When Swallows Fall

by Gloria Davidson Marlow

  “If you must know, Fee, I’m really not all that well today. I had a hard time sleeping last night, thinking about you up there at Almenara letting that madman think you were Desdemona.” His eyes snapped to Cade and then back to me. “He and Desdemona did far more than share a few kisses, and it bothered me all night that he might try that with you, too.”

  “Do you mean he tried to kiss her?” Cade spoke from behind me, in a voice gone cold with fury.

  “He did more than try, I’d say.”

  “Fee?”

  “He thought I was Desi, Cade. He kissed me, but it was nothing. I couldn’t make a scene about it, because I wanted him to think I was her. By this morning, he knew I wasn’t, and I knew he couldn’t have killed her.”

  “For God’s sake, Ophelia, are you trying to get yourself killed?” Cade demanded.

  “Devlin is acting so sane, Cade,” I argued. “I can’t quite reconcile him with the lunatic I met before. But I’m left with a dilemma. He loved Desi so much and was so maddened with grief, it is nearly impossible for me to think he killed her.”

  “Fee, you need to stop this madness. It’s a dangerous game you’re playing, trying to track a murderer.” His voice was urgent as he stood and grasped my shoulders. “Devlin may well be sane from here on out, but on the other hand, he may lose his grasp on sanity again at any moment. And if he isn’t the killer, if the killer is someone else entirely, you could be in even more danger.”

  “I can’t stop, Cade. I know you aren’t a murderer, and the good Lord has blessed me with a few extra days to prove it. I promise I will have you out of here before the judge arrives in town.”

  “After he realized you weren’t Desi, what happened?”

  “He told me what he knew about Desi’s death.”

  “What did he tell you?” Dennis inquired, reminding me he was there.

  “He told me he hadn’t witnessed Cade murder her.”

  “Did he see her murder?”

  “Yes, but not clearly. He couldn’t see well enough to say who was there. When he found Desi, she was already dead.”

  “And you believe him?”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “Then I guess the sheriff and I have some questioning to do.”

  He turned and stalked back down the hallway.

  “He’s not himself today,” I murmured, and Cade’s hands moved from my shoulders to my face, cupping my jaw gently, forcing me to look at him.

  “I don’t care about Dennis. I want to know how you really felt when Devlin kissed you.”

  His jealousy was obvious and endearing, and I wondered if he’d heard anything else Dennis and I had said after learning that Devlin kissed me.

  “Well?” he prodded.

  “It didn’t feel like anything, really. It felt like lips on mine, and he said he suspected I wasn’t Desi as soon as he kissed me. So I suppose my mouth made no more impression on him than his did on me.”

  “What a fool,” he murmured, as he lowered his lips to mine, catching me in a kiss that pushed every other thought from my head.

  ****

  Richard was in the foyer when I returned to Almenara that evening, and he greeted me cordially, if somewhat stiffly. I regretted the loss of our easy conversation and the warmth that had danced in his eyes prior to my leaving Almenara, and I wondered at the coldness I now sensed in him. I hoped we could still be friends, even if nothing else.

  “Richard, won’t you please stay for tea?” I asked. “I’d like to discuss Devlin’s progress with you.”

  “I’ve already discussed it with Eleanor and Lorraine. I’m sure they will update you when they update the sheriff.”

  He picked up his bag, and turned toward the door, but stopped just short of opening it. With a sigh, he faced me once more.

  “I will join you for a cup of tea if you promise we’ll discuss only topics of which murder and madness are not a part.”

  I nodded my agreement, and led him into Desdemona’s morning room. I did not feel up to the task of dealing with either Lorraine or Eleanor, and I felt certain no one should disturb us there.

  We carried on a casual conversation regarding the sudden coolness in the air and the coming winter, as well as the deliciousness of the cookies Mrs. Hartley had provided. Although casual, the silence that lurked between our words was not as companionable as I had hoped it would be.

  Finally, he stood and walked to the mantel, where he studied the picture in earnest.

  “I frequently walk the shore in the early morning. I saw Desdemona there so many days, her feet dangling through the openings in the railing, as if she had no fear at all of falling.”

  “Desi never had much fear of anything.” I gave a self-deprecating smile. “I was just the opposite. While Desi ran headlong into whatever she wanted, I was frightened of everything.”

  “I think your sister was afraid just before her death.”

  “Why?” I could hardly fathom the idea. Had she somehow known what was coming?

  “I was here a few nights before she died. Tabitha was ill with a cold and fever, and I had come to check on her. When I came from the nursery, the door to the roof was open. I could hear Desdemona speaking frantically to someone, but I couldn’t make out what she was saying. I called out to her, wanting to speak to her about Tabitha, and she came back inside right away. She seemed quite agitated, and I never saw who it was she was talking to.”

  “You have no idea?”

  He shook his head. “No. I’m sorry. I regret that I didn’t know your sister better, Ophelia. It is my duty as a physician to a child such as Tabitha to provide the parents with some support. I should have acted as a confidant to Desdemona, should have listened to her with an open ear rather than lecturing her on taking Tabitha outside and judging her on things I knew little about.”

  “I’m sure it wasn’t as bad as that,” I offered. “From the time we were infants, Desi was quite adept at turning a deaf ear to anything she didn’t want to hear.”

  He turned back to me with a smile. “Perhaps you’re right. I’ve been rather haunted by the thought that I might somehow have saved her, had she only felt confident enough in my friendship to confide in me.”

  “There is no sense beating yourself up over such a conjecture, Richard. Desdemona was a grown woman, used to getting her way, and had she but asked for help, it would have been freely given her by someone, I’m sure.”

  “Thank you, Ophelia,” he said, taking my hands in his and pulling me into his embrace.

  I extricated myself, gently but firmly, and stepped away.

  He smiled sadly and shook his head. “Forgive me, Ophelia. It seems I might have fallen in love with you.”

  “I’m flattered, Richard, but I—”

  “There’s no need to explain. I only wish it was fear that made you so reluctant. Fear I could overcome. Love I can not.” He kissed me gently on the cheek and was gone before I could answer him.

  As I turned the doorknob to my room, I suddenly remembered the stack of books beside Desi’s bed. Could one of them hold the key to her murder? I pushed open the door to her room slowly, peeking in as if I expected her ghost to be waiting for me there.

  A chill rushed up my spine as I snatched up the books and practically ran to my room. I was becoming as silly and superstitious as Kathleen had been, I thought.

  Most of the books were the same sort of penny novels that Desdemona and I had loved when we were young. My father had called them melodramatic drivel, but Desi and I had read them anyway, finding great pleasure in them through the years.

  At the bottom of the stack, I found two somewhat surprising tomes. The first was a tattered and worn Bible that I recognized at once as the one my father had kept on the shelf in his room. It had been the only one of my mother’s books he hadn’t passed along to us.

  I opened it now, running my fingers along the familiar passages. My father must have given it to her when she left home, and I sincerely hoped she had found comfort ther
e in her last days.

  The second was a small book of Shakespearean quotes. Inside the front cover, someone had written, “But I will wear my heart upon my sleeve for daws to peck at: I am not what I am.” It wasn’t Desdemona’s handwriting, and only a single initial followed the quote. Whether the single letter signified her or Devlin I had no idea, but the quote from Othello fit them both well enough.

  It was no proof of murder or motive, however, and with a weary sigh I put it down and moved to my bureau.

  “Well, little dove,” I said as I changed into my nightgown, “Every day I have more questions and no answers at all.”

  Desi had always let her birds walk about the floor, flying from one low object to the other. She claimed this strengthened them and prepared them to brave the outdoors again. I imagined the mourning dove would enjoy being free of her box, and I crossed the room to lift her out.

  My hands flew to my mouth, and I stifled a screech of horror. The poor little thing lay on her back, the pin of a silver brooch driven straight through her tiny heart. Her eyes were sightless and her body already cold when I lifted her out. It took me only a moment to realize that the pin in her chest was not mine. The swallow’s topaz eye glinted at me wickedly as I removed Desi’s brooch from the tiny body.

  Fear jolted through me when I realized someone had come into my room, killed my poor little dove, and left her there for me to find. It was far too similar to the bird I’d found on Desi’s dressing table for me to think it wasn’t connected.

  Whoever it was had known that Desi’s brooch would mean something to me. Had someone overheard me telling Cade that our father called me his mourning dove and Desi his barn swallow? Had they placed the dead swallow on Desdemona’s bureau and left the dove for me to find because of that? Or had they known it all along? Had the person who killed Desdemona been someone she’d confided in about her life before she came to Almenara? Someone who might not have been her lover, but close enough to be her confidant?

  The answer came to me in an instant, and I sank to my bed. My body trembled with the horrible realization that I knew who had killed my sister and it was someone I had never suspected.

  Before I could think what to do, Lorraine burst into my room, her face pale as death and her hands shaking wildly. Tears streamed down her face.

  “Eleanor is gone!” she cried. “Devlin has taken her away.”

  “Where’s Calvin?” I was on my feet in an instant, forcing my fear and horror away as I faced the crisis at hand.

  “He’s gone out looking for her.”

  “If you see him before I do, tell him to get to the lighthouse,” I ordered, throwing my cloak on over my nightgown.

  “Where are you going?”

  Lorraine was nearing hysteria, and, more than anything, I needed her calm enough to get her husband to the lighthouse as quickly as possible. I grasped her by the shoulders.

  “Lorraine, listen to me! You have to tell him to come to the lighthouse. He should bring men with him. Do you understand me?”

  She nodded, and I hoped she would remember my command as I rushed down the stairs with her on my heels.

  We had barely made it into the foyer when Mrs. Hartley came through the front door.

  “They’ve found her,” Mrs. Hartley said. Her face was ashen and her lips trembled as she spoke. “She’s on the rocks, as we feared she would be.”

  Lorraine screamed in anguish, and I grasped her waist to keep her from falling to the floor.

  “There’s been a mistake,” I said as Lorraine buried her head in my shoulder. “It can’t be Eleanor.”

  “There’s no mistake, Miss Garrett. Dennis Ames brought the news. He says the men are with her now.”

  “Mrs. Hartley, please see to Lorraine. I am going to try to catch Dennis before he leaves.”

  “Yes, miss,” she said, taking the sobbing woman into her arms.

  I rushed outside, intent on reaching the lighthouse, but the sight of Dory standing still as death in the courtyard brought me to a stop. She stared vacantly out toward the beach, her face unnaturally pale, and tears pouring from her eyes.

  I ran to her, wrapped my hands around her arms and tried to reassure her.

  “Dory, we must be strong. Perhaps there has been some mistake. I am going there now, to make certain it’s Eleanor and not some other poor soul. Dory?”

  I shook her once more, and, for the first time, she seemed to register my presence.

  “Miss Garrett,” she murmured, holding out her hand. In it, she held a single sheet of paper that matched that I’d seen in Desdemona’s desk. Foreboding swept through me, and I unfolded it quickly. I gasped as I read the quote from Hamlet, a confession of guilt written in the same script as the handkerchief but far more ominous.

  ’Tis now the very witching time of night,

  when churchyards yawn and hell itself breathes out

  Contagion to this world: now could I drink hot

  blood.

  And so such bitter business as the day

  Would quake to look on.

  “Where is he, Dory?” I urged.

  “He’s gone back to the lighthouse, miss.” She began to sob hysterically. “I’m so sorry. He told me he loved me, that he would marry me after the trial. I only had to help him scare you away. He told me that Mr. Cade was guilty of murder, and he was afraid you’d find a way to help him get away with it. He said maybe you’d helped him kill her. That you and Mr. Cade were lovers before he married Mrs. Desi. I didn’t believe him, at first, but then Susan said she caught you kissing him. And when I saw you two together, I knew you had feelings for each other. I still wouldn’t have hurt you, but he told me all I had to do was cry in the night and make you think the house was haunted. I didn’t see any harm in it. After Devlin took you to the lighthouse, I told him maybe Mr. Cade wasn’t guilty and we should stop trying to prove he was. That’s when he got furious at me and told me he never wanted to see me again. I tried to make it up to him when you came back. I led you to the roof so you would find the little bird, but I knew nothing we did was going to make you leave again.”

  Betrayal ripped through me. I had considered Dory my friend in some ways, and to think she had conspired against me was more than a little hurtful.

  “I never thought he’d hurt Miss Eleanor, or poor little Kathleen.”

  She dabbed her eyes with a handkerchief from her pocket, and I saw the familiar blue monogram on the edge.

  “Oh, Dory, what have you done?” I asked, my voice a horrified whisper. “You’ve helped kill them all.”

  “No!” she cried in denial, but I didn’t wait to listen as I rushed toward the lighthouse.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Driven by panic, I dashed down the shore to the jetty rocks that surrounded the lighthouse. If Devlin was not already dead, it was only a matter of time. As soon as word of another murder made it to town, the men would converge on the lighthouse to mete out the judgment I had stolen from them only days before.

  I expected to see Calvin and the men from Almenara gathered about the rocks where Eleanor lay, but the beach surrounding the lighthouse was empty save for Eleanor, whose body lay crumpled and broken upon the lighthouse rocks. I could see nothing but her legs, which lay at awkward angles, but I knew there was no help for her, and I turned away.

  “Dennis!” I shouted, my voice echoing across land and sea, as I spun around. “Dennis!”

  He came from behind me, locking his arm around my waist before I knew he was there. I gasped when I felt the gun barrel digging into my side.

  “Don’t make another sound,” he murmured.

  “What have you done, Dennis?” I cried. “Why?”

  “I told you to be quiet.” He emphasized his words with swift jabs of the gun, and I fought a dizzying wave of fear.

  Devlin appeared on the beach, staggering toward us from the direction of the cemetery.

  “Ophelia!” Devlin gasped. “Run!”

  “It’s too late for
that,” Dennis sneered as he lifted the gun and fired.

  The bullet pierced Devlin’s heart, and as he fell, his glazed eyes met mine. I don’t know if he saw me or my sister in those final seconds of life, I only know that her name was the last on his lips, just as it had been for my mother so many years before.

  “Have you killed him then, Denny boy?” A man yelled from the top of the dunes, and Dennis puffed out his chest with pride as a group of men came into view behind him.

  “Too late for poor Eleanor, I’m afraid,” he told them.

  “But she’ll be the last, won’t she?” another man observed as he walked past Devlin’s body.

  Dennis didn’t answer as he backed toward the door of the lighthouse, his arm a vise around my waist.

  Down the beach, a small group of men were coming toward us from the direction of Almenara. I recognized Calvin in the front, but my mind could hardly comprehend the sight of Cade running beside him.

  “Ophelia!” Cade yelled, picking up speed, when he saw me.

  “Cade!” I lunged forward but stilled when Dennis whispered in my ear.

  “I’ll kill him just like I did Devlin.”

  I don’t know if it was my stillness that gave it away or if, when I moved, Cade saw the gun at my waist, but something alerted him to the danger I was in. I knew it by the way he stumbled slightly, then with a yell, continued to rush toward us. The click of the hammer stopped him in his tracks a few feet away from us. One twitch of Dennis’ finger could end my life, and I felt my knees buckle with fear.

  “If you faint, I’ll kill you both,” Dennis murmured.

  The calm, cold threat terrified me, and I forced myself to get hold of my emotions.

  Calvin had reached his sister’s body, and I saw him crouch down beside her, his shoulders bowed with grief. Even considering the fight I’d witnessed between them a few days ago, I did not doubt his grief. If there was anyone who understood the love-hate relationship that often existed between siblings, it was I.

  “Dennis, get over here!” Calvin snapped without looking up, but Dennis just chuckled.

  “I don’t think so, Sheriff.”