“You mean because murders often make logical sense to you?”
“Why are you being so unhelpful, Birdie? Don't you think it was one of them?”
“I think it's just as likely it's you,” Bernadette said indifferently.
“And why would I kill John?”
“I don't know,” Bernadette said. “I don't understand the mind of a murderer.”
“I'm not a murderer!”
There was a clatter and a crash, and broken porcelain scattered across the floor. It took me a moment to realize that it had come from beneath Cassandra's veil; she seemed to be swooning.
“Is everything alright, Cassie?” Marjorie snapped. “Not having flashbacks to the execution, are you?”
“Oh, no, but … I think I'd better go lay down,” Cassandra said. “All this talk of murder …”
“Well, don't let us stop you,” Marjorie said, turning back to Bernadette and Edie.
Cassandra was flailing an arm in my direction. I went to her side.
“Can I assist you, Miss Marlowe?” I said.
“Oh, yes, dear … I don't think I can make it on my own ...”
I took her arm and led her back to her room. Perhaps it was the heavily sequined dress acting as a type of armor, but she seemed quite strong despite her insistence on putting her weight on me. I trudged up the stairs with her hanging from my side, not certain if I was more pleased to get away from the Marlowe women's argument or displeased at being stuck with a woman who seemed to think that walking around beneath a large black sheet was perfectly acceptable, though the opportunity to speak with her was too great a chance to miss. I wondered if she had seen anything on her nighttime strolls the night that John had been killed.
“I'm so sorry,” she said as I helped her into her bed, though her tone suggested otherwise. She pulled back the pink satin sheets and pointed for me to bring her another tufted pillow. “It's just that John and I were so close, you know. My only boy …”
“Oh, that's – how horrible for you, ma'am,” I said, though it seemed an odd way to refer to one's brother. I stuffed the pillow behind her back.
“What beautiful hair you have,” Cassandra said, reaching out to pull at a piece that had come loose beneath my cap. “Like a worn penny, isn't it? Is this your natural color?”
“Yes, ma'am,” I said, though I wasn't sure that being likened to a dirty one cent piece was much of a compliment. Copper would have sufficed.
“This was my natural color, too, before I went gray, of course.”
“I see.”
“What did you say your name was again?”
“Alexandra Durant, ma'am.”
“Alexandra,” Cassandra repeated. “You don't look like an Alexandra.”
“I didn't realize that.”
“No, I don't think the name Alexandra suits you at all … Perhaps I could find a better one for you.”
“That seems like a waste of your time, Miss Marlowe. Especially given everything else going on here.”
“Oh, I always have time for you.”
I paused, not bothering to attempt to decipher what she meant, then said as carefully as I could, “In that case, do you have time to discuss what happened to your brother?”
“Pardon?”
“Professor Marlowe,” I said, though the clarification didn't seem necessary. “I wondered if you saw anything the night he died.”
“Why would I have seen anything?”
“No reason. I just thought … since you were visiting your mother's room so late last night … maybe you did the same the night before.”
I couldn't see Cassandra's expression, though from her sharp intake of breath, I knew that I had hit a nerve. Her arm twitched.
“If I knew what happened to John,” she said after a long moment, and I was surprised to hear that her voice was still high and even, “I would destroy whomever had harmed him.”
She patted my arm for a moment, letting her fingers run up and down my sleeve. I straightened to pull myself away.
“You can leave now,” she said, turning away from me as she laid down further on the bed. “Turn the light off on your way.”
I nodded and retreated from the room, gently snapping the door shut behind me. As I stood staring at the wood, I couldn't decide whether or not she was unhinged. Come to think of it, I realized, I couldn't decide if any of the Marlowes were unhinged or just eccentric, and unlike Marjorie, I wouldn't rule out any of them as suspects until I had solid reason to do so.
When I returned downstairs, the rest of the family had joined the table.
“... as soon as we can. James can't be away from his nurse for too long,” Rachel was saying.
“We'll all get out of here as soon as we can,” Marjorie replied, “but you don't get first dibs just because your husband's a cripple.”
“Marjorie!” Edie said, her eyes wide.
“What? I can't pretend that he's not.”
Rachel's eyes had turned down. She scooped up a spoon of porridge and fed it to James; it dribbled down his chin, and she quickly cleaned it away with a napkin. I forced my eyes away.
“Maybe Kneller can radio for help,” Marjorie said. Bernadette and Edie threw her warning glances. “What? Now I can't bring up Kneller, either?”
“I'm sure if there was a way to contact the mainland, Frank would have done it already,” Rachel said.
“I'm not,” Marjorie said dryly. “I wouldn't be surprised if he thought it was funny that we're all stuck here.”
“Alexa will go ask him,” Bernadette said. She flicked her fingers at me without so much as throwing me a glance, which might have been a good thing: my face had adopted a scowl. She might have gotten me to stay on the island, after all, but between John being murdered and the ferry being gone, I was no longer content to be the demure, compliant servant that she assumed had been hired for her. Just as I opened my mouth to ask if there wasn't an easier way to summon Kneller, though, I stopped myself, letting my eyes scan the people who were tucking into their breakfast, mostly unfazed by the dead body that laid in the room upstairs. Someone in the house had done it, and if I hoped to find out who, I was doing myself no favors by getting on their nerves.
Bernadette looked up from her plate at last and, seeing me still standing there, gave an impatient huff.
“Go, Alexa!” she repeated, and I took my cue and left, stomping through the heavy, wet snow to get to the guesthouse with a cigarette clutched in my hand to ward off some of the chill that my coat and boots could not.
Mr. Kneller looked mildly amused to see me standing on his porch.
“I never knew maids ran so many errands,” he said.
“That makes two of us,” I replied, pulling off my gloves. “How did Mrs. Marlowe use to contact you? By phone?”
“No, no: Sylvia never cared much for those, hence why there's only the one. She used to ring a bell for me.”
I raised my eyebrows. Somehow I couldn't imagine Kneller responding to a jingling bell anymore than I could an unruly dog doing so.
“You must have loved that,” I commented.
“Oh, yes. Too bad my hearing unexpectedly took a turn for the worse at the exact moment of Sylvia's passing, forcing her children to find a new means of communication – a terrible, terrible pity, really – so the bell remains woefully out of use … I'm as heartbroken as anyone.” He gave me a wide, toothy grin. “So: what brings you down here?”
“They want you to radio for help.”
“With what? Do they think I have a walkie-talkie hiding beneath my bed?”
“I'm just relaying the message,” I said. “There must be some way to contact the mainland. Can you repair the phone line?”
“I could have, had the person who cut it not removed most of the wire.”
“But couldn't you just add more?”
“Oh, sure,” he said sardonically, clearly unimpressed with my line of thinking. “Let me just hop in the ferry, go to the general store on the mainland, a
nd get some more!”
“You don't have any laying around?”
“Unfortunately I didn't think that the need to repair a phone line would arise this weekend. Sorry to disappoint you.”
He turned and wandered back into his house. Given that he had left the door open, I took it to mean I could follow him. I found him in the kitchen reading and drinking coffee, seemingly unconcerned with the entirety of the situation.
“Well – do you at least have any idea who it was?” I asked.
“Admittedly I left my post last night, so I didn't complete the junction box stake-out,” he replied. “So sorry.”
“But there's got to be footprints. Tracks in the snow –”
“Which would tell us … what? That whoever cut the wire came from inside the main house and wore boots? Shocking! All the evidence leads to everyone!” He shook his head at me and went back to his book, chuckling as he read. “I should have been a pair of ragged claws scuttling across the floors of silent seas.”
I crossed my arms.
“Why are you acting like this? Why aren't you concerned?” I said.
“On the contrary, I'm very concerned, Alexandra. I just know that there's nothing I can do.”
“So you're making jokes instead? Snickering when the Marlowes fight – reciting poetry when you're digging up John's body? Because that doesn't sound like someone who's indifferent: it sounds like someone who thinks this whole situation is entertaining!”
Kneller raised his eyes from the pages of his book. He considered me for a long moment before responding.
“Maybe I do find it entertaining,” he said. “Do you?”
“No!”
“Really? Then what do you find it?” he asked. “Certainly not sad: I saw your expression when you looked at John. There was no pity. There was no regret.”
“I didn't know what to think,” I argued. “I was – I was shocked –”
“You were cold. You're still cold. Maybe even angry. So don't lecture me about not shedding any tears for the man when you certainly haven't wept for him, either.”
He returned his eyes to the poem he was reading. As the insinuation that I had wanted any of this to happen sunk in, I grabbed the book and yanked it down again, forcing him not to ignore me.
“Whoever killed John Marlowe ruined my life,” I told him. “I didn't want him dead.”
Kneller looked at me steadily.
“I'm willing to believe the first part,” he said. “But I'm not so sure about the rest.”
“I didn't want him dead,” I repeated more forcefully. “Maybe everyone else did, but I didn't – I don't.”
Kneller glanced at where my hand was still gripping his book. He nodded for me to release it, then placed it down on the table.
“Then you're not doing a very good job at showing it,” he said.
My mouth dropped open. I struggled to find a way to defend myself, but before I could, Kneller carried on.
“Let me tell you something, Alexandra: maybe you're right. Maybe whoever killed John ruined your life, as you say. But here's what you don't understand: had John Marlowe stayed alive, he would have ruined your life, too. So maybe instead of harping on about how you wish he was still here, you should just be grateful that he died before you could find out what he had in store for you.”
I shut my mouth, no longer interested in trying to reason with him, and turned and marched from the house. He might have been as crazy as the rest of the family, and any hope I had had that he might have given me some insight as to who had killed John vanished. I would have to figure it out on my own.
Halfway across the yard, I slowed my pace and pulled out another cigarette, lighting it as I looked up at the house. From where I stood, the boarded up window of the nursery was visible on the turret. A snow-covered yew grew beneath it, large and round like a pillow. I wondered what Lennox was doing, then – as quickly as the thought had come – I wondered why I was thinking of him at all.
I returned inside and told Bernadette that Kneller had no way to contact the mainland. Her huge midsection swelled as she took a deep breath in, and she waddled away to tell the others. I considered following her to see how they reacted, but then a separate idea struck me, and I went upstairs to the third floor to find Lennox. He wasn't in the nursery, nor the surrounding rooms. I went back to the first floor and circled through the rooms until I found him sitting in the library. A book lay open in his lap and reading glasses were perched on his nose. He looked up as I approached.
“I wondered if I could ask you something,” I said. “About what you said last night.”
“Which part?”
“When you said you were trying to help me.”
“I was. Though I don't understand what your question is.”
“I want to know –” I began, wishing I had planned what I was about to say more carefully ahead of time, “– if you would be willing to help me again.”
Lennox stared over the tops of his lenses at me, a frown pulling at his brow. I wished he wouldn't look at me so intently – not without announcing what he was trying to see.
“I guess that would depend,” he said cautiously. “What is it you need help with?”
I moved forward and took a seat on the ottoman so that I was sitting directly in front of him. He made a movement as though he was about to pull away, but stopped himself before doing so.
“I wondered if you'd help me figure out what happened to John.”
One of his eyebrows raised ever so slightly, though if he thought that I was completely mad, he did a good job of hiding it. I supposed that was why he was a therapist and I – with my bluntness and tactlessness – would likely never be one.
“You already found that out,” he said. “Someone stabbed him.”
“I know, but I want to find out who did it.”
“And you want my help?” Lennox looked as though he wasn't sure whether to be flattered or perplexed, though he settled on the latter. “I'm not sure I understand. Why would you need me?”
“Because you know the family better than I do. I can listen in on their conversations, but you can actually be a part of them. If we worked together, we might have a shot of figuring out who the killer is.”
Lennox took his glasses off and pocketed them. Laying his book on the table, he folded his hands together and gave me a long, patient stare.
“Are you studying to be a forensic psychologist, Alexandra?”
“No,” I said, mildly annoyed that he couldn't remember the topic of my dissertation.
“Then don't you think it would be best to wait for the police to show up?”
“No.”
“Do you care to share why?”
“Because when they do show up, I'd like to be able to point at whoever killed him and say, 'There they are. Take them away.'”
“And when will that be?”
“In a few days, I imagine.”
“In a few days it'll be Christmas Eve. As far as anyone knows, the family is just spending the holidays together.”
“Well, when they don't show up for work, then,” I said, but Lennox was already shaking his head.
“Who? Bernadette? Marjorie? Edie? Cassandra?” he asked. “None of them work. John was the only one of them who had a profession, but the university won't start its next term for weeks. Mine and Bill's colleagues will note our absences, of course, but that's unlikely to alert them until the New Year. Our biggest hope right now is that James' nurse gets concerned when he and Rachel don't return home, but – again – she might just assume they've decided to stay longer with the family.”
“Well, someone must be coming to bring Mrs. Marlowe's body back to the mainland, right?”
“Not that I know of.”
“They can't just leave her up in the Augustus Suite,” I said, growing frustrated with the way he shot down all of my ideas. If he didn't want to help me, just as he hadn't wanted to help me in the Augustus Suite when I had asked him to look at John
's body, then he ought to have just said so. And though I had a feeling that was exactly what he was planning to say anyhow, I still thought I could convince him otherwise. “That would be illegal.”
“Leaving her in the suite would be,” Lennox said. “But she doesn't have to leave the island. In Maine you can bury people in your backyard, if you so choose.”
“What?”
“It's perfectly legal, provided you have a proper death certificate and a fence around the burial area. And the Marlowes have a plot on the south end of the island. So, like I said, the police might not show up for quite a while.”
I hesitated, mildly concerned that I had lived in Maine for eighteen years without ever hearing of such a thing, but then returned to the real issue.
“So that's even more of a reason to figure this out,” I said. “If we're going to be stuck here for weeks, then wouldn't you rather know who the killer is?”
“It's not that I don't want to know, Alexandra – I do. But let's not be foolish.”
“I'm not being foolish,” I said crossly. “What do you think I should be doing? Serving the tea and scones at four o'clock sharp every day, acting as though everything's perfectly normal?”
“Perhaps. If you don't get involved, then there's less of a chance you'll get hurt.”
I shifted my jaw. The action didn't go unnoticed by Lennox.
“Does that offend you?” he asked.
“Yes – because you wouldn't be saying it if I was a man.”
“Of course I would. I've already given myself the same advice that I'm giving you: stay out of it. Don't give them any reason to suspect you.”
I had already formed my response when I paused, thrown off by his choice of the word suspect. I looked into his dark eyes for any sign of what he wasn't saying and wished that I could read him a fraction as well as he seemed to read me. For I could tell there was something hiding behind that perfectly composed stance and carefully placed expression, and I needed to know what it was.
“What are you doing here?” I asked. “And don't tell me it's for the wake – you didn't even visit Mrs. Marlowe's body.”
The Marlowe Murders Page 11