Peril at Somner House

by Joanna Challis

  “Oh, yes. The tower,” I echoed.

  A tiny smile played at the corners of his lips. “You are an unusual woman, Daphne. Not many women envisage it as you do. They all seem to exclaim ‘how can you live there!’”

  I shook my head. “It makes me indignant. A tower is a wonderful place to live, though I suppose it gets very cold in the winter?”

  “I’ve improved the heating capacity to a large extent. Surprisingly, parts of Somner are colder than the tower in winter, if you believe me.”

  “Why shouldn’t I believe you?” I took a sideways glance at him. “Don’t you ever fancy living on the mainland? London?”

  “No,” came the firm reply. “These islands are my life. I feel just as Augustus Smith must have felt in 1834 when he came to Tresco and built his house and gardens. He dedicated his future to creating a life on the island.”

  “Do you know the family at the abbey?”

  “A little,” he admitted. “You, I think, will fall in love with the place once you see it. It is like something out of a dream…”

  “But your Somner House is very fine,” I reminded him, “and your cousin is just as dedicated.”

  Roderick missed my humor, but understood my meaning. “I have told her again and again—”

  “It’s all right,” I whispered. “But she does love you and the island.”

  “I know she does,” he said, raising his eyes as if the fact were a thorn in his side, “and I’ve made the offer to her and Aunt Fran to live at Somner, but Aunt Fran despises the sea air. It is the isolation of her gentle country village she prefers where she’s lived her entire life, so it’s understandable. Bella, on the other hand, cannot leave her entirely and, to some degree, is trapped. I often say she should marry a good man. I tried to introduce her to a few but the society down in Devon spawns a disastrous lack of prospects and Bella refuses to spend time in London ‘hunting a husband,’ as she would say. She finds the exercise abhorrent.”

  Pride, I thought to myself. For if she really wanted a husband, wouldn’t she make the effort? No. For years she’d planned to marry Max or Roderick and live on the island. Perhaps she hoped, in time, Rod would agree to enter into a marriage of convenience for companionship. In a prudential light, it would be a good match, as Roderick would need an heir.

  The lack of an heir brought Mrs. Eastley and her son promptly to my mind. “I called upon Mrs. Eastley,” I admitted to Roderick. “It surprises me she has no designs on Somner. Have you had much trouble with her father?”

  If he was surprised by my interference, he didn’t show it. “I’m afraid Max promised Jackson more than what is reasonable. Of course, my brother wasn’t in a proper frame of mind at the time.”

  A slight frown passed his face, perhaps recalling how Sir Marcus and I had broken into the drawer and read Max’s will.

  “It seems he never was, now that I look back upon it. Even from childhood.”

  “Mentally ill,” I whispered, “worsened by circumstance?”

  “Yes,” Rod confirmed a moment later, lightly touching the outward frame of my hand. “You’ve summed it up perfectly, Miss du Maurier.”

  Our first stop, the Abbey Gardens, proved a sweeping terrace of over twenty thousand rare, wonderful, and exotic plants from South America to the Mediterranean to South Africa and even New Zealand. The first walk captivated us from the start. It felt like we had entered another world, like the lost Lyonesse of King Arthur, perhaps. I’d read a little about the Isles of Scilly, but visiting this place sent a shiver of appreciation through my bones.

  Exotic balmy palms, the essence of spiced plants, the unusually shaped flowers; every square inch had been carefully thought out and planned to achieve the look of a wild, random beauty, all surrounding the magnificent ruins of the twelfth-century church of St. Nicholas Priory.

  Unstintingly loyal to any colossal mass flaunting splendid gray walls and ruined arches, I sighed in wonder at the towering proportions standing proud by the river, closing my ears to the running commentary on flora and fauna. The Abbey House and its cascading landscape interested me far more than the tour. I stopped to wonder who had lived here in the past and who enjoyed the house and its surroundings now.

  “I will inquire whether the family is at home,” Lord Roderick said to me, strolling off in the direction of the house.

  I took another path, a path of scented hedges and fragile stone steps creeping to endless exotic niches. The garden’s beauty arrested me, as did the house, and upon locating a garden bench from which to view the house, I sat down and daydreamed. I daydreamed I was the mistress of the Abbey House, and this was my garden.

  “If I were a policeman, I would think you drunk with beauty.”

  The voice was teasing and all too familiar.

  Keeping my eyes closed, I crossed my arms. “And if I were a police inspector, I would think you illegally on a case not your own. What are you doing here?”

  Dressed in casual brown trousers and an olive green sweater, Major Browning strolled into my sunshine. Blinking open my eyes, I enjoyed the way the light danced across the fallen tendrils of his slightly unkempt hair.

  Humor danced in his eyes. “I am merely here to enjoy the scenery…as are you.”

  “The devil you are. How did you get here? Did you follow us? Did you know we were coming?”

  “Nice view, isn’t it?” Without invitation, he sat himself beside me, stretching out his legs and resting his arms on the back of the bench. “I do so love to visit Tresco when I have the chance of it…and it so happened an opportunity arose and—”

  “Do you know the family?”

  “Yes. I am on intimate terms with Major Dorrien-Smith. Perhaps you’ve heard of him?”

  I shook my head.

  “He collects plants. You’d like him. Charismatic old fellow who’s not, surprisingly, at home.”

  “You know that already?”

  “Of course I do. I caught an earlier boat than you.”

  “Oh.”

  “Is there any news, Miss Sleuth?”

  “I can’t say, but, speaking of sleuths, Major Browning, when is the police chief to arrive? I suspect you are in possession of that information.”

  He shrugged. “Next day or so. Business is booming these days, particularly with random acts of violence on the islands. If Max Trevalyan had not been who he was—”

  “Then nobody would have bothered to come,” I finished for him.

  Sighing, he moved closer to me.

  I turned to him. “Do you mean to infer Max Trevalyan’s case may now be resigned to the forgotten confines of a file?”

  “‘The forgotten confines of a file,’” he repeated. “Lovely, Daphne. Quite lovely.”

  I beamed.

  “But too wordy. ‘Resigned to a forgotten file’ reads much better. It’s much more…succinct.”

  “And what authority do you have on the matter, sir? Are you a publisher, editor, or even a reader?”

  “I am a great reader,” he avowed.

  “Is that so?” I lifted a contemptuous brow. “And what do you read? The latest yachting magazine? London Life weekly?”

  “You do me severe discredit.” He frowned. “I read upon a variety of subjects. From Shakespeare to Socrates, Dickens to du Maurier.” He paused, an elusive grin twigging at the corners of his mouth. “Oh yes, I read your uncle’s book.”

  “Did you really?” I was most impressed. “There aren’t many copies available.”

  “I know,” he groaned, “but having met his niece last summer, I decided to find out how the family wields the pen. How is your penmanship coming along, by the way?”

  “Intolerably slow!” I said, but added that I’d managed to finish a short story.

  “What kind of story?”

  “Fiction. Just a silly little short work of fiction.”

  “You could have written a novel about Padthaway.”

  “I know…maybe one day I will. I’ll have to change the names a
nd the plot, of course.”

  “Of course,” he agreed. “And have you sent off your story for publication yet?”

  I didn’t want to answer. I didn’t want my fear of rejection shared among my peers, for I expected the parcel to be returned to me, red marks lining my typewritten pages, topped with a printed rejection letter. Dear Miss du Maurier, I’m afraid your story does not suit our magazine at this time.…

  “I think it’s a remarkable vocation, writing. You have the power to create anything.”

  For once, he sounded sincere and full of admiration. “Tell me something. Why did you follow me here?”

  “I did not follow. Remember, I have some business with Dorrien-Smith. He asked me to bring him a certain plant.”

  “I thought you said the Major was not at home?”

  “He isn’t. He asked me over a year ago, but I thought it a good time to fulfill his request—since I am in the area and Lord Roderick told me of your plans to visit Tresco. Pure coincidence,” he assured me, stretching out his long legs to further enjoy the sunshine and the view. “Yet can you imagine my delight to find you on the island. Now you tell me how you are enjoying this dubious little house party.”

  “Dubious?”

  “Well, you can see for yourself how guilty they all appear.”

  “You are mistaken. We both know Josh is no murderer, and as for Sir Marcus, he is my friend.”

  “A risqué friend.”

  “No more than you,” I retorted.

  “Oh,” he smiled, “I am delighted to hear I am your friend again. Gallivanting around the world’s greatest estates and mixing with high society must produce a forgiving nature in you. But, by and by, did you know your friend Sir Marcus is ‘Mysterious M’?”

  “No!”

  “But yes. Wonder what he shall write about this affair, hmmm?”

  I gaped at him in utter disbelief, followed by shock and denial. I began to shake my head. It couldn’t be true. However, thinking over the past weeks, from the very first day I’d met Sir Marcus, the possibility unfurled like the sails of a ship. It made perfect sense. Sir Marcus was the famous gossip columnist Mysterious M who reported on society’s scandals and mysteries. Nobody knew his identity, but now that I thought about it, Sir Marcus was in the right position with the right contacts and he had the likable and trusting personality to do the job. “The phantom of society revealed,” I murmured, unable to curb my astonishment. “Yes, that explains his experience with listening devices and so forth.”

  “What listening devices?” the Major asked.

  “Oh.” I saw I’d betrayed myself, so I relayed the conversation Sir Marcus and I had overheard between Kate and Josh Lissot. This led to other confessions; I couldn’t help myself, for the Major’s attentive, handsome face, keen to hear and to talk, encouraged me. I hadn’t experienced such a rush of excitement for a long time and I think, I hoped, he felt it, too. Perhaps I allowed the fine day to carry me away in a romantic fancy, but something sparked between us that day, and I was eager to hold on to it.

  “I love this place.” His wistful appreciation brought fresh color to my cheeks as we strolled around the gardens later in the day. “I came here as a boy…and I never forgot it.”

  “It isn’t a place you can forget. Serene and…”

  Angela’s raucous laughter spoiled the moment.

  “Your sister sounds like she’s having a merry time,” the Major remarked, stepping to the side as the others descended upon us.

  I tried not to scowl as Kate struck up an instant flirtation with the Major, bringing quick pallor to Mr. Lissot’s cleanly shaven face.

  “We are going to the museum,” Angela announced gaily, usurping the role of tour guide. To the Major, she held out her hand. “How delightful to see you! Shall you join us for the picnic? We’ve plenty. You simply must join us, mustn’t he, Roderick?”

  “Yes, please do.” Roderick, returning from the house, shook hands with the Major. “I am glad you have joined our party. Are your men here with you?”

  “Sadly, no.”

  “Then we are very happy to have you.” Angela nudged my arm. “Aren’t we, Daphne?”

  “Y-yes.” A strangled sound emerged from my voice. “Very.”

  We headed for the museum, Roderick and the Major sharing a private chat while the rest of us lagged behind. So, I was wrong. The Major had been invited; he had not intercepted our plans and decided to follow. I felt a pang of disappointment.

  “Daphne.” Sir Marcus took my arm. “It was my idea to invite the Major. Does he join us for you?”

  I glanced up at him with a secretive smile. Mysterious M, are you? Yes, it fit.

  “What say you, Daphne girl? The Major is a shady fellow. He claims bad weather brought him to the island but I think he has come for another reason.”

  “Oh? What reason?”

  “I think he’s come for a woman.”

  I tried hard to swallow the lump rising in my throat. “You mean Kate.”

  “Yes, but not in the way you think. Although she has not admitted it, I believe she invited him, you know, at the same time we all received our invitations. I think this whole little holiday of ours is a diversion.”

  “A diversion for murder?”

  Sir Marcus lifted his shoulders. “Perhaps, my girl. Perhaps.”

  Walking into the museum, I concentrated on the Valhalla collection. As I strolled past each relic born from the sea, from various shipwrecks over the ages, I envisaged each tragedy. Pausing by a painting of a beautiful woman dressed in a flowing royal blue gown, I stared up at her face and whispered, “Hello, Katherine Trevalyan. Did you murder your husband?”

  “No, I didn’t,” came Kate’s response from where she stood just behind me.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  “Want to go outside? I fancy a smoke.”

  “I don’t know what to say,” I blurted. “Please forgive me.”

  “There’s nothing to forgive.” Snapping out her silver cigarette case, Kate smiled. She lit her black ebony pipe and stared out over the green as we moved onto the hall’s veranda. “I know everyone thinks I did it, but I’m innocent. If I’d wanted Max dead, I would have paid someone to do it.”

  “And you didn’t pay someone—”

  “I know it looks that way. That horrible man Fernald twisted all of my words…and Josh’s. He won’t give up until he pins this murder on us both and”—she laughed—“I mean, who else could have done it but the wife and the lover?”

  “Jackson?”

  “Jackson,” she said, her eyes narrowed, “and his daughter.”

  “They could have hoped to gain an inheritance,” I went on, remembering that she did not know Angela and I had eavesdropped on the reading of the will.

  “Fools. Roderick will be kind, but he won’t give up Somner now that he has it.”

  “As has Arabella.”

  She looked at me and laughed. “Daphne, Daphne, you have a mind for a murder case. I prefer to think Max died of a random killing. If only we weren’t so isolated, it may well have been the case. But he had a knack for making enemies faster than friends.”

  Seeing Angela and the Major a short distance away, I said: “I’m sorry for my silly ramblings, Kate.”

  She gazed at me then, her huge blue eyes turning sea green with tears. “You do believe me, don’t you, Daphne?”

  “Yes, I do,” I replied, but I didn’t. I didn’t trust the way her eyes shifted when she spoke, or the way her brow furrowed. It was as though she was contemplating and choosing her words very carefully. She was too careful for innocence.

  Hackney carriages carried us on a short tour of the island before we reached our picnic destination near the Trevalyan cottage. Despite my misgivings, I endeavored to be a pleasant companion and dismissed all thoughts of murder from my mind. I wanted to enjoy the fine day, the fine food promised us by Sir Marcus, and the scenery.

  I thought of my poor parents in cold London, and Jeanne in wintry Pari
s. No, I wanted to be no place else but on that island, breathing in the fresh sea air.

  The cottage, rented by the Trevalyan family over the years, resembled an old rectory one might find in the heart of Hertfordshire, gracing the far side of a sloping hill strewn with tiny blue and white flowers. Long grass bowed to the hum of a mild breeze and a maze of pale pink primroses grew up each side of the cottage.

  Upon walking down the modest clipped path leading to the ancient stone house, I wished Angela and I could have rented the lovely place for ourselves. The caretakers, Mr. Trent and his wife, a contented plump couple of middle years, warmly greeted us.

  From the moment we arrived, the couple bustled about, directing us down to the lake, where we planned to conduct our picnic, and I noted the particular regard bestowed upon Roderick. A gentle smile and nudge of approval here and there indicated their support of his inheritance. I pictured Max here, bringing his latest mistress, and I wondered if Mrs. Eastley had spent time at the cottage. When she found herself with child, had Max brought her to the cottage to bide the time until the birth?

  Mrs. Dorcas Trent interested me. A robust Cornish woman with shrewd eyes, she missed little and I saw her place a sympathetic hand upon Kate’s shoulder as we walked down the path.

  “Daphne, do help me with this thing.”

  I hurried ahead to where Sir Marcus labored with a cumbersome gramophone.

  “So you are Mysterious M?” I teased, pinching his arm and grabbing one side of his load.

  Snagging his finger on the gramophone, Sir Marcus scowled. “I most certainly am Mysterious M, and if you breathe a word of it, I’ll—”

  “You don’t have to worry.” I smiled. “Your secret is in very safe hands. I won’t breathe a word of it, I promise. Are you writing a piece on Kate and the scandals of Somner House, perchance?”

  He colored. “It was my intention, but after Max…I don’t know. Now, here’s a good place to set it up.”

  “Music by the lake,” I mused. “A charming idea.”

  Mrs. Trent instructed her husband to set up chairs by the lake and our men assisted Mr. Trent while she spread the blanket over the grass. In no time, a picnic laden with bread, fruit, ham, and cheese emerged to the lulling sounds of a beautiful composition.