The Marlowe Murders

by Laura Giebfried

  He shifted, sitting up a bit straighter.

  “I was invited for the wake,” he said. “I was informed it would be held in the evening.”

  “But why would you come?”

  “Because I wanted to pay my respects to the family.”

  “Even though they don't like you?”

  “Sylvia liked me. If her children had a problem with that, then there's nothing I can do about it.”

  I paused again, trying to find a way to get him to say what I wanted to hear, but couldn't think of how to do so other than outright asking him.

  “So you were Mrs. Marlowe's psychiatrist?”

  Lennox opened his mouth and then closed it. For a moment he appeared to be thinking, but then his face smoothed back into its composed expression.

  “If I was,” he said carefully, “it wouldn't be ethical to tell you.”

  Though I would have preferred a better affirmation, I couldn't argue with him. He couldn't tell me who his patients were, dead or alive.

  “So why does the family hate you?”

  Lennox scanned my face. I wondered if he was put off by my bluntness. I hardly blamed him, and yet I had no time to skirt around our predicament with pleasantries and politeness. Perhaps he understood as much, because he leaned back in his seat and folded his arms, seemingly deciding on what and how much to say.

  “There's a painting that Sylvia promised to give me when she died,” he said. “I've come to collect it.”

  “How much is it worth?”

  “It's worth quite a bit to me, which is presumably why the family doesn't want me to have it.”

  “So they know that's why you're here?”

  “I assume so. That's why it's been moved.”

  “What's it a painting of?”

  His eyes ran over my face, searching for something unknown.

  “A woman,” he said shortly. “A … very beautiful woman.”

  “And you thought the Marlowes would let you show up and take it?” I said skeptically, thinking of how they had sent me out to watch him so that he wouldn't steal the Tiffany lamp.

  “John invited me here under the pretense of giving it to me – so yes, I thought I would be able to show up and take it.”

  I frowned, briefly wondering why John hadn't admitted to his siblings that he had been the one to invite Lennox.

  “So you're more interested in finding your painting than you are in finding the killer?” I asked.

  “No,” he said, his tone becoming firm, “I just don't want to get involved in something dangerous.”

  “But why?”

  He stared at me for a long moment – so long, in fact, that he seemed to be playing out the conversation, complete with my reaction, in his mind before he spoke.

  “Because,” he said, and his voice dropped so low that I had to strain to hear him. “When the police do show up and start questioning everyone on what happened, you can bet that the Marlowes – including whichever one of them is responsible for killing John – are going to protect themselves, and the only way to protect themselves individually is to protect the family as a whole.”

  “So you think they're going to pin it on you?”

  “There's only a handful of choices, and I'm well aware that I'm at the top of the list.”

  “But you have an alibi. I already told them you didn't leave the nursery.”

  “It's not airtight, and you can be sure the family won't hesitate to pick you apart to discredit what you've said. It'll be five against one.”

  “So there was no point in saying anything, you mean?” I asked coolly. “I'll remember that the next time I have the urge to correct them for falsely accusing you.”

  He pushed himself to his feet. I instinctively leaned back, wary that he might reach out and grab my arm as John had done as he whispered a threat that masqueraded as a jest.

  “Don't think that I don't appreciate it,” he said. “I do. But I'm trying to impress upon you the gravity of the situation we're in.”

  “A situation that won't get any better if we sit around and do nothing.”

  Lennox let out a sigh. He ran his hand through his hair.

  “You seem to be an intelligent person, Alexandra, and I don't doubt that you might be able to work out what's happened here. But I can't work with you. I simply can't.”

  “Because I'm difficult?”

  “No,” Lennox said. He paused, his eyes darting between either of my own as he searched for what to say. “I'm afraid I'm just – not bold enough.”

  He gave me a curt nod and left the room. When the door shut behind him, I stood and went to the window to stare out at the endless white. I wasn't sure that I believed his excuse: the genuineness that I had heard in his voice on previous occasions had been absent from his tone. He more than likely did find me too difficult and simply wanted to spare my feelings.

  I leaned my head up against the cool glass, letting the conversation file itself away into my mind as I altered the plans I had made to not include him. The more my head filled up with the words, the more I felt the space beneath my rib cage emptying. I could only imagine that it was making room for the loneliness which was growing within me by the day.

  Chapter 6

  Amalia and Marjorie had begun another screaming match, this time choosing to have it in the Ballroom, and as their voices reverberated against the walls and boomed out into the rest of the house, I crept upstairs to make the beds and avoid them. I started in the rouge Baxter Room where Bernadette liked to have a plate of biscuits laid out each night, then went to the yellow Mabel Room that was far too bright and sunny for Edie's frigid demeanor, then the green Eleanora Room that smelled strongly of smoke despite Bernadette's insistence that Marjorie smoke outside, and finally the navy Fletcher room where Amalia now slept alone. As I made up the beds and refilled the water pitchers, I half-expected to find some incriminating evidence that would point me to who had killed John, but the rooms betrayed nothing out of the ordinary. I lifted up the mattresses and rummaged through the closets, unsure if I was looking for a bloodied article of clothing or Lennox's painting. Maybe if I found it, I reasoned, he would change his mind about helping me. Not that I needed his help, I reminded myself. I was perfectly capable of solving John's murder on my own.

  In the pink Lillet Room where Cassandra had holed herself up for the first few days of her stay, I repeated my search, even running my hands over the walls as though a secret door might pop out and reveal a hiding place to me, but there was no sign of the painting or anything else. I wondered if Lennox was right in saying that I was being foolish, and if I would be better off keeping my head down and acting like nothing more than the maid. I let out a breath and took a seat at the vanity. The heavy silver ring adorned with diamonds and sapphires sat among Cassandra's other jewelry. I picked it up and turned it beneath the light, trying not to think of her pulling it off of her mother's rigid, cold finger.

  “It was a gift.”

  I dropped the ring and spun around. The black, ghostly figure of Cassandra was standing in the doorway, her expression hidden beneath her veil. I faltered for an excuse as to what I was doing.

  “You can try it on, if you like,” she said, stepping over to where I sat at the vanity.

  “Oh – no,” I said hastily. “I was just –”

  I moved to stand up, but she put her hands on my shoulders and guided me back down. I sat staring into the mirror, her shadowy image behind me and her satin-gloved fingers stretching over my neck.

  “Look at that face,” she said, stroking my cheek. “It's like a Raphael painting, isn't it?”

  I didn't answer, still expecting her to chide me for going through her things. Her high voice was nearly unnatural from the depths of her veil, and I simply didn't know what to make of her. It was one thing if the family found her charades permissible, but I wasn't quite convinced that she was wholly sane. Perhaps her veil was hiding the guilty face of a woman who had stabbed her brother.

  �
�You're so pretty,” she went on. “Do you have a boyfriend?”

  “No.”

  “You must chase them away like flies.”

  “Not really,” I said, unable to keep from correcting her. “Usually they chase me away.”

  Cassandra gave a little chuckle.

  “Oh, most boys just think you're out of their league,” she said. “I was the same. Men have a difficult time being inferior.”

  I made to stand up again.

  “I should really –”

  “What beautiful hair you have,” she said, her hands holding my shoulders and keeping me down as she pulled a piece down from beneath my cap. “It's such a waste to wear it like you do.”

  “Mrs. Carlton prefers if I –”

  “Birdie's never had an eye for beauty,” Cassandra said, tossing my excuses away. She pulled off my cap to reveal my hair, running her hands over it as she hummed to herself. My skin prickled beneath her touch.

  “I should really finish cleaning, Miss Marlowe –”

  “Is this your natural texture?” she cut in, letting my hair down. It was wavy from the way it had been tied back, with odd bends and crinkles in it. “It would look so much more beautiful straight …”

  I didn't respond. She reached forward to pick up the sterling silver brush on the vanity and ran it through my hair. The soft bristles melted against my skin. She continued to brush, humming a sad tune as she worked, and her strokes were slow and deliberate. As I watched her in the reflection, I got the impression that she was crying.

  I clicked my teeth together, unsure of what to do. Her hands continued to run up and down my head, and there was more than kindness in her touch: there was tenderness. I tried to tell myself it was my curiosity that was keeping me from breaking away.

  “There,” she said, finishing and setting the brush back down. My hair was smoother now and fluffier; it almost made my rigid expression appear soft. “It's no wonder he chose you.”

  “What?”

  My muscles immediately tensed, though Cassandra didn't seem to notice. She leaned her cheek up against mine, the veil scratching at my face as she did so, and I could smell the rose soap on her skin.

  “John,” she said, letting her hands slide down my arms as she continued to stare at me in the mirror. Her voice was airy and far-away. I wasn't even sure she knew what she was saying. “It's no wonder he chose you, is it?”

  My jaw cramped.

  “I don't know what you mean,” I said.

  “I saw you two on the stairs the other night,” she said. “I've never seen John get so ruffled. You must have been having quite the disagreement.”

  My mind flashed back to the figure who had stared down at us, watching as John grabbed me and doing nothing. My skin turned cold as though I had been doused in icy water and my heart was pounding so hard that I couldn't have counted the beats if I'd tried. She let out a soft laugh, and as I squirmed, her grip on me tightened.

  “Don't worry, I won't tell anyone,” she cooed. Her hot breath was right in my ear. “It'll be our little secret …”

  Her arms wrapped around my chest, locking me in place in something akin to both a stranglehold and an embrace. The heavy ring jabbed me in the collarbone.

  “I don't know what you mean,” I said, forcing myself to remain unaffected.

  “Oh, I think you do. I don't believe in coincidences. You being here, John dying … it's a life for a life, isn't it?”

  “I don't know what you mean,” I repeated, though my voice was wavering now and I couldn't keep the fear away anymore.

  “Maybe you don't right now, but you will. We'll work it out, once we're together and the rest of them are … gone.”

  Her hand moved over my throat. I ripped myself from her grasp.

  “I have to go.”

  I snatched my cap up and stood with such haste that I knocked the stool over and tripped over it. Quickly regaining my footing, I bolted from the room and ran up the stairs to the third floor. As I reached my room and shut the door, anxiety pierced my skin and the need to know what was going on became stronger, though no amount of snapping the rubber band around my wrist gave me any explanation as to why she wanted to be alone with me.

  I went to my bed and sat down, my feet tapping the floor sporadically as I tried to make sense of it. She had seen me arguing with John the night he had died. Had I been wrong to think that she hadn't helped me? Had she thought, for a reason I didn't understand, that he was going to hurt me, and so she had been the one to sneak out and kill him? Or did she think that I had been the one to kill him – and she wasn't sorry about it, just like no one else seemed to be?

  Who was John Marlowe? Certainly not the man I had thought he was. But if he had never been planning to get me back into my program so that I could finish my doctorate, then what had been the point of bringing me to the island? To ruin my life, just as Kneller had claimed he would have done? It didn't seem to fit, especially since being kicked out of my program had already done that.

  Or maybe that was only the beginning. I shook my head and snapped the rubber band again, but it did no good. John Marlowe had had no reason to want to ruin me: he didn't even know me. Was I here just to make his family uncomfortable with my brusqueness? There was certainly no way of finding out now, unless he had shared his plans with someone. I returned my thoughts to the task at hand: finding out who had killed him. Cassandra was seeming more and more likely, though Marjorie and Amalia weren't far behind.

  When the police do show up and start questioning everyone on what happened, Lennox's words rang in my head, you can bet that the Marlowes are going to protect themselves, and the only way to protect themselves individually is to protect the family as a whole.

  The family knew it wasn't Kneller, and I doubted anyone would suspect Mrs. Tilly, which left me and Lennox. And he had an alibi. I had given him an alibi. Which meant that I had left myself open as the prime suspect.

  I ran through everything I had said or done that might lead them to believe I had killed John. Cassandra had witnessed our argument. Bernadette and Mrs. Tilly were wary of how much money he had paid me. Kneller, if no one else, had noticed my indifferent expression when I looked at the dead body. The reminder of Amalia's voice screeching that I had been the one to stab her husband made me flinch, and once again I had the eerie feeling that John had planned this all to trap me despite knowing that he couldn't have possibly realized he was going to die when he had hired me.

  I numbly stood up an hour later and went downstairs to serve cocktails in the Parlor, my mind so packed with words and phrases that I didn't realize I had poured digestifs instead of apertifs until Bernadette loudly scolded me. I snapped the rubber band against my wrist, angry that I had forgotten and trying to clear my head enough to focus on gathering information. The family started on the incorrect drinks as I made the proper ones. Cassandra was sipping Drambuie beneath her veil. I wished that I could tell if she was looking at me.

  By the time dinner was served, there was so little alcohol left on the bar cart that it was a wonder any of them were still capable of walking. Though I had set the table for nine, Lennox was nowhere to be seen; it was as though he knew that everyone was particularly on edge and had avoided mingling with them at all costs. Mrs. Tilly had concocted a soup consisting of far too much dill, and the smell was stifling when mixed with the scent of Bernadette's hot breath as she ordered me around.

  “I asked for soda water with lemon, Alexa, not lime,” she said, waving her glass in my direction as though she was really going to drink anything but more wine for the remainder of the meal. I went to fix it for her, but I didn't think there were any lemons left, and there certainly wasn't a way to get more. The Pantry had only been stocked for the month, and December was quickly coming to an end.

  “Oh, Alexa, you continue to be a disappointment,” Bernadette drawled when I informed her of as much.

  “Stop beating her up about it,” Marjorie snapped. “She's just a girl …”


  “That didn't stop you from beating up your children,” Bernadette said, her voice not even bothering to drop to a whisper in her inebriated state.

  Marjorie's nostrils flared outwards.

  “I – never – touched – my children!” she screamed, banging her fists down on the table with such force that Rachel and Bill's glasses toppled over. “That's – how dare –?”

  “That's enough, Birdie,” Rachel said, but Bernadette only responded by taking another slug of her Merlot.

  “Take her wine,” Bill said to no one in particular, but no one paid him any mind. “Someone – just take her wine –”

  “Everyone knows that what happened was just a terrible tragedy,” Rachel said pointedly to her eldest sister.

  “Well, obviously not everyone,” Bernadette said, moving to put her wine back down and knocking over the unwanted soda water with lime, “or else they wouldn't have dragged you through that trial, would've they?”

  “Maybe you should call it a night, Birdie,” Rachel advised, not seeming to realize that her sister would never miss a meal. “We don't want anyone getting upset.”

  “Yes, we certainly don't need any more murders in this family ...” Bernadette said. “We break all the odds, don't we? Three murders in one family … Four if you count Mary.”

  There was a clatter of silverware: Edie had dropped her fork and knife.

  “No one's counting Mary,” she said, her face whitening to match the tablecloth.

  “Are we counting the six in Cassandra's 'real' family?” Marjorie asked, her voice dripping with sarcasm that barely covered her anger. Her face was still twitching. “Or have you all forgotten her true lineage that she jabbered on about nonstop at the last family gathering?”

  Bill's eyes rolled up to the ceiling and he drained the rest of his glass of Claret, appearing to give up on the idea of staying sober.

  “Oh, yes, we mustn't forget how she escaped the execution of nineteen-seventeen …” Bernadette agreed.

  “Why don't you take off that ridiculous get-up, Cassie?” Marjorie snapped. “You're not fooling anyone.”

  “I'm in mourning,” Cassandra said. “There's no need to question my grief.”