The Old House Problem (4/4)

I visited the offices of Thomson, Thomson & Stitch and gained an appointment with none other than Kevin Stitch.

A small and smooth man ensconced behind a polished desk, he looked like a cheerful frog.

"Ah, you must be Ann Archer," he said.

“Yes. As I said on the phone, I’m looking for the will of one of your old clients, a Lilian Hersch. The reason is that I’m researching her life for a biography. I’m not writing the biography but I’m a kind of…assistant. But I have credentials—I’m from Kakapo Press.”

I showed him the laminated keycard that lets me into the press offices when I need to.

Kevin Stitch looked at my card with a look of amusement.

“You’ll have to do better than that if you’re ever in the dock!” He chuckled.

“What do you mean?” I said, frowning.

“Well, you’re lying of course. A word of advice: never lie. You’re very bad at it and it will only make things worse.”

“But…I do work for Kakapo Press.”

“Oh that I believe.”

I guess I was getting beetroot red because he seemed to take pity on me at that point.

“Oh don't mind me," he said. "After death, wills are actually a matter of public record. All you have to do is apply to the High Court and they’ll pop it along to you.”

“Oh,” I said, feeling deflated and relieved at the same time.

“That said, I’m curious--what is it that you’re really doing?” He leaned back in his chair, folded his hands on his stomach and put his head on one side, waiting to be entertained.

I knew that I could simply refuse to tell him, but he seemed an oddly personable figure and the fact was I was glad of the chance to talk about my obsession.

“Well. To tell you the absolute truth, I want to buy Lilian Hersch’s old house.”

He nodded, smoothed his tie, waited.

“And I want to know if she was murdered or not.”

His eyebrows shot up.

“I see…and is there anything to suggest that she was?”

I told him about the mysterious circumstances of Lilian Hersh’s death. I explained that she’d once cheated her ex-husband out of owning a valuable violin and that his widow Marie had discovered the fraud and sent Lilian angry threats demanding the real violin. Lilian’s pregnant daughter had been killed just about the time of these threats.

Then I showed him two letters: the letter Lilian had written to her friend Dietrich in which she said that the violin was gone and that ‘they’ were trying to kill her; then the letter from Augustus Clay, which scoffed at her ‘auditory hallucinations’. I told him how I’d seen Sir Colin Kelly, who said that there had been someone living in her basement who’d installed a record player down there, and that Lilian’s old housekeeper had heard voices and music at the house.

And there was more: Kelly had since contacted me to say he’d reviewed the police report and one of the officers noted that there were two plates in the dishwashing rack, two sets of cutlery and two wine glasses. The implication was, that someone had dined with Lilian that evening. Unfortunately the only fingerprints on the dishes were Lilian’s.

Finally, I said that in the past year someone had entered the house with a key and overturned everything, even cutting holes in the walls and throwing some black liquid on the kitchen wall. I told him my theory was that whoever had come in had been looking for the violin, but had not found it.

“Suggestive,” said Kevin Snitch, stroking his chin on his hands. “Any idea who it was who was living in the basement?”

“No. The only clue I have about that is that the LP on the turntable was a Violin Concerto in D Minor by Franz Benda. So…”

The lawyer finished the thought for me.

“So whoever it was definitely knew about the violin.”

“Exactly. It’s confusing though. If Lilian was killed for the violin, then how come the house wasn’t ransacked until 15 years later? And if the violin was gone before she was killed, then (a) why hadn’t she reported its disappearance to the police (Sir Colin confirms that she hadn’t) and (b) what was the point of killing her?”

Stitch mused, clicking the nib of his gold pen.

“Of course there are several possible answers. Maybe she wasn’t killed at all. And even if she was, it may not have had anything to do with the violin. That said, the LP in the basement suggests otherwise.  Why hadn’t she reported its disappearance? Well, remember it was technically the property of her ex’s widow--her sworn enemy according to you—so Lilian may have been afraid the police would hand it over to her. Alternatively…”

“Yes?”

“Well, if it were me,” Stitch sat back and folded his arms, “And I knew someone was after my valuables, I would put them somewhere safe. Perhaps she had a safety deposit box…but as I recall that was opened and nothing of particular note found.”

“Might she have hidden it somewhere?” I wondered out loud.

Stitch shrugged, and repeated himself.

“If it were me,” he said again.

Professor Stuart Floyd

That afternoon, I managed to get hold of Professor Stuart Floyd, who worked in the Music Department and knew Lilian because she was often invited to staff dinners and things as retired faculty. Floyd was an American by birth, tall with blonde hair bleaching to white, and quietly spoken and quite charming, with a self-deferential manner and wistful smile.

“I remember Lilian very well, of course,” he said. “We had a lot in common—we’d both grown up in New York. Well, I was technically from Long Island and she was a Lower East Side veteran. We’d both gone to Julliard, knew a lot of the same people. I have some Jewish-German ancestry on my mother’s side.” He shrugged. “Natural we’d stick together among all these ‘bloody kiwis,’ no offence,” he grinned.

“Haha, none taken,” I said. “Actually, I was wondering if, after her death, she left any instruments to the musical department.”

“Oh, do you know, she did leave several things. It was really quite wonderful of her because there were some baroque items that were very valuable. We have a small museum in the back of Marama Hall, if you’d care to see?”

I said I would and tried to conceal my excitement.

“Is there any item in particular you were thinking of?” he said as he unlocked the door to the building.

“Well, we’re interested in the whole collection, of course,” I said, “But I’m particularly interested in a violin that used to belong to Franz Benda. Did she ever tell you about it?”

“Oh yes!” he said enthusiastically as the door swung open. “Regrettably, that one is not here. Mind you, I can’t really say regrettably because I’m not sure the university would have been willing to spring for the insurance premiums. It was worth a small fortune. Hmmm, let’s have some light in here…” He flicked on the switch and I found myself in a room full of weird and wonderful music instruments. A theremin, Māori bone flutes, a harpsichord, a gamelan ensemble, a huge saxophone, an ocarina, an alpenhorn and things that looked like whistles.

“Let’s see…” he said, “Where is the Lilian Hersch section? Ah! Here it is.”

He beckoned me over to see a display of wooden wind instruments: an oboe, a flute, a huge recorder. There was also an exquisite French horn from the early 18^th century and a glass piccolo. I ooohed and aaaahed, but inside I felt a deep sense of disappointment.

As we were leaving the museum, Professor Floyd said something that struck me.

“You know, I don’t know if I ought to bring this up but…can I tell you something off the record?”

“Of course. With the proviso that I can suggest that the author will be able to contact you?”

He thought about that, then nodded, frowning slightly.

“Well, the thing is that when Lilian died, I was surprised. She was the sort of woman who told you everything about herself—she didn’t care, she was an open book. She talked about her health quite frequently. And one thing she boasted about was how healthy her heart was. She’d had routine tests done, you see, considering that she was older. But her doctor had been impressed with her overall condition. And then, when I read she’d had a heart attack…” he frowned, “Well, it just didn’t seem to add up.”

I nodded.

“That’s interesting. You think her death may have been…deliberate?”

“I don’t have any evidence, you understand,” said Floyd, “But, well, it worried me a little. She was so healthy and she loved life that it was hard to imagine her committing suicide or dropping dead suddenly. Mind you, stranger things have happened.”

“Yes, yes, of course.”

As I walked back to my apartment, I thought furiously. As soon as I got in the door I texted Holly the following message:

Hey! Do you know any poison whose symptoms could be mistaken for a heart attack?

She’s a pharmacist, so I figured she would know. Sure enough, she texted back within two minutes:

Thallium, Digoxin, Aluminum Phosphate Poisoning, Oleander, Cyanide…about a million more?

Well. That didn’t get me too much further, but it did suggest a line of thought…

Not very long after that, I got a phone call from a number I didn’t recognize.

“Hello?” I said.

“Ms. Archer?”

“Yes, speaking.”

“It’s Dietrich Schmidt. I have some news for you, my dear.”

He sounded excited and was speaking too loudly.

“Oh?” I said.

“I think it would be best if you came round.”

“Now?” I said, reluctant.

“Yes. It’s really rather important, you see.”

Ten minutes later I arrived at Dr. Schmidt’s house and he was clearly in a tizz. His white hair was sticking up in every direction having been absent-mindedly ruffled.

“What is it?” I asked eagerly.

“Come in, come in!” He looked over my shoulder as if expecting someone to appear behind me.

He ushered me into the sitting room, practically pushed me into an armchair and started pacing back and forth, just as he used to do when giving a lecture.

“When you showed me the letter—the one Lilian wrote for me, saying that ‘They’ were trying to kill her—it shook me up considerably. The thing is, it reminded me of something she’d said to me not long before she died. At the time I thought that she was perhaps being over sentimental or drunk or even possibly having some sort of psychiatric episode.”

“What did she say?”

“She said.”

“Dietrich, if I ever return unexpectedly. Look for me in Brunhilde. And now, after you told me of this note, I went to look at Brunhilde closely.”

“And?” I asked, perplexed.

“She’s papier-mâché and quite hollow. Except, not quite.”

“What do you mean?”

“I tried knocking on her in various places and I was suddenly convinced that there was something inside her.”

My heart started beating quickly.

“The violin?” I whispered.

He nodded.

“I cut her open, carefully, and…look!” He produced from a case a very elegant and fragile looking fiddle. “This is it!”

I gasped.

“So Lilian gave it to you for safe-keeping!”

“And I wish by Christ that she hadn’t! What on earth am I supposed to do with it now?”

“Take it to the police?” I suggested. “Or put it in a safety deposit box?”

“Look,” he said. “I’ve got an important Zoom meeting coming up for the Schiller Club. Would you mind taking care of it? Having that thing in my house a moment longer makes me nervous.”

“Of course,” I said. “I’ll go to my bank now, stow it away and call Sir Kelly.”

As I walked to the bank, which was only ten-minute stroll down the hill, I was nervous at first but then realized I looked like any other music teacher or student. It was not unusual to see people carrying violin cases—no one would know that this was an invaluable treasure. Once I realized this, I got lost in thought. Once again, Lilian had fooled her pursuers! First her ex-husband, and now this would-be thief and (possibly) murderer. I was so absorbed in my meditations that I didn’t look for traffic before crossing the road, which I knew was little used. To my horror, I found myself directly in front of a speeding car—some kind of silver hatchback hurtling towards me. By some unexpected burst of speed I managed to avoid it, diving into a holly bush and scratching myself badly, not to mention scraping my knee on the footpath.

Even in shock as I was, I was terrified that the violin would be damaged. I opened the case with shaking hands and, to my relief, found that it was intact.

Replaying the scene in my mind, I had the nagging feeling that that car had been aiming at me. It certainly hadn’t slowed down…though perhaps it hadn’t had time? I’d only had a glimpse of the driver—someone in sunglasses, with a baseball cap I hadn’t even been able to tell if it was a man or woman, though something told me it was a man.

My knees felt wobbly, my knee was bleeding, I had scratches on my face and arms and I was on the verge of tears. Even so, I felt that I really had to get to the bank as soon as humanly possible.

The bank teller looked at me oddly when I arrived, but I got the safety deposit box sorted out in the end and only then did I feel I could relax, finally. I called Holly.

“You’re never going to believe this, but I found the violin.”

“WHAT?” she yelled. I heard some voices behind her. “Oh go away!” she snapped.

“If you say so—”

“No, not you Ann, the stiffs in this research library.” I heard her speaking, muffled, “OK, OK--I’m going!” and heavy breathing as she walked somewhere. “OK, now I’m outside. Tell me everything.”

I did.

She whistled.

“Who do you think it was? Schmidt?”

“I don’t think so. At least, I didn’t see any car like that at his place.”

“Then someone’s been shadowing you! They’re trying to assassinate you for investigating.”

“Noooo,” I didn’t want to believe that, it was too horrible.

“You know who’d be good at shadowing? A former detective. Like, say, Sir Colin Kelly!”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” I said. “Besides, he’s got a problem with his ankle. I very much doubt he’d be able to drive around right now.”

“Did you get a look at the license plate?” Holly asked.

“No, I was too busy diving face-first into a prickly bush, wasn’t I?”

“Hey Ann,” said Holly after a moment’s pause, “If someone’s out to get you, maybe you’d better come stay at my place tonight.”

Once there, we ordered pizza and Holly dropped a bombshell.

“I know you probably don’t need to hear this right now, but I found something out while I was doing research.”

“What?”

“Marie has been living in New Zealand since 2007.”

“You mean…a year before Lilian died?”

“A few months before.”

I shook my head, hardly able to believe it.

“Where did she move to? North Island? South Island?”

“Wellington. In 2009 she married again and became Marie Patterson.”

“And then?” I asked. “Where is she now?”

My mind went back to that car and I wondered if the driver had actually been a woman.

“And you know what else?”

“What?”

“Jeremey, my real estate agent, said he’d shown Lilian’s house to three people before you: a male university professor, a young man and a couple in their sixties—the woman of the couple was foreign.”

“What kind of foreign?”

“Well, he wasn’t too clear on that,” Holly admitted. “But it could have been German, which means it’s possible that Marie is here right now.”

It was a shock. Somehow I’d discounted Marie because she’d been on the other side of the world, but now it looked as if she’d been right here all along.

Holly saw me getting lost in my thoughts and made a rule that we couldn’t talk about the case for the rest of the night; we would just blob out. So when the pizza arrived we nostalgia-watched five episodes of the Real Housewives of Beverly Hills until I almost felt normal again. Then Holly went to bed and I lay on her couch, staring at the ceiling and thinking things over. I couldn’t help it; I had a nagging feeling that my subconscious was trying to tell me something.

As alarming as the fact that Marie was here was, my mind was brooding on another aspect of what Jeremy had said: a university professorhad visited the house. My mind went immediately to Dietrich Schmidt. Was he really as innocent as he seemed? Had he viewed the house as a pretext for looking for the stolen violin then and then just fabricated the story of the statue? And what about the music lecturer Stuart Floyd? Maybe he had gone there and looked for the violin, then made a huge mess when he couldn’t find it. Finally, there was Augustus Clay, who used the title ‘Doctor’ and had a plummy academic voice and manner. Conceivably, even Sir Colin Kelly might pass off as a distinguished university professor. I was starting to have the disturbing feeling that anyone might be involved in Lilian’s death. Perhaps it wasn’t rational, but I was still shaken after nearly being knocked down by the car.

I had only just nodded off when I heard the scratching. It was coming from the front door. At first I thought it was a cat but it was too regular somehow, too careful. In half a second I was wide awake with a beating heart. My mind was filled with one word: DANGER.

As quietly as I could, I crept into Holly’s room. I needed to wake her up without scaring her to death I talked very low.

“Holly, Holly, wake up it’s me Ann. Wake up.”

“Nnngggrrhuh?” she mumbled.

“Shhhhhh!”

“There’s someone outside. Be very quiet and do what I tell you, OK?” I explained what we were going to do.

Five minutes later, we were both in Holly’s walk-in wardrobe, holding our breaths, waiting. Just when I was starting to think it was a false alarm, we heard a very slight noise. Through the keyhole of the wardrobe, I saw a shape moving towards the bed. It was holding something and at first I thought it might be a gun, until it glinted a little from light coming from a sliver of streetlight peeking through the blinds.

I touched Holly’s arm and we burst out of the door, yelling as loudly as we could and shining our cellphone lights at the man’s eyes—it was a man. He screamed and went to pieces, dropping his knife in fright as we tackled him (I may not have mentioned it before, but Holly and I were in the women’s first fifteen at University).

“Got ’im!” I yelled, sitting on his back and holding his wrists together. Holly turned the lights on and we heard a police siren approaching.

The following day, Holly and I were at the police station talking to Inspector Charlotte Lee.

“Well, I must say this is definitely one of the more unusual incidents I’ve been involved in. I’ve talked to Sir Colin Kelly, and he told me about your visit and some of the background. I believe you recovered the violin in question?”

“Yes—completely by accident,” I said. “After talking to Lilian’s friend Dietrich Schmidt.”

Inspector Lee nodded.

“I see. And I understand that you visited Mr. Floyd yesterday. Were you aware of his true identity at the time?”

“His what? You mean he’s not Stuart Floyd?” I asked.

“His former name was Toby Mankin, the fiancé of Lilian’s daughter Rachel. There was some suspicion that Mankin was involved with Rachel’s death, though it was never proved. He came to New Zealand in 2005 after having obtained a position in the Music Department at the university here. As a former Julliard alumnus, he had no difficulty in getting a job.

“We interviewed him and he confessed everything. On the last night of Lilian’s life, Toby Mankin aka Stuart Floyd went to dinner with Lilian intending to poison her and to take the violin. He said she was aware of his interest in the violin and, in his words, ‘taunted’ him, saying that the violin wasn’t on the premises, she’d put it in a safety deposit box. He was mad at that and decided to poison her anyway. He said he used a large dose of Digoxin. We’re still not sure how he got it.”

“Is he crazy?”

“Not as far as I can tell, just greedy and unscrupulous. We believe that Rachel must have told him about the violin and that it was in Lilian’s possession. Probably that was his reason for immigrating in the first place. He seems to have been a bit obsessed by it.”

I remembered with a shiver when he’d asked me if there was any instrument in particular that I was looking for.

“And he seems to have been working in tandem with his partner, a German woman named Marie Weber.”

“Marie!” Holly and I looked at each other, astonished.

“So who was responsible for trashing the house recently then? Why would he do that if he knew the violin wasn’t there?” Holly asked, frowning.

Charlotte twiddled her thumbs.

“We have reason to believe that that may have been a therapist that Lilian was seeing. He’s been in our sights for a while as we had complaints about inappropriate behavior with clients. It may have been that he was trying to retrieve compromising material. In many cases there have been diaries…”

Augustus Clay!

“Anyway,” said Detective Inspector Lee, “I think the force is in your debt for bringing this matter to our attention. You may not have followed the letter of the law—taking private property is not exactly condoned here—but I’m willing to overlook that given that you apprehended a serial killer.”

“Serial killer?” I asked.

“Well, yes. Toby Mankin has been wanted in New York for twenty years now for the murder of Rachel Hersch. He and Marie had planned his getaway in advance and accomplished it rather neatly. He’ll be extradited tomorrow to finally face the music.”

“And the violin?” I asked. “What happens to it now?”

“Well,” said Charlotte Lee. “I’m not sure but I believe that, as Lilian effectively gifted it to Dietrich Schmidt, then it goes to him.”

As we walked away from the cop shop, Holly looked at me meaningly and said. “Now will you buy the house already?”

I said I would.