I smiled at the appropriateness of my husband’s warning. “I might say the same to you.”
* * *
BY THE TIME Milo and Lucinda Lyons had left me, I was unsure of where Mr. Winters had taken himself off to. He wasn’t in the drawing room, and I thought it might look strange if I hunted about the house for him. I decided to first go to my room to reconnoiter. Perhaps I would fetch The Dead of Winter and read for a while beside the drawing-room fire.
As I made my way up the stairs, I turned over in my mind all that had happened. What did I know so far? Not much. Isobel Van Allen had not been much liked by anyone, and it seemed that everyone had had equal opportunity to slip into her room and kill her and destroy the manuscript on which she had been working.
I wasn’t at all surprised that the manuscript for the second book had been burned. It would have been very careless of a killer to murder Isobel and leave the incriminating manuscript lying about. Nevertheless, I had hoped that it would be left out to offer some sort of clue. I would just have to continue reading The Dead of Winter and see what secrets it might have to reveal.
I was so lost in thought that I nearly bumped headlong into Mr. Collins.
“Oh, excuse me,” I murmured.
I moved to step around him, but his hand shot out and caught my arm. “Wait just a moment.”
His grip was not tight, but I was unaccustomed to being grabbed by strange gentlemen. I looked pointedly down at his hand on my arm and he dropped it.
“Yes, what is it?” I asked.
“I wanted to ask you about Mrs. Collins,” he said. His tone was friendly in an artificial way, as though he was unaccustomed to pleasantries.
“What about her?”
“I only wondered if she’s had some time to speak to you since we’ve been here.”
It occurred to me that he could just as easily have asked her that question. He could only be asking me because he hadn’t wanted to raise the question to his wife … or because he hadn’t believed her answer.
“We chatted for a few moments yesterday,” I told him truthfully.
“About what?” What was, presumably, meant to be a casual question came across as a gruff demand. I could not see, in any event, how it was any of his concern.
“She told me about the children,” I said. “It has been a long time since we’ve seen one another.”
He smiled. “I’m sure she would like to renew her friendship with you.” He was making a tremendous effort to be agreeable, but the result was not at all successful. I liked him less now than ever.
“Yes,” I said. “I should like that, too. Now, if you will excuse me…”
He nodded, the insincere smile still frozen on his face, and I moved past him.
That was very strange. I had the distinct impression that he was uneasy about what his wife might have told me. That could only mean that he had something to hide.
One thing was certain. I had not had a chance to talk with Freida since the murder, but I certainly intended to now.
* * *
“YOU’RE LOOKING MUCH better today, madam,” Winnelda said cheerily as I came into the room. “Last night you were as pale as a ghost. I was quite concerned about you.”
“I do feel better today, thank you.”
“It must have been very dreadful, finding Miss Van Allen lying dead in a great pool of blood.”
“Yes, very dreadful indeed.”
She seemed disappointed that more information was not forthcoming and chose a more direct approach. “Was she cut all to pieces?”
I knew that Winnelda had a penchant for the macabre and thus managed to be not entirely horrified by her question. “I did not have time to notice what kind of wounds she had,” I said, “but I can assure you the body was all in one piece.”
I had the impression that this answer was not satisfactory. She wanted tales of gore, but I had thought quite enough about those moments in Isobel Van Allen’s room and did not intend to relive them.
“Well, she was stabbed a great many times, so the police said,” she told me at last, deciding to share what she knew since I was disinclined to elaborate on my own experience. “But they haven’t found the weapon, you know.”
“Yes, I know,” I said. I wondered where the killer might have hidden it.
“They’re sure the killer must have hidden it somewhere,” she went on, “but so far they haven’t been able to find it.”
“How did you learn all of this, Winnelda?” I asked.
“Oh, I just heard things here and there.”
I suspected this information had been gleaned by darting up and down the stairs all day yesterday, talking to members of the household staff, and no doubt peeking around corners. I wasn’t about to quibble about her methods, however.
“Was there anything else?”
She paused to think. “Well, most of the household staff was accounted for, so the police are fairly certain it was one of you.” She stopped. “That is, I mean…”
“Yes, I understand what you mean,” I told her. “Did you speak with that inspector?”
“Yes, but only briefly. He wasn’t much interested in me, madam, though he did ask me if you were in your room all that time. I told him that you were, though I was sure you had already told him as much and your word was quite as good as mine.”
“Thank you, Winnelda.”
“And I told him that you were quite upset because you had found Miss Van Allen dead and that it was a great shock to you. And then he did the most dreadful thing. You’ll never guess!”
“He asked to see the bloody clothes, I suppose.”
Her eyes widened and she nodded, duly impressed. “I should have known you’d guess, madam, being a detective yourself and all. He took the clothes and examined them closely.”
“Did he take them away?”
She shook her head. “No, he told me I could do as I wished with them.”
“Then dispose of them, please.”
“Yes, madam.”
I had no doubt that my clothes had borne out my story. The blood would have been thickest on the knees of my trousers where I had unwittingly knelt in Isobel’s blood. My shirt had been badly stained as well, but from holding Isobel against me. I wouldn’t have imagined it would have looked the same had I participated in the stabbing. I shuddered a bit at the thought.
“Did you hear anything else, Winnelda? From the police or from anyone else?”
She shook her head. “The police were fairly careful about talking in front of the domestics, and the doors are too thick for listening through.”
I didn’t ask her how she had come by this knowledge, and she did not volunteer the information.
This had all been rather enlightening, and I was glad that I had had the chance to talk to my resourceful maid. As ever, she had proven to be a font of information.
I went to where The Dead of Winter sat on the table near the fire and picked it up. I hadn’t had the opportunity to read any more of it since I had first started, and I found that the idea was oddly distasteful now. Perhaps I would wait just a bit longer to do my research. In any event, perhaps I should keep reading the offending book on my own rather than flaunting it in the drawing room for all to see. The less interested I appeared to the others, the better.
“Oh, madam, there was one other thing I forgot,” Winnelda said. “It might be of interest to you.”
I turned.
“When Parks was in Mr. Roberts’s room he noticed something. Mr. Roberts wanted a picture of Isobel that was in the drawer of the bureau, so Parks went to fetch it for him. But then Parks saw that there was something else in the drawer, tucked in among Mr. Roberts’s things.”
I waited.
“It was … now, let me think…” She frowned, concentrating. “He said … Oh! It was … no, that’s not it. Well, I can’t remember exactly what Parks said it was, but it was some kind of poison.”
12
LEAVE IT TO Winnelda to save the most
startling of revelations for last.
“Is Parks certain it was poison?” I asked.
“Oh, yes, madam. He was very sure about it. He saw the label. Parks is very clever, you know.”
“Yes, I know. But why didn’t he say something?”
She frowned. “He did, madam. To me.” I understood what she meant. Parks was not nearly as garrulous as Winnelda. He would not have said anything to Milo. He would not have felt it his place to do so.
“Did he tell the police?” The police had searched our rooms after the murder, but presumably they had only been looking for bloody knives and had overlooked the bottle in Mr. Roberts’s drawer.
“No,” she said. “Miss Van Allen wasn’t poisoned, after all.”
She hadn’t been poisoned, but she had been ill the night before she died. I wondered if the poison might have had anything to do with it.
“It is curious, though, isn’t it, madam?”
“Yes,” I said. “That is very curious.”
Why would Desmond Roberts have brought poison with him to Lyonsgate? Had he been intending to murder someone? It was all so perplexing. I added the mysterious poison to my list of things that I would need to know more about.
With this newest information swirling about in my mind, I went back out into the hall. I wanted to see if I could locate either Freida or Mr. Winters.
If I could find Freida, I wanted to see if I could determine what it was that her husband had been worried she would tell me. Mr. Collins had come from their rooms and seemed to be going back to the drawing room. I wondered if it was possible that Freida might still be in her room.
I went to her door and knocked.
For a long moment I heard nothing. Then she opened it. I was not imagining the look of relief on her face when she saw me. Who did she think I had been?
“Hello, Freida,” I said. “I came to look in on you. I wondered if perhaps you’d like to go out walking.”
She paused. “I … I don’t think so, but thank you. I’m not feeling very well.”
“I expect we’re all a bit ill at ease, considering all that’s happened. It was dreadful about Isobel.” I had learned from past experience that it was often best just to address directly what I was thinking. It saved time.
“Yes, I understand you found her. I can’t imagine…” Her voice trailed off. She could imagine, I supposed. After all, she was the one who had found Edwin Green dead in the snow.
“Who might have done it?” I asked.
She looked at me, doing nothing to hide the worry in her expression. “I don’t know.”
“Haven’t you any idea?” I asked the question conspiratorially, as though we were once again those young girls discussing the boys we fancied.
“No, I’ve really no idea. I was writing letters in my room after breakfast. Phillip had gone out walking. Henson saw him go out.”
I had not asked for her whereabouts, and the information was only slightly useful. It only proved that either of them might have killed Isobel. It crossed my mind to wonder if they would have provided one another with alibis had Henson not seen Mr. Phillips going out. I wondered if anyone had seen him come back to the house.
My thoughtful silence appeared to have unnerved her, for she began to speak again.
“I’ve thought about it, and it seems to me…” She stopped.
“Yes?”
“I don’t know. I … I think Beatrice was right at dinner last night. Love is a very powerful thing. Perhaps powerful enough to make one kill.”
“Mr. Roberts, you mean?”
“I…” She shook her head, and her expression became guarded. “I don’t know. Perhaps we will never know.”
“It seems unlikely that the police will let the matter drop,” I said lightly.
“Murderers have gone unpunished before.” She stepped back slightly, her hand on the door as if to close it. “It’s been lovely talking with you, Amory, but if you’ll excuse me, I have a letter I must finish writing.”
“Of course.”
She began to close the door and then halted, looking out at me, a troubled expression in her eyes. “I know murder is wrong, and perhaps it’s wicked of me, but somehow I can’t help but feel that Isobel brought it on herself.”
* * *
I WALKED BACK downstairs, lost in thought. I had been a bit surprised by Freida’s sentiments, but I suspected they were shared by most of the others at Lyonsgate. No one, with the exception of Mr. Roberts, mourned Isobel Van Allen’s passing. In fact, it had come as a relief to most of them.
Though I would not have put it exactly as Freida had, it did seem that Isobel had done her best to make people angry. She had cultivated an atmosphere of suspicion and malice, and it had been her downfall. Not, of course, that that was any excuse for murder.
What had Freida meant by murderers having gone unpunished? She might have been speaking in generalities, but it had seemed to me there was something more to her words. Perhaps I would have an opportunity to continue the conversation with her later.
I went into the drawing room hoping to find Mr. Winters there and was surprised to see Desmond Roberts sitting near the window, gazing out across the sprawling lawns.
He looked up when I entered and rose at once.
“Good morning, Mrs. Ames.”
He was still very pale beneath his bronzed skin and there were dark circles around his eyes. Both features were accentuated by the bright morning light shining through the window, but he appeared much more composed than he had been last night.
“Good morning. Please sit down. I didn’t mean to disturb you.”
“No, no. Please. Come in, won’t you?” he asked. “I … I’d rather like the company. I came down and found that there was no one about, so I thought I would sit here for a while. I … I felt I needed to leave my room.”
“I agree. It’s not good for you to stay there all alone.” I came in and took a seat across from him, studying his taut, handsome face. “Have you had anything to eat?”
He shook his head. “I … I can’t. Not yet.”
“Perhaps some coffee?”
“Perhaps later. I … I am feeling rather ill this morning.”
“I’m sorry to hear it,” I said. He did look unwell. His skin was pasty in color, almost gray, and the sheen of perspiration on it was visible from where I sat. Grief manifest itself in many different ways, and I was not at all surprised the poor boy was ill and without appetite. I did hope, however, that he didn’t go on starving himself. Perhaps Parks might be able to induce him to eat something later. I would tell Milo to put him on the job.
“I’m sorry about the way I … the way I was last night,” he said after a moment of silence. “I was not myself.”
“Please don’t apologize,” I said. “I know it was a terrible shock. Is there anything I can do for you?”
“No,” he said. “No, there’s nothing. Thank you.”
I felt again a pang of sympathy for him. His sense of loss and loneliness was almost tangible. I wondered if it was left to him to make the arrangements for Isobel’s funeral alone.
“Is there anything you need assistance with?” I asked him gently. “Any family I should notify or anything of that sort?”
He shook his head. “Isobel didn’t have any family left. And I…” His voice broke off, and he looked out the window, as though somewhere far away. “I don’t either,” he said at last.
“What about the funeral?” I was not entirely comfortable pressing him on such a private matter, but I also knew that he was likely to need support in the days ahead. When the shock had worn off, there would be a great many other matters to be attended to.
“Isobel made arrangements to be buried in Kenya,” he said.
I looked up, surprised. “Arrangements?”
“Yes, when all of this is over, she … her … body will be sent back to Africa.”
“When did she make these arrangements?” I asked, heedless of the impoliteness of su
ch a question.
“Several months ago,” he said. “When she started planning to come back to England. She said that she didn’t want to be laid to rest in cold ground if anything should happen.”
“I see,” I said, but I didn’t, not really. It was a very strange thing for Isobel Van Allen to have done. She was still fairly young and, presumably, healthy. I could think of no reason why she should have made arrangements for her own funeral before her journey. Perhaps it had been nothing more than careful planning on her part but, if so, it was certainly an odd coincidence.
“It worried me, of course, but she only laughed and said for me to not fret, it was only a precaution. She always laughed at my worries…” His voice caught and he clenched his jaw for a moment before continuing. “Now I’m glad she did it. I’m glad things will be as she wanted.”
“It will make it easier on you.”
I watched his face as he seemed to go through some interior struggle. He wanted to say something, but wasn’t sure how to go about it. At last he came out with it. “As I told you, Mrs. Ames, I have spent most of my life in Africa. There is a great deal of superstition in that country, but I have always considered myself immune to it. Good English common sense, you understand. But now I wonder…”
“Wonder what?”
“After all that’s happened, I just can’t help but wonder if Isobel knew somehow that she wasn’t going to leave England alive.”
13
MR. ROBERTS EXCUSED himself a few moments later, and I was left alone to ponder this newest piece of information. It seemed that Isobel Van Allen had suspected her visit to England might go badly. Why else would she have made arrangements to be carried out in the event of her death? If that was the case, however, why had she come back at all? It just didn’t make sense.
I went out of the drawing room and into the entrance hall, still lost in thought, and I nearly ran directly into Mr. Winters.
“Oh, hello, Mr. Winters.”
“Hello,” he said, not in the least startled by our near collision.
I had already determined a means by which to engage him in conversation, and I put it into action at once. “I see you are on your way to the drawing room,” I said.
A Most Novel Revenge Page 11