A Most Novel Revenge (10 page)

“Yes,” she said. “There are many times I've thought I should write to you, but you know how life sometimes interferes in one's plans.”

“It certainly does,” I agreed. “I hope you've been well.”

I hadn't heard much about Freida since her marriage, and I didn't think she was often in London. There was a house somewhere in France and, now I knew, the country house not far from Lyonsgate. I wondered if there was a reason her husband kept them away from town.

“Oh, yes,” she said. “My life has been … rather lovely. How have you been?”

“Very well, thank you.”

A vaguely uncomfortable silence fell between us. Things were, I think, complicated by the fact that neither of us wanted to ask the other about her marriage. I had my own opinions of Phillip Collins, and I was certain Freida must have seen Milo's name bandied about in the gossip columns. It was not the sort of thing one discussed with an old acquaintance.

She brightened suddenly. “We've two lovely children. Our son, William, is nearly seven, and I have a daughter, Alice, who's just over a year old. Perhaps you might come to tea one day so that I can show her off to you.” There was a genuine warmth in her eyes when she spoke of her children, and I could tell at once how much they meant to her.

“That sounds lovely. I shall look forward to seeing her.” I was glad that Freida had children. I remembered her telling me once that the only thing she really wanted in life was a family of her own. That was before her fiancé had been killed. I wondered, too, if that was why she had married Mr. Collins. I would not have chosen him for her partner, but she clearly loved her children and I was glad for her.

“Have you any children?” she asked me.

“No,” I said lightly. “We have not been so fortunate as of yet.” I was sure she would pity me now, thinking that I was incapable of having them. The truth of it, however, was that I had not reached a point in the last five years where I felt secure enough in my marriage to want to become pregnant.

However, things were much better between Milo and me now, and I had faith that they would continue to improve. Perhaps it would be something to be considered in the near future. We weren't getting any younger, after all. My mother had been eighteen when she'd married and barely twenty when I was born. By her standards, I was very much behind schedule.

“It does tend to happen suddenly,” she said.

“Yes, I suppose it does.”

Silence fell again, and I decided to press onward. “I was very shocked by Isobel's announcement last night.”

“Yes,” she said, her voice suddenly strained. “Ridiculous, wasn't it?”

“Do you think so?” I asked.

“Yes, of course.” Her eyes darted about the room before coming back to my face. “Don't you?”

“I really couldn't say.” Again there was a silence that I took the opportunity to fill. “I imagine it must have been terrible. You found Edwin Green's body, I understand.”

It was terribly blunt of me, but it had become clear that the conversation was not going to proceed unless I pushed it along a bit.

“I went for a walk that morning,” she said. “I … I thought I left my handbag at the summerhouse.”

I had not asked her for her reasons for being out that morning, and it was curious that she should have presented them to me.

“And you found him in the snow?” I prompted her.

“Yes. It was dreadful.”

She had gone pale, and I felt a bit bad for having pressed her into reliving what had obviously been a traumatic experience. I did, however, have one more question. “Did you think it was an accident?”

“Yes,” she said at once. “It must have been an accident. No one else would have killed Edwin. Everyone but Bradford got on perfectly well with him.”

“You're certain of that?”

Her eyes met mine unwaveringly. “Absolutely.”

There was something almost defiant in her gaze, and I could not help but feel that she was lying.

Freida excused herself a few moments later, and I sat alone in the drawing room, pondering our conversation. There had been something strange in her manner, and I wondered if she had something to hide. How I would discover what it was, however, I didn't know. It had been a long time since we had been confidantes.

Reluctantly leaving the warm seat by the fire, I went back out into the entrance hall just as Mr. Roberts came down the stairs.

“Good morning, Mr. Roberts,” I greeted him. I knew how hard it must be for him to be so out of place at Lyonsgate, especially since Isobel had done everything in her power to make them unwelcome.

“Good morning,” he replied absently. He reached the bottom step, and I noticed at once that something was amiss. He looked worried, almost pale beneath his bronzed skin.

“Is there something wrong?” I asked.

“I … I'm not certain. Isobel is in her room, but the door is locked and she won't answer.”

I felt a strange sense of foreboding that I tried to fight back.

“Perhaps she's still sleeping,” I suggested, and even as I said it I realized that it was not likely to be true. I had seen for myself that she was an early riser. I did not think she would be so deep in sleep as not to hear a knock at her door.

“I don't think so. She always rises early,” he said, echoing my thoughts.

“Perhaps she is writing and doesn't wish to be disturbed.”

He shook his head. “I don't think so,” he said again. “You see, she was quite ill all night. I thought perhaps she had taken poorly to something that she had eaten and that she would be well again this morning, but now I wonder if there is something seriously wrong.”

That did not sound at all encouraging.

I walked to the steps beside him, trying to fight my growing unease. “I'm sure there's no reason to be alarmed. Perhaps she's still feeling ill.”

“I think there's something wrong,” he insisted. “I wonder if I should ring for the doctor?”

“Perhaps we should look in on her first,” I suggested. “She may answer the door if you try again.”

We reached the landing, and I followed him down the hall to Miss Van Allen's door. He knocked, almost pounded, against the wood, and I thought there was something like desperation in it. There was no answer at first, and he tried in vain to turn the knob. The door was locked. I began to wonder if I should ask Mr. Lyons if he had a spare key.

A moment later, however, I heard the bolt being slid back. Then the door opened and Isobel Van Allen looked out at us from the dark room, a black velvet robe wrapped tightly around her. She was a bit paler than usual, but her dark eyes were sharp.

“What is it?” she asked, her tone lined with impatience. The question was directed at Mr. Roberts, and I wasn't sure at first that she even noticed me standing there.

“I … I was worried,” Desmond stammered. “You wouldn't answer the door.”

“I was trying to sleep. You know I was ill last night. I took some sleeping tablets.”

“Are you … are you feeling better?”

“Yes, Desmond,” she answered with a sigh. “It was likely only something I ate. I'm much better now.”

“Can I get you anything?”

“Thank you, no.”

“Well, let me come in and sit with you.”

“No,” she said sharply. Then her tone softened. “Don't worry about me. Run along and enjoy your morning. I'll need you to type for me later.”

She looked at me then, and I was caught by something in her gaze. “You'll take care of dear Desmond, won't you?”

“I … certainly,” I replied.

“Thank you for looking in on me,” she said. She reached out and patted his cheek.

“You're such a dear, my sweet Desmond,” she said.

Then she leaned in to kiss him on the mouth. I turned away at once, embarrassed to be privy to so intimate a scene.

Then she closed the door.

Mr. Roberts let out a breath, as though he had been holding it. I thought at first that he had forgotten me, but at last he turned from the door. He gave me a shaky and somewhat rueful smile.

“I … I'm sorry I made a scene, Mrs. Ames,” he said. “It was just so unlike her not to answer her door.”

“Well, I'm very glad to see she's all right.”

“Yes,” he replied vaguely, his thoughts obviously elsewhere.

We parted ways then as he went into his room. I couldn't help but think as I walked away, however, that there was something amiss in the scene I had just witnessed. Isobel had been acting strangely. It could, of course, be nothing more than that she was still feeling unwell. Sickness often made people peevish.

However, there was something in her behavior that struck me as odd. Desmond hadn't looked satisfied with their encounter. Despite Isobel's display of affection, he had stiffened when she'd kissed him, and he had seemed distracted as he went into his room. I didn't know if it was embarrassment at her kiss or annoyance at her dismissal, but it seemed that all still was not well in paradise.

*   *   *

IT WAS PERHAPS
an hour later when Milo came into my room.

Winnelda was following Parks's example and mercilessly polishing my riding boots while I read in the chair near the fire.

“Still reading that dreadful thing, are you?” Milo asked, indicating the copy of
The Dead of Winter
in my hand. Well, I've come to rescue you from it. I've just been out to the stables and asked the groom to saddle horses for us. Are you ready for the ride you promised me?”

“I suppose so,” I answered absently. To be honest, I had not been reading for some time. Try as I might, I had not been able to concentrate much on the novel. My thoughts were still on Isobel Van Allen. Something about the scene at her doorway nagged at me, but I could not determine what it was.

“I am flattered by your enthusiasm,” he remarked dryly.

I smiled and turned my attention to him. “I'm sorry. I was thinking about something else.”

He looked at me warily, but said nothing.

“A ride sounds lovely,” I told him, rising from my seat.

“Good.” He went across to the door to his room. “It shall only take me a few moments to be ready.”

“Very well.” I set the book aside and moved to change into my riding costume, a white blouse and tan trousers tucked into my now-gleaming black boots. Winnelda insisted upon brushing my dark jacket before I could put it on, so I sat back down to wait.

Normally, I would have been pleased at the prospect of a ride with my husband, but I could not seem to get my mind off of Isobel Van Allen. Perhaps she really had been ill and hadn't wanted Desmond to know.

I glanced at our connecting doorway. Milo was not finished dressing, and Winnelda was not ready to relinquish my jacket. Perhaps I should look in on Miss Van Allen again before we left. I was sure she wouldn't be pleased to be bothered again, but it would set my mind at ease to know that she was all right.

“I'll be right back, Winnelda.”

“All right, madam. I'm nearly finished.”

I left my room and went down the hall.

“Miss Van Allen?” I called, knocking lightly on the door to her room. It had apparently not been securely closed after she had spoken with us, for it opened beneath my fist.

I could see inside, but not very well. The heavy curtains were still drawn, and the room was dark. Perhaps she was still sleeping, after all. If so, I didn't want to disturb her. She had not seemed at all pleased with Mr. Roberts for doing so this morning.

I hesitated on the threshold, something within in me both urging me to go in and warning me to retreat.

It occurred to me that she might be worse. Perhaps I should check on her and call for a doctor if her condition had not improved.

“Miss Van Allen?” I called softly.

I stepped into the room, and stepped immediately into a puddle of wine, the glass lying empty on its side not far from the door.

My eyes followed the puddle and it was then I saw Isobel Van Allen lying on the floor, still in her black robe, arm outstretched, her head turned away from the door.

I was glad that I had followed my instincts. We would need to summon a doctor at once.

I went down to my knees beside her, the wine soaking into my trousers.

“Miss Van Allen? Isobel?” I reached out and touched her outstretched hand. It was cool to the touch, but not cold.

I tried to gather her into my arms to see if I could rouse her, but as she fell heavily against me, her head fell back, her dark, unseeing eyes staring up at me.

I gasped, too horrified to scream, and, gently laying her back on the floor, stumbled to my feet and out into the hallway just as Milo came around the corner.

He stopped when he saw me, an expression I had never seen crossing his face. “Oh, God,” he breathed.

I looked down and realized that it was not wine in which I was covered. It was blood.

 

9

MILO WAS AT
my side in two long strides, his eyes moving over me, his hands running over my arms and then my torso. “Where is it coming from?”

“I … I…” I couldn't seem to speak; to form the words seemed an impossible task. I felt incredibly lightheaded, and my legs felt as though they wouldn't hold me much longer.
She's dead. She's dead.
The words kept playing over and over in my mind, but I couldn't seem to make myself say them.

He grasped my shoulders, his voice firm but very gentle. “Amory, look at me.”

I blinked then forced myself to focus, to meet his gaze. The intensity in his bright blue eyes captured my attention, as did his next words. “Where are you bleeding, darling?”

It was only then I realized that he thought the blood was mine. I had stumbled into the hallway, soaked in blood. Of course, he had thought I was injured. I hastened to reassure him, but the words were slow in coming.