A Most Novel Revenge (16 page)

“As a child,” I said in answer to his question. “My mother had a portrait done.”

I had not enjoyed the experience at the time, sitting still for hours in a stiff gown of rose-colored taffeta with an itchy lace collar.

“You should be painted now, as a beautiful woman.” He said these things in an offhanded way, but I was not entirely convinced he was as innocent as he appeared. It certainly contributed to his charm, the seemingly careless way he showered one with compliments as though they were flower petals. Nevertheless, I wondered if it was all part of his carefully orchestrated persona. One could never to be too careful with artists, after all.

“It would be nice to have your youth memorialized, don't you think?” he asked. “Time passes swiftly.”

It was true, if a bit morbid. Nonetheless, I had never particularly desired to have my portrait painted. Nor did now, shortly after a murder, seem an especially appropriate time to discuss such things.

“I've never thought much about it,” I said lightly.

“I should love to paint you, Mrs. Ames, if you'd let me.”

I hesitated. This conversation was not going at all as I had planned it. Somehow he looked as though my answer was important to him, and I did not think it would be right to dismiss the suggestion out of hand, especially if I hoped to gain more information from him in the future. “That's very kind of you. I shall have to think about it.”

“I won't charge you for the portrait. It has been a very long time since I've seen someone that I wanted to paint.”

“Oh, I would be happy to pay for it,” I assured him. “Only I'm not certain that I have brought anything proper to wear.”

He shook his head. “No need for that. I'd much rather paint you in the nude.”

My brows rose. “I beg your pardon?”

“Nude,” he repeated without hesitation. “I can tell from the way your clothes hang that you have beautiful lines.” There was something very earnest about him, a straightforward intensity that left me at a loss as to how to respond. I was not sure whether I should be flattered or insulted. I knew it was common for artists' models to pose in the nude, but I also knew with some certainty that it was not at all
de rigueur
among society women. However, I felt almost sure he was not attempting to make an improper advance. The entire conversation was becoming so bizarre I was not quite sure how to respond.

He seemed completely oblivious to my discomfort. He stepped closer, his eyes roaming me freely now. I felt vaguely as though I was a piece of meat in a market.

His hand came up to my face and hovered there. “May I?”

Without waiting for my response, he took my chin gently in his hand and turned it to the side. His finger traced the line of my jaw before his hand dropped and he stepped back.

“Yes, you've lovely lines. Your facial structure is perfection.”

“Thank you,” I said, for lack of something better to say. Not only had I lost the reins on this particular conversation, they were flapping wildly in the wind where I had no hope of regaining them.

He didn't seem to notice my hesitation, and was, in fact, gaining momentum. He stepped back, continuing to look me over, and I felt somehow that I no longer had any say in this. I had gone from a person to a subject.

“Now, let me see where I could paint you. If it was summer, I would suggest in the garden. But the conservatory would be nearly as good, I think. Where the light would play off of your lovely alabaster skin. And, of course, your eyes are magnificent in bright light.”

“Thank you,” I said again, hoping to disentangle myself from this conversation. “But I'm afraid I shall have to think it over.”

My words seemed to bring him back from some faraway realm of artistry. “Eh? Oh, yes. Of course. But I do hope you'll let me do it. I'm sure your husband would love the portrait.”

While I was quite sure that Milo had no objection to nudes in general or a nude of me in particular, I was not about to strip naked in a deserted conservatory with a man who might possibly be a murderer.

“I … I will let you know,” I said, ready to escape.

“Very well, but I do hope you'll consider it.”

He turned then, back to the painting of Isobel Van Allen, and I felt that I had been dismissed.

It didn't seem to me that I would be getting any more information out of Gareth Winters at this point. Instead, he had managed to chase me away. As I moved with haste from the long gallery, I began to wonder if that had been his intention all along.

*   *   *

HAVING HAD ENOUGH
of conversation to last me for the moment, I went back to my room to read. Winnelda was not there, and I intended to take advantage of the solitude. I sat in the chair closest to the fire and picked up
The Dead of Winter
.

Truth be told, I did not have very high hopes that the book would divulge any great secrets. While it made for very interesting reading thus far, I had yet to find anything that might prove useful. Subtlety, after all, had not been Isobel Van Allen's strong suit, and I could not see that there were any secrets lurking beneath the surface of her lurid prose.

It all seemed fairly straightforward to me. While Isobel likely had taken liberties with the facts, the characters she had drawn continued to accurately reflect the various personalities as I had seen them thus far.

The gentleman meant to be Reggie was restless and uneasy, scarred by his experiences in the trenches of France and still trying to regain his footing in a society that had changed while he was gone. The artist, meant to be Mr. Winters, was charming and vague, lost in a fog of drugs and a world of his own making. My former schoolmate Freida was reckless and grief-stricken in the years following the death of her fiancé. Phillip Collins, the man who would eventually become her husband, pursued her with a subtle relentlessness and was just as dark and quietly menacing in fiction as he seemed to be in the flesh.

I was relieved to find that Laurel played little part in the story. I had avoided reading the book when it had been released in part because I knew it would make me angry to see my cousin's name maligned. As it was, she was usually mentioned in passing. Isobel had retracted her claws where my cousin was concerned.

The stormy romance between the character that represented Beatrice and the two gentlemen had begun to simmer by chapter seven. Beatrice's character was lovely, cold, and restrained. Which was what made it all the more curious that both Edwin Green and Bradford Glenn should have both fallen to fighting for her hand. Perhaps she had represented some sort of dream to the young men, her intangibility making her love seem like something to be attained at any cost.

In any event, Isobel had done a fine job of creating an atmosphere of thwarted passion and growing resentment. It was clear very early on that she meant to cast Bradford Glenn as the villain of the piece, for she presented him with a brooding nature that hinted things would not end well for those who crossed him.

So absorbed was I in the book, that I didn't hear Milo enter the room until he spoke.

“Hello, darling.”

I didn't bother looking up. “Hello.”

“Reading that book again?”

“Yes.” I pulled my eyes reluctantly from the page. “How was your walk?”

“Cold and dull.”

I glanced at the clock. “Yes, I imagine nearly two hours out in the winter air might be.”

“Lindy is quite a tireless little thing.”

“Milo…” I hesitated, the words on my lips. There was a time, not very long ago, when I would not have wanted to speak plainly, to tell him how I really felt about the matter. As things stood between us now, I thought that I should be honest.

“It won't do to make her fall in love with you, you know,” I said softly. “It isn't fair. She doesn't know you don't mean half of what you say.”

He smiled, my concerns summarily dismissed. “I have been the model of propriety.”

“Your idea of propriety is not the same as other people's.”

“I don't want anyone in love with me but you, darling.”

“Yes, well, it's not you I'm concerned about.”

“Let me assure you that Lucinda Lyons is perfectly aware of how mad I am about my wife.” He dropped a kiss on my lips and took the chair opposite me.

I didn't intend to press the subject, at least not at the moment. Instead, I went back to reading my book.

“You're determined to finish that thing, I suppose,” he said.

“Yes, but it's much easier to do it in silence,” I told him pointedly.

He picked up a magazine that had no doubt been left by Winnelda and began thumbing through it. I wondered if he meant to continue sitting there while I was trying to read.

“How did your chat with Mr. Winters go?” he asked, his eyes on the page before him.

“Oh, famously,” I replied. “He wants to paint me.”

“Naturally he does.”

“Quite naturally. Au naturel
,
in fact.”

Milo's eyes came up from the magazine. “Does he indeed?”

“Yes,” I went on in a casual tone. “He thinks the light in the conservatory would highlight my alabaster skin.”

“I don't doubt it,” Milo said dryly.

“He's a very unusual man,” I said, closing the book. “I don't quite know what to make of him.”

“Don't you?” Milo replied. “I think it's quite clear what he's about.”

“Oh, I don't think he meant anything improper by it.”

“Your naivety is quite adorable, my love. He must believe me to be a very accommodating husband.”

“Oh, yes,” I said. “He assured me that you'd love a portrait.”

Milo smiled. “Why would I need you on the wall when I have you in the bed?”

“I told him I'd consider it.” I was not, of course, considering posing nude for Mr. Winters, but I didn't like Milo to think I was utterly predictable.

He was unimpressed with my threats. “Well, do be careful you don't catch your death of cold. I'm sure the conservatory is very drafty this time of year.”

I frowned at him and went back to reading my book.

A moment later there was a tapping at the door, and Winnelda entered, her expression disapproving.

“Madam, that inspector is here again. He wants to see to you.”

 

14

I FOUND INSPECTOR
Laszlo in the drawing room I had vacated not long ago. We greeted each other with a mutual lack of enthusiasm and then, the formalities aside, he launched at once into the reason for his visit.

“Just a few more questions for you, Mrs. Ames. I'm sure you won't mind?” I felt there was a challenge in the question, but I was determined to be pleasant.

“Not at all, Inspector. I'm happy to do whatever I can to bring the killer to justice.”

He studied me as though trying to determine my level of sincerity and then went on.

“The doctor says Miss Van Allen had been dead for less than an hour when you discovered her. I am trying to account for her movements, as well as the movements of others in the house, before that time.”

I rather thought this was something he might have asked me yesterday, but I supposed he knew best how to do his job.

“We, of course, did preliminary interviews with all the guests and servants yesterday,” he said, as though he had read my thoughts. “But shock often affects the memory, and so I've come to see if recollections are a bit clearer today.”

It was, I supposed, not a bad strategy. I grudgingly admitted to myself that he might be more competent than I had assumed.

“When did you last see Miss Van Allen alive?” he asked.

“I saw her after breakfast,” I said. “Mr. Roberts was concerned because she had been ill the night before, and I went with him to her door to see if she was feeling better.”

“You're certain that she was alive at that time?”

I repressed an exasperated sigh, as I was sure he knew perfectly well that she had been. No doubt he had already heard as much from Mr. Roberts. “Quite sure, Inspector,” I said. “She came to the door and spoke to us for several minutes.”

“What was the conversation about?”

“Nothing of consequence,” I said, though I was not entirely sure that was true. There had been something odd in Isobel's manner, but nothing about the conversation had been especially telling. “As I said, she had been ill the previous night, but she said she was feeling much better.”

“What was the nature of her illness?” he asked, and I thought there was a sudden sharpness in his gaze.

“A stomach ailment, I believe. Gastritis, perhaps. Mr. Roberts told me she had been unwell all night.”

“Indeed.” I wondered if he knew about the poison that Parks had seen in Mr. Roberts's room. Did it have some connection to the case? I wanted desperately to ask him, but I felt that if I showed any sign of interest he would make a concerted effort to reveal nothing.

“Mr. Roberts is her secretary, correct?” He asked this question very casually, and it seemed to me that he was testing me in some way.

“And her lover, I believe,” I said directly.

He sat back in his chair. “And how did you come by this information?”

I smiled sweetly. “One need not be a detective inspector to pick up on such things.”

My comment was, as I had hoped, not appreciated. Inspector Laszlo frowned.

“They made their relationship plain to you?”

“They did not, shall we say, make much effort to conceal it.” To myself, I thought that if Inspector Laszlo had not already determined as much from his conversations with Mr. Roberts, he was not much of a detective. I suspected, however, that he was much cleverer than he pretended to be. Perhaps the ruse of denseness was meant to throw criminals off guard.

“You have been involved in two murders in the past year, have you not?” he asked suddenly. The question was, I thought, meant to catch me off guard, but I had been expecting it since yesterday.