I changed into my nightclothes and got back into bed. If it turned out that the fifteen hundred dollars was for something more, I decided, I wasn't worried. I wasn't about to sleep with John Marlowe, no matter what price he thought he could pay me. I tapped out a fifth pill and put it beneath my tongue to dissolve, needing an extra one to ensure that thoughts of him wouldn't keep me awake. As my mind went hazy and my breathing slowed, numbness came over me and slowed my rational thoughts to a halt, and my head filled with visions of ghostly figures in the dark corridors of the house that called me by a name which wasn't my own, tormenting me until the blackness took over and I fell into a silent sleep.
***
The alarm woke me up at quarter-past five, though it must have been ringing for over an hour: I had set it for four. I groggily sat up and held my head in my hands, relieved at the deep sleep but mournful of having to wake from it so soon. I pulled my stockings, dress and cap on, fumbled to find where I had left the keys beneath my pillow, then carefully unlocked both doors. My shoes had been scattered across the floor, though I had thought I had left them neatly at the end of the bed. I rubbed my temples again, knowing that I ought not to have taken the extra pill. They were supposed to temporarily pause my memory, not make me forget what I had done during the night.
I stooped to retrieve the shoes, feeling moist wood beneath my stockinged feet despite the heat plowing through the radiator. I quickly put the shoes on, not liking the fraught feeling that was creeping up on me, and went downstairs. Snow had built up on the windowsills all around the house and more was still coming down. With the darkness camouflaging the contents of the nearby rooms and the wind rattling the dead foliage in the trees outside, the house seemed especially grotesque, as though the arrival of Lennox had started something odd and sinister.
In the kitchen I filled the sink with soapy water and started rinsing the glasses I had neglected to wash from the night before. The moonlight was reflecting off the snow in the yard, making the view one long endless sheet of white. As I set the glasses on the drying rack, I noticed a ring of purplish flesh circling my wrist where John had grabbed me. Two large fingerprints closed it like a latch. I pulled my sleeve down further to hide it.
I pulled a pack of cigarettes from my pocket and went through the pantry to get outside. I leaned down to shield the flame with my body from the wind, and took a deep drag in as I tried to make sense of it all. I had hoped that the freezing temperature would shock my senses, but instead it sank into my skin as though making its home in my bones, and I shook as I smoked, both out of cold and fear.
A fistful of red caught my attention in the distance, out of place in the black and white scenery. I stared at where it was nestled just above the snow only thirty feet away from where I stood, watching as it waved to me as I waited longingly for a solution to my predicament to come. What did John want from me, I wondered? He wasn't going to tell me – that much I knew – at least not until it was too late for me to flee.
I finished my cigarette and threw it down to the ground. And I wouldn't flee, I told myself. I wasn't a frightened child running into her parents' arms; even if I wanted to, I couldn't. I turned to go back inside, but the dot of red in the distance gave another beckoning wave, and so instead I took a step off the porch and squinted toward it in an attempt to discern what it was.
“For Christ's sakes,” I muttered, recognizing it at last and angrily starting toward it. It was John's bow tie, gently flapping in the breeze. My mind flashed back to how it had hung around his neck the night before while he held me at the base of the stairs, and I thought I could almost smell the scotch reeking off of him as I neared it. He must have gone out for a midnight walk and tossed it aside, just as I feared he was planning to toss me aside.
The snow was nearly two feet deep in the area just off the path where it sat, and cut against my ankles as I stepped into it. The tights did little to protect my skin from the cold: I ought to have gotten my boots from the Foyer. Perhaps it had blown off of his neck after all, for if John had walked out there, then the harsh winds had blown snow to fill any trace of his footsteps. I hurried closer to the tie, intent on grabbing it up just as he had grabbed me and squeezing it in my freezing hands before bringing it inside to neatly re-tie and place in his spot at the breakfast table to find. If he wanted to play a game, after all, then I could play along. I could be the polite, assiduous servant he claimed that he wanted. I could follow orders and ignore inconsistencies, and I could smile and nod along just the way he hoped I would. But if he thought that I would continue to smile and nod when I returned to the university, then he was gravely mistaken – because that wasn't who I was, nor whom I would ever be.
I leaned down and grasped the tie, my mind too focused on the thoughts zipping through my head to pay attention to my physical surroundings. It was only when I gave it a firm yank that the realization started to sink in, but not quickly enough, so I gave it another hard pull and –
A body started to rise out of the snow, heavy and frozen as I lifted it by its red noose. I jumped back, releasing it and bolting back to the house at full speed. I clambered through the servants' door, shouting to wake the household even though I knew it was to no avail: for no matter how quickly I got help, John Marlowe's frozen form could thaw but never move again.
Chapter 3
The cigarette was still burning in Lennox's hand, though he appeared to have forgotten it long beforehand, and a caterpillar of ash fell from the filter and disintegrated into the snow. It was the only movement other than the snow descending from the sky in what felt like hours since most of the members of the household had emptied into the yard to surround John's body. Just his face was visible; the rest of him was buried. He looked like a infant swaddled in a blanket.
Nobody had spoken, until –
Amalia let out a terrible, guttural shriek. It got lost halfway up her throat and barely escaped into the air. Her hands clapped over her face as though trying to prevent another sound from coming out, and then she dropped to her knees beside the body, her beautiful face twisted and her dark eyes glistening. Rachel closed her eyes and bowed her head at the sight of her twin brother. Her dark hair fell like a curtain to hide her long, worn face from my view.
“Well, we should call some paramedics,” Marjorie said briskly, skipping past words of grief.
“And say what?” Bernadette asked. “'Our brother's buried in the snow drift – please come and dig him out?' It's not like they can resuscitate him.”
“We can't just leave him here,” Rachel breathed.
“Why not? He's not going anywhere.”
“Stop being morbid, Marjorie,” Edie said. “John's dead!”
“How … how did this happen?” Bill asked. He looked more startled than anything, and kept shaking his head. “How did he die?”
“I think it's safe to assume that he froze to death, Bill,” Bernadette said.
Amalia looked up, finally pulled from her reverie.
“He froze to death – thirty feet from the house?” she demanded. “Why was he outside at all?”
“He's your husband: shouldn't he have been in bed with you?” Marjorie said.
“He would have been! But he was restless and he – he wanted to stay up!” She looked around at the circle of mourners. “He was upset after – after – after that man showed up!”
She pointed at Lennox, who seemed to finally notice that his cigarette had burned down to just the filter. Dropping it, he took out a new one and brought it to his lips to light.
“I wasn't aware that I caused him any distress,” he said, his tone diplomatic. “I'm sorry if I did.”
“You certainly did!” Amalia said, clambering to her feet. She brushed the snow from her knees. “He – he – he wanted nothing to do with you –!”
“So he went outside to put distance between the both of them?” Marjorie asked, sounding anything but convinced.
“I'm sure Isidore had nothing to do with it,” Rac
hel said. “This is just … a horrible tragedy.”
“Exactly,” Bernadette said. “What's done is done. Now we just have to decide how to move forward.”
“We can't leave him out in the snow!” Amalia exclaimed.
“Why not? It's not like he'll be cold,” Marjorie said.
“Please, Marjorie –” Edie said, “– he was our brother!”
“I'm just being practical. What would you have me do – dig him out and put him upstairs with Mother?”
“That's exactly what we should do!” Amalia said.
“Great. Get a shovel, then,” Marjorie snapped.
“No one's going to dig him out,” Bernadette said. “We should leave him here until the police come.”
“I'm not leaving my husband out here with the – with the vermin and mice –!”
“I'm going to go inside,” Rachel said, glancing back at the house. “I don't want James to worry.”
“Can he worry?” Marjorie said in an undertone, but Rachel either didn't hear or simply ignored her.
It was strange seeing them there. They were still in their nightclothes, and Edie's hair was in rollers. With their bathrobes sticking out from beneath their coats, they looked a bit like children playing dress-up rather than the sophisticated, wealthy people I had been serving tea and scones. As a gust of wind rattled through the trees to shake the dead branches and scatter us further with snow, the sky darkened despite the sun rising on the horizon, and the gray clouds that hung over us appeared so threatening that the family members broke off to return inside until only Lennox and I remained.
I crossed my arms, still only dressed in my uniform and house shoes but not ready to leave despite how my shivering arms tried to persuade me. For despite what the Marlowe sisters seemed to think, I simply couldn't picture a man as calculating and assertive as John Marlowe drunkenly stumbling through the snow, especially mere hours after the way he had so confidently told me how the world worked. I kept my eyes fixed on the red bow tie, watching as the ribbon of fabric pulled and tugged, longing to escape the dead man's neck. A wave of nausea came over me at the sight, amplified by the extra medication that I had taken the night before. For I had spoken of this, I thought suddenly. I had told Lennox that I would see John dead before allowing him to degrade me, and now he was. It was as though an unknown advocate had fulfilled my wishes, only I had mistakenly asked for the wrong thing.
I looked at Lennox. A frown was pulling at his brow.
“When I said – what I said – last night,” I told him hurriedly, “I didn't actually want it to happen.”
Lennox glanced up.
“I know,” he said. “This is just … an unfortunate coincidence.”
“It's a bit too odd of a chance, though, isn't it?”
“I believe that's why it's called a coincidence.”
“No, not that part. I meant, it's a bit too odd that John Marlowe would let himself die like that.”
Lennox gave me a look.
“I guess we don't have as much control over these types of things as we'd like to believe,” he said.
“I guess not,” I agreed, though my memory gave a sudden tug as though searching for the reasoning behind why I couldn't agree with the idea that his death had been accidental. I tried to follow where it was leading me, but my head was too foggy. I gave Lennox a nod and left him to return inside.
“Alexa,” Bernadette said as I stepped into the Foyer minutes later. “Coffee and tea will be served in the Dining Room this morning.”
“What?”
Bernadette sucked in her cheeks and her midsection swelled as she looked at me.
“Coffee and tea in the Dining Room,” she repeated. “Are you daft? We certainly can't eat in the breakfast nook: John's body is right outside the window!”
I blinked, nearly moving to follow her orders when the reality of the situation sunk in. John was dead: the deal I had made with him was off. For a moment I considered that he was simply pretending to be dead in a farcical ploy to see how I reacted, but then his pale, bluish face flashed before my vision and the idea vanished.
“I understand that,” I said rigidly, though admittedly the fact that she could still think of eating was rather difficult for me grasp. “I just don't understand why you think I'll be serving you.”
“Excuse me?”
“Professor Marlowe hired me. He's dead.”
“He hired you to work for me.”
“Well, I have no interest in working for you, so I think I'll go pack my belongings. So, if you'll excuse me …”
I moved to go toward the stairs, but Bernadette blocked me. With her hands on her hips and her sable robe drowning her in a layer of soft black, she looked more like a vulture than ever.
“You aren't going anywhere, young lady.”
I threw her a look.
“Yes, I am,” I said.
“Oh you are, are you? And who gave you permission to do that?”
“I don't need permission. I don't want the job anymore.”
“I don't care if you want the job: your contract isn't up.”
“Then don't give me a good reference,” I said irritably, trying to push past her, but I simply bounced off of her huge stomach.
“My brother paid you five hundred dollars for this little job of yours,” she said, her voice dropping to a menacing whisper. “You and God only know the reason why – and I doubt He's too pleased about it. Now, I was told I'd be getting a maid for as long as I decide to stay here, and that's exactly what I intend to have. If you don't want the job, then go. But leave the money behind.”
She put out her hand. I stared down into her open palm. The flattened bills beneath my garter scratched against my skin.
“It's my money,” I said.
“Oh? And what have you done to earn it?” She waited for an answer that I couldn't give, then nodded in confirmation. “I thought so. Now, you will either continue your work or give me back that money.”
I swallowed. I couldn't leave the island without the money, not when I was already leaving without my spot at the university. I searched Bernadette's face, willing her to understand that there was no monthly allowance or inheritance waiting for me that would allow me to continue onward without a job, but one look at her narrowed eyes stopped me from speaking. She didn't know what I had been working so hard to achieve, nor would she care.
“I can't give it back,” I said. “Mrs. Tilly took two hundred from me.”
“Well, you're a quick thinker, aren't you?” Bernadette replied. “Think you can pull one over on me? Blame the cook and sneak off with half the money?”
“No, I – it's true –”
Bernadette stuck a short, pudgy finger in my face.
“You either hand over the full amount, or you stay,” she repeated. “Frank won't be ferrying you anywhere otherwise, and if you get any other ideas, I'll have you arrested for theft.”
I bit down on the insides of my cheeks until they burned.
“I'm not a thief,” I said.
“So I guess you'll be staying, then,” Bernadette replied. She took a step back from me. “Now, coffee and tea in the Dining Room – immediately. And I don't want to hear another vulgar word out of your mouth.”
I didn't dare call her bluff. The ferryman had no reason to take pity on me and bring me back to the mainland, and I had no desire to obtain a criminal record. I turned and marched toward the kitchen. It wasn't as though I had anywhere to go right now, anyway.
I started a pot of coffee on the stove. Mrs. Tilly was shaking her head as she stirred the cream of wheat at the burner beside me, her round face flushed and her free hand clutching the necklace that normally hung beneath her apron.
“You come for a funeral you wind up dead … It's not right, I tell you. It's not right,” she said, tears clinging to her eyelashes. “A magpie must've come to his door and cocked its head at him. It's not right …”
She glanced over at me, perhaps thinking that I would
echo the sentiment, but I ignored her. Her twisted idea of morality would garner no sympathy from me, at least not until she admitted that she had stolen my money.
As I waited for the coffee to percolate, my fingers tightened, forming my hands into fists. The anger I had felt for John the previous day had intensified, and whereas I had been upset with him for tricking me into coming to the island, I was furious now that he had died. He was supposed to have gotten me back into my doctorate program. It was as though he had died on purpose just to spite me once again, though my rational mind knew it wasn't so.
I wordlessly transferred the coffee to a china pot and brought it to the Dining Room.
“Shall I make it the usual way, Mrs. Carlton?” I asked Bernadette, re-adopting my polite tone before adding three heaping spoons of sugar and half the pitcher of cream to her cup. She nodded in approval.
My arms were rigid as I continued around the table to serve the rest of the family. I pointedly ignored the tears clinging to Amalia's eyelashes as she waved me away from her, noting that she was apparently too distressed to eat but not so distressed that she couldn't model her sadness for her in-laws; disregarded the frightful glances that Edie threw around the room and the sour glare that had glued itself to Marjorie's face; and turned a blind eye to Rachel's quiet expression and Bill's confused one. Perhaps they were all in shock, but none of them seemed sorrowful about John's death. Or maybe, I considered as I reached the end of the table and dutifully stood with the coffee tray in hand, I was simply projecting my own feelings of discontent and disconnect onto them, and they weren't as aloof as they appeared.
“Is there anything else I can get for you, Mrs. Carlton?” I asked.
Bernadette wiped her mouth with her napkin and set her cup back on its saucer.
“I think it would be best if you phoned the police now,” she said. “Advise them that we're about to begin breakfast; I don't want them showing up before we've finished.”
I blinked, not sure whether to be appalled or unsurprised that none of them had thought to call the police sooner, then set the coffee pot down and went to the Study.
The Marlowe Murders Page 5