Peril at Somner House

by Joanna Challis

  A chill wind whipped around my neck and I shivered. I couldn’t even pull my cardigan up around me since my hands were tied. Thrust to my feet, I was lifted onto wooden decking, the rope binding me to my captor. There was no chance of escape as we walked on, across the beach, and upward to a sandy, grassy track. I faltered once or twice and my captor steadied me, ensuring I did not fall, and at last, we appeared to have reached our destination.

  I heard birds above, and the sound of the sea in the near distance. We were close to the beach.

  “Stop.”

  Brought to a halt, I inhaled the pungent, pleasant odor of coffee.

  A door opened and I was pushed inside what I imagined was some kind of boathouse. I suddenly sensed the presence of someone else.

  “Timas. We’ve another inmate,” announced my captor.

  A grunt emanated from across the room. From the grunt, I pictured Timas an old seaman and criminal with no saving virtues. Who was the first inmate, I wondered.

  The blindfold ripped from my eyes, I blinked a few times to adjust to the light. We were in a boathouse, yes, a cramped boathouse full of clutter, old ship wheels, sunken objects extracted from the ocean, a tiny kitchen, cupboards bearing rusty food tins and empty whiskey bottles, three or so rooms and two broken windows boarded up with pieces of driftwood. The place had an eerie personality about it and I swallowed, not wanting to know what lay beneath the floorboards at my feet.

  Timas proved broader and fatter than I imagined him, with wiry white hair, a great beard, and bulging red-rimmed pale eyes that gleamed at my arrival. His chafed lips smacked together in appreciation and I turned to face my captor, finally.

  “You’re not to touch the girl,” Davis ordered. “Would you like a coffee, Daphne?”

  Assuming a completely at-home air, as though we’d come here for a picnic, Mr. Davis loosened the bonds on my hands. He frowned whilst I rubbed the reddened, broken skin.

  “I’m sorry for that. Alas, it was a necessary precaution, but I trust you didn’t find the journey too uncomfortable?”

  “Why?” The question choked out of me. “Why?”

  “Ah, yes, why. It’s the great question, is it not? You rather caught me off my guard with your little note, you know. You don’t make a very good blackmailer.”

  “I have no intention of blackmailing you,” I assured him. “I merely want to know the truth.”

  “Truth,” he echoed. “The truth has many faces. Now, how about that coffee? It’s a chilly morning.”

  I shook my head.

  “Ah well.” He lifted his shoulders to Timas. “It’s as the lady commands. We’ll go up to the lighthouse now. Give me the key, Timas.”

  Shuffling through his trouser pockets, Timas produced a large iron key.

  Davis turned to me. “I’m trusting you not to run away.”

  “As agreed: I give you my word.”

  I was surprised at how calm I sounded. I certainly did not feel calm. I thought of running down to the boat and rowing myself off this island, far away from danger and Peter Davis.

  But my curious nature prevented me from running, just as Mr. Davis’s arrogance prevented him from rejecting my proposal. He thought himself so immensely clever, so above suspicion that he had to know how I’d uncovered his guilt. He couldn’t rest until he learned what mistake he’d made, what little inconsistency had exposed him. It was the only trump card I had to play, and I prayed the Major reached me before I found myself in real danger.

  “You’re a remarkable girl, Daphne,” Davis said to me, leading me up a rugged island path strewn with sand-blown long grass and purple and white flowers. “And I’m sorry for the rope. But at least,” he smiled, “I did not make you wear the blindfold.”

  “You are all kindness.”

  “Ah! A hint of sarcasm…now, watch your step,” he advised, too chivalrous for my liking, “the island has many dangers. It’s a deserted part up here,” he went on, tugging me up the path as though he’d made the journey a hundred times over.

  “Does it belong to you? This place, the lighthouse?”

  “Yes.” His emphatic nod confirmed it. “It’s my own little bit of paradise.”

  “It’s lovely,” I remarked, for I didn’t know what else to say. Acting normal encouraged him to feel secure with me. Without it, he’d mistrust everything I said and did, which guaranteed my incarceration. What I hoped for was to convince him to give himself up and win back some level of decency.

  My good intentions, however, deserted me upon reaching the defunct old lighthouse, a lonely ruin of a place.

  “It’s ancient,” Davis said. “Once the island’s only lighthouse and abandoned in the seventeenth century. When I purchased this allotment of land, the old ruin came with it, but I don’t view it as an impediment, do you, Daphne?”

  “No,” I said as a crow screeched above, gliding to perch on the highest, jagged stone.

  “Don’t be afraid,” Davis grinned. “The locals call it the Place of Crows. It’s not really as unfriendly as it looks.”

  Despite the warmth of the sun on my back, I shivered. Escape was as far off as the sun, I realized, surveying the lithe frame of Mr. Davis. I could run fast, but not fast enough. My only hope lay in the letter knife in my pocket.

  Davis stood at the door with the sun on his face, smiling. “Do you care to hazard a guess at the identity of the inmate who resides within?”

  His affability disturbed me. Feigning a nonchalance I did not feel, I opted for the surprise and, thrusting the key in the door, Davis opened it, waiting for me to go in first.

  I squinted, unsure of entering. What awaited me? A monster?

  I stepped inside a circular room, half open to the elements and half protected from them. I turned toward the door in disgust, the smell churning my stomach. The threadbare room bore little furniture, one damp single bed and one bedside table, a huge candelabra, its base littered with new and burnt-out candles, a bear rug, faded, yet of good quality…and hauntingly familiar. I’d seen such a rug in Lord Roderick’s tower.

  Sensing the intrusion, the tenant of this prison rumbled out of the shadows.

  I gasped.

  For there, carting a stack of books under his arm, was Max Trevalyan.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  “Angela! How nice of you to visit me.”

  I stared at him. “Max? Max, is that you?”

  “Yes.” He embraced me, squeezing me so tight I lost my breath. “Why have you taken so long to come?” Shaking his head, he clicked his tongue. “Naughty girl, but no matter. Would you care for a spot of tea? I don’t know whether they have tea in this establishment.” His displeased brow arrested Davis. “Tea? Do we have tea here?”

  “Miss Daphne has already said no to refreshments.” Davis’s smooth reply cut the air of equanimity.

  “Daphne?” Max leaned over to peer at me and I recoiled at his stench. “No, I am sure it is the elder, Angela.”

  “No, it’s Daphne,” I broke in, astonished. Max Trevalyan alive.

  I shuddered. If Max Trevalyan was here, alive and well, then whose body lay in the family crypt?

  “Hallo, Daphne.” A cheerful Max embraced me again. “Good of you to stop by. What do you think of my island? It’s all mine, you know. Every inch, every grain of sand.”

  His sheepish grin did little for my nerves. He’d grown a thousand times more mad up here, alone and forgotten by the outside world.

  “I’m afraid the lodging isn’t the best, but it has all I need. Don’t travel much these days,” he yawned. “Too darn tiring. You don’t mind if I go and lie down now, do you?”

  Without waiting for my reply, he sank down into his little slat bed, stretched out, pulled the blanket up over his body, and closed his eyes.

  Davis instructed me to sit.

  Guided to an alcove by the door where two wooden chairs lurked, I said, “You’ve drugged him, haven’t you?”

  “Bravo!” Clapping his hands, Davis exuded his a
musement. “In point of fact, I’ve only increased his dosage. I never drugged Max, nor introduced him to the vile stuff. He drugged himself, after the war.”

  “Because of the pain?”

  “At first. Cigars were getting too expensive, you see, and there was a man we knew near the base. He used to be a doctor, a good respectable doctor until two German pilots murdered his wife and daughter and the authorities were too busy with the war to do anything about it. It turned him bitter, so he turned his hand to a different kind of enterprise.”

  “Selling narcotics to pilots,” I finished grimly.

  “And others,” Davis confirmed, running a cool finger down my cheek. “You’d be surprised at how many good girls fell into the doctor’s trap and what they were prepared to do in order to get their…shall we say, fix?”

  “They were victims.” My gaze strayed to the sad figure of Max Trevalyan. “I suppose he developed a quick dependency?”

  “Yes, you are right. Poor Max. He was always searching for the ‘eternal escape.’ Now, I’ve given it to him.”

  “But how?”

  “No. My questions first. What led you to me?”

  I knotted my hands together. I didn’t know what he intended to do to me, and fear rippled up my spine. I had only a little time to play. Very little. I had to keep him talking while I planned my escape. “There were quite a few things,” I began, trying to stretch it out as long as possible.

  Arrogance glinted in his eyes. “Very vague. When did I feature on your list of suspects?”

  I opened my mouth.

  “Yes, I know all about you and Sir Marcus and your little games. I also know he is the most rapacious columnist this side of Europe. That is why he was asked to Somner House.”

  “But he is Kate’s friend. He wouldn’t write anything to hurt her.”

  “No, but I know something you don’t know. Kate is not as innocent as she looks. She was planning to kill her poor dear husband. She and her lover. That’s why she invited Sir Marcus down. She needed someone of Sir Marcus’s ilk and stature to proclaim her innocence to the world. She’s very clever, our Katie.”

  “No, it cannot be true.” I thought of the poignant conversation we’d had outside the museum, how her blue eyes expressed her innocence. You do believe me, don’t you, Daphne, she’d said.

  Cupping his chin, Davis tapped his piano fingers across his face. “Proceed. What led you to me? You said a few things. What things? I am very curious to know.”

  “The painting day.”

  “The painting day?”

  “Yes,” I rattled on, wondering if I could make a quick retrieval of my letter knife if necessary. “When we were painting that day, you mentioned the phrase ‘there are things worse than death.’ I thought at the time you spoke in general, but later I came to realize there was something more significant implied in your words.”

  “Oh?”

  I paused. I’d captured his undivided attention and every moment brought the Major closer to me. “‘Things worse than death’ can only mean one of two things. You resent life or life resents you. Something bitter festers inside, something you cannot control.”

  “You are vastly entertaining,” he said. “Go on.”

  “This festering sore burns and emits desire and when desire meets opportunity, a plan is born. A plan that was part of the desire and the desire is simply to win. Win over Max Trevalyan, this man you claimed was your best friend.”

  I could see I’d rattled him for his lips tightened.

  “You resented Max,” I went on. “You always have. He excelled over you in school. He excelled over you in friends. Women chose him over you. During the war, you saved him, yet gave him your medal because in some bizarre way you were also obsessed with him, pleasing him, keeping him humored and beside you. He became for you a beacon in life; you fed off his mad behavior and placed yourself in the comfortable role of Kate’s protector, this woman who chose Max over you.”

  Breaking off to catch my breath and survey the sleeping Max, poised so peacefully, like a child at his bed, sedated beyond any decency and totally unaware of it. He was trapped, a willing bird to his cage, having forgotten his former life, his wife, his brother, and even his house.

  “Drugs deaden the mind. You knew Max’s addiction. You introduced him to stronger drugs and his dependency increased. You thought he’d eventually die of an overdose and Kate would be free to marry you. Or perhaps you thought she’d consign him to a mental asylum? Either way, she’d have her freedom. But there was Josh Lissot, wasn’t there?”

  Davis’s eyes narrowed. “Lissot. A veritable thorn in my flesh. I tried to warn Katie that the affair couldn’t last but she refused to listen.”

  “So you made things difficult for Mr. Lissot by walling up his commissions and rendering him financially defunct…destroying a man’s pride and an artist’s soul. You guessed correctly that he’d take his own life rather than face life without his art and his lover. He had nothing to offer her, nothing left to live for, nothing to aspire to other than a theatrical death.”

  “Marvelous!” Davis clapped his hands. “You intrigue me, Daphne. Pray, continue.”

  “Long before Josh Lissot, however, the real duplicity began. When Max failed to die of an overdose, you thought to remove him. You couldn’t kill him yourself. You thought of hiring somebody to do it, but your conscience troubled you. Despite all his faults, Max was still your friend, so you decided to grant him his life. I would so much love to know when and how the thought occurred to you.” I trusted my plea softened his mood.

  “Walking through a London cemetery, if you must know. I saw a tombstone. It said UNKNOWN. FACE UNRECOGNIZABLE.”

  “I see. And the idea emerged in your mind to find a body, render its face unrecognizable, dress the body in Max’s clothes and ring, and voila! Max Trevalyan, a man nobody liked, who had been brutally attacked by his wife’s lover, was found murdered. Kate is all alone and she and her friend’s would never suspect Max’s best friend, who seemed to arrive after the incident of the crime.”

  “How,” he shook his head, chuckling, “did you come by a devious mind like my own? Are you full of hidden vice, Daphne du Maurier?”

  He said it as a compliment but I rejected it. To be thought brilliant was one thing, to be thought psychotic and to be associated with such minds as his was not complimentary. I suddenly recalled the Major saying: “The only one who is exempt from this affair is Mr. Davis, for he wasn’t present at either.”

  “You had the perfect alibi,” I continued. “But I am wary of perfection and my suspicions were confirmed when I asked you about your uncle. The briefest flicker in your eyes alerted me to a falsehood.”

  “I am astounded…” Davis said slowly. “What else?”

  “The terrace door. Hugo heard it open three times. Upon our return from the island, you blundered in and made the statement that you ‘ought to be more soft-footed.’ I thought nothing of it then, but later, the inconsistency plagued me. You are a quiet man. Your piano playing is perfect. Accurate. Steady. Yes, steady. That word, that very word, led me to you. You were entirely too steady. Too circumspect.”

  Listening with full intent, he nodded, as though scribing a mental note to be more cautious. “I still fail to see the significance.”

  “So did Josh Lissot…at first. But on carefully examining his movements that night, he realized he’d only opened the door twice at most. Another person opened it a third time to alert Hugo and incriminate Josh Lissot, and then left through the kitchen door. You were there watching, weren’t you? You were there watching Josh and Kate in the shadows…just waiting for the moment to strike. You wanted to make it appear as if the lovers were guilty. It was a technicality Fernald didn’t act on for obvious reasons, but one that clearly exposed a third party—the real murderer—you.”

  Crossing his arms, Davis smiled.

  “But really you had the perfect alibi. You never expected anybody would suspect you.” Catching my breat
h, I whispered, my voice sounding very small, “What do you intend to do with him?”

  “To do with who? Max? Oh, he’s supremely happy here, so I shan’t disturb him. Would be cruel to do so and you can ask him later if you like. He has no wish to leave the island.”

  “But if he were nursed back to sound mind—”

  Davis snorted. “He’s beyond the point of turning away from the drugs. If released into society, he will harm others.”

  “If restrained, though, are there not clinics who can take him? Even under a false name?”

  “Clinics are costly and I am sure if Kate knew, she’d prefer him to be here. He loves it here. Here, he is king of the island.”

  “But how can you think she would accept this fate for her husband if she knew he was alive?”

  Davis affected another nonplussed shrug. “Kate’s not as innocent as you think.”

  “She will not accept you.”

  “She will accept me. Even if it takes a little time. She needs me, you see. As I need her.”

  He needed to win her, I thought. He needed to triumph over Max. His pride demanded she become his wife, through whatever means necessary.

  A horrible dread stuck in my throat. Mr. Davis intended to consign me to the island, too, just as he’d done with Max. Even if I agreed to keep his secret, he’d never release me. He had planned this life for himself for far too long to allow me, a mere nobody, to disrupt his future. I was terrified he’d succeed.

  I was given something to drink.

  Coffee, delivered in a greenish mug.

  “Drink it,” Davis commanded, as I sat there, now a true prisoner. I thought of Edmond in the Count of Monte Cristo when he entered the Chateau d’If.

  Oh, why had I been so foolish? I prayed. I prayed fervently and earnestly. I prayed the Major got my note, in which I told him of meeting Peter Davis at Milton Heath. I prayed he came for me.

  “Drink it.”

  I still delayed over the coffee. “What’s in it?” I asked, hoping the calmness of my voice would elicit an answer.