Murder at Longbourn

by Tracy Kiely

  “Because as a child, he was the spawn of Satan,” I whispered back.

  “Well, he’s not a child now,” she said.

  I rolled my eyes at her and merely said, “Once a spawn, always a spawn.”

  But I knew I wasn’t being completely fair. I didn’t really hate Peter anymore, although I was still mad about the inn. A psychiatrist might diagnose my feelings as misdirected anger over the injustice of Aunt Winnie’s current situation, but I don’t really hold much with psychiatrists. And besides, it’s just easier to be mad at Peter—after all, it’s an emotion I’m familiar with.

  Breakfast the next morning was a quiet affair. Daniel was still at Lauren’s house, leaving the inn to us. Aunt Winnie, Randy, Bridget, and Colin were drinking their coffee in the reading room when I came downstairs. I didn’t know where Peter was and I told myself I didn’t care. I got myself a cup of coffee from the kitchen and walked down the hall. In the foyer, Ichabod was again at his post in the green brocade chair. He nodded in my direction but said nothing. The front door opened. It was Daniel. His face was drawn and haggard.

  I studied him with a newfound detachment. I had impulsively decided to like him before he’d even said two words to me. I could see now that he had never had any partiality for me. Daniel merely attached himself to anyone who gave him the slightest encouragement. He’d jumped from me, to Susie in the acting troupe, to Polly all in a matter of days. What I didn’t know was whether his affair with Polly was just another step in his fluctuating affections or had a more sinister explanation. Cool analyses aside, I was still pissed at him. He was, in my opinion, simply one of the most worthless men in all of Great Britain.

  “Rough night?” I asked.

  He grimaced. “You could say that. I spent most of it with Detective Stewart.”

  “I see. And how’s Polly?”

  “About the same, I’d say. He grilled her pretty hard, too.”

  “That’s not what I meant,” I said, adding further emphasis to my next words. “How’s Polly?”

  He gazed at me uncomprehendingly before the gist of my meaning penetrated his brain. At least he had the grace to look uncomfortable. “Elizabeth,” he began, “it’s not what you think …”

  That was the second time in forty-eight hours that someone had told me that. “Really?” I snapped. “And what do I think, Daniel? That you’re a rat bastard? That you used me to keep your relationship with Polly off the radar screen? Or do I think that you and your little girlfriend killed Gerald so you could both get what you want? Now which one is it? A, B, C, or all of the above?”

  He stood very still. The only indication that he was upset was the appearance of two spots of red that blazed on his cheeks. He glanced uneasily at Ichabod. Ichabod gazed back with open interest. “I didn’t have anything to do with Gerald’s death,” Daniel said. “And I didn’t use you. Polly and I, well, we fell into that after Gerald died. It wasn’t planned—”

  I cut him off with a harsh laugh. “Oh, it was planned all right. Don’t kid yourself on that account. If you do, then you’re sorely underestimating Polly. The question I’d be asking myself now if I were you is exactly how much of this was planned.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” His eyes again strayed to Ichabod.

  I shrugged. “You’re a bright boy. Figure it out yourself.” Taking a sip of coffee, I said, “Now, if you’ll excuse me.”

  Turning on my heel, I walked into the reading room and bumped into Aunt Winnie and Bridget. They made no apology for eavesdropping. Bridget said, “I’m not saying that I blame you, but are you sure that was wise?” On the couch, Colin sat reading the newspaper. Without raising his eyes from the print, he said to no one in particular, “No, of course it wasn’t wise. In fact, it was a headstrong, stupid thing to do.” I ignored him.

  “I don’t care anymore,” I said. “Besides, Ichabod was out there and heard the whole thing. I doubt I’m in any more danger than anyone else. And speaking of danger, has anyone heard how Linnet is doing?”

  Aunt Winnie nodded. “Peter just went to find out. I want her to come here when she’s released. There’s safety in numbers.”

  I took a seat by the fireplace, ignoring Peter as he strode into the room. “I just got off the phone with the hospital,” he said, after an uneasy glance in my direction. “They’re ready to release her. She’s perfectly fine, just a little weak. Her car is still at Lauren’s house; she asked if someone could drive it back to her place. She said there’s a spare key in the glove box.”

  “I’ll do it,” I said, putting my cup down. “Bridget, can you come with me to Lauren’s house? I’ll get Linnet’s car and drive it to her place. You can follow me and we can drive back here.”

  “Sure.”

  “Are you sure?” asked Aunt Winnie. “Randy and I could do it.”

  Peter said nothing. He just watched me.

  “No,” I said. “I want to go. Getting out might do me some good.”

  I could tell that Aunt Winnie wanted to say more, but she only nodded. “Okay, then.”

  Inside my car, I started up the engine with a sigh. “Are you okay?” Bridget asked.

  “No, but I’m glad you’re here. It’s all been so awful and I had no Bridget to comfort me.”

  “Back to the P&P references, I see.”

  “Well, let’s be honest, I’m never actually that far away from them.”

  “Elizabeth, you know I love you and I’d do just about anything for you, but I have to say, I think you’re too susceptible to fictional images. You forget they’re just that—fiction.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Meaning, first you were set on finding Jake Ryan. Then it was Lloyd Dobler. Now you’re looking for Mr. Darcy. Nothing good can come of it.”

  “I’m not sure you can compare movie heroes with literary ones. They’re different somehow. Actors are …” I paused, searching for the right phrase. Finding it, I continued, “Actors are all spirits, and are melted into air, into thin air.”

  “That’s not my point and you know it. And stop quoting Shakespeare at me. Who does that, anyway? You know, that actually may be part of your problem. You attract a certain type when you do that.”

  I laughed. “A certain type? What type would that be? Well-read?”

  “No, pretentious assholes. Which, now that I think about it, is a perfect description of your last three boyfriends. In any case, my point is that Mr. Darcy is an unattainable ideal, and in the meantime you’re missing out on decent guys. Let me explain it in terms you’ll understand. Remember Marianne in Sense and Sensibility? She almost missed Colonel Brandon because of Willoughby.”

  “If I’m not mistaken, Colonel Brandon is also fictional.”

  “You know what I mean!”

  “This is about Peter, isn’t it?”

  “I just don’t see why you’re so set against him.”

  “You would if you knew him. Peter is not Colonel Brandon. Peter is more like Tom from Mansfield Park—self-indulgent and thoughtless.”

  “True, but Tom becomes ill in the end and redeems himself.”

  “Okay, how about this? The minute Peter falls gravely ill, I’ll forgive him.”

  “You can’t mean that!” Bridget turned to me, scandalized.

  “No, of course not. I’d just rather not talk about this right now. And anyway, we’re here.”

  We pulled up in front of Lauren’s house. Linnet’s Jaguar was the only car in the driveway so I assumed no one was at home. I got out and made my way to the car. As Linnet had said, there was a spare key in the car’s glove box. I climbed behind the wheel and started the engine. “Follow me,” I called out to Bridget. “It’s just down the road.”

  As I drove, I heard a faint beeping noise. It seemed to be coming from under the driver’s seat. Once in Linnet’s driveway, I parked the car and leaned down to peer underneath the seat. A cell phone—no doubt the one Linnet had lost—lay there. I pulled it out and flipped it open. The readout indicated
a new message. My heart skipped a beat when I saw that it was from Jackie. With shaking hands, I opened the text message, not caring that I was reading someone else’s mail. The message ran: “Linney, I’m going to see Dt. Stewart. I figured it out. It was Lauren!”

  The words swam before my eyes and I was only dimly aware of Bridget calling my name. I looked up, dazed, my head spinning.

  “What’s the matter? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

  “No, just a message from one.”

  “Huh?”

  I handed her the phone. Her eyes grew wide as she read. “Holy shit.”

  “Yeah, that about sums it up. I guess I should call Detective Stewart. Somehow I doubt he’s going to be happy to hear from me.”

  “Who cares? He’ll just be happy that the case is solved.”

  “I guess.” I pulled out my phone and called Detective Stewart. As predicted, he did not sound happy to hear from me. However, his tone changed considerably when I told him of my discovery.

  Two hours later, I was back at Longbourn, sitting in the reading room. Based on my discovery, Lauren had been summarily brought down to the station. A search of her house had turned up a vial of ground foxglove. It didn’t seem likely that she’d be leaving for Bermuda anytime soon. Around me the mood was celebratory. Aunt Winnie had been cleared and the inn was safe. I still wasn’t happy with Peter, but at least he would no longer be buying the inn.

  While I was glad for Aunt Winnie, my mind couldn’t wrap itself around the fact that Lauren was the killer. Granted, I had initially wondered about her because she had married Gerald for his money and was no doubt relieved to be rid of him, but a murderer? The more I thought about it, the less it made sense. I kept my thoughts to myself, however. Lately I had had such lousy judgment where people were concerned that it was probably an indication of Lauren’s guilt that I didn’t think she was guilty.

  I slept badly that night. My mind kept probing at the question of Lauren and at my own dissatisfaction with it. Was I nothing more than a modern-day Don Quixote, titling at nonexistent windmills? By morning, my brain was a foggy jumble. After two cups of hot coffee, I was no better. I needed fresh air and exercise. I went upstairs, pulled my hair back into a ponytail, and threw on my jeans and a sweatshirt. After glancing at my reflection in the mirror, I added the new earrings I’d gotten on my shopping spree. I don’t know why, but the soft jangling noise they made and their bright colors cheered me. Should I run into any of Aunt Winnie’s friends, I could at least hold my head up with the knowledge that while my outfit was sloppy, at least my accessories were nice.

  Downstairs, Peter was waiting for me in the foyer.

  “What do you want?” I said, as I yanked my coat out of the closet.

  “I want to talk to you,” he said. “I didn’t take advantage of Aunt Winnie. I was trying to help her!”

  “If that was the case, then why all the secrecy? Why didn’t you tell me what you were planning?”

  “Because Aunt Winnie asked me not to. She wanted to be the one who told people. It is her inn.”

  “Yeah. Thank God that hasn’t changed,” I said. Peter’s face fell. I knew that I wasn’t being fair. But I had been angry. I was angry that Jackie was dead and Linnet had been in the hospital. I was angry that Peter and Aunt Winnie had been right about Daniel using me. “I’ve got to go,” I muttered. “We can talk about this later.” I didn’t wait for his response. Jamming my arms into my coat, I left, slamming the door behind me.

  I tried to reconcile Jackie’s text message to Linnet with the facts as I knew them. I couldn’t. I tried to visualize Lauren slipping on the glove and shooting Gerald. I couldn’t do that either. And then there was the lie I’d heard told to Detective Stewart. What was the reason for it? A niggling in my brain told me that I was missing something. I drove to the beach. I walked along the hard sand, my head bent low against the wind. I pulled out my gloves from my coat pocket and slipped them on. And then it came to me. I had seen Lauren write out a number for her friend with her left hand. Like most blondes, Lauren was a southpaw. The glove found at the murder scene was for a right hand. Someone had tried to frame Lauren! But who? Lauren might be annoying and vapid, and she had clearly never loved Gerald, but it took a special kind of hate to frame someone for murder. Slowly a fantastic idea took form in my brain. I froze in my tracks, thinking about Lauren. There was someone, after all, who might have hated Lauren, someone who would derive satisfaction at seeing her in jail. But that would mean …

  My mind raced with the events of the last few days, replaying scenes in my head. Of course! I had been looking at everything upside down. Once the pieces fell into place, it all made sense. However, my only proof lay in the details of a lost love and a seemingly white lie told to Detective Stewart. Could I even get Detective Stewart to listen to me? I knew better than to try. I needed more evidence, evidence I would simply have to get myself.

  I raced back to my car, left a message for Aunt Winnie as to where I was going, and drove to the Linnet’s house. Thankfully, no one was home. Now that I was here, though, the question of how exactly I was going to get in presented itself. Smashing a window would no doubt set off an alarm. I peeked under the doormat in the faint hope that I’d find a key. There was none. I dragged my hands through my hair in frustration. I simply had to get in. Without the evidence, Detective Stewart would never listen to me.

  I ran around the side of the house, all the while petrified that I’d be spotted by the neighbors. Despite the cold, a clammy sweat broke out on my neck and back, and I realized I could never lead a life of crime. Not due to any superior moral fiber on my part; I just didn’t have the stomach for it. The mere idea of breaking into someone’s house had rendered me sweaty and queasy. If I actually got in, there was a very good chance that I’d throw up and then pass out. Still, I kept searching for a way in, holding on to the hope that I’d find a spare key outside. My weak stomach aside, I couldn’t let Lauren hang for Gerald’s and Jackie’s murders. Finally, luck smiled on me. Hanging from a nail near some plants was a gray house key. I was no gardener, but I would bet money that these were the foxglove plants from which the murderer had prepared the poison. I grabbed the key and ran around front. With shaking fingers, I slid the key into the lock and pushed open the door.

  The stillness inside amplified the pounding of my heart. I darted up the stairs and into Linnet’s bedroom. A quick search provided what I was looking for. I lifted the lid of the jewelry box and enjoyed a moment of triumph as my hand closed around the glittering earrings. I had been right!

  I thought of Gerald, who was hated by nearly everyone he knew, a man who most likely caused his first wife’s death. I thought of Jackie and her ridiculous floppy hats and insatiable thirst for gossip. In spite of her silliness, she had been likable. She hadn’t had an easy life. Her dreams of moving to Hollywood were ruined by a friend who opted for marriage instead. What had Linnet said? “Jackie, on the other hand, has always had a real talent for mimicry—more of a gift, really, than a talent. She was amazing.”

  Another memory slid into focus—the night of Gerald’s murder. I had been in Aunt Winnie’s office, hearing the front door open. Two voices floated in. One was Linnet’s. “This is a horrible night to be out. Really, Jackie, I don’t know why I let you talk me into coming to this. I hate these things.”

  Next came Jackie’s voice, all breathy and excited. “Oh, don’t be that way, Linney. It’ll be lots of fun. You’ll see.”

  But that wasn’t what Linnet had told the police. She told Detective Stewart that going to Aunt Winnie’s had been her idea. And with Gerald’s death a chain of events had been set in motion that would end with Jackie’s death. Gerald, a man who was universally hated, a man who no one was surprised to hear had been murdered. In quick succession, other facts fell into their correct place: a sudden weight loss and a smooth, unpierced ear beneath a floppy blue hat.

  I was so caught up in my reverie that I didn’t hear the footste
ps on the stairs. Too late, the hair on my neck stood up, telling me that I was no longer alone.

  I spun around.

  “Hello, Jackie,” I said, once I got my voice back.

  CHAPTER 27

  Everyone is a moon, and has a dark side

  which he never shows to anybody.

  —MARK TWAIN

  STILL DRESSED IN Linnet’s clothes and wearing her wig, Jackie tilted her head to one side and peered up at me. With a flourish, she pulled off the wig with one hand, revealing a head of fluffy white hair. She looked like somebody’s sweet old grandmother. The only jarring note was the unwavering gun in her other hand. It was a Derringer just like the one that had killed Gerald. “They released me from the hospital early. I took a cab home,” she said conversationally. “But when I saw your car outside, I had a bad feeling.” She shook her head from side to side, clucking her tongue disapprovingly as if at an errant child who had been caught with her hand in the cookie jar. She saw me glance at the gun and nodded. “My father collected them. I grew up practicing with them. If I do say so myself, I’m an excellent shot. They were the only things of value that he left me.” She turned the small gun in her hand so that the light caught the shiny white pearl handle. “Seemed a silly inheritance at the time, but they actually have come in handy.”

  I was ice cold. My mind screamed at me to say something, to keep her talking until I could figure a way out of this, but I couldn’t move, let alone talk. Fear ate at me, leaving nothing but a quivering shell. Finally, I managed to get out, “You loved Martin.”

  She looked up at me again with that birdlike tilt of her head. “He was my world,” she said simply. “And then Linnet saw him.” She spit out Linnet’s name as if it were an insult. “She wanted him like a child wants a piece of candy. Martin loved me, but … but when Linnet came around, I disappeared, the way the moon eclipses the sun. Once Linnet set her sights on Martin, he didn’t have a chance. She never loved him; she just loved his money. All this,” she said, with a wide sweep of the gun, “came from Martin’s money. And Martin belonged to me. The way I look at it, this is how it should always have been—me living in this house with the things that his money bought. I’ve only righted the wrong Linnet created.”