by Marni Graff
Chapter Twenty-One
“There is no such thing as accident. What we call by that name is the effect of some cause which we do not see.”
— Voltaire, Letters de Memmius, III
11:43 AM
Nora left Keith’s library and wandered back down the hall, searching for Kate. She couldn’t stay in that study another minute; the stolen flash drive weighed heavily in her pocket, and she was anxious to be off with it. She paused in front of the portraits of Julia and Edmunde, Antonia and Sommer and was aware of a stirring familiarity she couldn’t identify.
She withdrew her camera from the bag slung over her shoulder and took individual shots of the four portraits. The camera was back in her bag, and she had just realized she should move the flash drive into it, too, when the door directly across from her opened. Kate and a red-eyed Antonia emerged from the chamber and joined her. In the bright daylight, Nora saw how large Antonia’s pupils were, the effects of the tranquilizer Cook had mentioned.
“I’m afraid I’ve monopolized Kate, Nora. I hope you weren’t too bored,” Antonia said.
“Not at all,” Nora assured her, her shame increasing. “Keith had quite a collection of books on this area. I wonder if I might borrow a few in the future?” And legitimize my actions, she added to herself.
“Nora’s writing a series of children’s book centered on Belle Isle and a troupe of fairies that live there,” Kate reminded her.
“Yes, of course.” Antonia’s expression warmed. “As soon as Detective Travers says we can release Keith’s things, I’d be happy for you to return and borrow anything you’d like.”
Antonia’s graciousness made the object in Nora’s pocket burn even hotter. With a few contrite goodbyes on Nora’s part and promises to return for the funeral, she and Kate took their leave of the bereaved mother and walked back down the long driveway.
“Sommer is so polite and reserved, but I think Antonia is mostly in a daze,” Kate said as they reached the bottom of the drive and turned onto the road.
Nora was about to answer when a man on a bicycle whirred past them, almost knocking Nora off her feet. Kate grabbed Nora’s arm before she went down, but her bag went flying, its contents scattering across the road. Once Nora was righted, her hand patted her stomach and slipped into her pocket. Both items safe.
A strong odor of stale alcohol wafted behind the culprit. He swerved into the bushes near the stone pillars and jumped off it to avoid crashing into one of the large columns. The bike clattered to the ground with a metallic racket, and the drunk staggered over to Nora, who took a step backward as the man’s smell preceded him.
“Daniel Rowley, you need to be more careful!” Kate admonished. “And don’t you dare show up to work tomorrow without taking a hot bath, or Agnes won’t have to complain to me anymore because you’ll be on the dole.”
She bent to retrieve Nora’s camera, checking it for damage. “You all right?” she asked Nora, handing it to her.
Nora nodded as Daniel lifted her notebook. She saw him rifle through the pages before she could snatch it quickly from his grimy hand. “Thank you,” she said as she grabbed it from him.
“Let this be a lesson to you, duckie,” he growled at Nora and walked back to his bike.
“I think that’s everything.” Kate retrieved a tube of lipstick and a roll of antacids from across the road. They watched Rowley right the bicycle after prying a few snapped twigs from between the spokes. Reseating himself, he rode away without looking back.
Both women stood looking after him from opposite sides of the road. Kate put her hands on her slim hips and shook her head. “Such a gentleman,” she said with heavy sarcasm as she walked to Nora and gave her back her items. “One of the district’s finer chaps.”
A crime van passed them and turned into the gates, making its way up the driveway.
“Curiouser and curiouser,”Kate said.
Nora followed Kate as they walked on, Rowley’s warning ringing in her ears. She was convinced he had deliberately run her down—and her baby could have been hurt. Her nose twitched in anger, her mothering instincts kicking in, but with that came a sense of uneasiness at Daniel’s comment. “Tell me about Daniel.”
Daniel lived in a decrepit shack on Clarendon land, Kate explained. It used to be the gamekeeper’s shed when the estate had been fully functioning. He helped Agnes in Ramsey Lodge’s kitchen when there was dinner service and did gardening and simple maintenance. “He’s not really skilled, but when he hasn’t been drinking he can be useful, and he’s good with the garden.”
“And he works here, too?”
“Cook gives him chores, here and there, so he ekes out a living. He’s always hanging around one of the two places.”
Nora would need to keep her eyes open for Daniel Rowley from now on. She stopped and pointed to a large building on a hill beside the lake. Through the trees, she could just see Belsfield Hotel in large, white letters. “One of your competitors?” Nora asked.
“Not really,” Kate said with a shrug. “They’re much bigger than us, and there’s enough custom to go around. But see how it overlooks that promenade where the cruise boats sail from?”
At Nora’s nod, Kate continued. “It belonged to an industrialist who traveled daily to his businesses in Barrow-in-Furness partly via the lake, then finished his trip by steam train to Barrow.” Kate stopped before a bench in the shade, and the two women sat down.
“That might spur a story line for me,” Nora said.
“He walked down to the pier every morning, followed by his butler carrying breakfast on a silver tray. Can’t you just picture it?”
Nora forgot the run-in with Daniel Rowley as the idea for a story began to grow in her mind. “Do you know his name?”
“Henry William Schneider,” Kate answered.
Nora withdrew her camera, intact but for a few minute scratches on the case, and took several shots of the hotel and its view of the lake. Sunlight speckled the water’s surface. With the changing autumn colors of the trees, Nora could smell the musty leaves, turning brittle. The whole area resonated with the glow of nature in every season. She felt a sense of rightness that she’d chosen this area, both for her book and for her child. It might be a temporary stop, but it would more than do for a while, and she had to learn to take each day as it arrived on her doorstep.
“Thanks for the great idea, Kate. Maybe the fairies will rescue Mr. Schneider’s ghost in a future story.”
“Those trays were heavy—maybe they should rescue the butler instead.” Kate laughed.
Nora felt a rush of gratitude toward this woman for her generosity and friendship. “Listen, Kate—you know so many local stories. I’d hoped Keith would be a source for that kind of information, and I’ve got a load of books, but some stories aren’t documented. Would you help me from time to time?”
Kate’s smile was infectious. “I’d be delighted to, Nora. And you can help me plan my wedding. Ian thinks I’m procrastinating, but I’ve got a whole folder crammed with ideas. I have a good idea of what I’d like, just not when.”
They started walking again.
“You’ve never told me your wedding date,” Nora said.
“That’s because Ian and I can’t agree on one,” Kate explained. “Ian wants to get married in the spring, but I think we should wait until the summer.”
“Why wait?” Nora asked. “Not that it’s any of my business,” she added.
Kate bit her lip. “Once Ian and I are married, things will change at the lodge—they have to. I worry that Simon won’t want to carry on, and I know I can’t run it without him.”
Nora let her surprise show. “You think he’s only here temporarily?”
Kate grimaced. “He loved living in France and still has cl
ose friends there.” She shrugged. “I think he stayed after our dad died so I wouldn’t be alone, but that might change when Ian moves in.”
“But Ian certainly won’t be around much to help at the lodge, no matter when you marry,” Nora pointed out. Friends still in France—the phone call she’d overheard made more sense. Just how friendly remained to be seen, if she should be caring at all.
“I know,” Kate said. She smiled. “I do want to marry Ian. When we started to go out, I had no idea I would fall in love with a detective. He’s so conscientious and smart. I love that he doesn’t feel black and white about everything. He understands there are shades of grey to most situations and tries to look at every angle. I really admire that he’s not judgmental at all.”
“And he’s quite good-looking,” Nora added.
“There is that.”
“Then marry the lad before he changes his mind.”
“If you agree to help me, I will. And I’ll just let Simon decide his own future.”
Nora’s answering grin felt good as it broke across her face. “It’s a deal.” Things to look forward to that didn’t involve bodies or death.
Chapter Twenty-Two
“‘You look familiar,’ said the interviewer as he flexed a rubber band between his thumb and forefinger.”
— Cindy Packard, The Mother Load
11:44 AM
Ian Travers paced the entry hall of Ramsey Lodge, stopping to scrutinize an old oil painting on one wall. It was a scene of Brant Fell, the mountain nearest Bowness, a steep peak but not the highest in the Lake District National Park. Ian remembered climbing it in his youth to impress an outdoorsy date. Despite having been in good shape, he’d still reached the summit ten minutes after her, panting, to her gales of laughter. The memory did not improve his mood.
He waited for Simon to come downstairs from showing a guest to his room. The forensic tech had finished with the studio and had left to pick up Sommer’s plant, evidence bags in tow. Ian felt uncomfortable on so many levels. This turn of events would not go down well with Kate, and he would be forced yet again into the position of explaining how important it was that he perform his job without any hint of prejudice. He also knew today’s actions might affect the lodge’s custom and eventually how the townspeople viewed Simon, with Kate included by extension—especially if reporters, picking up the story, began to hound them.
Simon was a friend; Ian had a tough time seeing him as a murderer. He sighed as he remembered one of his first murder cases, early in his career. The perpetrator had turned out to be the lover of the victim’s wife, the same woman who’d gone to pieces when told of her husband’s demise. Ian had been convinced she wasn’t involved, but he’d been wrong. Her boyfriend had killed his competitor, and she’d been a very good actress. He’d never taken surface appearances as absolute truth again.
The heavy front door opened. “Ian!” Kate gave him a hug. Nora came in behind her and waved hello. “I’m surprised to see you in the middle of the day,” Kate added.
“Not as surprised as I was,” Simon announced from the stairway.
Kate turned to Ian. “What’s happened?” Simon joined them in the hall.
A young couple staying at the lodge came down the stairs and nodded to the four people standing awkwardly in the hall.
Ian said: “Let’s go into Simon’s rooms, shall we? And I’ll explain.”
*
Kate was livid. “You can’t be serious! You think Simon is involved in Keith’s death?”
Ian was firm. “I’m forced to treat Simon as I would any suspect when the cause of death brings him into the circle of attention, Kate. Having that rare plant in his possession does that. In addition, Simon and Keith argued in public more than once over his expansion plans, and there was that fight at The Scarlet Wench.”
Kate’s face turned a deep shade of red. “They were both lit, and Keith threw the first punch—Simon just defended himself. I was there.”
Ian turned to Simon. This wasn’t going anywhere. “Let’s get this over with. If we go down to the station for your formal statement, I can have it transcribed quickly for you to sign.”
Simon nodded. “Kate, this is just procedure. I’m fine. Nora, a friend of yours has checked in and was asking questions about you—Tony Warner?”
Nora scowled. “Tony is not a friend. He’s a snob who writes the worst articles I’ve ever edited. Old Jenks must have sent him to get a scoop from me once he heard about Keith’s death—he’d never let an opportunity for publicity pass by.”
“I put him in the Sherlock Holmes suite,” Simon told Kate.
She nodded absently, still focused on Ian. “I hope handcuffs won’t be necessary.” She turned on her heel and stomped off.
Ian shook his head. This was only going to get worse.
Chapter Twenty-Three
“I had taken Mrs. Prest into my confidence; without her in truth I should have made but little advance, for the fruitful idea in the whole business dropped from her friendly lips.”
— Henry James, The Aspern Papers
12:10 PM
Nora sat on her bed and slipped off her shoes. She lay back against the pillows, her mind percolating on poisonous plants and stolen flash drives. Was that why Simon hadn’t wanted her in his studio, because that plant was there? What difference could his painting a rare flower make? She felt a ripple of apprehension. No way could he be involved in Keith’s death. Not Simon. Her mobile interrupted her reverie, and she saw it was Val.
Nora quickly described the events that led to Simon being taken in for questioning. “I can’t believe that Ian will hold him, not right now, but it’s still awful, big time,” Nora said. Then she remembered their conversation that morning. “Good thing you decided to check out the travel agency. With Ian having to investigate Simon’s involvement in Keith’s death, he’ll need help finding the real killer.” Just like Declan Barnes did, solving Bryn Wallace’s murder, Nora told herself.
Val explained the scene she’d witnessed at the travel agency, describing the break-in and police in attendance. Nora sat up at Val’s description of Glenn Hackney.
“I know who you mean,” Nora said. “He was there when I met Keith at Worth’s for dinner the night I won the contest.” She searched her memory. “No old gent then, but I remember seeing a girl, very mod looking with bleached-out hair and three inches of dark roots showing.”
“I don’t get that look, do you? I didn’t see anyone like that today, although that reminds me—I thought I’d seen this Glenn before and I finally figured out where ... ” Val paused dramatically.
“Don’t make me beg for it, Val—where?”
“At The Blue Virgin, that club I used to go to with Bryn. I saw him on a Wednesday, enjoying the blue movies shot against the wall. That’s the night people go to be checked out—you know, to see who’s pierced what, who’s alone—get the idea?”
Nora pictured her friend with the odd golden eyes and short pixie haircut. “Got it. You don’t have to protect my Victorian sensibilities. Knowing you has shot them all to hell.” They shared a laugh until Nora became serious again. She returned to the hot water Simon had found himself in and her intention to clear him. “It makes me twitch to think he’d be involved. Not possible,” she said emphatically, tamping down any misgivings. “Let’s think about this. Glenn Hackney is probably gay if you saw him at The Blue Virgin. How does that involve Keith beyond the obvious?”
The line was quiet as both women thought this over. Finally, Val spoke up.
“Maybe Hackney’s boss doesn’t know he’s gay—if he’s a much older chap, he may have negative ideas about a homosexual employee. Perhaps Keith found out and was blackmailing Hackney?”
Nora considered this. “I don’t think Keith was the
blackmailing type, but then I haven’t met too many blackmailers before. I suppose it’s possible Keith was gay, and maybe he and Glenn had a failed relationship?” She warmed quickly to her theory. “Do you plan to go to The Blue Virgin again this Wednesday, Val?”
“I may have a bit of chatting up to do now, won’t I? I’ll see what dirt I can unearth.”
“Thanks.” Nora explained her visit to Clarendon Hall and described meeting Keith’s parents. She included seeing the gallery paintings and finding the books Keith kept in his study. “And I discovered information on Belle Isle I hadn’t seen before—”
The floor creaked outside Nora’s door; she paused.
“Yankee, you still there?” Val asked.
“Yeah. Say, at the break-in, was there anyone from the police we … met before?”
“As in your pal Declan Barnes?”
Nora cleared her throat. “I have no idea what you mean, my friend.”
“Busted. But don’t worry, your secret’s safe with me. No, just the regular plod, no one we met on Bryn’s case. I’ll call you again after I snoop this week.”
“Be careful, Val.”
“Cheerio.” Ringing off, Nora slipped off her bed and quietly cracked her bedroom door. The hall was empty. She was desperate to hide the flash drive still in her pocket.
She scoured her room, looking for a place that wouldn’t be obvious. Then she remembered Poe’s classic story The Purloined Letter, in which evidence was left in plain view, and went to her desk. Opening a drawer, she selected a label, wrote Belle Isle on it in case someone snooped and slipped the drive into the USB port of her laptop, leaving it on her desk.