A Most Novel Revenge (28 page)

I was stirring the milk and sugar into my coffee, so it took me a moment to realize that he hadn't answered.

I looked up. He didn't meet my gaze, and, to my horror, I saw his face was streaked with tears. I felt immediately as though I should retreat, having foisted my company and insensitive questions upon him in what was obviously a difficult time for him. However, there was really no way I could gracefully extricate myself from the situation.

It was a dreadfully uncomfortable scene, but I also felt a great deal of sympathy for the young man across from me.

“I'm sorry if I've said something wrong,” I said gently.

He shook his head and wiped a hand across his face, sniffling, and he reminded me for a moment of a very young boy. My compassion warred with my reserve and won the day. I reached across the table and touched his hand. “Is there anything that I can do for you?”

He shook his head. “There's nothing that can be done now,” he said forlornly. “I can never go back.”

I sat there helplessly for a moment, unsure of how to proceed. Then I rose from my seat to approach him and pat him gently on the shoulder.

“I'm sorry, Mrs. Ames,” he said, not looking up. “I'm sorry for you to see me like this. I'll be quite all right if you want to leave me alone.”

I didn't feel as though I should leave him alone. I took a seat in the chair beside him.

“Do you want to talk?”

“Talking won't help,” he said. “Nothing can help now.”

“Sometimes it helps a great deal.” Normally, I would have been hesitant to press someone in such a state, but I somehow sensed that he wanted to talk, that he was fairly bursting with the need to do so. Sometimes, I had learned, one could do the most help by sitting and listening, doing nothing at all.

“You miss Isobel,” I said gently. “Perhaps it would make you feel better to talk about her.”

He didn't respond, but I sensed that he was not unwilling.

“You met in Kenya?” I asked, thinking that recollections of happier times would be the easiest way to start.

“Yes. She was…” he hesitated, flushing. “She was involved with my brother, in fact.”

“I see.” This was not exactly what I had expected, but I could not say that I was surprised. Isobel Van Allen seemed to move through young men at an alarming rate.

I didn't intend to press for details and hoped that he would provide me with none, but he continued. “They went to the same sort of parties, enjoyed the same things. I didn't think he was serious about her, you see. My brother was quite a man with the ladies. Isobel was interesting to him because she was older, very glamorous, you know. It appealed to him.”

I nodded, silently urging him to continue.

“They had only been seeing each other for a few months when they had a row. I thought that was the end of it. They stopped seeing each other, and my brother took up with another young woman. I noticed that he had started drinking heavily, but I didn't think much of it. He had always had a strong head for drink.”

He stared down at his tea for a moment, as though seeing the story play out before him on the surface of the liquid.

“One evening I was at a party,” he went on. “I was very drunk. Isobel was there, and we started talking. One thing led to another, and … well, you can imagine.”

“Yes,” I said.

“After that, we saw each other quite frequently. She would invite me to her house. She had me type things for her as a pretense, but that wasn't why I was there. I was very much in love with her, and I thought that life couldn't be better.”

He paused, and I knew that he was about to reveal that this had not been the case.

“But then one night my brother saw us together,” he said. “He confronted me, and I admitted that Isobel and I had been seeing each other. I … I didn't know how he felt about her, you see. He was terribly in love with her, too … but he never told me. He … he went insane with rage. He grabbed a gun and … tried to kill me.”

I'm afraid my mask of poise must have slipped then, for I was quite shocked.

He continued on, staring straight ahead. His voice had dropped so low that I almost had to lean toward him to make out the words. “He shot at me, and, when he missed, he … well, he shot himself.”

I drew in a sharp breath, unable to stop myself. It was such a tragic, shocking turn of events that I couldn't seem to make sense of it all.

It seemed, however, that the telling of it had come as a great relief to Mr. Roberts. Perspiration glistened on his forehead, as though a fever had broken, and he spoke faster now, the words tumbling out.

“My family blamed me, of course. Rightly so. It was my fault. I didn't know he loved her, but I should never have started to see her. I didn't know that loving her would cost so much. My father disowned me, and Isobel was ruined. We had to leave the country after that.”

And so Isobel had fled Africa, another suicide in her wake. It seemed consistent with what I knew of her character that she should have romanced the younger brother of the lover she had scorned.

Perhaps it was a cruel thing to think of someone who was dead, but I could not help but feel that Isobel Van Allen had delighted in causing pain to others. She had consistently poured salt in wounds of her own making.

I was so caught up in my thoughts, that I almost missed what Desmond Roberts was saying. His next words, however, drew me quickly back to the present.

“We didn't know where to go. It was Isobel's idea to come to Lyonsgate, to write another book. She said she had always meant to come back someday, that she had unfinished business, and now that we had no money it was an ideal time. ‘We shall kill two birds with one stone,' she said.”

This was another surprise. I had been sure that Isobel Van Allen had made enough money from the publication of her book to last a lifetime. Had she really spent it all so frivolously?

I wanted to press him on the topic, but couldn't bring myself to be so vulgar as to inquire about her finances. The best I could manage was to formulate a question about her motives.

“Then that letter she received from Bradford Glenn was not what spurred her on, and finding out who really killed Edwin Green was not her primary objective.”

He looked up at me, and shook his head. “No. She never received any letter from Bradford Glenn before his suicide. That was all a lie.”

I stared at him, still reeling from what he had just told me. “What do you mean?”

“She made it up. She was trying to provoke a reaction, I think. She said she wanted the truth to come out.”

“The truth about what?” I asked.

He shook his head. “I don't know. She wouldn't tell me.”

I recalled the conversation Milo and I had overheard between Desmond Roberts and Isobel on the stairs the day before her murder. She had said that soon enough everyone would find out what she wanted to reveal. What was it that she had meant to uncover? I wondered if we would ever know.

There were footsteps in the hall and a moment later Lucinda Lyons came into the room. She stopped when she saw us. “Oh, good morning. I'm not interrupting, am I?”

“Not at all,” I said.

“You look as though you could use some air, Mr. Roberts,” she said cheerfully. “Would you like to go for a walk with me? I don't feel hungry just yet.”

He hesitated.

“I know it's ghastly,” she said. “Everything's so dreadful. But perhaps you would feel a bit better if you got some air.”

He looked at me, as though waiting for my input on the subject.

“I think Miss Lyons might be right. Perhaps the fresh air would do you good.”

He stood, taking in a deep breath. “Thank you, Mrs. Ames,” he said simply, before turning and following Miss Lyons from the room.

The others trickled in to the breakfast room not long afterward. We finished breakfast, talking pleasantly of inconsequential things, but all the while my mind was churning. Once again, I had been cast in the role of confidante, and once again I had been presented with a confusing tangle of information.

Two thoughts were at the forefront of my musings. First, that there had been some hidden motive for Isobel's return. She had wanted to come back to Lyonsgate for a specific reason, something other than the desire to gather information for a second book.

The second had to do with the tragedy that had preceded their departure from Africa. It seemed to me that Desmond Roberts now had another very good motive for wanting Isobel Van Allen dead.

*   *   *

I HAD JUST
reached the foot of the stairs when Henson, the butler, walked toward me. “Mrs. Ames, there's a telephone call for you.”

“Oh. Thank you, Henson. I'll come directly.”

I wondered who it might be. Not many people knew I was at Lyonsgate. I went into the library and picked up the receiver. “Hello?”

“Mrs. Ames, you didn't tell me that you were at Lyonsgate,” Mrs. Roland said without further greeting.

“I…” I hesitated, unsure of what to say. She had obviously caught me.

“It was in the papers this morning, you naughty thing,” she went on, not waiting for my confirmation. “You do know how to involve yourself in a mystery, don't you?”

“Well, I…”

“I have the details on the death in Kenya. Myron Roberts. Took up with Isobel and then she threw him over for his brother. Afterwards, he killed himself with a revolver.”

“Yes, I heard something about it after I spoke with you.” Another tragedy to be laid, at least in part, at Isobel's feet.

“Nasty business, that. Isobel Van Allen once again forced to leave the country. In some ways, I suppose it's lucky she died before she had no continents left where she was welcome.”

I could think of no appropriate way to respond to this statement, but, as usual, was spared the necessity as she sailed onward.

“Now, if you want to know about what happened when Edwin Green died at Lyonsgate, there'll be no better person than Mrs. Hildegard Fletcher.”

“Hildegard Fletcher?”

“Yes, she's the sister of a dear friend of mine, Emily Bridgewater. I thought that she lived nearby, but I called Emily to confirm it. Mrs. Fletcher lives in the village, has for years. Emily assures me that Hildegard would be only too happy for you to drop in for tea anytime. She loves visitors. If you want to know what really happened, I suggest you go and see her. She is likely to know more about it than I could ever tell you.”

I knew this must be a very difficult admission for Mrs. Roland to make, and I very much appreciated it. “Thank you, Mrs. Roland.”

“Of course, my dear. Of course. I am only too happy to help you. Let me give you her address.”

I wrote it down, thanking her again for the trouble she had gone to on my account.

“My pleasure. Of course, if you should learn anything of interest, I would be delighted for you to tell me all about it.”

Mrs. Roland had a connection with the gossip columns, and I knew that anything I could tell her about Isobel Van Allen's death would be a boon. Perhaps there would be something I could share later, when I knew more. “I will try to ring you up if I learn anything important,” I assured her.

“Thank you, my dear. I wish you the best of luck. Happy hunting!”

As I often did after speaking to Mrs. Roland, I took a moment to collect my thoughts and catch my breath.

It was then that Milo wandered into the library.

“Here you are, darling,” Milo said. “Henson said you were on the telephone. What sort of trouble is looming now?”

“I've been talking with Mrs. Roland.”

“Oh dear. Better you than me.”

“I have some interesting things to tell you,” I said, “but wait just a moment.”

I picked up the receiver once again. There was one more call that I wanted to make.

It took the operator a while to connect me to Scotland Yard, and then the switchboard operator connected me with Detective Inspector Jones.

At last I heard the familiar voice on the other end of the line. “This is Detective Inspector Jones.”

“Good morning, Inspector. It's Mrs. Ames.”

“Mrs. Ames. To what do I owe the pleasure?” As usual, I could detect a faint note of something akin to suspicion beneath the pleasant tone. I was sure he realized at once that I would not be ringing him up at this time of the morning to inquire after his health.

“Have you seen the papers this morning?”

“No, I'm afraid I haven't had the time. What is it?”

“I'm afraid it's going to be rather difficult to believe,” I said.

I was fairly certain I heard him sigh. “Someone's dead, I suppose.”

He might have been joking, but I couldn't tell from his tone of voice. He was difficult to read in person, let alone over a long-distance telephone line. I decided to answer simply. “Yes.”

“Who?”

“Isobel Van Allen.”

There was a pause, and then he said in his deceptively neutral tone, “You're at Lyonsgate.”

“Yes. You know about what happened.”

“Yes, of course. Isobel Van Allen is something of an infamous figure, even after all these years. My wife read
The Dead of Winter
when it was released and was quite overcome by it.”

“She was going to write another book,” I said. “I think that's what may have led to her murder.”

“Why don't you tell me what happened.”

I related the events as they had occurred. I tried to be as clear as possible, and I found that the recitation of facts calmed my nerves. I gave him the basic information without embellishment and withheld a great deal of what I had learned in my own inquiries. I didn't want him to know how deeply I had involved myself, although I was fairly sure that he suspected as much.

Milo sat listening, smoking a cigarette and blowing smoke disinterestedly into the air.