His question inspired me to try to unlock the inner workings of his mind.
“Dear Frederick…your first name is Frederick, is it not? You seem to be the beholder of many secrets. Why don’t you tell me who my characters are.”
His lazy eye perused me. “You overestimate my talents. I am not a guest of this house, you are.”
“However, you still have the propensity to influence events. Mr. Lissot’s return for one. We have no doubt he owns his temporary release to your interference.”
“Not interference,” he corrected. “Reasonable persuasion. And he is not out of the fire yet, so to speak.”
“So he’s still a suspect along with the others,” I said under my breath, surveying the room. Mr. Davis continued to play a beautiful concerto, but he’d lost his page turner. Kate and Josh Lissot now occupied a divan near the fire, both engaged in a low, earnest conversation. Unlike the previous day, no tension strained her face. On the contrary, she smiled often, laughed once, and her eyes softened as she placed her hand on Mr. Lissot’s knee.
“Lissot’s a fool,” the Major murmured. “He’d do better to keep away until Mr. Whitt arrives.”
“Mr. Whitt?”
“Chief Inspector Whitt. Due in on the next boat, by all accounts.”
“See! You do know everything. How did you find out?”
“It is no secret. Courtesy of your Lord Roderick.”
“He’s not my—” I stopped short, looking at the man in question. I couldn’t deny a certain attraction to him, admiring his stern work and moral ethics, his sense and education.
“He’s a better choice than David Hartley,” the Major remarked, “though not entirely exempt in this affair.”
“Why would he murder his own brother?”
“Look around you. To save the family fortunes.”
“Yes, but he’s not a violent man, nor the kind to resort to—”
“Not by his own hand, but a hired one?”
“Jackson the gardener. He’s the only kind of nefarious character I can see delivering the blow.”
“How do you not know Lord R and he did not come to some kind of arrangement?”
It was true.
I didn’t.
“It’s a mystery,” the Major sighed at length, retrieving his coat from a nearby chair, “and time for me to retire. I shall leave you to your…deliberations, Miss du Maurier.”
He bowed curtly and left.
I watched him go, feeling suddenly a little lost without his company. I didn’t know what to do with myself. I didn’t feel tired, nor did I feel like talking to anyone in the party, least of all Arabella, who eyed me curiously from where she lounged beside her cousin. Roderick, I noticed, looked stiff and ill-at-ease and as I bid my farewells, he immediately rose and lingered over my hand.
I climbed the stairs, enjoying the small triumph. Beyond a doubt, I’d certainly captured his interest. What should I do? Encourage it? How did I feel about the man? I liked him and respected him, but, he was a little too reserved. Did I feel a romantic attraction? I couldn’t say, but I imagined passion lurked somewhere beneath his cool façade. Why else would he seek to hide a book of poetry? Was he ashamed of these safely guarded emotions and desires?
Or was he, like me to some degree, afraid of love?
“I’ve delicious news.”
Sir Marcus’s big face invaded my sun. And right in the middle of the final chapter of The Tenant of Wildfell Hall. Did the man have no comprehension of decency?
Stealing the book away, Sir Marcus faced me with a schoolboy grimace. “Delicious, mouthwatering news, my little Daphie. As it so happens, I witnessed an event last night of momentous magnitude.”
I waited for the revelation.
“Like Othello, Mr. Lissot believed his love had rejected him for another.”
“Rejected! She rejected him?”
“Well, not entirely,” Sir Marcus reflected, squeezing a seat beside me though there was clearly not enough room for the two of us on the divan. “This is rather cozy, isn’t it?”
“Yes, and?”
“Brotherly,” he insisted, his face all innocence. “You needn’t fear for I have no designs upon you at present, though I suspect you’d make a jolly good wife.”
“Thank you.” I smiled. One couldn’t help but smile at his ridiculousness. “Where did this momentous event take place?”
“In a moonlit garden.” Sir Marcus sighed. “It was so romantic…”
“But of what import?”
“Hasty Daphne. One must build the scene, not plunge headlong into the swamp. Swamps are horrid, murky places; don’t recommend them at all.” He shuddered, pausing for effect. “Here is how it happened: after all you boring people went to bed, I wheeled myself into Lord Rod’s study for a cigar. The night air enticed me outside, yet I soon snuffed out an absurdly good Cuban, more’s the pity, when I spied our lovers behind a tree. Or was it a hedge? I can’t remember, and in any case, it doesn’t signify. What does signify is that I heard all, bones, heart, and soul. It almost made me weep.”
He affected a false tear.
“The hero pledged his undying love for the lady, then accused her in the same breath of betraying him.”
“With Mr. Davis?” I interposed.
“The same,” Sir Marcus nodded, “and I wondered if he, too, might be lurking around the place. Snag the premonition! I had to tear my eyes away from this tragic beautiful sight to do a reconnaissance around the garden. I returned to find the two lovers embracing. Oh!” He raised his eyes, a hand over his heart. “And then I made my speedy escape, leaving the two to er, commence whatever it is they were going to commence. If you ask me, Lissot’s gone against all reason to pursue her while still a subject—”
“Because he loves her.”
I scarcely heard my own voice. It echoed like a drifting whisper carried away by a summer’s breeze.
Because he loves her echoed back at me.
Chapter Nineteen
Dinner promised to be very awkward that eve.
Having no wish to partake of it, or listen to Angela’s outraged protests regarding Josh Lissot and his inability to care for Kate, I planned to do the only sensible thing: stay in bed and read a book.
“You should come down.” Lingering by the door, Angela’s lips curled. “I suppose there’s no attraction now the Major’s not here? What of Lord Rod? If you want my advice, Daphne, there’s more than a fair prospect for you. I’ve a mind to telephone Papa about it, for I can see the two of you living in that dreary old tower, leading dull and uneventful lives surrounded by books.”
I lowered my book a fraction.
“See!” She smirked. “You’re reading a history book!”
“It’s a history of the island,” I said, and shaking her head, she left me in peace, returning an hour or so later.
“You’re still there. You should come down. Roderick asked after you.”
My face turned red. I could feel it.
“You really ought to save him from Bella,” Angela prompted. “That girl won’t take no for an answer.”
Trying to ignore her chatter, I continued flicking the pages until a face caught my attention.
Sitting up, I fanned the pages backward.
“What the devil are you doing?”
“I saw something.” And there it was, a photograph of Max Trevalyan and Mr. Davis, brothers in arms, standing before their warplane. Stunned at the inclusion of this all-too-recent image, I checked the printing date inside the front cover. It had been published three years after the Great War.
There was a brief commemorative inscription below the photograph, too. “‘Local landowner Lord Max Trevalyan and friend Mr. Peter Davis…’”
The photograph must have been taken before one of their missions. Perhaps it had been the one where the Germans had shot down their plane, leaving them stranded in the forest, alone, unprotected, and wounded. I had to find out. Roused to action, I located my robe and hastened
down the hallway, book perched under arm.
“You can’t go down looking like that!” Angela protested, hurrying behind. “What did you find in that book anyway?”
“Oh, nothing of any great importance. Just a photograph.”
Approaching the drawing room, I suddenly reconsidered my state of dress. My mother would be horrified by such a spectacle, and as my mother was not at Somner, Angela played the role.
“Think of Roderick,” she hissed. “He will disapprove.”
“If he does,” I retorted, “then he is not worth winning. I won’t allow convention to rule me.”
Angela lifted her eyebrows in warning. She did not want Roderick to think any less of me. Just as I was poised to heed her warning, Sir Marcus hooted, “Aha! The deserter deigns to join us!”
I quickly scanned the room, relieved to find Roderick and Josh Lissot absent. Kate looked particularly flushed, entertaining the company with some kind of scandalous reading, judging by their faces.
“Continue reading, Katie girl.” Lazily perched upon one of the divans, Sir Marcus battled with a score of disobedient cushions. “I am curious as to Daphne’s opinion.”
To humor the party, I listened, my ears growing redder by the minute.
“The Marquis de Sade is too obscene for my little sister,” Angela smirked. “She prefers the old romantics…and fairy tales.”
“So do I,” Mr. Davis defended, and I thanked him with a smile.
He offered to take me into dinner.
“I’m not really dressed for dinner.” I laughed by way of apology.
“It doesn’t matter…in these circumstances.” Mr. Davis waved away my protests and escorted me into the dining room, seeing me comfortably seated. It was a gentlemanly consideration, I thought, often lacking in most young men of my acquaintance.
Roderick and Josh Lissot were already there, heavily engaged in a private discussion. No one seemed to take offense to my robe, and I suppose if I had thought to put a feather in my hair, nobody would have looked twice.
As the others entered the room, Josh looked tense, managing a warm smile when Kate trailed her hand across his shoulder.
I felt my companion’s keen gaze upon her. Poor Mr. Davis. After loving Kate for years, he languished in the wake of his dramatic confession. Certain he regretted the public avowal to some extent, I strove to make light conversation and brought up the photograph in the book. “This is why I came down, really. Did you know they used the photograph?”
He took the book from me, surprised to see himself there. “Max must have done it. He liked fame, in any form. Those were wild days, but we survived. We were the lucky ones.”
“Max was injured more than you were, was he not?”
Mr. Davis nodded. “Thankfully, for we’d both not be here today if I had. One of us had to drag the other out of the plane and across the field…away from the Germans.”
I tried to imagine the scene. Blasts hurtling through the sky, the eerie sound of the German bombers approaching before the earth-rattling tanks made their invasion into the village. It was just as Kate had captured so vividly in her paintings.
“Max won the medal of bravery,” I said, scanning Mr. Davis’s quiet concentration on his dinner. “How did that happen when you saved him?”
“I offered it. Max needed it more than me. His wounds plagued him terribly and it was quite some time before he recovered.”
I thought of the drugs, which evidently turned to severe dependency as Max attempted to lessen the pain. Or maybe they were not to blame for his many vices.
“Not many would give up their reward like you did,” I murmured. “I trust the gesture was appreciated.”
“It was,” Mr. Davis insisted, declining a glass refill from Sir Marcus. “As I watched him hobble to the award ceremony, I knew I’d done the right thing. Like they say, there’s more pleasure in giving than receiving.”
I wondered why he continued supporting a libertine like Max Trevalyan. As I’d learned, he had a very active social life in London, many friends and connections, so why bother with Max?
“I can see you’re confused. Sometimes I’m confused, too, why I kept trying with Max all those years. I suppose, like Kate, we worked on ‘reforming the rake.’” A chuckle escaped his lips. “You’d understand that, being a devotee of romantic fiction and a novelist.”
“Oh, I’m not a novelist, Mr. Davis. At least, not yet.”
“Call me Peter,” he smiled. “And I trust you will be one day.”
So did I, most passionately. Publication of a novel was something every writer dreamed of and yet few achieved.
Which reminded me of the short story I’d sent off in the post. I told myself firmly I’d not give into depression if I heard nothing, for news came very slowly to the island.
“I’m afraid I have to leave tomorrow,” Mr. Davis said. “I have to see my uncle. He lives on one of the islands.”
“Oh? Shall you return?”
“Absolutely,” he returned with a smile. “It’s just an island hop for two days. You must understand, Miss du Maurier, I cannot leave Somner until this business is settled. Someone murdered my best friend, and I won’t rest until the murderer”—he glanced caustically at Josh Lissot—“is punished.”
Chapter Twenty
“Did someone say ‘island hop’?”
Inspired by Mr. Davis’s excursion, Sir Marcus seized on an idea. “I daresay that’s a splendid idea. I shall make all the arrangements. I’m very good at outings, you know. What do say you, Lord Rod? We could all do with some cheering up.”
Everyone focused on the man who had recently lost his brother. “I suppose it would be something to do.”
“Exactly so. Tomorrow too soon? How does the weather fare?”
And so a day trip and picnic dawned and I, for one, could not contain my excitement. I longed to explore all of the islands and was delighted to hear the party had settled on Tresco.
Transported in a convoy of motor cars to the ferry, we parted with Mr. Davis, who caught a different boat to see his uncle on St. Mawes.
“I do hope you’ll be able to join us later,” I overheard Kate say to Mr. Davis as we parted ways.
“I don’t think so. Uncle William has a penchant for keeping me once I arrive. Another time, perhaps.”
He left and I caught a fleeting glance of sadness drift over Kate’s fine features. Was she thinking she should desert the penniless Mr. Lissot to marry the man who’d loved her so devotedly all these years?
I asked Sir Marcus.
“It’s devilish odd: this Katie/Josh business. Are they together or are they not?”
As we were about to board the small schooner ferry, Sir Marcus and I lingered back from the others. “I don’t think she’s made a decision yet. She may feel guilty for deserting Josh.”
“Guilt is no reason to stay.” Sir Marcus’s logical utterance accompanied us down the sunny ramp.
The day promised fine weather blessedly free of wind and rain. Such days were rare during winter and the sunshine inevitably brightened everyone’s mood.
I sat next to Arabella on the boat. She looked quite attractive, abandoning her spectacles and donning a plain white summer’s dress, her lank brown hair tied back with a red ribbon. Kate and Angela dressed similarly whereas I had opted for a skirt and blouse as was my custom, and we all took the precaution of bringing coats and umbrellas.
The men carried baskets from the kitchen and Roderick stood with the captain up in front. They chatted the entire time and I realized he felt more at ease with the working class than with people of his own. I began to understand the spartan tower, the overalls, and the boatbuilding business. Yes, it all suited the quiet, unobtrusive man. He’d make somebody a very good husband one day.
“Are you,” Bella dared to ask me during the voyage, “and my cousin…?”
Words failed her. Her desperation drew a profound sense of pity from me. Unrequited love. It mustn’t be kind.
&nbs
p; “You were very close to both your cousins, weren’t you?” I replied, keeping my voice low and sympathetic. “I daresay within the family they hoped you’d marry one? I felt a similar attachment to my cousin at one time.”
“It was my mother’s fondest wish,” she confided.
“And you love living here on the island, don’t you?”
“Yes, I do.”
“In answer to your question,” I whispered, “I can say there is no attachment at present between your cousin and I—”
“And will you promise there never will be?”
She reminded me of Lady Catherine in Pride and Prejudice. I was Elizabeth Bennett being asked to steer clear of the quarry.
“I wondered,” she went on, “if you and the Major—”
“Oh, no. We’re just…friends,” I decided at length.
“Sir Marcus mentioned Padthaway. Is that where you met the Major?”
I had no desire to embark upon a dissection of that period of my life. Fortunately, we arrived at our destination and the jolt sent me upright. Steadying myself, I maneuvered away from Bella so she and I could not continue our conversation.
Sir Marcus, of course, had noted the exchange. In fact, he noted a great deal too much.
“I think you’re hiding something from everyone,” I teased. “Are you a private investigator or a closet chronicler?”
“‘A closet chronicler.’ I rather like the sound of that…. Watch your step, Daphne girl. We trudge a very fine path here.”
Tresco. I especially looked forward to visiting the abbey and the old shiphead museum, with varying figureheads dating back to the early nineteenth century.
Roderick willingly assumed the role of tour guide, betraying his passion for seafaring. I opted for the seat beside him on the hackney carriage that met us down at the dock.
“It became more than a hobby these last two years,” he uttered with pride. “My little boatbuilding enterprise…the warehouse you visited up at the tower.”
Peril at Somner House Page 16