A Most Novel Revenge (9 page)

Beatrice, as usual, recovered first. “What did the letter say?” she demanded.

“It was a kind letter, given the circumstances,” Isobel said. “He said he had been hurting for years and was about to set himself free. He also told me that he wasn't a murderer. ‘Perhaps Edwin, too, was set free,' he wrote, ‘but not by my hand.'”

Silence fell as everyone waited for her to continue.

“And that is why I need your help,” she said at last. “Someone here knows the truth, and it is only a matter of time until I discover it.”

“What the devil are you trying to say?” Reggie demanded.

Her eyes swept the table. There was nothing in them now of the soft melancholy I had seen at breakfast the previous morning. She might have been an avenging fury, so hotly were her eyes blazing in her pale face.

“I'm trying to say that Edwin Green was indeed murdered. And if Bradford was innocent, it means that one of you is the killer.”

*   *   *

“I BELIEVE ISOBEL
missed her calling,” Milo said, as he removed his cuff links in my room after dinner. “She might have made a fine actress, with her magniloquent histrionics.”

As she had done last night, Isobel had excused herself after her grand announcement, leaving the rest of us to absorb the implications of her shocking claim.

Milo had been unimpressed by Miss Van Allen's theatrics, but the same could not be said of the others. Hot denials had issued forth from all present. Reggie and Beatrice seemed to agree that Isobel was lying, fabricating another tale for the sake of her second book, but I could sense the fear hovering heavily in the room.

“This can only lead to trouble,” Laurel had told me worriedly as we left the dining room. “I'm terribly afraid of what is going to happen next.”

I shared my cousin's concerns, for it seemed that no good could come of the claim that one of the guests here at Lyonsgate was a killer. Was it possible? Or was Isobel merely trying to exploit a tragedy a second time?

“Do you really think that someone else is responsible for Edwin Green's murder?” I asked my husband.

“You'll recall, my dear, that Mr. Green's death was ruled an accident by a coroner's jury.” He tossed his dinner jacket over the back of a chair in a careless manner that would no doubt offend Parks deeply. “Isobel only wants to make a scene.”

“But why come back if she wasn't trying to learn something?”

“She's writing another book to add to her somewhat limited oeuvre and needs fresh fodder. What better way to get it than to come back claiming that the killer is still at large? Really, Amory, don't tell me you've been caught up in her wild tales.”

I thought of the note she said she had received from Bradford Glenn. I wondered why he would have bothered to write to her. Trying to clear his name before he died, perhaps? Why, then, had it taken Isobel six years to act on it?

There was something amiss in all of this. If there was not something wrong, no one would feel threatened by Miss Van Allen's claims, yet the fear and anger had been palpable tonight. And it was not just the menace of a fresh, if baseless, scandal that was worrying them. No, there were secrets that people didn't want revealed, and there was more to Edwin Green's death than a simple accident.

I only hoped that Laurel did not get tangled up in the web of lies the others were spinning. Perhaps there was some way that I could help. I had, after all, two other mysteries to my credit.

The problem with this one was that so much time had passed, and everyone involved was extremely reluctant to relive the past. I also realized that the various accounts of what had happened that night would be strongly influenced by both personal perception and recollections that been impaired by the consumption of alcohol, drugs, or both. How much could they really remember of what had happened and how much of it was a story that had been concocted from their own imperfect knowledge of events and personal biases? There was, too, the possibility that one—or even several—of them were lying to protect themselves or one another. It was all very complex.

Perhaps the best thing to do would be to compare the various accounts and see what aspects of the story were corroborated by other accounts. There might also be the opportunity to ask someone else who had been there, the servants perhaps. I would leave that aspect to Winnelda. I might even be able to find some excuse to question the local doctor. Perhaps he would be able to tell me more about Edwin Green's death.

I looked up to see Milo watching me. I raised my brows and affected what I hoped was an innocent expression.

“You are brewing trouble in that brain of yours,” he said. “I recognize that look on your face.”

“No such thing,” I protested. “You haven't the faintest idea what I was thinking. I might have been considering ordering a new gown from Paris.”

He shook his head. “I am also familiar with your ordering gowns from Paris face, and that is most definitely not it.”

I was annoyed by his ability to read me, for lack of a better expression, like a book. “Well, what do you suppose I was thinking about, if you're so clever?”

“You were trying to determine the best way to gather accurate information about what really happened that night. The people there were unreliable witnesses, especially as it may be in their best interest to lie. Therefore, you were trying to determine the best way to glean the truth from the various accounts of that evening.”

I was astounded by the accuracy of this assessment, but I didn't intend to let him know that. “I may have been thinking something along those lines,” I conceded.

He smiled knowingly. “As you probably know, I think the entire thing incredibly ill-advised, and I would like nothing better than to cart you unceremoniously back to London.”

My brows shot upward.

“However,” he went on, “since I know you would dislike being dragged away, I have no choice but to remain here and do what I can to minimize the risks.”

“I do appreciate your concern,” I said. After all, I could not discount the fact that I had nearly been shot twice in recent months, or that Milo had, in fact, been grazed by a killer's bullet. I didn't intend to take any unnecessary risks. After all, Edwin Green's death was a thing of the past. Seven years was a long time.

We finished preparing for bed and slipped beneath the icy sheets, glad to have each other for warmth.

As I drifted off to sleep, I had no inkling that murder was much closer at hand than I had believed.

 

8

I ROUSED MILO
for breakfast the next morning, but Parks seemed to be dissatisfied with the press of Milo's tweeds and so I went down alone while they worked to rectify the problem.

I had crossed the entrance hall and was nearly to the breakfast room when I heard voices issuing from within. I might have entered anyway, had the conversation not appeared to be somewhat private in nature.

“She can't know anything,” I heard Reggie Lyons saying. “She's making all of it up. She must be.”

“Reggie, get hold of yourself.” This stern command came from Beatrice. I could picture her looking coldly at him over her coffee cup.

“But the murder…”

“There was no murder,” Beatrice said firmly. “Edwin's death was a tragic misfortune, nothing more.”

“But in her letter, she said…”

“I know what she said,” Beatrice replied, cutting him off once again. “You let her frighten you with veiled threats into hosting this wretched house party, when it's not possible that she has learned anything else.”

So that was why Reggie had invited everyone back to Lyonsgate at Isobel's command. He had been afraid that she knew something and would expose it. His next words confirmed this.

“Do you suppose she knows about…”

“That will do, Reggie,” she said, cutting him off.

I heard someone coming down the stairs then, so I silently retreated a few steps, and then made sure that they heard me approaching the breakfast room. As I had expected, their conversation stopped at once.

“Pass me the honey, will you, Reggie?” Beatrice asked.

She looked up at me when I entered. “Good morning, Mrs. Ames. We've just been discussing the weather. It looks as though it may snow again.”

The lie was told effortlessly. There was no doubt in my mind that Beatrice Lyons Kline was a woman to be reckoned with. Nevertheless, I thought again how surprising it was that both Edwin Green and Bradford Glenn had been rumored to be in love with her. There was something very careful and calculated about her, a sternness which I would not have supposed would inspire passion.

“I wouldn't mind a bit of snow,” I replied, going to the sideboard to fill my plate.

“Then again, I shouldn't be surprised if it warms up suddenly,” Reggie said.

The footsteps that I had heard on the stairs had apparently belonged to Mr. Winters, for he came into the dining room then, his pale gray eyes flickering around the room as though he were seeing something other than the occupants in it. “Good morning,” he said, looking at no one in particular.

We greeted him, and I was prepared to return to the topic of the weather when Reggie broached the subject that was foremost on everyone's minds.

“I feel I must apologize again for what happened at dinner last night,” he said. “I hope you understand that Miss Van Allen is…”

“Grasping at straws,” Beatrice interjected. “She wants nothing more than to rake up another scandal at our expense. The whole matter is bound to die down once she realizes that we will not play her games.”

“I'm sure you're right,” I assured her, though I didn't feel at all certain. I did not know Isobel Van Allen at all well, but I had the feeling that she was not one to abandon her cause.

Milo, at last presentable enough for Parks's satisfaction, joined us at the breakfast table and was shortly followed by Mr. and Mrs. Collins, Laurel, and Lucinda Lyons, who took a seat next to Milo. Tensions were still high, but we all went on as though everything was quite normal. I was immensely relieved that Isobel had not made an appearance. Perhaps she had taken her breakfast quite early.

We did not comment on her absence and spoke no further about her announcement at dinner the night before. I was a bit disappointed, but I thought it was probably for the best. I knew that Reggie's nerves were on edge, and Freida looked pale and drawn as though she had not slept and kept glancing anxiously at her husband.

The meal finished, I excused myself. Lucinda Lyons had engaged Milo in another conversation, and I supposed it would be a while before she would return him to me. In the meantime, I thought that I might spend my time reading a few more chapters of
The Dead of Winter
.

Though I pretended to myself that it was research, I could not deny that I was very much caught up in the drama of the story. Isobel Van Allen was certainly capable of weaving a compelling tale. How much of it was fiction and how much was reality remained to be seen. I hoped that at some point I would be able to make the distinction.

Freida Collins and her husband had gone out of the dining room before me, and as I came into the entrance hall I saw them standing in the door of the drawing room talking to one another in low voices.

They looked up at the sound of my footsteps. He glanced back at her and said something in a voice too low for me to hear. It seemed as though she grew slightly paler as he spoke. Then he turned and walked up the stairs, leaving her standing alone in the entrance hall, her eyes on his retreating form.

For some reason her expression brought to mind another day when she had stood, looking pale and uncertain. She had held a letter in her hand, a letter that she had been afraid to open. We had stood looking at each other until, at last, she had broken the seal and found that her worst fears had been realized.

That was my sharpest memory of Freida, how devastated she had been upon the death of her brother. Matthew Maulhause had been the first person that I knew who had died in the war. There would be more, of course. Many more. But that day it had been a terrible shock, the first jarring tragedy in a young life relatively untouched by troubles.

I had comforted her in that moment, but I had not been able to comfort her when her fiancé had died. It was not comfort she had wanted but the ability to forget. It was his death that had been the blow that had sent her whirling recklessly into Isobel Van Allen's path.

I hoped the sad memories were not replaying themselves on my face, but Freida appeared too preoccupied to have even noticed that I was still standing there. She turned and went toward the drawing room. After a moment, I followed her.

She had taken a seat near the fire and was staring into it, unseeing, when I came into the room.

“Hello, Freida,” I said softly.

She looked up. “Oh, hello, Amory. I'm sorry. I'm a bit distracted this morning.”

“I think we all are,” I said, still hovering in the doorway. “Am I disturbing you?”

“No, not at all. I've been hoping for the chance to talk to you. Come sit with me, won't you?” She smiled and the sincerity of it recalled the Freida I had known. She had been a beautiful young woman, and she was still extremely lovely. Her hair was still a glossy shade of chestnut brown and she had very large brown eyes. I remembered when those eyes had sparkled with laughter, but there was no laughter in them now. I wondered how much of it had to do with what was happening here at Lyonsgate and how much of it might be attributed to her marriage to Phillip Collins.

I took a seat across from her. With the fire cracking cheerily in the hearth, I could almost imagine we were back at school, sharing our secrets with one another. How much times had changed since then. I suddenly felt very old.

“It's good to see you again, Freida, though I suppose the circumstances are less than ideal.”