The Marlowe Murders

by Laura Giebfried

  “Well, then at least you'd all agree on something,” Lennox replied. I had never seen him so on edge: his hands were clenched into fists on either side of his plate, and his mouth was twitching. “That and the fact that you're a miserable, self-loathing excuse for a woman.”

  Amalia's face went red. I looked from her to Lennox, wondering if I could somehow silently remind him of his tactic to stay out of the Marlowes' line of fire, but it was evident he had lost too much of his composure to regain it.

  “Forgive me if I don't trust your diagnosis, Doctor!”

  “That wasn't a diagnosis,” he returned. “And if you're looking for one, I can assure you it won't please you.”

  “I wouldn't trust you to psychoanalyze a screwdriver,” Marjorie said, cutting off Amalia's retort before it could come. Her eyes were glinting in the same way they had before she had burned my hand, and all at once I got the feeling that she didn't act on her violent impulses in moments of anger, but – as she had done with me – planned out her attacks methodically in periods of calm. I tried again to catch Lennox's eye to warn him, but he was too busy glowering at her.

  Marjorie took a deliberate sip of broth, her eyes not leaving Lennox's face as she watched him seethe.

  “No wonder your wife couldn't stand it, really,” she went on. “What did you do? Go on and on about what you assumed was wrong with her until she finally couldn't take it anymore? Or was being married to you enough to send her over the edge –?”

  Lennox looked ready to explode. His form was rigid and yet he was shaking all over, and his teeth were bared in an unnatural grimace. He forced open his jaw, readying to reply, but –

  “Maybe Mr. Langston was just trying to point out who did it,” I said from my spot by the wall.

  Every head in the room turned toward me.

  “What are you talking about?” Marjorie demanded, clearly vexed that I had interrupted.

  “When he threw the roll,” I clarified. “You know – maybe he was just trying to point out who the killer was.”

  “Are you completely asinine? How would James know who killed John?”

  “Well, the Drawing Room connects to the Foyer,” I said, trying to sound contemplative even though everything I was saying was ludicrous. “Maybe he saw whoever locked the door.”

  “Then why would he have thrown it at me?” Bernadette said.

  “Well, I would assume his aim isn't as accurate as Mrs. Marlowe and Mrs. Pickering think,” I said, nodding at each woman in turn in feigned penitence for disagreeing with them.

  “I'm sorry, I'm not sure I'm understanding you,” Marjorie said. “You think James just sprang out of bed at the sound of footsteps on the porch and peered through the keyhole, spotting the killer as they tromped inside? And now he's a roll-flinging vigilante?”

  “I think it's possible,” I said.

  “Oh you do? Well, good on you, you foolish girl.” She gave me a look of utmost loathing, but it wasn't enough to keep her attention off of Lennox. She turned away from me to look down the table at him. “Now let's get back to what a horrible husband Lennox was –”

  Lennox's jaw tightened again. I took a step forward toward the table.

  “Actually, Mrs. Pickering, I think it's very possible,” I said. I set the basket of rolls down next to her with my bandaged hand, using my good hand to grip the sterling silver serving tray more firmly. Marjorie turned her eyes back to me, and though I could see the same venom in them as I had before she had burned me, I didn't care. “Though I agree with Mrs. Carlton's earlier assessment.”

  “What earlier assessment?”

  I readied myself for her reaction, then let the words fall from my mouth.

  “That Mr. Langston was probably aiming at you.”

  She jumped to her feet and reached out to grab me around the neck, but this time I was prepared for her. Raising the serving tray like a shield, I blocked her hands, letting them clang off of the metal as I pushed her back down. She fell back into her chair, momentarily startled, but then her face contorted in complete rage.

  “Why, you little –!” she roared, grabbing for the knife resting on the edge of her bowl.

  “Alexandra!” Lennox exclaimed, and his chair clattered as he rushed to his feet.

  Marjorie swiped at me, but the blade only hit the tray with a screech of metal on metal. Behind her, Edie let out a frightened squeal and dove sideways into Cassandra's lap.

  “What?” I challenged Marjorie. “You don't think my reasoning is justified? Because as far as I can see, you're the only one violent enough to have done it –”

  Marjorie grabbed onto my tray, trying to force it down.

  “I'll slit your throat!” she screamed, brandishing the knife over it, and I leaped back as she came perilously close to slicing me.

  “Stop this!” Rachel yelled just as Lennox grabbed Marjorie from behind, pulling her away from me. He seized her wrist and forced her hand down, squeezing her fingers until she released the knife. “Stop this! Please!”

  “I'll stop when she's dead in the ground!” Marjorie shouted, and from the look in her eyes, I believed her.

  “Stop this –!” Rachel said again. “Stop! Stop!”

  “See?” Amalia joined in, pointing at Lennox. “See? That's probably how he got John – by sneaking up on him from behind –!”

  “No, he didn't!” Rachel cried. “He didn't!”

  “Go ahead, Lennox!” Amalia goaded. “Pick up her knife and plunge it in her chest, just like you did to John –!”

  “He didn't do it!” Rachel screamed. “I did it! I did it!”

  There was a startled silence as everyone looked at her in shock. Marjorie had stopped flailing, and as Lennox's grip on he slackened, she slipped from his arms down to the floor.

  “What?” Amalia said.

  “I did it!” Rachel cried, tears streaming down her face, and she grabbed onto the cross on her necklace as though it would make the admission easier. “I killed him! I poisoned him and stabbed him! I did it!”

  She threw her hands over her mouth, sobbing into her fingers. Her eyes were wild with pain, bright and strange, and there was nothing but sheer sorrow in her cracking voice. For a moment she stood quivering from head to toe in front of us all, but then she turned and bolted from the room. The distant sound of a door slamming jolted everyone from their shock.

  Edie pushed herself up from Cassandra's lap.

  “What did she say?” she asked disbelievingly. “She – she killed John?”

  “Don't be ridiculous,” Bill snapped at her. “Of course she didn't!”

  “She just admitted it!” Amalia said.

  “Well, it's not true!” Bill returned. “She just said it so you'd all stop fighting!”

  No one else seemed as certain. Edie's face was startled and white, Amalia was twitching in affirmation and rage, and Bernadette had finally set her silverware down, seemingly realizing that there was something more important than her food. Marjorie clambered to her feet, shoving Lennox away from her. She pushed her disheveled red hair from her face.

  “Well, my God,” she said. “Of all the people …”

  “We don't know if what she said is true,” Lennox cut in. “Bill might be right: she just said it to keep this from escalating.”

  He stooped to pick up Marjorie's fallen knife, placing it on the windowsill behind him. Bill gave him an odd look that I couldn't read. It was almost as though he questioned why the other man was agreeing with him.

  “Quite right, Lennox,” Bernadette said. “We don't know why she said it, so we'll just wait for her to get back –”

  “No one admits to murder as a distraction!” Amalia exclaimed. “You saw her! She said she did it – she said she poisoned and stabbed him!”

  “This is Rachel we're talking about!” Bill countered. “She wouldn't hurt anyone!”

  “She'd hurt John! It's just like I said: she's wanted him dead since James' accident!”

  “It does make sense,�
� Marjorie said. “And John wouldn't give her any of the money to help with James' care –”

  “That doesn't mean she'd kill him!” Bill argued. “Rachel has no animosity toward anyone – you all know that! She didn't suddenly turn into a murderer overnight!”

  “She might have,” Edie whispered from between her fingers. “You know what Mummy used to say – we all carry the curse.”

  “What in the world are you talking about?”

  “The curse. The family curse. She said it plagues all of us – that we'll all meet untimely ends –”

  “That's the most ridiculous –”

  “Remember what she used to do to us?” Edie said, looking around at her siblings for affirmation. “She had to lock herself in her room to stop herself … She said she wanted to drown us every time Papa left and let him return to find our bodies dressed up in our Sunday best –”

  “Well, she didn't,” Bill said. “And in case you've forgotten, your mother didn't meet an untimely end. She was eighty-six.”

  “But Papa was only fifty-five when he died,” Cassandra said, her innocent, nearly child-like voice made ominous from the depths of her veils as she joined into the conversation. “And Mary –”

  “Stop it, both of you,” Lennox said from the window. “This isn't the work of a curse.”

  “Oh, Lennox, you don't believe that, do you?” Cassandra asked. “You can't tell me you haven't felt a presence up there in the nursery late at night –”

  “I don't care what caused her to do it,” Amalia cut in. “The point is that we've got the confession, so let's bring her back and deal with her!”

  “Deal with her how?” Marjorie shot. “We're not going to lock her in the Drawing Room until the police come.”

  “We must! We have to restrain her! Tie her up! Anything to keep her from killing again –!”

  “No one's getting restrained,” Bernadette said firmly. “We'll wait for Rachel to come back, and then we'll discuss this calmly and civilly.”

  “I'm not going to be calm or civil! She killed my husband – and the only way you'll convince me otherwise is if someone else admits to it, too!”

  Everyone glanced around, seemingly waiting for another person to pipe up and claim that they were the true killer. I studied their expressions, my eyes darting from one face to the next, and it perturbed me to see that they all wore the same expectant expression that maintained their innocence more than their silence did.

  I caught Lennox's eye and gave him the slightest shake of my head, unsure of what to do. It was unbelievable to think that Rachel had done it, and yet I couldn't stop my mind from putting all the pieces together: the conversation with Bill where she had begged him not to tell the family something, how she had proclaimed that none of her siblings was the killer, the way she had spoken about wanting all of it to be over …

  The bell on the wall jingled, indicating that Mrs. Tilly wanted me to come and collect the dessert course. I threw one last look at Lennox and then darted from the room, but instead of going to the kitchen, I hurried to the surrounding rooms to check for Rachel. Though there was still doubt racing through me, I couldn't shake the look on her face as she'd admitted to killing John. There had been more than sadness in her eyes: there had been remorse. And people, as far as I knew, didn't feel guilty for no reason.

  Chapter 12

  I searched the house for her, but to no avail: the Drawing Room was empty, as were the unused Smoking and Music Room. I hurried from floor to floor, trailing in and out with the expectancy of finding her, but upon reaching the third floor and checking even the storage rooms, it was clear that she had gone outside.

  I donned my coat and boots and went out into the snow, hoping to see footprints that would lead me to her, but the compressed snow on the paths allowed no such thing. I looked down the one that led to the dock, then the one that circled to the back of the house and branched off toward Kneller's, trying to guess which way she had gone. The one leading to Kneller's, I decided, setting off. The need to find her was gripping at my chest, and every word she had spoken was running through my head as I tried to put the pieces of John's death together. You can pretend. You should pretend. Let them think it was someone else. Please, Bill. Please.

  I had barely reached the back of the house when a figure caught my eye: Kneller was shoveling out in the distance. I hurried along the path to get to him.

  “Oh-ho, another errand?” he called as he noticed me. “It'll have to wait. I told Edie I'd have a path to the cemetery shoveled for her by this afternoon.”

  “I was just wondering if you'd seen Mrs. Langston.”

  “Rachel? Not out here. She's probably back at the house.”

  “I checked.”

  “Well, there's thirty-seven rooms. You might've missed her.”

  “There's thirty-eight rooms, and I looked everywhere.”

  I glanced over my shoulder, thinking that I might see her approaching in the distance, but only the white landscape greeted me. I sighed and turned back to Kneller. A ways behind him, the faint outline of a wrought iron fence was visible beneath heaps of snow, indicating what must have been the family's cemetery plot.

  “What's your hurry?” Kneller asked.

  “Well, for starters, she just announced that she murdered Professor Marlowe.”

  Kneller's eyebrows shot up, disappearing beneath his hat. He stuck his shovel into the ground and leaned up against it.

  “Why on earth did she do that?” he asked.

  “Presumably because she did it.”

  “Nah, she didn't,” he said, waving me off with such certainty that I raised my eyebrows as well.

  “And how do you know that?”

  “Because I know Rachel. She didn't kill John.”

  “Then why did she say she did?”

  “Maybe she's taking the blame for someone she loves.”

  “Someone like you?”

  Kneller gave me a toothy grin, but it didn't extend to his eyes.

  “Nah, not me. She chose her family over me a long time ago, I'm afraid.”

  He plucked up his shovel and restarted his work.

  “When you do find her, though,” he called over his shoulder, “tell her to come talk to me.”

  “Why?”

  “So I can talk some sense into her before her family takes her seriously.”

  I trudged away from him back toward the house, pulling off the maid's cap and shoving it into my pocket as I went. I never knew what to make of conversations with him, and they seemed to instill me with more doubt than anything. Perhaps, at least, he was right that she was somewhere in the house and I had simply missed her. I stopped beneath the branches of the yew tree to light a cigarette, still contemplating whether or not I believed her admission. Before I could get anywhere, though, Lennox came down the path front the front of the house.

  “Is Rachel back yet?” I asked.

  “What? No – not that I know of. I was more worried about you.”

  He moved closer to me, throwing a wary glance at the yew as he went. As he came to stand on my other side, he gave me a pointed look.

  “Yes?” I inquired.

  “I'm not sure where to begin, really. Perhaps when you speculated that James was trying to point out the killer, or accused Marjorie of being his target, or goaded her until she was livid enough to kill you, or – most recently – when you left the Dining Room and never came back, leading me to think you might've – might've –”

  I flicked my lighter again, letting the flame catch as I inhaled, then turned my head as I answered in a breath of smoke.

  “Gotten jumped by Edie's curse?” I finished blandly. Lennox didn't appear impressed.

  “I had no idea what happened to you,” he said. “And Marjorie and Amalia left shortly after you, so when you didn't return I thought that Marjorie might've followed you to the kitchen and finished you off with one of Mrs. Tilly's cleavers.”

  “Well, she didn't – lucky me – and I only le
ft because I was trying to find Rachel.”

  “And the rest of it? Because, correct me if I'm wrong, you said you were going to be more careful – and provoking Marjorie until she grabbed her knife is anything but that!”

  I took a drag from my cigarette. His tone was harsh, though it was clear he wasn't angry with me: I could still see the worry in his eyes.

  “I wasn't trying to make a scene,” I said. “I just did it so they'd leave you alone.”

  “What?”

  “Come on, Dr. Lennox: it's not like I actually believe that James was trying to indicate the killer by throwing his roll. I just saw how uncomfortable they were making you, so I tried to divert their attention – and it worked.”

  “I –” he stammered. “Well, I – still, you shouldn't have –”

  “Provoked Marjorie? Hard not to, considering that she flies into a rage over just about anything. Besides … I figured you wouldn't let her kill me.”

  His mouth twitched, though his expression had softened. He nearly looked abashed.

  “No, that's true,” he said. “I wouldn't have.”

  “Thank you. Now, let's get back to finding Rachel.”

  I indicated for him to follow me down the path that led to the front, thinking that she might have taken a walk down to the water like she had with Bill and James the day before. Lennox followed me.

  “You're not actually considering that she did it, are you?” he asked.

  “I'm considering everything, Dr. Lennox. Let's put it this way: from a logical standpoint, Rachel's husband was incurably damaged by John and her life was ruined by having to play caregiver. Now, if Bill's really next in line to inherit, and he obviously cares about Rachel, then they might have devised a plan to kill him. They poisoned him – using the pills I found in his and Edie's room, by the way – and then stabbed him so no one would trace it back to the prescription bottle.”

  “What kind of pills?”

  “Chlorpromazine.”

  “Chlorpromazine is an anti-psychotic,” he told me, saying the name with the correct pronunciation. “It's rarely fatal, even when overdosed on. How full was the bottle?”

  “Mostly,” I admitted begrudgingly.