“St. Mary’s is the bearer of many ancient sites…though archaeological sites are dotted all over the Isles.”
As there were six of us, we traveled to the sites in two motorcars, Sir Marcus, Angela, and I in one; Bella, Roderick, and Kate in the other. However, at the first stop, some random monument that professed to be a noteworthy ruin, though I saw nothing noteworthy in it, Kate switched into our car.
“I won’t stand another minute of that sour-face.” She spoke of Arabella Woodford, of course. “She thinks Josh and I murdered Max. She’s happy they took him away. She’s happy because finally she’s triumphed over me.”
“How so?” Angela’s reassuring voice expressed doubt.
An odd laugh escaped Kate’s lips. “I suppose in a curious way she has triumphed over me, for she loves that I am no longer mistress of Somner. She loves the title and the tower, she wants to live here; that’s why we’re forever enduring her presence, but Max couldn’t stand her and Rod, well, I thought Rod tolerated her, but now I’m not so sure.”
Deciding, for once, upon discretion, Sir Marcus did not question her comment. I did, but in silence. Was she inferring Roderick and Bella, one or both of them, planned to kill Max so they could inherit and preserve what remained of a dying heritage?
I began to whisper to Sir Marcus at the first opportunity, but he pressed a finger to his lips, his right eye rolling in the direction of Bella, who had her sharp ears poised, armed, and waiting to catch any slight blunder of the tongue.
We stopped at the first Iron Age village, a rambling array of stones and partly uncovered walls, wild and old and enhanced by whispers of the past.
“Enchanting,” I murmured, thinking myself alone as I explored, my fingernails scraping along the primeval stone, wondering who had lived amidst the ruins long ago.
“Cavemen and Vikings.” Sir Marcus’s long graceful fingers traced the other side of the wall. “Any stirrings for a novel, Miss Daphne?”
I looked beyond the wasteland to the hills bathed in wayside flowers, a plethora of color, yellows, pinks, oranges, reds, and my favorite, lavender. Inhaling the fresh hint of jasmine in the air, I closed my eyes and daydreamed. In the picture of my mind, I added wild growing rhododendrons and azaleas and a long, winding drive…at the end of the drive, a man waited, my husband. I was a young and inexperienced bride, afraid of my new life, afraid I should not fulfill the requirements befitting a great lady. I was a girl, really. A gauche schoolgirl, a nervous kind of creature. How could I become the mistress of such a vast estate? I shivered, gazing ahead at the long line of servants standing there to welcome me.…
“I am insanely curious,” Sir Marcus’s face broke my reverie. “What were you thinking just now? I cannot hope that you were dreaming about me, so it must be a story idea?”
I nodded.
“A romance? What kind of romance? Adventure-romance? Mystery-romance?”
I shrugged off his gibe. “Why do all men assume that if women write, they must write romance?”
Smiling, Sir Marcus explained his theories on the “other” sex all the way to the next ruin. I was glad for his company. His personality alone lightened the atmosphere, yet it did not trivialize the peril looming over Somner House.
“I wager that Arabella has something to do with it, with or without our sturdy Roderick’s knowledge. Think. They both love Somner House, they want to protect its future. If left in Max’s hands, they’d lose the estate, I guarantee it. Look at the ridiculous note he wrote in his will, leaving the whole lot to his illegitimate son!”
“I agree,” I whispered back. “And we were right to suspect the gardener. Rachael must be his daughter and Connor, his grandson. Yes, it all seems to fit, doesn’t it?”
“Like a glove,” Sir Marcus enthused.
“But the violence of the crime? What kind of heartless villain could do that to a face?”
“I know,” Sir Marcus pondered aloud. “It’s a conundrum.”
“What’s a conundrum?” Stepping out from behind a tombstone, Roderick studied us both. His somber expression sobered me, and I blushed as Sir Marcus prattled on about the mysteries of ancient civilizations.
“He definitely heard something,” I said to Sir Marcus a few minutes later, after we’d walked some distance away from Roderick, who’d been joined by Bella. “I feel awful. How can we face him again?”
Rolling his eyes, Sir Marcus proffered his arm. “You worry too much. In any case, I am the one with the criminal tongue; you just agreed, which invariably you must do because I am always right.”
“Always?” I teased.
We’d reached the museum and stopped to admire a figure-head from a clipper ship when Roderick happened upon us a second time.
“Something appears to be amusing you two.”
I exchanged a glance with Sir Marcus. His guilty face, I imagined, mirrored my own.
“I am sorry, my lord,” I began. “We did not mean to cause offense under the circumstances—”
“You mistake me, Miss Daphne. I merely wanted to share your amusement.”
Sir Marcus and I exchanged another look.
“Oh, er, we were just debating on the works of contemporary female writers.”
“The subjects and so forth,” put in Sir Marcus.
“Novels, mainly,” I added. “Just random ideas. Nothing of any import.”
“Plots and motivations,” Sir Marcus confirmed.
“I see…”
At that precise moment, Kate drifted over to retrieve Sir Marcus, and I gulped, left alone to face Roderick.
“Sir Marcus,” Rod remarked, “has the happy manners to enliven any company.”
“Yes, he does,” I echoed, asking where we intended to lunch. I still couldn’t work out if he’d overheard us or not. His expression gave no indication and his eyes remained a trifle skeptical.
“Hugh Town. I believe, Miss Daphne, you will like it.”
When he spoke, he seemed to take a great deal of time to do so and I wondered whether he was merely shy. His brother had been born with lively manners. Had such manners placed him further and further in his brother’s shadow? Had he resented his brother for it and had such resentment led to anger and, ultimately, murder?
I loved Hugh Town just as Roderick had predicted. The charming seaside port, the old pubs, narrow lanes, and salt-sprayed weathered houses carried years of history. The hint of yesteryear lingered in the air, on the grimy streets, and in the faces of the friendly locals.
“Don’t care much for this Hugh Town place.” Sir Marcus screwed up his nose. “Ghastly cold, windy place. What say we head over there to that warm-looking pub?”
While Arabella and Roderick continued to tour the local attractions, Sir Marcus, Angela, Kate, and I headed to the Old Windmill.
“Appropriate title,” Sir Marcus commented on the way in, “full of townsfolk and stranded sailors exploiting windy tales.”
Despite Sir Marcus’s dislike of the town, the charming old inn appealed to me. It was a modified mill, whitewashed, extended to encompass a newer building where most of the locals congregated. One entered the pub via the round mill tower, stepping down a sharp left-hand flight of stairs to descend into the main dining area full of raucous laughter. It was a quarter to noon and yet every stool, table, and chair swarmed with men of all descriptions. Sailors, farmers, and townsfolk filled the place, with the odd woman amongst the entourage serving cider ale and hot food.
Kate couldn’t help but smile, her eyes sparkling for the first time since her husband’s death. Perhaps the scene reminded her of happier days, during the war, when she had entertained soldiers in the air force. I ached to hear the beautiful singing voice I’d heard so much about. Angela had used the phrase “hauntingly ethereal.”
Sir Marcus guided us to a place in the middle of the thoroughfare.
“We’ll have to stand at the bar, I’m afraid, unless one of these gents would be so kind as to give the ladies a seat.”
He spoke loudly and achieved the desired result, forcing two lonely sailors away from their table. They looked as if they’d consumed too much ale as they staggered out of the pub.
“You ladies fancy a warm brew?”
Kate answered for the three of us, dispatching Sir Marcus to fetch the island’s famous cider ale.
“The funeral will be tomorrow,” Kate murmured, accepting her mug of warmed cider from Sir Marcus. “Roderick thought a quick, quiet affair would be proper, under the circumstances.”
“Yes, under the circumstances,” Sir Marcus echoed.
Kate turned her enormous eyes to him. “Oh, Markie, is there any way…any way at all…”
“To help Josh old boy?” Sir Marcus finished, his watchful gaze monitoring the room. “Sorry, Katie girl. Fernald’s dug his toes in and he’s the man in charge.”
“But what of his superiors? Surely they can look into the case?”
“Possibly, but with the weather and the tides, it looks like Mr. Lissot will have to spend weeks in a dank island cell. They’ll move him later, I suspect, where he’ll stand trial and—”
“Oh, no! I can’t bear it!” Hands cupping her face, she struggled to hold back tears. “It’s my fault. He’s a good man. I can’t let him die when he only sought to protect me and he didn’t kill him. He didn’t.”
“It’s not your fault.” Angela rubbed Kate’s frozen arms. “You mustn’t allow fear to ice your days. Hope is what matters.”
A wan smile touched Lady Kate’s bloodless lips. It was a troublesome time and depressing to see the self-assured, confident, effervescent, and mesmeric Kate Trevalyan reduced to such a withering despondency.
Angela seized the moment to lighten the mood. “Why don’t you sing? Sing for the sailors?”
“What, here? Now?”
“Why not? Like Sir Marcus said, they’re stranded and could use some cheering up. We all could use some cheering up.”
Angela thus took charge, Sir Marcus and I unable to stop her. Leading Kate to the center of the room, she soon got everyone’s attention—easy to do for an actress of her caliber—and elicited a welcoming round of applause from the audience.
Drawing from experience, Kate adopted her stage-actress face and began to sing. I wondered what she’d choose, thrown unexpectedly into the arena, and the emerging tune polished every rough soul in the place. The men’s faces softened and became wistful, almost dreamy, perhaps recalling better, calmer days before the Great War.
In amongst the crowd I saw him like an illusion. Yet it wasn’t an illusion. He was there, in the crowd, smirking from the back wall.
He saw me, too, dipping his head in mock salute. I turned away, my face resuming a lobsterlike quality. Seething, I pulled at my fingers, resisting the urge to bite my nails. I’d not sit here and watch him adoring Kate Trevalyan and her performance, not now, not ever.
“She’s extraordinary, isn’t she?” Sir Marcus whistled in my ear. “And not as fragile as she looks. I’ve seen her shoot a lion, you know.”
If I hadn’t been so consumed with seeing him, I might have asked where this extraordinary event had transpired. But I could not. I could only seethe, dreading his unwanted entry into my life again, and yet powerless to stop it.
The men shouted for an encore and Kate complied as I was forced to hear another love song. This time it was a famous French tune that proved to be torture, extreme torture, for it dredged up my days at Padthaway—of David, and of the Major, later neglecting to reply to my letters. How dare he consider me a brief flirtation when I deserved better!
“Not up to clapping?”
Prompted by a curious Sir Marcus, I buried my pride and remembered my manners. Soaring to the occasion, I trusted I put in a good enough effort to divert suspicion of jealousy.
Unfortunately, the frustratingly astute Sir Marcus soon located the source of my discomfort and exchanged a jolly handshake with the Major. Obviously, the two knew each other and Sir Marcus, to my dismay, pointed me out rather cheerfully.
Fortunately, an exuberant Angela partially shielded me from the Major’s view. “Look at Kate, Daphne. She’s positively glowing. This was good for her.”
Good for her.
“What’s wrong with you?”
One could never fool a sister. “Oh, it’s…” I whispered the reason for my frustration, and flattered by this sudden confidence, Angela nodded, her wide eyes quick to detect the Major in the crowd. Assuming immediate sisterly control, she squeezed my hand. “Greet him cordially and coolly and don’t show him any emotion.”
It was difficult thing to do when all I wanted to do was hurl the remainder of my beer at him. How dare he ignore my letters after all we’d been through at Padthaway…
“Prepare.” Angela’s hoarse whisper scathed one side of my face. “He’s coming over.”
His first port of call was Kate, of course. Hearing her squeal of surprise upon seeing him, I realized I should have expected they’d know each other. In fact, the Major seemed to know every person on the planet, which irritated me far beyond his avoidance of my correspondence. Yes, yes, he had contacts in Scotland Yard. Yes, yes, he made it his mission in life to assume and collect information like one collected seashells or works of art.
“Hello, Daphne.”
Angela elbowed me.
“Hello.” I smiled through my teeth. “What an unexpected pleasure, Major Browning.”
“Is it? Your demeanor suggests otherwise.”
He deliberately baited me. But I’d since learned to not bite, and merely smiled and asked, in a spirit of politeness, what brought him to the island.
“The far winds.” His reply came slow, his eyes searching mine.
I glanced away. I didn’t believe him.
“Thank you for your letters, Daphne. I trust you received mine?”
“You never replied,” Angela snapped in response.
Raising a brow, the Major waited to be introduced. I did my duty, my voice sounding strangled and forced for I didn’t want him intruding upon our party. It was evident that my indisputable coldness caused more than Sir Marcus’s face to flush. Sensing Kate’s interest in my acquaintance with the Major, I tried a little harder to mask my displeasure. Cordial and cool, Angela had said.
I rolled my shoulders. I could be cool and cordial. “So what brings you to St. Mary’s, Major?” I asked again.
“Shipwrecked by weather,” Sir Marcus interrupted, his joking presence very much unwanted.
I glared at Sir Marcus and he soon found a swift reason to excuse himself from our conversation.
I repeated my question to the Major as we stepped away from the party. He looked well, a little paler than when I’d last seen him. Perhaps the winter frost had frozen the last vestige of decency in his black, uncaring soul? I wondered.
“You’re angry with me, aren’t you?”
“Yes,” I began with a vengeance.
“I enjoyed your letters and am saddened you did not receive mine.” A glimmer twinkled in his eye as he said it.
“I doubt you even bothered to reply, Major. Too busy, no doubt, with whatever nefarious and clandestine operation—”
“Nefarious?” He grinned. “I like that word and I like you.” His voice dropped to a low, warm whisper. “I’ve missed you, Daphne.”
“Ever hear of the post?”
“I cannot be held to blame for the error of our postal system.”
“I suppose not, just as I suppose you only reply to worthy temptations.”
“Oh, I assure you. You are a very worthy temptation.”
Roderick happened upon us at that moment and seeing me with the Major, detached himself from Bella’s side and sidled to my own.
A trifle flattered, I wondered if I had stirred a protective instinct inside the dour Roderick Trevalyan. The absurd notion vanished as soon as it entered my mind, for I truly couldn’t see Roderick Trevalyan with any woman, least of all me. Far too monkish and isolated, he preferred his own company to
anybody else’s and seemed intent on remaining so.
After a round of introductions and pleasantries, the offer to call upon us at Somner House was made. “We are a house in mourning,” Lord Roderick advised, resuming a solemn air, and the Major gave me a quick glance, “but you, and your senior officers, are welcome.”
Thanking him for the invitation, the Major solicited a few seconds alone with me and, unable to escape, I had no choice but to suffer his interrogation.
“And what brings Miss du Maurier to St. Mary’s and Somner House, hmmm? A murder in the making? Who died? And did you kill this person for inspiration?”
“Don’t talk so loud,” I hissed. “Your ideas are as preposterous as they are thoroughly unwelcome.”
“But I hope I’m not unwelcome to you,” he grimaced, his dark eyes faintly aroused. “We’ve a new mystery to unravel, have we?”
“We, Major, won’t be unraveling anything—”
“This time it is you who are mistaken, Miss Daphne. Whether or not you welcome my being here, you will have to suffer it. For however long I am here depends entirely upon the weather. Now, tell me about this death, Miss du Maurier.”
“I’m sorry, Major. I have to go.” And smiling, for once having the upper hand, I waved from the door. “Cheerio.”
Chapter Ten
I asked Sir Marcus how he knew the Major as we walked away from the mill.
“Met him around the traps, once or twice. Well set up. Good contacts.”
“A veritable busybody,” I said.
“No more than you or I.” Sir Marcus smiled his best doting smile. “Ah, now, here are the others. Let us return to the House of Mourning, shall we?”
“House in mourning,” I corrected.
Lunch had been a strained affair. A brief stop in a village halfway to Somner, and nobody was in the mood to endure the rainy weather.
“Thank heavens that’s over,” Kate breathed out loud on the drive home.
Angela tried her best to rouse her spirits. “You sang beautifully, like an angel, and it’s good if you try and keep busy by helping others. It’ll take your mind off…”
Peril at Somner House Page 8