A Most Novel Revenge

by Ashley Weaver

  “Everything seems unlikely,” I said tiredly. “Why did she do it? Why did she come back? None of it seems to make sense. And yet…”

  There had been something in her manner at breakfast that morning. “She asked me if I thought people must always pay for their sins. Do you think that she had come back to set the record straight?”

  “Does she seem the type to travel halfway around the world to make amends for a past wrong?”

  What I had seen of her did not seem to indicate that justice might have been what she was striving for. What had it been, then? Some revenge of her own? Had she known something that was worth killing her to keep secret?

  “There are, it seems to me, two possibilities,” I said. “One is that Isobel was murdered because of something she was about to reveal. Perhaps she had some new information that led her to believe that Bradford Glenn was not the killer and that someone else was. Or perhaps there was some other secret someone did not want to come to light.”

  “And the other?”

  “The other is that she was killed in an act of revenge for the havoc wreaked by The Dead of Winter. The crime itself speaks of passion. She was killed quite brutally.”

  “That’s discounting the poison, of course,” Milo pointed out.

  I sighed. He was right. Someone had deliberately poisoned her before she was stabbed. Why could things never be simple?

  “Let’s collect our thoughts, shall we?” I suggested. I had always found that an orderly list was a good way in which to gather one’s thoughts. I got up from the bed and went to the desk in the corner. I sat, took a sheet of Milo’s stationery out of the drawer, and picked up a pen.

  “Now. Where shall we begin?” I asked.

  “It’s difficult to decide, as she was something of a universal bête noire. You may as well begin with the Lyons family, I suppose.”

  He was right. They had lost the most and had, perhaps, the most to lose if Isobel wrote another novel. Reggie Lyons had already suffered greatly as a result of Isobel Van Allen’s first book. His family’s reputation had been publically destroyed, and he had been forced to leave his home for many years.

  “It could have been Reggie,” I said, “but he abhors the sight of blood.”

  “Men have been known to overcome greater obstacles.”

  “Yes, you’re right. He has been very distraught since it happened. Perhaps he’s suffering from the guilt of what he’s done.”

  “He might just have easily tried to poison her.”

  “And when that didn’t work, he flew at her in a rage.”

  Milo nodded for me to continue. “Beatrice seems like a more likely suspect than Reggie,” I said. Beatrice Lyons Kline had, as far as I could see, two reasons that she might have killed Isobel. “She might have wanted to silence her, but she might also have wanted revenge. She seems very cool and calculating. Perhaps she has been waiting all this time to repay Isobel for what she did to the Lyons family.”

  “She’s capable of it,” Milo said. “Whether or not she actually did it is another matter.”

  “What about Lucinda?” I was tempted to discount the younger Lyons sister, but knew that I could not rule her out. She had not been at the scene of Edwin Green’s murder, and, as a girl of sixteen, would not have had the physical strength necessary to move Edwin out into the snow. That did not, however, clear her of Isobel’s death.

  Milo shrugged. “It’s possible. She is a bit conniving.”

  I was skeptical. Feigning a runaway horse was one thing. Murder was quite another.

  “She was sent to a different boarding school abroad after what happened and seldom had the opportunity to see her siblings. Perhaps she has been harboring bitterness against Isobel for the way her family fell apart.”

  “From what I understand, they weren’t much of a family to begin with,” Milo said.

  “Yes, that’s true. Speaking of which, how was she tonight?”

  “Much the same as usual. That is to say, a bit tiresome.” This was another reason I had not wanted Milo to encourage her. I had known that it would only be a matter of time before his amusement with her waned, and her feelings were bound to be hurt. He was sometimes very careless about such things.

  “Well, do try to be nice to her, Milo. She’s very unsure of herself. It can’t have been easy to grow up the way she did. After all, she is much younger than Reggie and Beatrice, and was sent away immediately after the scandal. Her life has been very lonely.”

  “We were all sent away to school,” Milo said. “It didn’t do us any lasting harm.”

  “You are much more confident in yourself than Lucinda Lyons,” I said.

  “I don’t know about that,” he replied. “She seems confident enough to me.”

  “Confident enough to commit a murder?” I challenged.

  “Perhaps.”

  “Well, in any event, while the Lyons family has its motives, it could just as easily be Mr. Roberts who perpetrated a crime of passion.”

  “Very possibly. She wasn’t at all kind to him.”

  I had seen the way that Isobel treated Desmond Roberts, heard the harsh way in which she spoke to him. She might have pushed him too far. A stabbing spoke of rage. That wouldn’t explain, of course, who had poisoned her. Mr. Roberts had possessed a vial of poison and a rather dubious reason for possessing it. He might have tried one and then resorted to the other.

  “I don’t like to think that Freida might have done it, of course,” I said.

  “Of course,” Milo replied. He always liked to say that I picked out the people I liked best and excluded them from the crime. That was simply not the case. I just felt I knew who was likely to be guilty and who was not. I was surprised he had not yet offered up Laurel as a potential suspect.

  “I don’t like to think it,” I went on, “but it is possible Freida might have done it. She was devastated by the publication of the book. She had still been suffering for years after the loss of her fiancé and had just married Mr. Collins. The fragile stability of her life had been torn apart by the scandal, but I don’t think that revenge would motivate her. I find it difficult to believe that she would risk such a thing, given her love for her children, but…” My voice trailed off.

  “The desire to protect them might prove worth the risk to her,” Milo said, and I nodded. If she was willing to do anything to keep them safe, it was possible that she had thought there were secrets worth killing Isobel to protect.

  “The same might be said for Phillip Collins.” It was not hard for me to believe that he might be a killer, but what had his motive been? Were there secrets in his rather murky past that he did not want revealed? He cared for Freida. I had seen it in his eyes. Was there some secret in her past that he was guarding?

  “That Collins fellow is a rotter,” Milo said without any great emotion.

  “You’ve noticed that, have you?”

  “He doesn’t make any great effort to hide it, does he? I had the dubious pleasure of a long conversation with him this afternoon, and it’s not an experience I would care to repeat.”

  My interest was piqued. “Oh? What did he say?”

  “Nothing of consequence. He spoke extensively of his land holdings in South Africa. It wasn’t so much what he said. It’s his manner that’s repugnant.”

  “Yes, I don’t think he’s a nice man at all.”

  “That doesn’t, of course, make him a killer.”

  “It would be so much easier if it did.” I sighed.

  Milo smiled. “No one said detective work was easy, darling.”

  “No, I suppose not. Well, that leaves Mr. Winters,” I said. “What might his motive be?”

  “Why don’t you answer that? You are much more intimately acquainted with him than I am.”

  “I will have you know that Mr. Winters behaved like a gentleman all afternoon.”

  “Well, it’s a wonder he could keep his hands off of you. He waxed rhapsodic about your beauty to me for a full ten minutes in the dr
awing room tonight. I shall be surprised if he fails to paint you with a halo and wings.”

  I laughed. “You’re quite ridiculous.”

  “Not that I can blame him, of course. You’re simply breathtaking. I sometimes wonder why I sit discussing murders with you when there are so many other amusing possibilities.”

  “Milo, do try to concentrate,” I said with mock severity.

  “If you’re wondering if I think Gareth Winters has it in him to repeatedly stab someone with a knife, I would have to say no.”

  I nodded. I felt much the same way. However, it was difficult to tell about Mr. Winters. I had wondered more than once if his show of airy detachment was not entirely authentic. It was possible that he had fabricated the persona to keep from revealing too much of himself. Perhaps he had bared some part of himself to Isobel that he was afraid she would include in a second book.

  “He told me that he loved Isobel. Do you suppose it was possible that he…”

  “Loved her enough to kill her?” Milo supplied. “It wouldn’t be the first time such a thing has happened.”

  “Murder is such a complex business.” I said. “It could conceivably be any of them.”

  It seemed likely that everyone had secrets they wanted to protect. Now I had only to discover what they were.

  Unfortunately, there was no way of knowing what had happened that night, not really. Even the people who had been there didn’t really know what had occurred. If Edwin Green’s death had not been murder, what other secrets could Isobel have known?

  I remembered suddenly that Reggie had mentioned that Isobel would sometimes use the summerhouse for writing. I wondered if any of her manuscripts had been left there. It was just possible that they would provide the information necessary to tie everything together.

  I could think of no conceivable way to visit the summerhouse without appearing morbidly curious.

  Milo said something, but I was too preoccupied to hear it. I looked up. “Hmm?”

  “Do you plan to sleep here tonight, or shall we retire to your room?”

  “My room, I suppose,” I said, rising from the little desk chair. “I think it may be slightly warmer. Unless…”

  He looked at me expectantly.

  “You want to steal away to the summerhouse with me.”

  “Absolutely not,” he answered without hesitation.

  I frowned at him, but he shook his head, unmoved.

  “It’s not very far,” I pressed. “We could take a moonlight stroll and if it led us there…”

  “Are you going to your bed,” he interrupted, “or shall I carry you there?”

  Milo was seldom adamant about anything, so I had the distinct feeling he was not going to give in. Perhaps I would find a way to investigate the summerhouse tomorrow.

  I capitulated, but he carried me to bed anyway.

  25

  I REACHED THE breakfast room early the next morning and found that Mr. Roberts was the only one who had arrived. Though I had pestered the maids for frequent updates on his condition, this morning was the first time I had seen him since his collapse.

  “Oh, good morning, Mr. Roberts,” I said.

  “Mrs. Ames.”

  He started to rise, but I held up my hand. “Don’t get up,” I said sternly. “I don’t want you to trouble yourself. How you are feeling?”

  “I’m all right,” he said, though he didn’t look it. He was very pale, and he looked as though he had lost weight. I glanced at his plate and saw that he had only a piece of toast with marmalade and a cup of tea. He certainly needed something more than that if he was going to regain his strength.

  “You’re up early,” I commented, going to fill my own plate.

  “Yes, I couldn’t bear to lie alone in that room any longer.”

  “I imagine that it was fairly lonely. I’m glad you’re feeling well enough to come downstairs.”

  “Yes,” he said. “I’ve had a bit to eat, and it seems to have gone down all right.”

  “I’m glad to hear it.”

  I poured myself a cup of coffee and went to sit down at the table across from him.

  “What will you do when all of this is done?” I asked, hoping to speak of pleasanter things. “Do you plan to go back to Africa?”

  I was stirring the milk and sugar into my coffee, so it took me a moment to realize that he hadn’t answered.

  I looked up. He didn’t meet my gaze, and, to my horror, I saw his face was streaked with tears. I felt immediately as though I should retreat, having foisted my company and insensitive questions upon him in what was obviously a difficult time for him. However, there was really no way I could gracefully extricate myself from the situation.

  It was a dreadfully uncomfortable scene, but I also felt a great deal of sympathy for the young man across from me.

  “I’m sorry if I’ve said something wrong,” I said gently.

  He shook his head and wiped a hand across his face, sniffling, and he reminded me for a moment of a very young boy. My compassion warred with my reserve and won the day. I reached across the table and touched his hand. “Is there anything that I can do for you?”

  He shook his head. “There’s nothing that can be done now,” he said forlornly. “I can never go back.”

  I sat there helplessly for a moment, unsure of how to proceed. Then I rose from my seat to approach him and pat him gently on the shoulder.

  “I’m sorry, Mrs. Ames,” he said, not looking up. “I’m sorry for you to see me like this. I’ll be quite all right if you want to leave me alone.”

  I didn’t feel as though I should leave him alone. I took a seat in the chair beside him.

  “Do you want to talk?”

  “Talking won’t help,” he said. “Nothing can help now.”

  “Sometimes it helps a great deal.” Normally, I would have been hesitant to press someone in such a state, but I somehow sensed that he wanted to talk, that he was fairly bursting with the need to do so. Sometimes, I had learned, one could do the most help by sitting and listening, doing nothing at all.

  “You miss Isobel,” I said gently. “Perhaps it would make you feel better to talk about her.”

  He didn’t respond, but I sensed that he was not unwilling.

  “You met in Kenya?” I asked, thinking that recollections of happier times would be the easiest way to start.

  “Yes. She was…” he hesitated, flushing. “She was involved with my brother, in fact.”

  “I see.” This was not exactly what I had expected, but I could not say that I was surprised. Isobel Van Allen seemed to move through young men at an alarming rate.

  I didn’t intend to press for details and hoped that he would provide me with none, but he continued. “They went to the same sort of parties, enjoyed the same things. I didn’t think he was serious about her, you see. My brother was quite a man with the ladies. Isobel was interesting to him because she was older, very glamorous, you know. It appealed to him.”

  I nodded, silently urging him to continue.

  “They had only been seeing each other for a few months when they had a row. I thought that was the end of it. They stopped seeing each other, and my brother took up with another young woman. I noticed that he had started drinking heavily, but I didn’t think much of it. He had always had a strong head for drink.”

  He stared down at his tea for a moment, as though seeing the story play out before him on the surface of the liquid.

  “One evening I was at a party,” he went on. “I was very drunk. Isobel was there, and we started talking. One thing led to another, and … well, you can imagine.”

  “Yes,” I said.

  “After that, we saw each other quite frequently. She would invite me to her house. She had me type things for her as a pretense, but that wasn’t why I was there. I was very much in love with her, and I thought that life couldn’t be better.”

  He paused, and I knew that he was about to reveal that this had not been the case.


  “But then one night my brother saw us together,” he said. “He confronted me, and I admitted that Isobel and I had been seeing each other. I … I didn’t know how he felt about her, you see. He was terribly in love with her, too … but he never told me. He … he went insane with rage. He grabbed a gun and … tried to kill me.”

  I’m afraid my mask of poise must have slipped then, for I was quite shocked.

  He continued on, staring straight ahead. His voice had dropped so low that I almost had to lean toward him to make out the words. “He shot at me, and, when he missed, he … well, he shot himself.”

  I drew in a sharp breath, unable to stop myself. It was such a tragic, shocking turn of events that I couldn’t seem to make sense of it all.

  It seemed, however, that the telling of it had come as a great relief to Mr. Roberts. Perspiration glistened on his forehead, as though a fever had broken, and he spoke faster now, the words tumbling out.

  “My family blamed me, of course. Rightly so. It was my fault. I didn’t know he loved her, but I should never have started to see her. I didn’t know that loving her would cost so much. My father disowned me, and Isobel was ruined. We had to leave the country after that.”

  And so Isobel had fled Africa, another suicide in her wake. It seemed consistent with what I knew of her character that she should have romanced the younger brother of the lover she had scorned.

  Perhaps it was a cruel thing to think of someone who was dead, but I could not help but feel that Isobel Van Allen had delighted in causing pain to others. She had consistently poured salt in wounds of her own making.

  I was so caught up in my thoughts, that I almost missed what Desmond Roberts was saying. His next words, however, drew me quickly back to the present.

  “We didn’t know where to go. It was Isobel’s idea to come to Lyonsgate, to write another book. She said she had always meant to come back someday, that she had unfinished business, and now that we had no money it was an ideal time. ‘We shall kill two birds with one stone,’ she said.”

  This was another surprise. I had been sure that Isobel Van Allen had made enough money from the publication of her book to last a lifetime. Had she really spent it all so frivolously?