“So you've figured it out,” Kneller said calmly.
I shook my head.
“What? No –”
“It's all right, Alexandra. I thought you might. You're a very smart girl.”
I continued shaking my head. I didn't know what else to do. But there wasn't anything else to do, I realized. He had been my last hope of getting away from the island, and there was nothing left but a sinking dread within me now.
“Don't worry: I'm not going to kill you,” he chortled. The sound did nothing to appease me. “So, the letter opener gave me away? And here I thought it would throw everyone off.”
“It did at first. But … you said you helped Mrs. Marlowe with the mail, and Amalia said that John opened the letters you'd written to Mrs. Langston.”
His eyebrows raised.
“You have quite a memory.”
“I know.” I paused, wanting to stop but unable to do so. “And you knew Lennox was outside that night, but you couldn't admit it without admitting you were out there, too. Killing John.”
Kneller smiled.
“That was the hardest part,” he mused. “Seeing him walking out to the graveyard after I'd done it, thinking that they'd find out he was out there and blame him immediately, then hearing you say you'd locked him in.”
“I did lock him in. He just had another key.”
“I told you he was tricky.”
“But he's innocent,” I said.
“No, no, Alexandra: none of them are. That's why I'm glad it went this way. I only wish I'd been there to watch them unravel and blame one another. I'm sure you didn't appreciate it.”
“How'd you do it?”
“What do you mean?”
“He didn't die from the stab wound, so how'd you do it? Poison?”
Kneller made a soft sound. I couldn't tell if it was of awe or annoyance.
“You realized that, too?” he asked. “I'm impressed.”
“I didn't. Lennox was the one … he said the letter opener wasn't long enough to reach his heart, and there wasn't enough blood.”
“John didn't have a heart,” Kneller replied. “That's why I strangled him.”
“So the letter opener was just for effect?”
“It was for a lot of reasons, but mostly because they'd have known it wasn't any of the women if he'd been strangled. Of course, they might have pinned it on Isidore, but I couldn't take the chance. Maybe if I had pushed John out a window they would've suspected him more.”
A jab of pain hit me squarely in the back like a bullet piercing the flesh. I looked back at Mary's portrait. She was so life-like that she nearly seemed to be moving, and her smile tugged at the corners of her lips as though she knew all the answers already and was simply waiting for the rest of us to catch up. I wished that I could ask her what had happened to her. More than that, I wished that she would answer me.
“I'm sorry about Mrs. Langston,” I said, my eyes still on Mary.
“I'm sorry about Mrs. Langston, too.”
I wondered what he had expected to come out of all of this: that Rachel would be happy he had killed her brother? That the two of them would finally be together regardless of her husband? Or was the outcome not important to him – did he know it would be dreadful no matter what he did or didn't do – so he had chosen to act solely for the purpose of revenge and let everything else fall however it so chose?
And despite my fear and dread, I found that I didn't blame him for what he had done. A part of me wondered what might have happened had John lived, but the sickening recollection of his hot breath in my ear and his low, menacing voice gave me no desire to dwell on it.
“I have known the eyes already, known them all — the eyes that fix you in a formulated phrase,” I said, staring into Mary's painted eyes as the poem finally, fully made sense to me. “And when I am formulated, sprawling on a pin, when I am pinned and wriggling on the wall, then how should I begin to spit out all the butt-ends of my days and ways? And how should I presume?”
Kneller was silent. I turned to face him.
“It's a nice poem,” I said quietly.
“I hope you're not just saying that because you're still afraid I'll kill you,” he replied.
“No, I think I understand it now.” Because that was what I had been longing for out of life, I realized – to find someone who would fix their eyes on me, and not in a formulated phrase – not in the judgmental, condemnatory stare that I felt trapped in – just fix me, before it was too late.
He reached up and put a hand on the side of my face, gazing at me earnestly. I could see myself reflected in his eyes, and it finally occurred to me who he reminded me of: myself. And I was him, in some shape or form, cold and bitter and hateful of all the ways that life had gone wrong, yet still enamored with it even so, and steadily waiting for something that would make it all better. And as it dawned on me, fright came with it, because nothing had made it better for him, and nothing would make it better for me if I remained as isolated and trapped as he had made himself.
“I have to go back,” I said. “I have to get Lennox.”
He dropped his hand down. It curled around my upper arm.
“I can't let you do that, Alexandra.”
“You know he didn't do it –”
“What about what happened to Mary?”
“He didn't kill her!”
“She was pushed out of that window – only a fool would believe otherwise.”
“Then someone else did it! He was with Mrs. Marlowe. Why would she lie for him?” I gave him a pleading look, willing him to let go of his hatred for the other man. “The family was all at the house when she died, weren't they? So what makes you think it couldn't have been one of them?”
“None of them would have killed Mary.”
“You're giving them an awful lot of credit! Bernadette killed her husband, didn't she? Marjorie killed her children? John pushed Mr. Langston off a cliff? What makes you think it wasn't one of them?”
He shifted his jaw.
“Maybe it was. I don't really care anymore – but I do care about you.” He looked at me sternly. “If you go back there, they'll kill you.”
“I have to try –”
“Then be practical about it. If you want to save him, then I won't stop you – but I will implore you to do it in a better way. You can get off the island and go for help.”
“No, I can't. There's no way off –”
“Yes, there is. The ferry's on the north end of the island – you have to go through the woods to get at it.”
“What?”
“You thought I'd actually set the ferry loose? I knew I'd need a way to escape once they figured out it was me.” He gave me a sorrowful smile. “I'll explain how to operate it. It's not so difficult.”
“But …” I began, but I didn't know what else there was to say. He was right: if I went back to the house, then they would surely kill me. If I escaped and alerted the police, then perhaps there was still a chance for Lennox. “Thank you, Mr. Kneller.”
“Don't thank me yet: you might crash on your way. Now let's get you some real clothes so you don't freeze to death on the way.”
“Couldn't you just bring me?”
“Oh no,” he said. “There's no point in escaping now.”
Not without Rachel, I knew he meant.
He moved to circle around me, but I stopped him.
“Mr. Kneller – how does it end? The poem?”
He chuckled, but the smile on his lips didn't reach his eyes.
“I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each: I do not think that they will sing to me,” he quoted. “I have seen them riding seaward on the waves, combing the white hair of the waves blown back when the wind blows the water white and black. We have lingered in the chambers of the sea by sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown – till human voices wake us, and we drown.”
Chapter 18
I pulled on a pair of his pants and socks, my limbs still achin
g, then donned his heavy jacket and tried not to think of Rachel wrapped in my own coat in the Augustus Suite even though she didn't need it anymore. Kneller wandered away downstairs as I dressed. I found him in the kitchen writing on a piece of paper. He slid it into the book of T.S. Eliot poems open on the table, then showed me out the back door.
I followed him out into the snow. He was just an outline in front of me, some strange being that had lost its true form and was wandering in search of it. We weaved in and out of the trees, the white snow leading us through the darkness, until at last we came to the rocky shore where the ferry was tucked away. It was already facing outward toward the ocean, bobbing up and down on the waves in a beckoning way as though anxious to leave. Kneller hopped in and started it up. I scrambled in after him and ducked beneath the small shelter with him.
“Alright, here's what you do,” he called to me over the roar of the engine, showing me the wheel, lever and buttons. I nodded as he talked me through it, taking in his directions carefully and watching to see which switches he flicked, but I could barely think. My mind was on Lennox and it wouldn't leave me alone. “Do you understand?”
I nodded again, but my throat was too tight to speak. Kneller hopped back down to the rocks and untied the rope holding the ferry in place. My hands shook as I took the wheel; it vibrated beneath my palms and shook my arms.
I pushed the lever forward and the ferry shot across the black water, propelling me away from the island. The sky was as dark as ever, starless and cold, and it felt as though I was descending down a leaden tunnel. When I had gone a ways out, I turned the wheel to curve around the island, looking back at where I had left Kneller. His form was just a sliver on the shore, barely visible against the stark white snow, and then, slowly, it began to disappear into the inky water.
He was wandering out into the ocean.
I tugged the wheel sharply, sending me slamming into the side of the boat. I righted myself and tried again to turn the ferry back to the shore, but the engine gave a horrible sound: it had stalled. I twisted the key in the ignition, desperately trying to restart it, but the ferry only cried out in protest and stayed in place, still except for the way it rocked against the waves. My neck cracked as I turned to look at where Kneller stood in the water. What was he doing? Trying to get to me? He must have changed his mind: he wanted to go back to the mainland, too, rather than stay trapped with the Marlowes any longer –
But as I watched him, still trying to restart the engine and reach his half-gone form before it was too late, he waved at me. Not a wave of greeting or beckoning, but a wave that told me to go. He didn't want to be saved. He wanted to die.
And as I turned the key once more and the engine whirred to start up again, he walked straight into the black water, and the ocean welcomed him as though doors had opened between the waves to usher him inside, then shut tightly closed again to prevent me from following him. And he was gone. Gone with Rachel, maybe. Gone with Death, who held his coat and snickered. Or just gone. And as I realized it, watching the spot where he no longer stood and knowing that he wouldn't reemerge, my insides clenched and my breathing hitched. We have lingered in the chambers of the sea by sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown, till human voices wake us, and we drown. The dream of what he had hoped his life might be decades ago with Rachel had vanished, and with it went all desire to live the solitary existence that he had grown accustomed to but had never wanted to. And as I considered it, unexpected tears came to my eyes: for him, for Rachel – for Lennox – all of whom whose lives had been so horribly ruined by the man who had tricked me, too, into coming to the island to be a part of his twisted game.
“No,” I said aloud, my voice barely audible even to my own ears beneath the howl of the wind, though it hardly mattered. “No.”
Because I wasn't going to leave – not like this. Not without Lennox. If he was still alive, then he might not be for much longer.
I sped around to the other side of the island, barely able to slow down enough before reaching the dock. The side of the ferry bumped up against it and threw me forward over the wheel, then jolted me backwards onto the floor. I switched off the engine and hastily tied the line to the dock, then half-ran, half-limped up the path toward the house, wildly trying to form a plan in my head. I just had to get to him, I told myself as my feet plunged in and out of the snow. I just had to see if he was alive, and then I would think of what to do next.
I clambered up the front steps and went through the door, wishing with everything within me that the household had gone to sleep. The silent Foyer greeted me momentarily, but muffled voices came from above. I rushed towards the stairs, running up them to the second floor landing, but –
My feet caught on something slippery and I nearly pitched backwards. I grasped the banister to keep upright, and as I straightened, the voices of the Marlowe women floated over to me: they must have been gathered in the Baxter Room. I started forward again, but –
“Mr. Langston?”
I couldn't stop myself from speaking, for he was standing fully-clothed but soaking wet in the hallway outside the Mabel, Baxter, and Lillet Rooms. His pale, milky eyes moved over to me and he raised a shaking hand, unbending one finger as he moved it arduously up to his mouth; the rest of his fingers were closed over something gold. I halted, not understanding until he pressed the finger to his lips. He was telling me to stay silent.
I looked down at where my feet had slipped over the liquid on the floor, its putrid smell filling my nostrils, then spotted the empty container next to him. I had seen it before in the Smoking Room: it was the container of butane.
“Mr. Langston – don't!”
The voices from behind the Baxter Room door ceased, and in the several seconds that ticked by in complete silence, I knew I ought to run, but I couldn't move. Not when he was about to –
“She's not dead?” Amalia screamed from somewhere behind me. “Marjorie – get the gun –!”
Thudding footsteps came next, and I wheeled around – nearly slipping again – as Marjorie came out the door to join Amalia. Her eyes were wild but glassy and she struggled to pull the gun up to her shoulder. She was completely drunk.
“Raah! Rahh!” James shouted at me, flailing his arms at me to go back downstairs, but instead I leaped forward toward the staircase that would bring me upstairs.
BANG!
The bullet struck somewhere behind me. The glass of the wall lamp shattered and flew to the floor.
“Shoot her, Marjorie! Shoot!” Amalia screeched, and my wet boots slipped on the steps and I went crashing down to my knees. I flung my arms out to grab for the landing, yanking myself upwards, but Marjorie's footsteps came running down the hall toward me. She would have me cornered whether I made it upstairs or not, and even if I somehow got to Lennox, there would be no way to get him out …
Ching.
The sound seemed to hang in the air for hours as though time had stopped. And I recognized it from hearing the distinct chime before: the high-pitched ring of gold on gold. It was the sound of Marjorie's lighter, the one that she had accused me and Lennox of stealing, the one that, as I turned around in horror, I could momentarily see in James' hand as –
The tiny flame emerged into the still air, gentle at first, then flying out to grasp at the butane covering his clothing, then down to the floor where he had poured it over the wood. It whooshed as it spread, a terrible sound that grew worse by the nightmarish scream he gave as it engulfed him, and then the Marlowe women's screams joined in –
“Get out! Get out!” Marjorie screamed. “Birdie! Edie! Cassie! Get out!”
Their thundering footsteps took them down and around the hallway to the other staircase, and I scrambled up to the third floor landing and yanked off my butane-soaked boots, flinging them down the stairs away from me. I ran down the servants' corridor hallway and towards the maid's room, not stopping to think of what had just happened, not stopping to think of what I was doing, and not stopping to
consider that Lennox might already be gone.
“Where's Cassie?” Edie's voice came from below. “Marjorie – wait! Where's Cassie? Where's Cassie?”
I sped to the bedroom door and grappled with the handle to twist it open, then ran across the floor and slammed into the nursery door. It hit something and bounced back at me. It was the cot I had tucked beneath the knob, preventing it from opening.
I pounded my hands against the wood.
“Lennox!” I shouted. “Lennox! Move the cot!”
My hands throbbed in pain but I kept pounding, screaming through the wood for him to open the door for me. My words were unintelligible, marred by cries of anguish, and I threw my whole body against the door as the truth finally set in: I was too late.
Then –
Scraping came from inside the room. I slid down to the floor, my ear pressed to the door to hear if the sounds were real and not in my imagination, and then the barrier behind it gave way and the door opened just a few inches more.
I scrambled inside, my eyes searching for him through the darkness. And there he was, laying on the floor, one arm clutching the cot that he had pulled away and the other holding his blood-soaked leg.
“Lennox!”
I shoved the cot out of the way, then grabbed him and dragged him to his feet. He was far heavier than I had expected. He slumped over my shoulder as I tried to get him to stand.
“Mary,” he murmured into my shoulder.
“No, it's me. Alexandra.”
“Mary,” he said again, even softer. “Mary, I'm so sorry.”
I pulled his arm over my shoulder. His eyes were unfocused: I wasn't even certain he would notice that the house was burning down. I heaved him up further, looking between the window and the door as I debated what to do. He couldn't climb down the yew in his state, and I wouldn't risk letting him fall.
“Mary.”
The name was digging itself into my mind, bringing up thoughts I didn't have time to dwell on. She was pushed out of that window – Kneller's voice said in my ear. Only a fool would believe otherwise.
“Come on,” I said, pulling him to the door. “We've got to get out of here.”
The Marlowe Murders Page 31