When you read the account of a murder - or, say, a fiction story based on murder - you usually begin with the murder itself. That's all wrong. The murder begins a long time beforehand. A murder is the culmination of a lot of different circumstances, all converging at a given moment at a given point. People are brought into it from different parts of the globe and for unforeseen reasons. [...] The murder itself is the end of the story. It's Zero Hour. -- Agatha Christie, Towards Zero
Cabin 172
The ocean liner Kaiserin Elisabeth
5th June, 19—
10 A.M.
"'Your uncle did not seem vexed at my not coming?' said Mrs. Dale. 'We have not seen him, mamma,' said Lily. 'We—'[1]"
"For God's sake, speak clearly! Do you think I want to hear you mumbling? It has such a dreadful effect on my nerves."
Phil closed her eyes. She took a deep breath. Slowly, enunciating every word as distinctly as if it was a matter of life and death, she continued. "'We have been ever so far down the fields, and forgot altogether what o'clock it was.'"
"Now you sound like a funeral dirge. In my day young ladies were taught to read properly!"
It took all Phil's self-control not to throw the book at Rachael. "Would you prefer to read it for yourself?"
Rachael scowled, not bothering to open her eyes. She was lying on the bed with a blanket wrapped around her as if she was an invalid, and one suffering from a cold into the bargain. "Don't be absurd. You know reading hurts my eyes."
There was nothing wrong with Rachael's eyes any more than there was wrong with Phil's. She was simply lazy and thought tormenting her niece was the height of entertainment.
What Rachael didn't realise was that Phil derived a grim sort of enjoyment from deliberately annoying her in return.
Phil deliberately read fast, stringing her words together until they were incomprehensible. "'Wehavebeeneversofardownthefieldsandforgot—'"
"Stop that!" Rachael roared. She pressed a hand to her forehead as if she was suffering from a headache. A dark, vengeful part of Phil speculated on the probabilities of her having a brain tumour or aneurism. "Go and order me a nice cup of tea. From your own room!" she snapped when Phil reached for Rachael's telephone. "I won't have you yelling down the telephone and making my poor head ache."
Rachael herself was the only person in the Patton family with a fondness for yelling on the telephone. Phil didn't bother to point that out. She left, and heaved a sigh of relief as soon as her aunt's door closed behind her.
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As soon as Ophelia was gone, Rachael opened the drawer of her bedside table. She took out the letter and read it over again.
It had arrived at the hotel in Hong Kong, addressed to Király and with a postmark showing it had come from London. Rachael had seen it sitting at the desk and had no compunction about taking it with her own letters. Why should her staff care if she read their letters? If they objected it was only proof they had something to hide.
She had opened the letter when she was alone. At once she recognised the handwriting. Octavia had written this. Octavia, her useless, ungrateful niece who had run away to become some sort of actress like her disreputable mother. Octavia, who had come to Langdale Manor just before Rachael left and had the audacity to inform her that she — Octavia — was thinking of getting married. In the ensuing row it had been revealed that Octavia was in fact already married and was trying to break the news gently. Rachael had not been mollified by this concern for her feelings. Especially when Octavia had refused to say which of her useless, talentless actor friends she'd married.
There was no name at the top or signature at the bottom. Nor was there a date or a return address. The message was short.
I must see you as soon as you get home. VERY IMPORTANT. Don't phone or write. I had a blazing row with the old hag before I left. Remember J! Heather Glenn.
Rachael had held onto this letter for the last week. She was sure Király didn't know it existed, and she hadn't let Ophelia see it either. She simply didn't know what to do about it. The most likely explanation was that Octavia had come to sponge money off Rachael. When that hadn't worked she realised it was useless going to Ophelia, who had no money of her own, and instead appealed to Király. The reference to herself as "the old hag" incensed her. As soon as she got home she'd see her lawyer and have Octavia completely disinherited.
But who or what was J? Rachael had tried various conjectures. A mutual friend of Octavia and Király, a place, a stage play, a license plate, even the initial of a rival company. None of them were convincing. Finally she hit on the idea of blackmail. J referenced some event or person Király wanted to remain unknown, Octavia had found out somehow, and she was using it to demand money.
As for Heather Glenn — or possibly that was really Heather Glem, or even Heather Glew; Octavia's handwriting was a mess — she must be one of Octavia's actress friends. Why she was mentioned in the letter was yet another mystery.
Rachael had considered several courses of action. She could confront Király. She could interrogate Ophelia, though she doubted her older niece knew anything about it. The sisters had never been close.
Or, and this was the most promising one, she could wait until they were all back in Langdale Manor. She could summon Octavia from whichever theatrical dive she was currently lurking in. And she could produce the letter in front of everyone and demand an explanation.
She heard Ophelia open her cabin door. Quickly she shoved the letter back into the drawer and closed it before Ophelia came in.
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Ji Ye awoke to one of his fellow stewards hammering on his door and shouting obscenities. He blinked at the clock and almost fell out of bed. How had he slept so late?
He had vague memories of drinking too much when he went off-duty and getting into a poker game with a friendly passenger. He could only hope he hadn't told them anything too impolite about the more obnoxious passengers. Gossip had a way of spreading, and his boss would murder him if any of it was traced back to him.
He pulled on his steward's uniform and hunted through his pockets for his skeleton key. Then he searched the floor. He pulled open all the drawers in the bedside cabinet. He scoured the whole cabin. But it was useless. He'd lost his skeleton key.
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12:30 P.M.
"'Johnny Eames cannot be called unlucky in that matter of his annual holiday, seeing that he was allowed to leave London—'"
"All right, that will do," Rachael interrupted.
Phil closed the book with an internal sigh of relief. Rachael had tired of picking faults in her reading and had allowed her to get through a full chapter without interruption. She had also very kindly allowed Phil to take a break for half an hour to have a cup of tea.
"Dinner will be served by now. Do something with that atrocious mess you call a hairstyle then follow me to the dining room."
Phil went back to her room thinking things not lawful to be uttered about her aunt's hairstyle, and the way she braided her hair before putting it in a bun. She unpinned her hair, gave it a quick brush, and pinned it up again. Unfortunately she couldn't manage the fashionable pompadour hairstyles worn by all the other young women[2]. Before leaving she paused to scowl at her reflection — specifically at her dress.
Rachael insisted on dressing in the late-1880s styles that had been the height of fashion when she was young and desperately wishing to be part of fashionable society. Only a minor rebellion had prevented her from imposing those same outdated styles on her nieces. She still refused to let Phil wear anything made after 1910. Every day Phil had the mortification of being the only young woman on-board whose hemline was below her ankle. She could only thank her lucky stars that she wasn't stuck wearing something from 1908 or earlier; the puffed sleeves were completely out of fashion by now[3].
Her clothes were always dull, usually grey or navy and devoid of frills and lace. Phil often thought she looked more than a country schoolteacher than a wealthy businesswoman's niece.
As soon as Rachael died, the very first thing Phil was going to do would be to get some decent clothes.
It was almost 12:40. She couldn't waste time any longer. Phil picked up a magazine she'd bought the previous day and hadn't had a chance to read yet. If she was lucky Rachael would go to play bridge and leave her in peace after dinner. Then she left her cabin and locked the door behind her.
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12:40 P.M.
I'm working to a very strict schedule. I have to so everything can go smoothly. The girl has thrown it off. I allowed her five minutes to get ready. I timed her yesterday and she didn't take as long as that. Of course it would be today that she dawdles.
Finally! She's leaving. She locks her door, of course. I wait until she's out of sight. Everyone else on this hallway has already left. I wait a minute in case she comes back. Then I open her door. The skeleton key works perfectly.
A small square cut out of the wall is all I need. Beside the wardrobe is the best place. The wood and the clothes in it will quiet the sound of the shot, if anyone is around to hear. She put a chair beside the wardrobe, which was very considerate. I move the chair out of the way and begin to saw.
It only takes five minutes. I've done this before. When I'm done I put the chair back in its place. I stand back and examine my work. She'll never see it there unless she's specifically looking for it.
I lock the door behind me.
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12:50 P.M.
Rachael was planning something unpleasant for someone. Phil had seen the symptoms before. Unusual abstraction, frowning and tapping her fingers against her lips, not noticing when she was spoken to, maintaining a stony silence; they were all unpleasantly familiar. Phil immediately began reviewing her recent behaviour to see what might have set Rachael off. Her normal yelling was bad enough. But this sort of behaviour always preceded a particularly nasty outburst. The sort of outburst that lasted for days and could sometimes become physically violent. (Mostly to Rachael herself; during these explosions she would slap her own face and accuse the target of her wrath of driving her to do this. At these times Phil honestly believed her aunt belonged in a padded cell.)
Phil spotted the symptoms as soon as she walked into the dining room. What could have happened to cause this in a few minutes? She didn't know, but she immediately switched from trying to provoke Rachael to being as conciliatory as possible. She'd planned to read her magazine during dinner. Instead she kept her handbag firmly closed and greeted Rachael more politely than she had at any time since they left home.
Rachael stayed silent all through dinner. It played havoc with Phil's nerves. She kept her head down, then worried that was making her aunt even angrier. She pretended to be absorbed in her meal, but when her knife scraped against the plate she tensed and waited for an explosion that didn't come. She tried to act naturally but felt like a puppet operated by a trainee puppeteer. Every minute she expected Rachael to accuse her of something. Phil almost wished her aunt would just so she would finally know what was wrong.
She couldn't have said what was served for dinner. All the food tasted like ash, and there was a twisting feeling in her stomach that prevented her eating much.
The outburst would come when they were alone, Phil was sure of it. Even Rachael had some idea of what was or wasn't considered proper.
She was wrong in two ways. The outburst came during dessert. And it came from Phil herself.
Mr. Colman came in late, deep in conversation with another man. Phil, who was facing the door, caught a few sentences as they approached.
"But have you proof he cheated?" Mr. Colman was saying.
"That card was in my hand right up until he knocked over his drink," the other man said. "Then suddenly it had disappeared and he had it instead. I know he stole it."
"Proving it will be tricky," Mr. Colman said. He saw Phil and nodded to her. "Afternoon, Miss Patton."
Phil suddenly knew exactly how someone felt when they were standing on a crumbling cliff-edge and faced disaster no matter what they did. She could say nothing and be thought extremely rude, but that was useless because Rachael's head had snapped up as soon as she heard Mr. Colman address Phil. Or she could answer, which would just confirm that she knew him. It would be useless to explain to Rachael that they were just casual acquaintances.
"Good afternoon," she said, and commended her soul to God.
Mr. Colman and his friend moved on to another table, blissfully unaware of the chaos they had unleashed. Rachael fixed Phil with her most icy, beady-eyed stare.
When she spoke it was in a deceptively pleasant voice. "Who is that young man, Ophelia? Do we know him?"
"I met him yesterday," Phil said, and carefully left out any reference to Mr. Colman's occupation. Rachael was convinced that actors were the most immoral people on earth. "He lent me his handkerchief when I spilt my coffee."
Rachael began to smile. It was what Vi called her "dead-fish" smile, because it was cold and left its target feeling like someone had just slapped them with a dead fish. "I thought you knew better than to speak to strange young men. You should spare a thought for your reputation."
Phil gritted her teeth. If she answered as snappily as she wanted to, she would only confirm Rachael's suspicions. "There were dozens of people around. It's not as if I spoke to him alone."
Rachael shook her head with that infuriating air of martyrdom she affected at times. "I see you're determined to disgrace yourself like your sister has."
Her words threw the situation into a completely new light. Suddenly Phil realised that the target of her aunt's rage wasn't her at all. It was Vi, which could only mean that Rachael had discovered a certain secret — but apparently not Phil's part in it.
"How has Vi disgraced herself?" she asked guardedly to find out how much Rachael knew.
"She has become a blackmailer."
If Rachael had announced that Vi had been elected empress of Mars it would have surprised Phil less. She gawked at her aunt. Then she said what she thought.
"You're mad."
It was the worst thing she could possibly have said. Rachael practically snarled at her.
"I thought so. I thought you must be tangled up in it too. But what can I expect when your mother is no better than she should be?"
To be perfectly honest Phil had no strong feelings either way for her mother. She didn't particularly like her for abandoning her daughters to Rachael's tender mercies, but Mrs. Patton had so little presence in Phil's life that she might as well have been dead. All the same, Phil was not going to sit here and let her be insulted.
She looked Rachael dead in the eye and said something she had often thought. "I wish you were dead."
Finally it was Rachael's turn to look like someone had hit her with a dead fish. "What did you just say?"
Phil raised her voice, completely forgetting the other passengers around her. "I wish you were dead!"
A shocked exclamation to her right reminded her of where she was. She looked round and discovered that everyone within hearing range was staring at her. Suddenly she couldn't bear to stay in the dining room for another minute.
Phil jumped up and ran out.