Peril at Somner House

by Joanna Challis

  To my infinite shock, Angela shot to her feet, scurrying upstairs, her heels clanking on the floorboards, and I followed her lead.

  “Ingenious of you.” I smiled, finding her waiting at the end of the corridor.

  “Quick,” she whispered. “This way. Kate’s room.”

  “I thought her room was below?” I whispered, tiptoeing to the tiny bedchamber at the end of the hall.

  “Yes, but this one’s her retreat room. I remember her saying from here she can see directly down to the study. There’s a hole in the floor. See.”

  The tiny room, decorated in various shades of pinks, over-flowed with lace trimmings, dolls, beaded lamps, and pearled cushions. I stopped by one of the paintings gracing the wall, a pretty landscape featuring a rose garden.

  “Don’t stand there gaping,” Angela hissed. “We’ve work to do.”

  Her ear was already glued to the floor, and my ear followed suit. The floorboards were cold without the rug’s protection, but the hole was large enough for one eye to see at a time. Angela and I agreed to take turns.

  “Has nothing been left for his son?” Mrs. Eastley asked. “Nothing at all?”

  “No, ma’am.”

  “But I have his note here.”

  I imagined her waving it before them, the copy of the will Sir Marcus and I discovered in Max’s desk.

  “It’s witnessed,” rumbled Jackson.

  “One witness,” noted the attorney. “Two witnesses are required.”

  “But it’s his boy! Anyone can see that.”

  No one disputed the fact.

  “My lord?” prompted the attorney. “Lord Roderick?”

  “I’m afraid my brother left no legacy in his formal will for the care of his son. The handwritten note came to my attention upon my brother’s death and given the unfortunate state of my brother’s estate, and the illegitimacy of the child, I will contest the note should it go to court.”

  “But!” Jackson spluttered. “It’s not a note, it’s a will, and you said—”

  “What I promised, Jackson,” a sighing Rod reiterated, “shall stand. Your grandson and Mrs. Eastley will want for nothing and as soon as the estate is in order, I shall settle a sum upon them, or, if Mrs. Eastley prefers, an annuity to be paid over a period of time.”

  “I prefer an annuity,” said Mrs. Eastley, her swiftness in tone suggesting her desire for a quick, painless settlement.

  Her father did not agree.

  “I want more for me girl! And more for me boy, too, as I’m helpin’ raise him. Ye brother were no good, knockin’ up me girl like that—”

  “Father, please,” Mrs. Eastley pleaded. She possessed a quality I found almost alien to her parent. Perhaps she’d gone to a select seminary or private school? This might explain her marriage to the late Mr. Eastley, a man of some standing on the island, by all accounts.

  “My Rachael ain’t like the others,” Jackson insisted. “She’s well-bred, married well, and I like to see her widowhood well funded since she’s got to raise Trevalyan’s brat.”

  “Father, I said I was happy with the annuity.”

  “Oh, I can’t bear this!”

  Angela and I exchanged a look of shock.

  “I can’t endure any more!” Kate let out a wretched cry. “I won’t hear any more about the child!”

  “Surely the particulars can now wait until a more congenial time,” Roderick proposed after the outburst. “The hour has grown late.”

  Sleep deserted me.

  I lay awake, listening to the wind whistling against the windowpanes. A fierce howl stirred outside and I wrapped the coverlet tighter around me. Due to the nature of the weather, one could safely assume the Major and the others had been invited to stay overnight at Somner.

  Major Browning.

  I allowed my thoughts to drift to his windowpane. I glared into the still darkness of the night. When a lady’s letter failed to solicit a reply it generally implied utter disregard or worse, complete disinterest. “I trust you received mine,” he’d said on our first meeting. Received what? A mere postcard detailing his current post and where I might write him? How thoughtful! Just like his ilk to expect ladies to write to him while he enjoyed the pure pleasure of choosing to whom, how, and when he responded.

  The door opened, and Angela crept in. Awake, I monitored her stealthy approach. What had kept her so long below? Or, more importantly, who?

  “Oh, you’re awake.” She jumped, concealing her edginess with a dismissive yawn. “The others are still down, drinking brandy. The men, I mean.” She chuckled to herself in the darkness.

  The chuckle went on to no further elaboration and I did not ask. A wave of tiredness overcame me and I clutched my pillow, thinking of poor Josh Lissot lying awake in his cold prison cell for a crime he may not have committed.

  It wasn’t the night’s fancies. I believed Josh Lissot was innocent. I felt it instinctively. He may have thought he’d murdered Max, but his hand hadn’t delivered the fatal blow.

  I went down early and slipped out the terrace side door. Again, its eerie creak arrested my attention. No one would emerge for hours, except Arabella, who had retired soon after me the night before, and I intended to make full use of the morning. I headed not in the direction of my usual morning walking circuit, but down the drive.

  I thought to hire a conveyance from the nearest farming tenants and luck proved with me. Spotting a farmer slashing his fields, I waved and upon seeing me, he soon stopped what he was doing to speak to me.

  He started at the sight of me. “From the big house, are ye?”

  At this time of morning, I suppose ladies did not venture outdoors. “Yes I am, and I am keen to get to town. No one else is about so I’m wondering if you have a bicycle I can borrow?”

  “No. Not one in good workin’ order, miss. Not for a lady like yeself, anyhow.”

  “I should like to see it regardless, if you don’t mind.”

  He shrugged, rather annoyed I’d stopped him at his work to look at a bicycle not fit for a lady.

  To my surprise the bicycle seemed perfectly equipped for the job, though rusted, and I was reminded of my excursions with my friend Lizzy Forsythe, riding down the lane and meeting boys. Lizzy, a pretty, voluptuous creature given to attracting male attention, had me ride her brother’s old bicycle while she flaunted herself atop her pink handled and beribboned show pony.

  “The bicycle is perfect.” I thanked the farmer and, wheeling out the conveyance, took the first left.

  Nothing could stop me now. The wind in my hair, I relished the freedom, the independence, and fun work of pushing myself to town. I remembered the way vaguely from our outing, and following the signs and the winding road, I cycled to the place where they held Josh Lissot. Kate had glanced forlornly at the building in the square, and on this cold winter’s morning, I appreciated the architectural lines of what might have once been a very fine town hall.

  Nobody attended the stark front desk. I hesitated to ring the bell, glancing at the large ticking clock on the wall opposite me. A quarter to nine. I didn’t suppose they began work so early on the island.

  Disappointed, I turned away to wait. If I’d thought for just a moment, I would have brought money to buy a hot pasty from a bread shop I’d seen on my way in.

  After a good twenty minutes, a voice echoed from down the hall.

  “Can I help ye, miss? Are ye from Somner House?”

  I nodded, slowly. I didn’t remember the sergeant’s face, but he’d seen me at the house and I smiled my best shy smile. “I’ve come to see Mr. Lissot. I know I should have waited for Mr. Fernald but I was up early.”

  The sergeant looked past me to the street. “Ye cycled all that way from Somner House, miss?”

  “Why, yes.” I blushed. “I know I shouldn’t really have come without Mr. Fernald’s permission, but could I see Mr. Lissot for just a minute? It’ll be your secret and mine. I won’t breathe a word of it, I promise.”

  “I ain�
�t suppose to let anyone see him.”

  “But Mr. Fernald won’t find out. Please. I’ve ridden all this way and I’ll be quick.”

  Still unsure, he flicked through his stack of keys before leading me down a deserted corridor. I noticed the old paint peeling off the walls and shivered. If Fernald came back early…

  There were only four cells, each with a door and small alcove bearing bars. Cold, dismal, and spartan, each with a bed and a chair.

  Josh was glad, if somewhat bemused, to see me.

  “Daphne.” A slight smile crept to his bloodless lips as he rose, a shadow of the man I’d met at Somner, now gaunt-faced, unshaven, the artistic light driven from his eyes.

  “Do come in; I’d offer you a seat if I could.” He directed this comment to the young sergeant who quickly rushed off to retrieve a seat for me.

  “Just a few minutes,” he warned upon return, closing and locking the door behind him.

  “Aren’t you afraid to be alone with a murderer?” Laughing, Josh perched himself on the edge of his slat bed.

  “Murderer? I don’t believe you did it, Mr. Lissot. That’s why I’m here.”

  His sad eyes studied the ceiling and a scowl furrowed his brow. “Did she send you? Did Kate send you?”

  “No…I am here of my own volition. It may sound preposterous, but I have very good reason to suspect you’ve been framed for the murder of Max Trevalyan.”

  A bitter laugh escaped his lips. “But I hit him! Whacked him jolly hard, too, when he put his hand to Kate’s throat. He fell, slumped to the ground, blood oozing from his head. Needless to say, it wasn’t a pretty sight.”

  “But did you check his pulse?”

  His tone sounded weary when he answered. “Yes. We did that. He was still breathing, shallowly, where we left him but—”

  “Alive,” I emphasized. “Just suppose for a moment that someone else stumbled upon that path, intentionally or otherwise. Just suppose for a moment this someone else delivered the fatal blow.” I paused, thinking hard. “You mentioned his head was bleeding, but according to Mr. Fernald, his smashed face rendered him almost unrecognizable. Is that how you and Kate left him?”

  “Sweet Thomas, no! At least, I don’t think so.” He stopped to reflect. “It was dark…can’t say. Did leave an awful mess up at the house. We had to clean the path when we dragged him out.”

  “Through the terrace door…the creaky terrace door.”

  He frowned, puzzled.

  “Hugo heard the door open three times,” I explained, but he still seemed puzzled.

  I asked if he and Kate went out through that door only once. Slowly comprehending my meaning, Mr. Lissot endeavored his best to recall. “Three times, three times,” he kept saying to himself. “I remember Kate opened it the first time, dreading the noise, careful though she was as we pulled the body through, and yes! I remember Max’s shoe dragging on the surface. No! It got stuck in the door…yes, I remember now. It got stuck, fell off actually, and we had a devil of a time shoving his foot back in…but that’s only twice that we had to open the door. We didn’t enter back in that way. Not the terrace door. Kate was too scared of the noise arousing suspicion.”

  “Exactly!” I smiled.

  A contemplative silence emerged between us and the faintest hope lingered in the air. “I know Kate has pleaded with you to retract your confession and she is right. You were protecting her…you had to strike him…you thought you’d killed him but you didn’t.”

  “I didn’t,” he said, and frowned, still disbelieving the possibility of another chance. “But if it wasn’t me, then who did it?”

  I smiled again, coy, radiant with my small success. “When we find the person who opened the door the third time, the person who tried very hard to incriminate you by circumstance, then we’ll know.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  Sir Marcus was quick to extinguish my triumph.

  “You’ll have a devil of a time convincing our friendly hunchback to own up to the fact. And more of a devil convincing that dolt Fernald to pay any heed to it.”

  “A dolt?” I queried, half amused. “I see you’ve enjoyed a leisurely breakfast.” I indicated with my hand to where the Major and everyone else dallied outside on the open terrace.

  The day was fine and sunny. Still a little cool, but windless and thus perfect for a terrace affair. I spied Jackson raking leaves a few meters away and wondered if he decided to do the task in order to eavesdrop.

  Who was I to judge him if that was the case? He had more reason than I, merely a curious guest. His daughter and grandson were heavily involved in the Trevalyan business. I want more for me girl, he’d said, clipped and curt. Had that ambition led him to search out Max Trevalyan that night and “do him in,” as he would put it?

  But Jackson had no reason to do so if he believed in the power of the will Max had signed. It was a useless scrap of paper in the end, and his daughter had preferred the offered annuity from Rod. This showed a shrewdness to her character I found fascinating and sensible. Complex layers existed beneath Rachael Eastley’s cool façade, I was certain of it.

  Inspired by such reflections, I began to compose a short story in my mind. “The Mysterious Widow.” No…“The Noble Widow.” She arrives in a new neighborhood much like Helen in Wildfell Hall and she bears the secret of her nobility and an air of mystery all her own. However, both make her a subject of interest and speculation in the little town.

  “Well, well, here you two are hiding!”

  Slipping through the terrace door, Angela’s smirk had a knowing quality to it. “Lover’s nook, is it?”

  “It’s nothing,” Sir Marcus sighed. “Daphne and I are kindred spirits. Speaking of which, are we still doing the painting day?”

  “Oh, yes. Kate loves the idea. And”—she glanced chidingly at us both—“the Major and his comrades are joining us, so I’ve come to rouse you both from your self-imposed and, I scarcely need add, selfish isolation.”

  “Has Mr. Fernald left yet?” I heard myself echo.

  “Horrible man.” Angela shivered. “Yes. He left just now with that Eastley woman.”

  So Mrs. Eastley had spent the night at Somner. I wondered if she’d stayed up to enjoy a lengthy sojourn with the Major?

  I told myself I didn’t care.

  But I did.

  Angela set about preparing a place in the sun where several easels and stools and all the accompanying paraphernalia littered a section of Jackson’s newly mowed lawn.

  Despite the merriment of the occasion, I did not feel in the mood to paint. I felt like writing my story, yet I carried myself to an easel and worked diligently on my tower, using the tips and pointers given by Kate.

  “It’s quite impressive,” remarked Peter Davis.

  “Thank you,” I said, leaning across to inspect his work.

  “My fledging attempt is atrocious.” He shook his head, and I laughingly sympathized with him, studying his madcap sketch of what vaguely resembled some kind of distorted garden.

  “It’s meant to be the forest where Max and I crashed,” he said, smiling. Then his face took on a more serious note. “A tribute…to old times.”

  We were a little apart from the others and I nodded understandingly. “The great war affected so many lives. They were all torn asunder, as the expression goes. I only wish I had been more a part of it. I would’ve liked to fight alongside the men.”

  “Why didn’t you, Miss du Maurier?”

  “My parents. Literally penned me in. Probably a good thing, considering my impetuosity would have led me to do something rash resulting in my demise, or worse.”

  Mr. Davis appeared to follow my line of thought. “Yes…there are things worse than death.”

  His comment inspired the strokes of my paintbrush. I painted the essence of Roderick’s gloomy tower, its beating heart, bleak and forbidding.

  “Interesting…”

  I’d recognize that slow mocking drawl anywhere.

  “
Major Browning.” I dipped my head in a civil form of greeting. “I trust among your many talents, you can paint, too.”

  “No,” he admitted with affability, showing his atrocious attempt at a portrait painting.

  Mr. Davis and I chuckled.

  “We’re all not born to be as talented as Lady Trevalyan.”

  I followed Mr. Davis’s admiring gaze to where Kate stood, adorned in her amber satin artist’s cape, gorgeous and as radiant as the piece of art she fashioned.

  “It’s a portrait of your sister,” the Major announced, “and look how delighted Angela is.”

  Angela, to my intense horror, was posing for the portrait, reclining and flaunting herself upon the grass, one shoulder exposed and the remainder of her chest draped in a loose, scarlet shawl.

  I flushed with embarrassment. She looked little better than a low-class trollop or a dancing girl, her lips and cheeks dusted a theatrical rouge. I reminded myself that she was an actress to avoid an unsightly sisterly remonstration.

  Major Browning must have noticed my blanched face. He suggested we take a walk. At any other time, I would have found an excuse, but as Elizabeth Bennet experienced when Mr. Darcy asked her to dance, I simply couldn’t think of one.

  To walk away seemed the most prudent course of action. Feigning ignorance at the offer of his arm, I knotted my hands behind my back as we strolled toward the pergola. I spoke of the weather and mentioned Sir Marcus’s painting and the Major obliged by making the customary replies.

  “I feel sometimes you slot me into one of your melodramas,” he murmured as we approached the stairs leading up to the pergola.

  I marched to a seat, lifting a jagged brow. “To talk by rule is sometimes best.”

  He paused to reflect. “I’ve read that quote somewhere before.”

  “Have you? I’m impressed. It’s from Jane Austen’s Pride and Prejudice.”

  He opted to lean against the post rather than take a seat beside me. “Austen’s your favorite author then?”