A Most Novel Revenge (15 page)

“Of course.”

She began to close the door and then halted, looking out at me, a troubled expression in her eyes. “I know murder is wrong, and perhaps it's wicked of me, but somehow I can't help but feel that Isobel brought it on herself.”

*   *   *

I WALKED BACK
downstairs, lost in thought. I had been a bit surprised by Freida's sentiments, but I suspected they were shared by most of the others at Lyonsgate. No one, with the exception of Mr. Roberts, mourned Isobel Van Allen's passing. In fact, it had come as a relief to most of them.

Though I would not have put it exactly as Freida had, it did seem that Isobel had done her best to make people angry. She had cultivated an atmosphere of suspicion and malice, and it had been her downfall. Not, of course, that that was any excuse for murder.

What had Freida meant by murderers having gone unpunished? She might have been speaking in generalities, but it had seemed to me there was something more to her words. Perhaps I would have an opportunity to continue the conversation with her later.

I went into the drawing room hoping to find Mr. Winters there and was surprised to see Desmond Roberts sitting near the window, gazing out across the sprawling lawns.

He looked up when I entered and rose at once.

“Good morning, Mrs. Ames.”

He was still very pale beneath his bronzed skin and there were dark circles around his eyes. Both features were accentuated by the bright morning light shining through the window, but he appeared much more composed than he had been last night.

“Good morning. Please sit down. I didn't mean to disturb you.”

“No, no. Please. Come in, won't you?” he asked. “I … I'd rather like the company. I came down and found that there was no one about, so I thought I would sit here for a while. I … I felt I needed to leave my room.”

“I agree. It's not good for you to stay there all alone.” I came in and took a seat across from him, studying his taut, handsome face. “Have you had anything to eat?”

He shook his head. “I … I can't. Not yet.”

“Perhaps some coffee?”

“Perhaps later. I … I am feeling rather ill this morning.”

“I'm sorry to hear it,” I said. He did look unwell. His skin was pasty in color, almost gray, and the sheen of perspiration on it was visible from where I sat. Grief manifest itself in many different ways, and I was not at all surprised the poor boy was ill and without appetite. I did hope, however, that he didn't go on starving himself. Perhaps Parks might be able to induce him to eat something later. I would tell Milo to put him on the job.

“I'm sorry about the way I … the way I was last night,” he said after a moment of silence. “I was not myself.”

“Please don't apologize,” I said. “I know it was a terrible shock. Is there anything I can do for you?”

“No,” he said. “No, there's nothing. Thank you.”

I felt again a pang of sympathy for him. His sense of loss and loneliness was almost tangible. I wondered if it was left to him to make the arrangements for Isobel's funeral alone.

“Is there anything you need assistance with?” I asked him gently. “Any family I should notify or anything of that sort?”

He shook his head. “Isobel didn't have any family left. And I…” His voice broke off, and he looked out the window, as though somewhere far away. “I don't either,” he said at last.

“What about the funeral?” I was not entirely comfortable pressing him on such a private matter, but I also knew that he was likely to need support in the days ahead. When the shock had worn off, there would be a great many other matters to be attended to.

“Isobel made arrangements to be buried in Kenya,” he said.

I looked up, surprised. “Arrangements?”

“Yes, when all of this is over, she … her … body will be sent back to Africa.”

“When did she make these arrangements?” I asked, heedless of the impoliteness of such a question.

“Several months ago,” he said. “When she started planning to come back to England. She said that she didn't want to be laid to rest in cold ground if anything should happen.”

“I see,” I said, but I didn't, not really. It was a very strange thing for Isobel Van Allen to have done. She was still fairly young and, presumably, healthy. I could think of no reason why she should have made arrangements for her own funeral before her journey. Perhaps it had been nothing more than careful planning on her part but, if so, it was certainly an odd coincidence.

“It worried me, of course, but she only laughed and said for me to not fret, it was only a precaution. She always laughed at my worries…” His voice caught and he clenched his jaw for a moment before continuing. “Now I'm glad she did it. I'm glad things will be as she wanted.”

“It will make it easier on you.”

I watched his face as he seemed to go through some interior struggle. He wanted to say something, but wasn't sure how to go about it. At last he came out with it. “As I told you, Mrs. Ames, I have spent most of my life in Africa. There is a great deal of superstition in that country, but I have always considered myself immune to it. Good English common sense, you understand. But now I wonder…”

“Wonder what?”

“After all that's happened, I just can't help but wonder if Isobel knew somehow that she wasn't going to leave England alive.”

 

13

MR. ROBERTS EXCUSED
himself a few moments later, and I was left alone to ponder this newest piece of information. It seemed that Isobel Van Allen had suspected her visit to England might go badly. Why else would she have made arrangements to be carried out in the event of her death? If that was the case, however, why had she come back at all? It just didn't make sense.

I went out of the drawing room and into the entrance hall, still lost in thought, and I nearly ran directly into Mr. Winters.

“Oh, hello, Mr. Winters.”

“Hello,” he said, not in the least startled by our near collision.

I had already determined a means by which to engage him in conversation, and I put it into action at once. “I see you are on your way to the drawing room,” I said.

“The drawing room?” he asked, as though he didn't realize what room it was that he had been about to wander into.

“Yes, and I hate to disturb you, but there's a painting on the wall near the dining room that I'm curious about. I was wondering if perhaps you could tell me a bit about it.”

“Certainly.” He followed me without either hesitation or enthusiasm.

It was not all a ruse, for the piece had caught my eye every time I had made my way to the dining room. It was a market scene done in vivid colors and seemed to date to the Renaissance.

We went to stand before it, and Mr. Winters gazed at it with a somewhat blank expression, almost as though he was looking through it.

I knew that drugs had not been uncommon among the Lyonsgate set in their heyday, and I couldn't help but wonder if Mr. Winters still indulged. Somehow, however, I didn't think so. It wasn't as though he was in a stupor; it was more of a perennial aloofness, as though he was half in this world and half in some world of his own.

“It's an authentic piece,” he said, after examining it for a moment longer, “but not worth much, I should think. There are, however, a great many pieces of value here at Lyonsgate. Reggie might have sold them off long ago if he didn't intend to return.”

Perhaps Mr. Winters was more mentally present than I had assumed he was. Perhaps the vagueness was only a ruse that he used in order to protect himself from society. One thing was certain: he was more observant than I had given him credit for.

“I see. There is a similar piece at our country house, and I only wondered if it might be something worth insuring.”

“Perhaps,” he said vaguely.

“There do seem to be a good many lovely pieces here. I don't know much about art, of course, but I do enjoy looking at it.”

“The best of the art here at Lyonsgate is in the portrait gallery. There are some fine pieces there: an Eakins, a Rubens, and an excellent portrait of Angelique Lyons, done by David before the Revolution. That one, I expect, would fetch a pretty penny if Reggie could bring himself to part with it.”

“I shall have to look at the portrait gallery,” I said.

“I'll show you now, if you like,” he said. It was the first hint of any real interest that I had seen in Mr. Winters, and I hated to dampen it. Besides, it would give me an opportunity to broach the subject of Isobel's murder.

“I should like that,” I told him.

As we proceeded up the stairway, I attempted to bring the conversation around to the matter at hand. “I'm surprised the inspector hasn't been back again today.”

“I suppose he will return soon enough,” he answered with no hint of emotion.

“I still can't believe this has happened. It's shocking.”

“Yes.”

So far our conversation was not at all encouraging. I suspected it was going to be difficult to draw any sort of information out of Mr. Winters.

The long gallery, extending the length of the front of the house and paneled all in oak, was an impressive example of Tudor architecture. Though the curtains were drawn and it was quite dark, I could tell at once that it was a beautiful space.

Mr. Winters went with uncharacteristic quickness across the room and pulled back the red velvet drapes that hung across the wall of the windows, allowing the morning light to spill into the room. Dust mites danced in the sunbeams, and the carpets were faded, but the room was very beautiful, nonetheless.

Mr. Winters, too, was shown to best advantage by the room's illumination. His curls gleamed golden and his startlingly pale eyes nearly glowed, the color something akin to light shining on cool water. He was rather like a piece of art himself.

I turned to the wall opposite the windows, which held an impressive array of artwork, and studied it. Here were the members of the Lyons family arrayed in all their glory: dashing gentlemen in ruffled shirts and feathered hats, beautiful women bedecked in spangled gowns, solemn-faced children, and a fair share of dour-looking elderly forebears.

“That's the Rubens there,” Mr. Winters said, pointing out a portrait of a stern-faced gentleman. “And the Eakins is that lady dressed as a shepherdess.”

“Which one is the David?” I asked, but I thought I already knew. I was by no means a connoisseur of art, but I knew a fine piece when I saw one. The woman was very beautiful, dressed in a flowing blue gown.

“Do you notice anything about it?” he asked, looking at me expectantly.

I studied it. “It's an excellent portrait. Should I recognize it?”

“She looks rather like Beatrice, don't you think?”

I looked up again at the pale, cool gaze of Angelique Lyons and could, perhaps, see the resemblance. “Beatrice does look a bit like her.”

“Angelique Lyons killed her first husband in France,” he said casually.

My brows rose. “Indeed?”

“It was he that had commissioned David to paint Angelique. Then they had a row not many months later, and she stabbed him. She left Paris with a box of jewels and her portrait, taking Ivo Lyons for her second husband. He must have been a very understanding man.”

I thought it likely that Angelique Lyons had been a very persuasive woman.

We walked along the room in silence, looking at the pieces. I spared the occasional glance at Mr. Winters as we went along, amazed at the change that had come over him. He was more animated than I had yet seen him, his eyes bright, his expression clear. It was as though the art had acted as some sort of tonic.

We reached the far end of the gallery, and I stopped, surprised, before a painting hung on the periphery.

“This one is of Miss Van Allen,” I said, unable to hide my surprise.

A sad smile appeared on Mr. Winters's lips. “Yes,” he said. “I painted it that summer. Isobel had me hang it at the far end of the gallery as a sort of joke. I suppose Reggie never noticed. Or perhaps he just didn't care.”

I studied the painting. It was an excellent likeness. There was something different, softer about her face, though her sharp eyes held the same mischief that I had seen in them across the dinner table. I couldn't help but wonder if it was a reflection of who Isobel had been or who the artist had wanted her to be.

“It was inevitable, I think, that Isobel would come to a bad end,” Mr. Winters said reflectively. “She lived her life recklessly.”

I hid my surprise. “In what way?”

He looked over at me. “In every way possible. You must have noticed how she goaded us. It was because she enjoyed the danger of it. She was always that way, always pushing people, trying to see how far she could go. It was as though…” His voice trailed off for a long moment before he finished. “It was as though she was most alive when she was tempting fate.”

I felt there was no choice but to be direct with Mr. Winters. We would get nowhere if we both remained vague. “Do you think she was killed because of what she was writing in her second book?” I asked him.

He shrugged. “It might have been. Or it might just have easily been her young man.”

“Mr. Roberts seems terribly distraught.”

He shrugged again. “I have never been good at seeing the insides of people. It is the outside that interests me.”

He studied me as he said this. I had become somewhat used to his eerily searching gaze, but I still found those pale eyes a bit unnerving, especially as they almost glowed in the bright light of the portrait gallery. I wondered if he was contemplating who might have killed Isobel, but when he at last spoke it was on a different topic entirely.

“Have you ever been painted, Mrs. Ames?”

It was clear that he was trying to change the subject, but I had the feeling he would not respond well to being pressed. I would have to broach the topic another time.