The Marlowe Murders

by Laura Giebfried

  My heart gave a horrible pang. Which was worse, I wondered? That my mother would continually ask for me when I didn't show up to see her every weekend, or that she wouldn't ask for me at all – because she no longer remembered me at all?

  I pulled my sleeve against my forehead to wipe my brow, then stood and collected the extra blanket to put away in the chest at the foot of the bed. I yanked it open, intent on tossing it inside and leaving, but –

  “Jesus.”

  The word had barely escaped my mouth when I leaned forward into the chest, sure that I was mistaken in what I was seeing. For there, at the bottom of the chest, was a tiny, pale, and motionless baby. It had been stabbed through the chest with a jagged piece of green and blue stained-glass.

  “What the …?”

  As I moved closer still, I could see that it was only a doll, though it was possibly the most realistic – and frightening – doll I had ever laid eyes on. It was dressed in the long white Christening gown that I had seen once before on my first day at the Marlowe house – though then it had been laying in the crib in the nursery. It must have belonged to one of Edie and Bill's children, but if that was so, then I didn't understand who had shoved the glass into it – or why. I reached in and pulled it out with my good hand, holding it by one arm as though it might sudden wake up and bite. The glass had pierced through blue stitching, and when I squinted, I could read the word owl. My stomach turned unpleasantly, though I knew it had no relation to the extra medication I had taken the night before.

  “Alexandra?”

  I jumped and dropped the doll, slicing my finger on the glass as it fell through my fingers. A splatter of blood jumped from my skin and onto the white fabric, reaffirming how realistic it looked. As it landed with a thump at the bottom of the chest, I turned quickly to the door.

  Rachel stood in the doorway. Her eyes were focused in the spot where the doll had been suspended from my hand. I got to my feet, squeezing my hand shut to stop the bleeding from the cut on my palm.

  “What are you doing?” she asked.

  “Cleaning.”

  She raised her eyebrows, silently suggesting that she knew the only reason I was keeping up with my duties was so that I could snoop through the rooms. I rearranged my face, hoping to feign innocence.

  “I just wanted to let you know,” she began, “that I'll be in the Augustus Suite for a little while, so you can clean the Drawing Room.”

  “How are you going to get in?”

  My voice betrayed a hint of my concern. After all, if she was planning to ask Amalia to unlock the door, then Amalia would realize that her key was gone and know that Lennox had taken it from her room.

  “Cassie's going to unlock it for me.”

  “Oh, good.” I paused. “Where's Mr. Langston?”

  “He's down there. I'm sure you won't disturb him.” Her mouth twitched as though she was trying to smile but found herself unable to. “Unless that makes you uncomfortable?”

  I squeezed my hand tighter. John's voice whispered in my ear. Does this make you uncomfortable? The sound of it still made me shiver.

  “No, Mrs. Langston. It doesn't make me uncomfortable.”

  I tossed the blanket inside the chest with my good hand and closed the lid, then started toward the door to leave. She was still staring at me oddly, and I wondered if she could have possibly thought that I had planted the doll there. Given that she was so adamant that none of her siblings could possibly be violent, I didn't put it past her. As I tried to pass her, she didn't move.

  “Was there something else, Mrs. Langston?”

  “No,” she said, saying the word a bit too quickly. She paused, then started again in a slower voice. “Just … just make sure you look after him while I'm not there.”

  “Alright. I won't leave until you're back downstairs.”

  She nodded, though she didn't seem content with my answer. I raised my eyebrows as she retreated down the hallway to her mother's room, then made my way downstairs, stopping at the front hall closet as I went to get a bandage so that I could wrap my hand, though it was difficult to do with my maimed left hand. Instead I pressed the gauze to the cut until it stopped bleeding. I couldn't afford to lose function of both hands, after all.

  James was dozing off when I entered the Drawing Room. I worked as quietly as I could so as to not disturb him, then perched myself on the edge of one of the cots as I waited for Rachel to return.

  The door opened half and hour later and Rachel slipped into the room, her eyes rimmed with red. It seemed odd that she had chosen now to revisit her mother's deathbed, and I couldn't help but think back to her conversation with Bill, then to the doll that mimicked the way John had died. I didn't care what Lennox had said about Bill being a good man: I didn't believe in coincidences, and I didn't believe that she and Bill had been discussing anything other than John's murder when she had begged him not to tell anyone what he knew.

  “Thank you,” she said quietly, avoiding looking at me as she busied herself dusting off the front of James's sweater.

  “May I ask you something, Mrs. Langston?”

  “No.” She took a seat on the chair next to her husband and poured herself a glass of water. “I'm afraid I have a bit of a headache. I'd like to be left alone.”

  I shifted my jaw. I knew that I ought to wait to ask her later when she was in a better mood, but the question on the tip of my tongue didn't want to be swallowed back into my throat.

  “If you knew who had killed your brother,” I said quickly, “you would say something, wouldn't you, Mrs. Langston?”

  She didn't look over at me. She seemed nearly frozen.

  “I told you I want to be left alone, Alexandra,” she said, and her voice was dull and toneless. “Please don't try my patience – I'm afraid I have very little left.”

  I believed her, and yet I couldn't let it go.

  “Because if you knew,” I continued hurriedly, “I would hope you'd say something. I would hope you would want the killer to pay.”

  Her head turned slightly toward me so that it was a profile over her shoulder.

  “I don't want anyone to pay,” she whispered. “I just want it to be over.”

  She stood and went to the door, opening it and sweeping me out with a wave of her hand, and I reluctantly obeyed. The door shut behind me so quickly that the hem of my skirt got caught in it, and I yanked it free and returned upstairs to check on the other bedrooms. Every door was shut – including Bernadette's, who was usually so particular about me refilling her biscuit jar – indicating that no one was in need of cleaning. I wondered if the family was holing themselves up for fear of the poison that had been discussed at breakfast, or if they didn't want me snooping around in their rooms anymore.

  I returned to my room and laid back on my bed. They all had something to hide, that much was clear, though I wavered back and forth on whether that meant that they had conspired together to commit murder. It seemed that they would have to be far too good at acting to keep up such a front, especially since they were only performing for me and Lennox. Or maybe it was just a handful of them who had done it, I considered, thinking of the forlorn note I had just heard in Rachel's voice. And I didn't blame her: the senseless arguments had gone on long enough, and I wanted it to be over, as well. How to achieve that, though, I didn't know.

  The bell jingled for me sometime later, and I shook off my thoughts and trudged downstairs to collect the serving tray from the kitchen. My hands stung as I gripped the handles, and by the time I reached the Dining Room my left one was throbbing horribly. I went around the table to let the family members spoon beef stew into their bowls, waiting impatiently for the tureen to lighten and get the pressure off of my palms. I had barely finished and set the tray down when Bernadette called me back from my place by the wall.

  “Fetch the port, Alexandra – I fear we're going to need it.”

  “And make sure it's unopened,” Marjorie added darkly.

  I went to the bar
cart where one was waiting to be uncorked.

  “I wouldn't trust her to do that,” Amalia said from behind me. “She could easily poison the whole bottle from over there –”

  “She could just as easily poison us at any time,” Bernadette said. “Who knows what she does with the food between here and the kitchen. A little sprinkle of rodenticide with the powdered sugar and we're all on the floor …”

  “Given an awful lot of thought to how to poison someone, have you, Birdie?” Marjorie asked.

  “It's just science, dear. And rodenticides can only poison in multiple doses, so it very well might be too late already.”

  She tucked into her meal, adding heaps of butter to her roll before dipping it into the stew as though the thought of dying whilst eating was not an unhappy one. Marjorie rolled her eyes.

  “So that's how John was killed, was it?” Amalia said angrily, seemingly taking Bernadette's words as an admission of guilt. “Rat poison?”

  “I doubt it,” Bernadette said, speaking before finishing her bite and giving the table at large the view of the half-masticated food in her mouth. “He was probably killed with Mother's tranquilizers. A couple of those crushed up and his central nervous system would be more depressed than Edie's been since her last stillbirth –”

  Edie burst into tears, showering her food in salty water. Bill threw Bernadette an irritated look.

  “Was that really necessary?” he asked. “For Christ's sakes – especially when she spent all morning at the cemetery –”

  “I was merely illustrating a point,” Bernadette replied indifferently. “Besides, I didn't say there was anything wrong with being depressed after losing a child – or twelve. Though it has been twenty years …”

  “Let's get back to how you poisoned John, shall we?” Bill said pointedly as his wife let out a sound akin to a howl. Bernadette held up her hands.

  “I'm only trying to be helpful,” she said. “The real murderer, of course, is welcome to jump in tell me if my speculation is accurate.”

  “Technically I never said that John had been poisoned,” Lennox said carefully from the far end of the table. He set his glass of water back down and folded his hands together. “I just said that it was a possibility. He might have been strangled or taken a blow to the head –”

  “Oh, it was poison,” Amalia said blisteringly as she looked around at her sisters-in-law. “They didn't have the strength to fight him, or the guts. I'm surprised he was stabbed in the chest rather than straight in the back!”

  “I'm surprised he was stabbed at all,” Marjorie said. “Though I suppose since there are no cars here, the option of running him over was out –”

  “Is that one of the ways you considered killing your children?” Bernadette asked while indicating me to bring over the basket of rolls. “Odd that you didn't settle on it: I would have thought it would be easier to claim it was an accident that way.”

  “You'd know all about claiming someone's death was an accident, wouldn't you?” Marjorie snapped. “What was Edgar's official cause of death? Morphine overdose?”

  I held the basket out for Bernadette to choose from, and she took her time deciding between a plain one and one covered in poppy seeds, humming as she thought.

  “It's much more common than you would think,” she said, turning back to her sister after deciding on both. “And it was the doctor who prescribed the morphine, so it was his fault if anyone's –”

  “Yes, but it was you who administered it to him!” Marjorie said.

  I returned to my spot by the wall, feeling that I finally understood them. They were wired for the insanity that they created around them, and murders and unfounded coincidences were slotted into their schedules right between afternoon reading and tea time, only to be spoken of at select moments after discussions of politics and literature had run dry.

  “Let he who is without sin cast the first stone,” Bernadette said evenly, then added in her loudest of whispers, “child-killer.”

  “I did not –”

  Yet before Marjorie could deny it once again, a roll went soaring across the table and promptly smacked Bernadette straight between the eyes. It bounced off of her and fell with a plop into her soup. There was a stunned moment of silence as everyone looked with disbelief at where it had come from: James had flung it from his spot at the opposite side of the table.

  “He can move?” Amalia asked, looking as dumbfounded as I felt. I had only ever seen James use his arms to painstakingly feed himself, or else bang the arms of his chair.

  “Of course he can move,” Bill responded.

  “Sometimes he loses control of his movements,” Rachel said hurriedly, grabbing onto her husband as though he was having a spasm, but his arm was quite still. My eyes went from his now-empty hand to his face, which was still the same glazed expression as always, and yet I got the distinct impression that he had known exactly what he was doing: casting the first stone.

  “But if he can move –” Amalia started, “then it might have been him! He killed John!”

  “Oh, for Christ's sakes, Amalia,” Marjorie said, “the man is in a wheelchair. You think he rolled down the steps and out into the snow, then somehow managed to overtake John?”

  “Maybe he's just faking! He might not have been injured by John at all, and he's just been – just been pretending all these years to – to – get some remorse out of John!”

  “Remorse out of John?” Marjorie asked. “Did you even know your husband? And I thought Cassie came up with farcical ideas …”

  “You saw what he just did! Even I couldn't have hit Bernadette with such precision, especially from that distance!”

  “Well, he might not have been aiming for me at all,” Bernadette said. “It's possible he was trying to throw it at Marjorie –”

  “Oh, get bent, Birdie,” Marjorie snapped. “He was aiming at you. Luckily the target is exceedingly large –”

  Amalia opened her mouth again, looking as though she was still desperately hoping to find a way to prove that it could have been James. I returned my gaze to the wheelchair-bound man. Though Amalia was clearly grasping at straws, I couldn't help but think back to what Rachel had said to me. Sometimes I think he knows everything we're saying …

  “James did not mean to throw anything at anyone,” Rachel said firmly. “Like I said, sometimes he just loses control of his functions –”

  “Well, maybe he lost control of his functions and killed my husband!” Amalia returned. “And then – and then you stabbed him with the knife to divert attention off of him!”

  “That's the most absurd thing I've ever heard,” Bill said.

  “I'm inclined to agree,” Lennox said. “James did not kill John.”

  “Though if he had –” Bernadette commented, digging the soggy roll from her stew and popping it into her mouth, “– I doubt any of us would blame him.”

  Amalia ignored her and rounded on Lennox.

  “How would you know?” she asked. “Because you killed him?”

  “No,” Lennox replied, almost sounding bored as she accused him for the dozenth time, “because I don't believe that throwing a piece of bread is indicative of one's ability to plunge a knife through layers of connective tissue. The killer would need to be extremely strong, and James – well, James is not.”

  “Extremely strong like you, you mean?” Amalia asked.

  “Amalia, I did not kill your husband.”

  “You think I'm going to just take your word for it? Just because the maid says she locked you in doesn't give you an alibi, Lennox – not one that I'll accept, anyhow! Especially since you seem to be very adept at finding ways to unlock doors despite not having a key!”

  “She has a good point,” Marjorie chimed in. “You seem to be finding your way around the house with exceeding ease – and the maid's help. It's beginning to get a bit … suspicious.”

  “And –” Amalia continued, building steam, “– and you would have had an easy time knowing
what poisons to use on John! You probably brought them with you, then killed him right away in case we searched you!”

  Lennox's jaw shifted, though for the first time, he betrayed a hint of apprehension.

  “In fact,” she went on, seeming to recognize the same thing I had, “it's all beginning to make more and more sense! You poisoned him hoping it'd look like he'd died accidentally, but then realized that we'd know it was you, so you stabbed him to throw us off your scent! I know it!”

  “Really?” Lennox asked, barely managing to maintain his calm tone. “Because only two minutes ago you were convinced that James had done it –”

  “Yes, but that was before you pointed out one crucial bit of evidence: the killer had to have been strong. So it must have been a man – it must have been you!”

  “He's not the only man in the room,” Bill said indignantly, seemingly more affronted that he had been forgotten than he was concerned about being accused, but Amalia paid him no mind. Her torso rose up like a snake readying to strike its prey. Savagery was dripping from the pores of her cheeks, and she looked as though she wanted nothing more than to destroy someone, though it didn't seem to be exceedingly important to her whom it was.

  “Don't try to deny it anymore, Lennox. We all know how slippery you are –”

  “Am I? I wasn't aware.”

  “Really?” Marjorie threw at him from down the table. “I don't think your wife would agree.”

  Lennox looked over at her, a dangerous look in his eyes.

  “You can leave her out of it, Marjorie,” he said in a low voice.

  “Why? Still sensitive to how she slipped right out of your life –?”

  “Marjorie!” Rachel interjected. “Come, now – there's no need for this –!”

  “Oh, shut up,” Amalia snapped at her. “Don't act as though he knows what it's like to be a good husband: I think we'd all agree he never had a clue.”