“No,” said Miranda.
“But if it was suicide?”
“This was murder,” said Morgan.
Eleanor Drummond’s eyes narrowed for a moment, but she said nothing.
The room was large and cluttered, with massive doors leading away on either side and into the interior depths of the house. It seemed cramped; it was the room of a man who needed to see what he thought, piled on shelves. Morgan felt vaguely embarrassed, the way he did gazing at an open cadaver.
Windows flanked the French doors along the outer wall. There was a fireplace, there were shelves against the other walls packed with hardcover books, with the occasional oversize volume stored horizontally on top of the rows. Books with pictures of koi lay open on the sofa and floor in cross-referencing piles. There was a small pile of books beside a wingback chair that faced out with a view of the garden. A slender Waterford vase sat poised on one of the bookshelves with three wilted long-stemmed roses. The walls were adorned with antique guns, animal heads and old maps, aboriginal masks and photographs of blurred shadows, likenesses of nightmares. There was a bar to one side littered with koi paraphernalia, water-testing potions, gauges for testing salinity, ammonia, oxygen quotients.
“Odd that it was locked,” said Morgan.
“Maybe he went out another door and walked around,” suggested Miranda.
“In his socks?”
A pair of dress shoes sat neatly on the floor, facing away from the sofa. The shoes had been removed by a man at rest, not parked there on his way outside.
“He usually used the wingback,” said Eleanor Drummond as if they were piecing together the same puzzle.
Morgan motioned for her to sit, then took a seat opposite. Miranda drifted away and, despite the forensic specialists coming in through the French doors, the woman focused on Morgan as if there was no one else in the room.
Miranda usually found books comforting. At first she had thought the room was a sanctuary, but as she wandered around she found it unsettling. What she had initially taken to be evidence of personality was actually its absence.
The shelved books were arranged by subject matter. She arranged her own books by colour and size. There was a cluster of postcards tacked to a bulletin board. On the obverse side they were blank. Sometimes the most telling story was no story at all. The opulent vulgarity of the Waterford vase attracted her eye. It was Victorian and still had a Birks label affixed to the base. There was no radio, no outlet for music. There were no paintings, only a pair of diplomas, a couple of studio graduation portraits. On a shelf an unlikely sequence of ornamental porcelain ducks was arranged next to some antique etchings in whale ivory.
“Scrimshaw,” said Morgan, glancing in the direction of her gaze.
She nodded. Looking down at the colourful runner beneath her feet, the coarse wool blunt with age, she wondered if it was good. Morgan would know. Must be antique, she thought. Not much resilience. And no underpad.
Close by the fireplace was a ceramic bin, out of which an array of walking sticks protruded at odd angles. She noticed a flat wooden blade leaning against the bin which, on closer examination, appeared to have hieroglyphs etched into its surface. My God, she thought, gently tracing her fingers along the rows of figures running its length, this was half a million dollars. She held it aslant to the light, trying to capture the inscrutable shadows.
It saddened Miranda to realize that Easter Islanders couldn’t possibly afford to repatriate their heritage. How could they compete with museums or with a wealthy collector from Rosedale who was too feckless to put it on display?
Did Rongorongo have any meaning if its meaning was lost?
Morgan watched her scrutinizing the hieroglyphs. Her auburn hair and slightly aquiline nose, lips poised in concentration rather than pursed, hazel eyes squinting to make out the writing, as if by peering more carefully she could understand what it said, all made her appear like an actor playing the role of detective: detached but absorbed, quietly confident, attractive but not distracting, hints of a strong personality bringing the scene into focus.
He returned his attention to the dead man’s mistress. She was both subtle and flash. Maybe Griffin preferred the word lover to make them seem equal; she preferred mistress to affirm the divide.
Morgan fidgeted while they talked. He watched more than listened. Eleanor Drummond seemed not to know she was being interrogated, and yet revealed virtually nothing.
Miranda tried several doors before finding a staircase that was surprisingly steep and narrow, leading up to the main part of the house. She ascended the stairs and rambled from room to room, turning on lights as she went.
“Personally, I think it was suicide,” Eleanor Drummond repeated to Morgan as if the possibility had just crossed her mind.
“Everything suggests he wasn’t anticipating the end,” Morgan said. “Books laid out to be read, shoes by the sofa — it all gives the impression of a man who had no intention of dying.”
“Perhaps that’s what he wanted us to think.”
“And why would he want us to think that?”
“So you’d think it was murder.”
“Which I do.”
“Drowning in a pond doesn’t seem like murder, Detective.”
“Dead men don’t drown. He probably died in this room.”
She looked away, out to the garden. She shared the habit of all beautiful people, inviting him to assess her without seeming to stare.
There was no way she would have been able to manoeuvre a man to the pond, dead or alive, without leaving skid marks on the grass and bruises on the body from hefting him over the retaining wall. Morgan was certain there would be no bruises. Griffin’s clothes weren’t twisted on his limbs, his body seemed inordinately relaxed. The fish weren’t spooked.
She didn’t strike him as a person who would work with an accomplice. Eleanor Drummond might have the capacity for murder, he thought, but judging from her disinclination to express appropriate emotion, probably not the desire.
Morgan thought of the koi. They weaved the shadows, wefts of colour sliding through warps of dark clear water. He lapsed into wordlessness, his mind occupied with images.
Awkwardly, the woman withdrew a cigarette, then glanced around. Seeing no ashtrays, she slipped it back into the package and set the pack down on the coffee table. She settled back on the green sofa as composed but on edge as if she were in an oncologist’s waiting room.
Miranda reappeared, stepping through the massive doorway back into Griffin’s retreat. She had been uneasy, almost anxious, in the rest of the house. It felt unnaturally empty, as if the ancestral ghosts haunting its spaces and furnishings hadn’t yet embraced their newest arrival. In the den, perhaps because the dead man’s predilections appeared on display, the ghosts seemed more accommodating.
“Would you excuse me?” said Morgan abruptly, addressing Eleanor Drummond while gesturing to his partner for help. “Detective Quin will have some questions. I’m needed outside …” His voice trailed off as he closed the French doors behind him. He took a deep breath of the evening air, annoyed with himself for having offered an explanation to account for his exit.
Activity in the garden had faded with the evening light. He walked over to where the body bag lay on the ground sheet, with a solitary attendant standing vigil. Morgan nodded.
“Waiting for the Black Mariah,” explained the corpse’s companion. “The ME ran out of gas. It didn’t seem I should leave the guy here on his own.”
Morgan was taken by the man’s innate courtesy. “It’s okay. See what you can do inside.” As the officer was about to disappear under the shadows of the portico, Morgan changed