Jenkins heard someone pulling the curtains in the hall. One of the footmen slouched in, yawning.
"Porridge isn't ready," Mrs. Jenkins said. "Here, dry these plates."
A piercing shriek rang out just as the footman picked up the first plate. He dropped it in shock. It shattered.
The shrieks continued. Mrs. Jenkins ran out of the kitchen, drying her hands on her apron as she went, and followed the noise to the drawing room.
One of the housemaids was clutching the half-open curtain. She stared out at the garden. She continued to scream like she was being murdered.
"Stop that racket!" Mrs. Jenkins yelled.
She expected to see a spider on the window-pane. It took her eyes a minute to comprehend what she was really seeing.
Two bodies hung from the old oak tree.