A Most Novel Revenge (12 page)

I assumed she had been stabbed, of course. That would be the most logical explanation for all that blood. I wondered if they had found the murder weapon. I didn't recall seeing a knife or any such thing lying about, but my wits had not been at their sharpest at that particular moment.

He seemed to have decided that I would not be baited into making some sort of self-incriminating remark, and decided to change the topic.

“Did you know Miss Van Allen well?” he asked casually, looking down at the notes he had written in his notebook.

“No, not at all. We only met this week.”

“And who invited you to come to Lyonsgate?” he asked.

“Mr. Lyons, naturally,” I answered. “It's his house.”

His eyes came up from his notebook, and I could tell that he had taken exception to my tone. I was, admittedly, not being a very agreeable witness, but his manner was offensive, and I felt disinclined to be pleasant.

“And have you known Mr. Lyons long?”

“Not exactly, no. My cousin Laurel is an old friend of the Lyons family. She was invited, and my husband and I were also extended an invitation.”

“I see. Does your cousin often secure invitations for you and your husband?”

“My cousin and I are very close friends and enjoy spending time together,” I told him, suppressing a great many things I would rather have said.

“And there was no other reason?”

I hesitated, wondering if I should relate some of what had happened here. I supposed it was only a matter of time before someone mentioned
The Dead of Winter
and Isobel's troubled past with most of the other guests at Lyonsgate. Then again, I very much doubted he would appreciate my input on the matter.

He was still watching my face as all of this crossed my mind, and it seemed that he sensed my inner struggle.

“Is there anything else you wish to tell me, Mrs. Ames? Now would be the ideal time.”

As much as I was beginning to detest this man, I could not deny that he was, in his official capacity, entitled to any relevant information I could give him. We were, after all, on the same side.

I put aside, for the moment, my growing antagonism, and told him the truth. “Laurel thought there was the possibility of unpleasantness. There was some lingering resentment, you see, about a novel Miss Van Allen wrote some years ago.”

“
The Dead of Winter
, you mean.” It was not a question. He appeared to already know something about the book. I wondered if he remembered when it had been published or if someone had mentioned it to him today, but I was sure he would not be receptive to such a question coming from me.

“Yes,” I answered. “It was an account of a death here at Lyonsgate seven years ago, an account very thinly veiled as fiction. It caused quite a scandal at the time, and the young man she indicated was guilty of murder, Bradford Glenn, killed himself not long afterward.”

“I'm familiar with the book. Is there anything more?”

I was severely annoyed at his dismissive tone, but went on anyway. “Miss Van Allen announced at dinner last night that Bradford Glenn was innocent and that she intended to write a second volume, one which would reveal the true identity of Edwin Green's killer.”

“Yes, Mr. Lyons told me as much when I arrived.”

“Then I'm afraid I don't know anything else that will be useful to you.” I couldn't resist adding, “I hope my answers have been satisfactory.”

“I was curious to see how much you would divulge,” he said, his dark eyes once again resting on my face. “Your husband seemed remarkably unforthcoming.”

“Yes, he's always that way. It's one of his less endearing traits.” I smiled coldly. “But neither of us has anything to hide.”

“In that case, Mrs. Ames, you have nothing to be concerned about.”

“Is there anything more, Inspector?” I said, rising from my seat.

He rose with me. “Not at the moment.”

“Very well. Good day.”

As much as I longed to be gone from the room, I couldn't resist turning at the door. “It seems the most useful thing to do would be to read Miss Van Allen's manuscript. Whoever she planned to accuse of murder this time might be a good person with whom to start.”

“Yes, thank you, Mrs. Ames, for that most valuable tip,” he said, smiling coldly in return. “Unfortunately, the manuscript appears to have been burnt in the fireplace of Miss Van Allen's room.”

 

10

BY THE TIME
the body had been taken away and the detestable Inspector Laszlo had at last departed, it was nearly dinnertime. Beatrice had had the foresight to ask the kitchen staff to lay out a cold supper that the guests could eat at their convenience. The entire house had been in an uproar all day, and no one wanted to go through the rigors of a formal dinner.

We ate halfheartedly. I had not been very hungry, but I had known I would need to eat something in order to please Milo. He had been uncharacteristically solicitous all afternoon. I might almost have accused him of hovering had he displayed any sign of concern, but he treated me with a casual courtesy that gave no outward hint of alarm. Nevertheless, I caught him looking at me more than once, as though he were trying to make sure I was not suffering from shock or going to swoon at an inopportune moment.

Granted, I had been very near swooning this afternoon. I almost felt a bit silly now for my reaction. The experience had been horrifying, of course, but I had always supposed myself to be very levelheaded. I felt somehow that I should have been more composed when I had found Isobel Van Allen lying on the floor, that I should have been able to do something more than stumble from the room in a daze. It was just that there had been something paralyzing about the way her eyes had stared up at me. And then to look down and realize that I was covered in her blood.

I shivered.

“Shall I get you a wrap, darling?” Milo asked, drawing my attention back to the present. We sat in the drawing room with Reggie Lyons, Lucinda, and Laurel. We were absently drinking coffee, none of us saying much.

I shook my head. “Thank you, no. I think I'll go back to my room now.”

I rose and the gentlemen rose with me.

Milo leaned toward me and spoke quiet. “I need to have a few words with Lyons. You'll be all right until come up?”

“Of course,” I said lightly. “I'm not a china doll, after all.”

He looked at me searchingly, and I smiled to reassure him. “Don't rush on my account.”

“I'll walk up with you, Amory,” Laurel said, rising from her seat. I would be glad for a few moments alone with her, for we had not yet had the opportunity to talk in private about the events of the day.

After my infuriating interview with Inspector Laszlo, Sergeant Hanes had politely herded everyone into the drawing room while our rooms were searched. The endeavor had proved fruitless; the murder weapon had not been found.

Inspector Laszlo had then questioned everyone individually in one of the smaller sitting rooms. We had all been too much in shock, I think, for much discussion amongst ourselves, but I had been alert enough to note that no one had been with someone else in the hour leading up to the discovery of the body. This meant that anyone might have murdered Isobel Van Allen.

After the police had gone and we had eaten our light supper, Milo, Laurel, and I had found our way back to the drawing room. Apparently, Reggie Lyons had been in the drawing room all evening, and I rather had the impression that he lacked the energy to go upstairs. Lucinda had been, no doubt, interested in the proceedings, or perhaps the chance to spend more time with my husband. The others had gone back to their rooms, and I couldn't blame them. I would never have thought I would be so glad to ensconce myself in that drafty chamber.

Laurel and I excused ourselves and made our way up the stairs.

“What did you make of that inspector?” I asked her, hoping we might commiserate on his ill manners.

Her answer was the last thing I expected.

“He's very handsome,” she said.

“Is he?” I asked evasively. “I hadn't noticed.”

“I should have thought you might have noticed, as you have an affinity for tall, dark men.”

“I assure you, the thought never crossed my mind.”

“He's not nearly as handsome as Milo, of course,” she said flatly, “but, then, most men aren't.”

Since Laurel had always claimed that Milo's good looks were at the root of his bad behavior, I knew it was not meant to be a compliment.

“Good-looking or not, his manners were abominable,” I answered.

She laughed. “He's not that bad, Amory, surely. In fact, I thought him rather pleasant.”

I was not surprised that Inspector Laszlo had treated my cousin with courtesy. Not only was she a striking woman, she possessed a knack for making people feel at ease. With the exception of Milo, I had never met anyone who hadn't taken to her at once.

“I think he suspects me of killing Isobel,” I said.

At this her smile faded. “Surely not!”

“I came from the room, covered in blood. I suppose it was only natural to wonder if it was me.”

“Well, it's all very preposterous. I assume you told him as much.”

“I did.”

Her smile returned. “In no uncertain terms, I imagine. Then it's no wonder you didn't get along with him.”

I couldn't argue with her. The inspector had set my teeth on edge, and I had lost all desire to attempt to charm him.

“Well, I hope you gave him a good set-to. It should be immediately apparent to anyone that you wouldn't do such a thing.”

We had reached Isobel's room then and passed the door in respectful silence, as one might pass a tombstone.

When we reached the door to Laurel's room, she looked back. “My room is nearest Isobel's, you know. Inspector Laszlo asked if I had heard a scream, or sounds of a struggle.”

I felt rather idiotic that I hadn't thought of it before now. “Did you hear anything?”

“No. It seems I should have done, doesn't it? She … she must have cried out.”

“The doors are solid oak,” I said. “Incredibly thick. Even if she had cried out, we might not have heard it.”

“It seemed strange, though, that no one should have heard anything in a room where a life and death struggle had occurred. To think I was so close when it happened…” She looked at me, her expression troubled. “Who might have done it, Amory?”

“I was going to ask you the same question,” I said. “You know these people better than I do. Who might have committed murder?”

She shook her head. “I can't imagine it. It seems as though Isobel must have been right, doesn't it? She said that the murderer was still at large and then she was killed. Someone must have done it to silence her.”

“Be careful, Laurel,” I said.

She looked up at me, her eyes dark. “I was going to say the same to you.”

*   *   *

THE DAY HAD
been a dreadful one, and I was extremely tired, but I felt that I could not rest, not just yet. I had told Milo I was going to my room, and I intended to, but it had occurred to me that I had not seen Desmond Roberts since the incident had occurred. I knew that he must have spoken to the inspector, for none of us could have escaped his probing. I assumed he had retreated to his room afterward, however, for I had not seen him since.

I wondered how he was faring. Not well, I suspected. He seemed to me a sensitive young man, and I knew he had no doubt taken Isobel's death very hard. He and Isobel had been friendless among the group at Lyonsgate, and he would feel even more alone now that his lover, the last link to his home in Africa, was dead.

I went to the door of his room and, after a moment's hesitation, I knocked on it.

There was no answer at first, and I felt a wave of unease recalling what had happened earlier this afternoon.

“Mr. Roberts?” I called, despite the fact that he likely couldn't hear me through the thick wood. “It's Mrs. Ames. May I talk to you for a moment?”

There was no answer from within, but a moment later the door opened. Mr. Roberts stood in the doorway. He looked even worse than I had expected. His dark hair was tousled, his shirt rumpled and half unbuttoned, and he smelled very strongly of alcohol. He didn't say anything, just glanced at me with red-rimmed eyes and then slumped slightly against the doorway.

He looked so young and distraught that I fought the urge to soothe him and tuck him into bed. Given the circumstances, however, I didn't think it was a good idea to be alone with him. I didn't think he was a killer, but I had been wrong before.

“I'm so sorry, Mr. Roberts,” I said gently. “Is there anything I can do?”

“No,” he said, looking past me into the empty hallway. “There's nothing to be done now. It's all over. Poor, poor Isobel.” He rubbed a trembling hand across his eyes. “I never wanted it to end this way.”

“Please, Mr. Roberts, Desmond, you mustn't think about that now.”

“We were the last ones to see her alive,” he said, his gaze becoming suddenly intense. “If only she had said something. She knew something was wrong. I'm certain of it. But why didn't she say so? Why didn't she let me know?”

His voice had risen. He was clearly very distraught, and I hoped that he wouldn't do harm to himself, intentionally or otherwise. Grief and alcohol had proven a poor combination, and I wondered if I should call for Mr. Lyons or one of the other gentlemen to attend to him.

“She knew something was about to happen,” he went on. “The way she spoke to me, the words she said to you. Do you remember? ‘Look after my dear Desmond.' That's what she said. She knew that something was going to happen.”

I hesitated as I considered the words. I had felt unaccountably uneasy about our final conversation with Miss Van Allen this afternoon. It was what had caused me to look in on her before my ride with Milo. Had there been something else in what she had said, something unspoken that had unsettled me?