A Most Novel Revenge (13 page)

“What do you think it was?” I asked carefully. Mr. Roberts was undoubtedly in a troubled emotional state, but there might be something in what he said, some important detail that he might remember.

“I don't know. I've tried to think, but I just don't know.” He ran a hand through his dark hair, and the dark lock that fell across his forehead made him look even younger than he was. I felt another little pang of pity for him.

“Don't think about it now,” I said gently. “You must try to keep up your strength. Will you eat something? Or at least have some tea?”

He shook his head. “I couldn't.”

I had suspected as much, but it hadn't hurt to try. I only wished there was something I could do for him. It wouldn't do well for him to sit mourning alone in his room all night.

“The police will think I did it,” he said suddenly.

I looked up at him, unsure at first of how to respond. The police would look very carefully at Isobel Van Allen's lover. He was, after all, the one who had traveled with her from Africa, the one who, presumably, knew her secrets.

I didn't know Desmond Roberts at all. It was quite possible that he
had
done it. I didn't like to think so, but it had been very clear that his relationship with Isobel Van Allen was a volatile one. Might she have finally pushed him too far?

I was very careful to let none of these thoughts cross my face as I gave him what I hoped was an optimistic expression. “I'm sure the police will make sure the guilty party is caught.”

“Did she suffer much, I wonder?” He looked at me with haunted eyes. “I can't bear to think how awful it must have been…”

I didn't like to think of it either. It could not have been a nice way to die.

I was trying to think of something to say when I heard a polite clearing of the throat. “Mrs. Ames.”

I looked up to see Parks standing a discreet distance from the doorway. “Pardon the interruption, madam, but I wonder if I may be of some assistance?”

I felt an immense relief at the suggestion. If anyone was equipped to deal with such a situation, it was Milo's unflappable valet.

“Yes, thank you, Parks. Mr. Roberts isn't feeling well. Do you think you might help him into bed?”

“Certainly, madam.”

He came at once to the door and adeptly ushered the compliant Mr. Roberts back inside.

As I walked away, I heard Desmond say, his voice cracking, “I can't believe she's dead. Oh, Isobel. Isobel. How can I live without you?”

*   *   *

IT WAS NOT
until I was back in my room that I felt the full weight of the day's events descend upon me with incredible force. I needed a few moments alone to process everything that had happened today. I dismissed Winnelda at once, despite her worried glances in my direction, and began to prepare myself for bed. I washed my face, barely noticing the frigid temperature of the water, and changed numbly into my nightgown.

Then I sat on the edge of my bed, staring into the fireplace.

I had never been one much given to emotion, but I couldn't help but feel the effects of this tragedy. Something about Mr. Roberts's final anguished cry had pushed it all to the forefront. Unbidden, tears sprang to my eyes, and I allowed myself a moment to cry.

“Darling.” Milo's voice from the adjoining doorway behind me should have startled me, given the state of my nerves, but somehow it was as though I had sensed him there before he spoke.

I hurriedly wiped away my tears before rising from the bed and turning to face him. “Yes?”

He came into the room. “Are you all right?”

“Yes, of course, I'm fine. Just a bit overwhelmed by everything, I suppose.”

“It has been a terrible day for you.”

I shrugged. “It's not the first such day I've had, is it?” Milo and I had discovered a body together once before. That time had been awful, but there had been something worse about seeing Isobel Van Allen lying there on the floor and holding her lifeless body in my arms.

Milo was not at all fooled by my bravado.

“You needn't always put on a brave face, you know,” he said gently.

Fresh tears sprang to my eyes. I pressed my lips together, willing myself not to cry, but then Milo came and pulled me against him, and the gesture itself caused more tears to flow.

Emotions were not something I shared easily, not even with my husband. Though it shamed me to admit it, I was unaccustomed to deriving comfort from Milo. Ours had not exactly been a traditional marriage, and his new role as protector was something new to me.

I had always made every effort to hide my vulnerability, but there was something immensely reassuring about leaning into him, allowing him to share the burden for a moment.

“It was so awful, Milo,” I whispered against his chest. “All that blood.”

“I know, darling,” he murmured, stroking my hair. “Try not to think about it.”

“I can't seem to stop,” I said.

I allowed him to hold me for a moment longer and then I pulled back, sniffling, and took the handkerchief from his pocket to dab my eyes.

“I don't know why I'm taking it so hard. I didn't even know her, not really. And it wasn't as though we might ever have been friends.”

“No,” he said. “She was not a very likeable person.”

“Oh, I know everyone hated her, but I … I felt sorry for her. I think she was dreadfully unhappy. And poor Mr. Roberts is inconsolable. Who would do such a thing?”

“That's not for you to worry about,” he said. “I'm going to take you back to London as soon as the police allow it.”

I frowned. “That isn't necessary.”

“I think it is. I don't want you to stay here any longer. Once the inspector releases us, I intend to go back to our flat and forget all about this rotten mess. I've half a mind to throttle Laurel for suggesting you come in the first place.”

I stared at him as he took a cigarette from the silver case in his pocket and went to retrieve a match from a box on a table near the fireplace. It was not at all like him to order me about.

“It's been a dreadful day, of course, but that's no reason for us to abandon Laurel and the others. I know you dislike Laurel, but…”

“What I dislike,” he interrupted, turning to face me, “is the sight of my wife covered in blood.”

So that was it. He had thought the blood was mine, and it had shaken him more than I had realized. I felt a rush of love for him as I looked up into his handsome, impassive face.

“I'm fine, Milo. Really.”

He blew out a stream of smoke. “You will be much better in London.”

It seemed he had made up his mind. Well, then, I would have to work to change it.

“Let's not discuss it now,” I said. I was in no mood for a row. Perhaps tomorrow he would be more reasonable.

He was not fooled by my attempts to put him off, however. “I know perfectly well what you are doing, darling, and it won't work to change the subject. But you've had a long day. Perhaps you should get some rest.”

I shook my head. “I can't sleep, not now. There are too many things on my mind.” He watched me as I stepped closer. “I could certainly do with a distraction.”

“Are you trying to seduce me, madam?” he asked.

“Is it working?” I asked softly.

He tossed his cigarette into the fireplace and pulled me into his arms.

 

11

WE ALL MET
for breakfast as if by some tacit agreement. Everyone was there, with the exception of Mr. Roberts. I made a mental note to look in on him again later in the day.

The kitchen staff appeared to have felt the need to compensate for having not prepared dinner the previous night, for it was the most lavish breakfast spread as of yet. We dutifully filled our plates, though I think most of us had very little appetite.

I still felt a bit drained, but my emotions were once again firmly in hand. For one thing, if I was going to convince Milo to remain at Lyonsgate until the matter was cleared up, I would have to show him that I was not traumatized by recent events. I was not sure that I entirely cared for his newly developed chivalrous streak; I was accustomed to doing as I pleased.

It was Reggie who at last broached the subject that was foremost in everyone's mind. “We all spoke at one time or another yesterday, I believe,” he said in strained voice. “But I want everyone to know that I'm dreadfully upset about all of this, and I intend to do everything in my power to see that the killer is brought to justice. Isobel's death is a tragedy…”

“Is it?” Beatrice interrupted coolly. “I'd say her death has been rather a boon to all of us.”

“Beatrice!” Reggie cried, his face reddening.

“I'm only speaking the truth, Reggie. Something everyone always seems loath to do.” She looked around the table, her gaze holding something of a challenge. “With the exception of Mr. and Mrs. Ames, Isobel posed a threat to all of us. Her death is unfortunate, of course, but I cannot say that it is a great personal tragedy to me. Now that she is gone, there is little chance of her lies causing any more suffering.”

No one spoke for a long moment. I think all of the other guests agreed with her, but none of them much wanted to admit to such a callous sentiment.

At last Mr. Collins, Freida's husband, broke the silence. “It may be true, Mrs. Kline, that her death is inadvertently advantageous to us, but we must not forget that we are now all under suspicion for murder.”

“Mr. Roberts killed her, surely,” Beatrice said dismissively.

“Oh, no,” Lucinda protested. “Surely not. I believe he was very much in love with her. I could tell, by the way he looked at her.”

“Love, more than any other emotion, has the capacity to make people violent,” Beatrice replied. She said the words tonelessly enough, but I wondered what memories came with them. Was she thinking of whatever had transpired between Edwin Green and Bradford Glenn?

I glanced at Freida. She was looking straight ahead, her jaw tight. Perhaps she, too, was thinking back to the night that Edwin Green had died. I wondered what it was that she knew.

It seemed to me that the key to Isobel's death lay somewhere in the past. If she had been correct that Mr. Green's murderer was still at large, then she had likely been killed to keep the killer's identity a secret. The only way to know the truth now would be to hear what the others had to say about Edwin Green's death. The stories, the long-suppressed memories of that night and the events leading up to it, were there just below the surface. If only I could get people to reveal what they knew.

“The loss of any human life is a tragedy,” Reggie said, seeming to have found at last the energy to rebut his sister. “I hope, however, that you all know that you are welcome to stay at Lyonsgate for as long as you wish.”

“The police won't want us to leave anyway,” Laurel replied. “Not until the guilty person has been caught.”

Silence fell again as we all attempted to think of the proper response. One wanted the murderer to be caught, naturally, but it didn't seem in good taste to say so when it might very well be the person sitting beside one at the breakfast table.

“That Inspector fellow, Laszlo, will no doubt be back round today, asking more questions,” Reggie went on.

“What a nuisance,” Beatrice said. “We've told him everything we know. What more does he want?”

“It's a shame that none of us were together when it happened,” Gareth Winters said over his coffee cup. “It would have made eliminating the innocent parties much easier.”

The artist had, I noticed, a knack for seeming to have no interest in the conversation then joining it suddenly with a salient point. I had already ascertained that none of us had alibis. It was not exactly surprising, as it had been an odd hour of the morning, but it was certainly inconvenient.

Where
had
everyone been at the time of the murder? I was just about to raise the question when Milo caught my gaze and gave me what could only have been interpreted as a warning look.

“I know it's a nuisance,” Reggie told his sister, “but I think it would be best for us to cooperate as completely as possible. The sooner he is satisfied, the sooner our lives can go back to normal.”

“But our lives haven't been normal, have they?” asked Mr. Winters. “Nothing has been as it was before. Not since Edwin's death.”

“Our lives are what we have made them,” Beatrice said. “We will have to be content with them.”

He smiled, and it was a strange smile. “As you say, Beatrice.”

This curious exchange made me wonder even more about Gareth Winters. Of all the group at Lyonsgate, I found his true personality to be the hardest to gauge. He was always so silent, his pale eyes trained on something outside of the immediate. I wondered how much of his airy aloofness was affected. Was he truly so oblivious to the world around him, or did he choose this persona as a means of shielding who he truly was? If I could find a moment to speak with him alone, perhaps he would be more inclined to speak openly.

Breakfast broke up then, and we rose from the table.

Laurel came at once to my side. “I'm just going to keep Reggie company today,” she said softly. “I want to be certain that he is all right. But, you will let me know if you need anything?”

“Yes, certainly. In any event, Milo has been quite attentive.”

“Has he?” Her brow quirked as she looked over my shoulder.

I turned to see Lucinda Lyons talking animatedly to my husband.

“You know he can't resist being adored,” I said dryly. “Let him have his fun.”

“You've grown understanding in your old age.”

“We understand each other,” I said. “Much better than we ever did.”

She shrugged. “So long as you are happy, my dearest one. After all, who am I to argue with the course of true love?” There was more than a hint of sarcasm in her tone, but I knew it was meant affectionately.