To the Rescue

by Jean Barrett

  “Please, if we could only hear how it was for him at the end, it would mean everything. You must see that.” The woman pleaded.

  Jennifer and Leo edged around a turn in the coiling flight.

  “I warn you,” the man said, “if you won’t give us what we want, then—” He broke off abruptly.

  As careful as Jennifer and Leo had been to approach the landing without a sound, one of them must have scraped his foot against the rough stone of a tread. Alerted by the noise, realizing they were no longer alone, the trio below them went silent.

  No point now in concealing ourselves, Jennifer thought.

  Leo obviously agreed with her because he took her arm and hurried her on down to the landing before the three people standing there could slip away out of sight.

  Rounding the last turn, they came face to face with Fiona and Alfred Brasher. Jennifer remembered them from breakfast. The timid couple. Except there had been nothing timid about their quarrel with the young man with the spotty face hovering by the closed door to the dining parlor. His name escaped Jennifer for a second, and then she recalled it. Patrick, who was visiting the monastery because he wanted to join the order. Or so he’d claimed.

  “Hello, folks,” Leo greeted them casually, just as though he and Jennifer hadn’t heard a word of their conversation.

  It was impossible to tell whether they either resented their arrival on the scene or were embarrassed by it. They stared at Jennifer and Leo with wooden expressions on their faces. Then, with no more than nods of acknowledgment, at least from Alfred Brasher and his wife, the three of them turned and passed through the stone archway into the dining parlor, leaving the door ajar behind them.

  Left alone on the landing, Leo turned to Jennifer. “And wouldn’t I love to know what that was all about,” he said softly.

  “Something that the Brashers felt they were entitled to know from Patrick and which he refused to tell them. That much was plain anyway.”

  “Uh-huh. Remember what the Brashers said at breakfast. About being travelers caught on the road and having to take shelter here. Makes you wonder, doesn’t it?”

  “That it isn’t just by chance they’re here, you’re saying.”

  “They seem to know Patrick, don’t they?”

  “Which means Warley could have been their destination and not somewhere on the coast, as they said. Do you think any of this might be connected with—”

  “Two murders and a theft? Let’s not go there until we know more. Lunch,” Leo reminded her.

  Jennifer felt it the moment they entered the dining parlor. The climate of anxious stress, like a noxious gas hanging in the air. Unlike the faint undercurrents among the group at breakfast, this was something strong and definite. Decidedly unpleasant. And this time it couldn’t be blamed on the weather.

  They know, she thought. They know Brother Anthony was murdered in the courtyard. It wasn’t surprising. The word must have traveled through the castle like a fire out of control.

  All of them were here in the room, she noticed. The Brashers and the young Patrick. The novice, Geoffrey, with his fair hair and pale, melancholy face. The traveling salesman, Harry Ireland. The elegant, brittle Sybil Harding. And her husband, Roger, who’d once been a monk here and had returned on retreat.

  Were any of them just what they appeared to be? Or did they all have secrets? If Leo was right, one of them certainly had a horrific secret.

  Geoffrey spoke to them when she and Leo arrived at the sideboard. “It’s like breakfast. We serve ourselves from the buffet.”

  Just that. A brief instruction. Then, taking his plate, he joined the others, who were already seated at the long table.

  Jennifer watched Leo suspiciously eye one of the dishes on the sideboard. “Smoked eel,” she informed him. “An English treat.”

  “I bet it’s real tasty.” But he passed it by, helping himself instead to cold salmon and peas.

  Their plates filled, they found places at the end of the table. There was very little conversation in the group. Understandable, considering this morning’s tragedy. Nor did any of them seem to have much of an appetite either, including Jennifer herself. Harry Ireland was the only exception, eating his meal with gusto.

  Jennifer was aware of Leo at her side stealing glances around the table between bites. She knew he was watching the company, hoping for any scraps of enlightenment. She, too, tried to be observant. Not that there was much of anything to see.

  Geoffrey had settled next to Patrick, but there was no exchange of conversation. The young men weren’t on friendly terms. Maybe just because the novice resented having to be responsible for the glum Patrick. Was Patrick unhappy because of this, she wondered? Or was it because of his unexplained issue with the Brashers?

  Jennifer’s attention shifted to Fiona and Alfred, who were seated farther along the table. They picked at their food with disinterest, seldom looking up from their plates. Nothing to be learned there.

  Nor were the Hardings of much interest. Sybil toyed with her potato mash while Roger pulled at his mustache. The lines in his face seemed to have deepened since breakfast. As a former member of the monastery, he must be especially feeling Brother Anthony’s loss.

  It was the balding Harry Ireland who finally broke the uneasy silence. The salesman leaned toward Leo with a hearty “Feeling better then, are we, old man?”

  “For now. It comes and goes,” Leo said, laying the foundation for another relapse.

  “But isn’t it convenient,” Sybil cooed, with an eager smile for him that turned sweetly spiteful when she looked at Jennifer, “that you seem to have acquired a nurse capable of caring for you?”

  Her husband’s face flamed with embarrassment. “Sybil, don’t.”

  “Oh, Roger, don’t be so tiresome.”

  Pushing her plate aside, she leaned down to recover a handsome alligator bag from the floor. Opening the bag, she produced a gold lighter and a packet of cigarettes.

  “Darling, you know you can’t smoke in here.”

  “I don’t see that it matters, what with that fireplace over there smoking like a dragon. They’re all in the castle like that.”

  And we wouldn’t survive without them, Jennifer thought. It was bad enough in the unheated areas of the castle where the temperatures couldn’t be much above freezing. At least the fire places, wherever they occurred, provided an adequate warmth. And there seemed to be no shortage of peat to burn. The baskets were kept filled, just as food appeared magically on the sideboard. It wasn’t magic, of course. The brothers were conscientiously, if not visibly, taking care of their guests.

  The unpleasant Sybil Harding should have been grateful for that, but at least she had the courtesy to shove the cigarettes and lighter back into her bag.

  “Why wouldn’t I be nervous,” she complained, “when we’re caught here like this with a murderer loose in the place? And it could be one of us.”

  “Sybil, no, you mustn’t—”

  “Dear heart, I don’t see why I mustn’t. It’s what we’re all thinking, isn’t it?”

  There was a tense stillness at the table. It lasted for a few seconds, ending when Fiona Brasher dropped her fork. The fork clattered loudly against her plate. Eyes wide with shock, she gazed at all the faces around her.

  “That can’t be! It just can’t be! It—it’s a wicked thing to suggest!”

  “Oh, come now, sweetie, you can’t be so innocent that it hasn’t occurred to you one of us has been very naughty.”

  Fiona’s husband loudly voiced his indignation. “My wife and I have nothing to do with this sad affair, Mrs. Harding!”

  The salesman leaned toward Alfred Brasher. “That’s what we’re all claiming, old man. At least I imagine we are.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Just that someone had it in for the old padre, what.”

  “But not one of us!” Fiona cried. “Tell them, Alf, that it couldn’t be one of us!”

  “Why not?�
� Harry Ireland insisted. “When it comes down to it, do any of us have a decent alibi?” There was a taut silence again. The salesman chuckled. “Well, there you are.”

  “One of the monks!” Fiona said, clearly desperate to rid herself of the fear that someone in this room could have killed Brother Anthony. “It had to be one of the monks!”

  Geoffrey spoke up in their defense. “That’s not possible. They were all accounted for at the time of the murder.”

  Jennifer had been quiet during this emotional exchange, knowing that like Leo beside her it could be far more informative to listen than to contribute. She would have gone on being just that if Sybil hadn’t pounced on her.

  “Is it true that it was you who found the monk?”

  Jennifer’s reply was a cautious “Yes.”

  “But whatever were you doing in the courtyard?”

  “Just—getting some exercise.”

  “Really? In a snowstorm? One wonders what form of exercise that could have been.”

  That tears it, Jennifer thought. She’d had enough of Sybil Harding’s nasty innuendos, which probably had as much to do with the woman’s obvious attraction to Leo as it did with her bitchy character.

  “I hope you’re not implying I could have had something to do with Brother Anthony’s death, Mrs. Harding,” she began softly. “Because if you are—”

  But Leo, who was familiar by now with the slow, measured speech that signaled she was about to launch an attack of her own, cut her off quickly. “I’m feeling a little rotten again. Think I need to get back to my bed. Sorry, folks.”

  Shoving back from the table, he got to his feet. “Coming?” He looked down at Jennifer with a pathetic little smile meant to communicate to the others that he couldn’t possibly make it back to his room without her support. Considering the man looked as fit as an athlete in peak condition, this had to be a lot to swallow.

  But he was right, Jennifer thought, coming to her feet. There was nothing to be gained by getting into a battle with Sybil Harding. And probably nothing more to learn by staying here listening to a conversation that had deteriorated into a lot of pointless squabbling.

  They were still at it, arguing and accusing, when she and Leo left the dining parlor.

  Leo expressed his disgust on the way back to their rooms. “What a bunch. Everything but a food fight.”

  And one of them is a murderer, Jennifer remembered. What other explanation could there be?

  Chapter Seven

  It was hard to believe that through all the thickness of walls and doors, Jennifer could hear the distant bell. But its slow, mournful tolling seemed to echo down the countless passages, penetrating the farthest reaches of the castle.

  The bell was a summons, calling monks and guests alike to the chapel where Father Stephen would perform the memorial service for Brother Anthony.

  Jennifer found it an unnerving, ghostly sound, not just because of its connection with murder but because it was a signal for the search she and Leo were about to conduct. She was uneasy about that as she perched rigidly on the edge of her bed, waiting for Leo to come and collect her. Anything could go wrong.

  To her relief, the bell finally stopped pealing. There was nothing now but the muffled wail of the wind buffeting the ancient, outer walls.

  Where is he?

  Maybe something had already gone wrong. She resisted the temptation to go and look for him. Leo had asked her to be patient, but if he didn’t come soon…

  Restless, she left the bed and went to the window. The storm was still in progress. Would it never let up?

  She stood there at the glass for what seemed like forever, watching the snow. Outside was all that fury, but in here there was nothing but stillness. It felt ominous.

  He was taking too long. She’d had enough of this vigil. Turning away from the window, she was prepared to go after him. There was no need. A knock sounded on the connecting door. Before she could tell him to come in, his head poked around the door.

  “Ready?”

  “I’ve been ready since lunch. Where have you been? I thought you were never coming.”

  “Had to give them all enough time to leave their rooms and get down to the chapel. Let’s go.”

  Now he was in a hurry? The man was maddening.

  Jennifer followed him out into the corridor, trying to keep up with his long-legged gait.

  “Uh, mind filling me in? I know we’re supposed to be on the way to their rooms, but just how do we find those rooms and how do we know who’s occupying what when we get there?”

  “Got it all here.” Extracting a slip of paper from the pocket of his jeans, he came to a stop and waved it under her nose. From what she could tell, it was a hastily sketched map.

  “Where did you get it?”

  “From Father Stephen down in his office.”

  “And that’s where you went after you left me. I don’t suppose it occurred to you that you were supposed to be in your room having a relapse. What if you’d run into one of the others?”

  “But I didn’t. I was careful. We go this way.”

  He led them along the passage in the direction away from the route to the spiral stairway. Jennifer had realized the other guests weren’t quartered in the vicinity of the rooms she and Leo occupied, or she would have been aware of their coming and going.

  But she hadn’t known, until Leo conducted her along a series of turning corridors, that they were lodged in another wing entirely.

  They passed a flight of stairs to the lower level. Not a spiral stairway this time. Something that was broad and direct in its descent. Jennifer had a fuzzy memory of being led up this stairway from the front door on the night of her arrival. Or one like it.

  They moved on.

  “Where are we now?” she asked.

  “Opposite side of the castle. Almost there.”

  “Leo?”

  “Yeah?”

  “What if one of them didn’t go to the service? What if he’s in his room and challenges us?”

  “Relax. Father Stephen said he’d manage to get word to me if any of them didn’t show, which was also what I was waiting for. But he didn’t, and you worry too much.”

  “Can’t help it. Stuff like this reminds me of a game called Spooks that we played as kids on our block. I always hated it when the spooks jumped out at you with these bloodcurdling screams.”

  “Wouldn’t have thought your neighborhood was into that kind of thing.”

  Jennifer came to a stop. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  Aware that she was no longer on his heels, Leo turned to face her. “You know, Boston. Old money.”

  “Where did you ever get the idea that I came from the Beacon Hill crowd? Or anything like that?”

  “Just an impression I got. Maybe because of all those expensive antiques you acquire.”

  “Wrong impression, detective. I grew up in a middle-class neighborhood in West Roxbury, and the only old money my family ever heard about belonged to a few clients my dad handled as an insurance agent.”

  “Okay.”

  “And while we’re comparing histories—”

  “I didn’t know we were.”

  “I suppose you’ll tell me you grew up on the mean streets of—where?”

  “Philadelphia.”

  “Well, there you are. Both places have a reputation for old money. But Philadelphia doesn’t have to mean the Main Line, anymore than Boston—”

  “Actually…”

  Jennifer stared at him. “Are you telling me that you do come from the Main Line?”

  “Not that close, but not bad. My old man was a criminal lawyer. Made plenty of money. Lost most of it, too, in poor investments.”

  “So how did his son end up as a P.I.?”

  “The old man had this detective agency he used on some of his cases. I got interested in them, and they got interested in me. It’s where I trained.” Leo glanced at his watch. “Now if we’re through trading backgrounds, maybe we ca
n get on with it before those spooks you’re worried about start getting restless in the chapel and wind up back here.”

  Leo swung around and headed along the corridor again.

  Philadelphia, huh? Jennifer thought, hurrying to catch up with him. Not the tough streets either. But he must have acquired that scar he carried on his cheek somewhere. And what about the tattoo of a salamander she had noticed when he’d accosted her last night?

  Okay, be honest with yourself.

  Neither the scar nor the tattoo were of real interest, even if they had been visible at this moment. What did command her attention as she trailed behind him around another corner was his well-defined backside in those snug jeans. Jennifer was absolutely riveted by the sight.

  Stop it! You’re practically salivating!

  So what if Leo McKenzie was on the A-list when it came to sexual appeal. It wasn’t like she hadn’t met plenty of guys who qualified in that area. There was no good reason for her to behave like an idiot with this one. He couldn’t be that special.

  It was just the situation, she told herself. Being stranded like this in a blizzard, having to work together so closely. That kind of intimacy was bound to have an effect on your hormones. But it didn’t make it something substantial.

  Right. Just remember that.

  It was a piece of sensible advice, except it failed her when Leo came to a sudden halt and she bumped into the enticing backside that was giving her so much trouble.

  “Sorry,” she mumbled, drawing quickly back from the contact.

  “You hear me complaining?”

  She wisely responded with a question of her own. A safe one. “Um, why are we—”

  “Because we’re here. I think.”

  She watched him consult the map the abbot had given him. The corridor that stretched in front of them was silent, deserted. She hoped there was nothing deceptive about that. That Leo was right and they were alone here.

  A thought occurred to her as she waited for him to decide which door belonged to whom. There were no locks on the ancient doors of the rooms she and Leo occupied, but these doors along here had keyholes. She pointed that out to him.