Death at Thorburn Hall

by Julianna Deering

  “Maybe he knew more about her,” Madeline said. “Things we haven’t found out yet. About her seeing someone. I hate that there’s no other explanation, but she must be the one. She must be.”

  “And Tyler?”

  “She—I don’t know. Maybe she found out Joan was seeing him again.”

  Nick frowned. “It does seem a bit odd that she would be worried over that while she was sitting in jail waiting to be tried for her husband’s murder, especially going so far as to arrange for someone to have him killed.”

  “Wait.” Madeline clutched Drew’s arm. “Where is Count Kuznetsov?”

  Drew looked at Nick. “Have you seen much of him this evening?”

  “I haven’t seen him at all,” Nick replied. “But he does tend toward vanishing for hours at a time.” He smirked. “So long as there isn’t a meal to be had.”

  “That’s what I mean.” Madeline’s grip tightened. “After Lord Rainsby died, Lady Rainsby spent a lot of time in her room. The count was supposedly napping most afternoons, too. What if they were together most of those times? All this while we’ve been thinking he was just a harmless charlatan, but you’ve seen how slick he is with the ladies, most especially the older ones. What if he wanted to be more than just someone’s protégé? What if he wanted to be master of the house and be set for life? What if he seduced Lady Louisa and convinced her they should get rid of her husband so they could marry? He was the one who insisted the Pikes come here in the first place, remember?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous, darling,” Drew said. “Kuznetsov?”

  “No, listen to me. We know Lord and Lady Rainsby had a quarrel over him. She told you that herself. What if it wasn’t about his taking things from the Hall? What if Lord Rainsby suspected something between them? That would explain why he wanted to change his will and why Barnaby was blackmailing Lady Rainsby.”

  Nick wrinkled his forehead, and then his eyes widened. “Then Kuznetsov must have been the one who killed Tyler. You’ve heard him do impressions to amuse everyone. I don’t doubt he could have made himself sound like a female on the telephone in order to lure Tyler out to the beach. If his Russian accent is put on, why not an English one? Why couldn’t he have been the one coming down the path behind Lady Rainsby the night Joan saw her?”

  “For the simple reason, my dear imbecile, that he was in Inspector Ranald’s jail at the time.” Drew huffed and propped his chin on one hand. “The two of you build a fair case, and I couldn’t rightly say any of it is beyond what Kuznetsov might do given reason enough. But it won’t do. If there is such a thing as an ironclad alibi, he has one for Barnaby’s murder and for the night Joan saw her mother in the woods.”

  “I feel so bad for Miss Rainsby,” Carrie said. “All this must be so terrible for her.”

  Nick went over to sit on the sofa beside Carrie. “Poor girl. But she saw her mother. Lady Rainsby must be lying.”

  “If anyone but Joan had claimed to have seen her that night, I—” Drew stopped. Anyone but Joan.

  Madeline looked at him strangely. “What is it?”

  “I’m an idiot.”

  Nick snorted, and Carrie swatted the back of his hand.

  “Anyone but Joan,” Drew said aloud, and then he slapped his own forehead. “How could I have been so monumental an idiot?”

  “What is it?” Madeline demanded.

  “What if we’ve got it all backwards?” Drew laughed, and then glancing at the slightly ajar door, he lowered his voice. “What if it’s not Lady Louisa who’s lying but her sweet, brokenhearted young daughter, Joan?”

  Nick nearly choked. “What?”

  “Think about it. Who’s the only one who heard Lord and Lady Rainsby arguing and could understand even part of the conversation? Who’s the only one who saw Lady Louisa meeting someone out in the woods? Who’s been dropping little tidbits here and there about Lady Louisa, not wanting us to check into any other possibilities?”

  “But why?” Nick asked.

  “The money, old man. The money. Father has a lot. Mother has a lot more. But poor Joanie hasn’t any unless they give it to her. They don’t want to give it to her, not if she hangs on to her beloved caddie, so what better to do than dispose of Pater and let dear old Mater swing for it, eh?”

  “That means she must have killed him,” Madeline said. “If she loved Jamie so much, why would she kill him? And why would she kill Barnaby?” Her eyes suddenly lit. “The will!”

  Drew nodded. “Exactly. Somehow she coaxed or bribed or coerced him into claiming Rainsby had drawn up a new will. Again, no one heard him actually ask for a new will. The secretary merely typed up what Barnaby told her to. Then, once it was done, of course Joan couldn’t leave any loose ends. And if she can make it look as if he were blackmailing her mother and MacArthur, that’s just one more knot in the noose. Heavens, it’s diabolical.”

  “But Jamie,” Madeline insisted, “why kill him?”

  “Maybe he said he was leaving, or maybe she found out he was seeing someone else. It doesn’t matter. We’ve got to get Ranald out here right away.”

  “But Lady Louisa—”

  “Wait.”

  They all hushed, and there was the distinct sound of footsteps on the stainless-steel stairs.

  “Call the police,” Drew told Madeline. “Then you and Carrie stay in here and lock the door. Come on, Nick. You go round the back and see she doesn’t get out that way.”

  Carrie grasped Nick’s hand, not letting him go, her piquant face lined with anguish. “Let her go,” she pled. “Let the police see to her.”

  “It won’t do anyone any good if she’s halfway to Reykjavik before they get here.” He pulled her up beside him and silenced her with a firm kiss. “Stay here, sweetheart. I’ll be back.”

  “Quick, man,” Drew urged. He hugged Madeline close and then released her. “Hold down the fort, darling.”

  Nick darted through the side door that led through Lord Rainsby’s study and eventually to the back of the house. Drew hurried out the front way, into the corridor and then up the stairs. Drat these metal stairs. There was no way to get up them without the whole house hearing it. Still, he padded up as quietly as he could and started down the corridor toward Joan’s room. There was no knowing just where she was or if she was armed. If he was right, she’d killed at least three people. No good making it a fourth.

  He began by opening each door he passed and peeking inside. So far, nothing. No one.

  Once Drew and Nick were gone, Madeline locked the library doors and telephoned Sergeant Shaw. After she’d convinced him that “nice Miss Rainsby” was likely to have committed several murders, he said he was on his way and hung up the phone.

  “I don’t like this,” Carrie said, her blue eyes enormous. “I don’t like the boys being out there.”

  Madeline merely listened, praying all the while that God would keep everyone safe until Joan could be taken into custody and questioned. Oh, how could she? How could anyone so cold-bloodedly destroy her own family? It still didn’t make sense. If she’d loved this caddie enough to murder for him, why had she ended up killing him, too? Why had she—?

  Madeline’s eyes popped open. That sounded like a groan and something heavy falling.

  “Nick!” Carrie leapt from her seat and, after a moment’s struggle with the lock, threw open the library’s side door.

  “Carrie, don’t! Wait!”

  But Carrie was already in Lord Rainsby’s study and then out the other side into the hallway.

  “Nick! Get away from him!”

  At her cry, Madeline rushed into the corridor. Nick was on the floor, the upper half of his body slumped against the door that opened onto the back stairs. Joan was struggling to move him out of the way, her dark eyes fierce and determined, but she couldn’t budge him.

  “Get away!” Carrie snatched up the fireplace poker Joan had obviously used on Nick and rushed at her. “Get away!”

  With a curse, Joan turned back the way she
had come, scrambling up to the next floor. She’d have to run into Drew up there. Madeline couldn’t let her.

  “Is he all right?” she asked Carrie, her breath coming hard.

  Carrie nodded, touching her fingers to the long, narrow welt along the side of Nick’s head. “I think he’s just out cold.”

  Madeline nodded toward the poker she still held. “Keep that. Use it if you need to.”

  “Madeline—”

  But Madeline was already heading back through the library. She’d go up the front stairs. She couldn’t wait. She had to warn Drew.

  Eighteen

  Drew kept moving down the corridor, pushing open doors, peering into rooms, finding them empty. Where could Joan be?

  The place was eerily quiet. The Pikes had gone into Edinburgh, the servants had the evening off, and Kuznetsov was likely sound asleep. Or was he somehow involved in this mess after all? Would he be waiting round some dark corner with a gun or a kitchen knife?

  “Where have you got to, young Miss Rainsby?” he singsonged half under his breath as he cracked open her door and looked inside. Empty. No Joan.

  He frowned. Nick would have hailed him by now if she’d come down the back way. The roof? No, there was no escape from there, unless it was a very final one. Even from where he stood, he could hear the low roar of the sea below. Where could she—?

  “Looking for me, Drew?”

  He winced, turning slowly around to face Joan and the small pistol she had pointed at him. Doubtless it used the same type of bullet they’d find lodged in Jamie Tyler’s heart. “I think it’s time we talked.”

  She shrugged. “I haven’t anything to say to you. Let me leave and I won’t use this.”

  “Where will you go?”

  “I’ll think of something.”

  He glanced at the pistol. “Yours? The police have been all over the house several times now. You must have quite a fine hiding place for it.”

  “I do. A little hollowed-out place in my bedpost. You have to know just where to press to make the door pop open. Inspector Ranald clearly did not know. Even my mother doesn’t know. It was a secret of the Rainsbys from years gone by. My father showed it me and gave me this to keep there. In case of burglars or something.”

  “Joan—”

  “Really, I have to go. I’m sure one of your stalwart little band has rung up the police, and they’re not likely to appreciate my recent activities.”

  “Where will you go?” he asked again. Where was Shaw? “You know every constable in Scotland, England, and Wales will be looking for you within a few hours. Passport, traveling expenses, identification—all of it will have to be provided for. Do you think you can drive off an island?”

  She stared at him, dark eyes cool, the pistol still pointed at his heart. “You’re a nice man, Mr. Farthering . . . even if you are a bit of a dope.”

  “I do apologize for my shortcomings, but I would be remiss if I allowed you to believe that another murder at this juncture would be to your advantage. You could very easily kill me, I know, but you’d never get away with it.”

  “I don’t know about that.” A slight smile touched her lips. “Besides, the hangman doesn’t much mind whether one commits one murder or a dozen. He gets his fee only once.”

  “That’s a pity for the hangman,” someone said from the doorway.

  Joan sprang back and then exhaled. “What do you want? Or are you too stupid to see you’ve stepped into the middle of something?”

  Kuznetsov came into the room, dressed in a tweed jacket with a robin’s-egg-blue cravat and a Tyrolean hat. Traveling clothes. “I thought, seeing how things were going, you might want a bit of help. Would you care for a lift?” The Russian accent was gone. Now he sounded very English. “You’d better hurry if we’re going to get out of this at all.”

  “You’d help me?” she asked, a glimmer of daring in her dark eyes. “Have you got a car?”

  “In the drive. I wired one out of the garage. It may well be your own.”

  Joan scowled at him.

  “Anyhow,” he continued, “Mr. and Mrs. Pike won’t be back till late. Mr. Pike is about ready to toss me out a window as it is. Now, if you were to make it worth my while, I can get you out of the house and out of the country.”

  She raised one eyebrow. “How?”

  “My dear girl,” Kuznetsov said with a sly twinkle in his eye, “if a man is going to make his living by his wits, he had best acquaint himself with all the exits.”

  “And you can get us out of the country?”

  “I can. For half.”

  “Half?”

  “Half of whatever you’ve got squirreled away. If I’m not mistaken about a girl like you, whatever it is, it will keep us both rather nicely for some time to come.”

  Her mouth tightened into a grim smile. “Agreed. I’ll just see to him and we’ll be off.”

  Kuznetsov held out his hand. “I’ll do it.”

  She hesitated, and he lunged for the pistol, trying to wrench it away from her. She set her jaw, straining to keep hold of it, hissing curses at him.

  Drew sprang toward them. “Kuznetsov, don’t—”

  There was a deafening crack, and Kuznetsov fell heavily against her, the weight of his body tearing the gun from her hands and sending it skittering under the bureau. She twisted away from him and bolted out of the room. Drew glanced after her, hearing the clatter of her steps on the stairway, and then he knelt by Kuznetsov. A vivid patch of red was spreading across his shirtfront.

  “What were you thinking?” Drew demanded, dragging the coverlet from the bed and then wadding up one corner of it to press against the wound. He looked frantically toward the door, hoping someone had heard the shot and would bring help. “What in heaven’s name were you thinking?”

  A smile ghosted across Kuznetsov’s face. “Saving,” he panted. “Saving you.”

  “Me?” Drew pressed harder, trying to keep the blood in the man. The dark eyes were losing focus. “Why? Kuznetsov, why?”

  The breath seeped out of the older man’s nostrils.

  “Come on, man.” Drew shook him, still pressing down. He had to keep him from slipping away. “Tell me why.”

  “Do you know what it means?” Kuznetsov wheezed. “My—my name?”

  There was a sudden clamor in the corridor.

  “Drew.” Madeline flew into the room and dropped to her knees at his side. “What happened? Are you hurt?”

  He grabbed her hands, pressing them down on Kuznetsov’s chest in place of his own. “Put as much weight on the wound as you can.” He fished the pistol out from under the bureau and put it in her lap. “Use that if you need to. I don’t know if Joan will come back this way, but don’t let her past you if she does.”

  Madeline’s eyes widened. “Drew.”

  “Did you ring the police?”

  She nodded.

  “Where’s Nick?”

  “Hurt. Carrie’s looking after him. I don’t think it’s bad.”

  “All right. Don’t worry. Joan’s not armed now.” He kissed Madeline’s temple. “I’ll be back. I’ve got to stop her before she gets away.”

  “You ought to hurry,” Kuznetsov muttered.

  Drew shook one finger at him. “You stay right where you are, understand? No cashing out before you explain yourself.”

  Kuznetsov merely closed his eyes and made no answer. Perhaps he would never wake again.

  Drew sprinted into the corridor. “Joan? Joan!” He could hear her spike heels striking the floor as she hurried on ahead of him. Back to her room, of course. If she had all the valuables packed up, ready to be carried off, she’d want to take them along. It was an expensive business, this disappearing, and she’d need plenty of capital.

  “Give it up, Joan! You’re only making things worse.”

  He dashed after her, hearing a door slam just as he reached her quarters. She wasn’t there. Kuznetsov’s room? Somewhere else? There were nine or ten doors to choose from, all of t
hem maddeningly white and maddeningly alike. Which one?

  “Joan! Don’t be a fool! Come out!”

  It was insanity. Why hadn’t she immediately run out of the house? That, too, would be insanity. She’d have been tracked down before morning. But this?

  “Joan!”

  The door at the far end of the hall, Lady Louisa’s door, flew open and the fugitive ran across to another door, flung it open and disappeared inside, slamming the door after her. Drew was right behind her.

  The roof.

  She had fastened the latch on the hallway door, but it was easily forced. That left only the spiral staircase, which led up to the roof. She was already at the top of the gleaming white metal steps, using the key she’d got from her mother’s bedroom to open the door to the outside.

  “Joan, wait!” If she got outside and locked the door after herself, he’d never get to her in time. “Wait. Listen to me.”

  Her eyes wild, she got the door open but fumbled with the key when she pulled it out of the lock. It fell to the bottom of the spiral stairs. He was nearly on her now as she stumbled out onto the roof, her dress stark white against the black velvet of the night sky.

  “Joan.” He reached toward her. “Please. You don’t want to do this.”

  “Don’t I? You know as well as I do I’ll never get away now. Kuznetsov, if that’s even his real name, was my last hope and he sold me out. May as well make an end of it now.”

  “You don’t know what might happen in a trial. Once you give your side of it—”

  “You mean they might put me away for life rather than hang me? That would be jolly, wouldn’t it? Well, it doesn’t matter. I haven’t any excuses. My father wasn’t a brute. My mother never humiliated me in front of my friends. I wasn’t starved and beaten and locked up in a garret until I was sixteen. If they were at fault in any of this, it was through indulgence. But I finally found something they wouldn’t let me have.”