A Most Novel Revenge (19 page)

Wordlessly, he rushed toward her, anxious to feel the warmth of her against him, to be enveloped in her flame. It was only when she resisted being pulled into his arms that he realized something was wrong.

“What is it?” he asked in a breathless whisper.

“It is never going to work between us, Bradford.” Beatrice's face was drawn and quite white, and Bradford knew at once that this was not one of the games she liked to play. He felt himself grow cold as he looked at her, as though something inside him was beginning to die, the fire withering to embers.

“What do you mean?”

“Well, we've had our fun, haven't we? We have enjoyed one another's company, but these kinds of things never last.”

He stepped back, reeling. “Don't say such things. You mustn't say such things.”

“I'm sorry.” Her voice was cool and hard, and she didn't sound sorry. She sounded as though she couldn't wait to be rid of him. He couldn't believe it. He felt momentarily numb, dumbfounded. And then a surge of a new kind of heat, hot fury, as another thought occurred to him. Somehow he knew. He knew exactly what it was.

“It's Edwin, isn't it? Tell me. Tell me the truth!” He sounded like a madman to his own ears, but he didn't care. He had been sure she loved him, sure that they were going to be together. And now this.

She looked back at him, those brown eyes he had always loved, that he had seen as brimming with warmth and laughter, were suddenly flat and dark with hidden secrets. He felt in that moment that he could kill her. It was not a meaningless thought, born of anger, and sweeping quickly through him. It was like a sudden weight in his chest, bearing down on him, crushing the life from his heart. It was real, pure hatred, totally consuming the love he had felt only a moment ago, and he clenched his fists to keep himself from putting them around her long, white neck.

“You look rather as though you're enjoying that,” Milo said. I hadn't heard him come in from his room. He stood in the doorway of the bathroom in his nightclothes and dressing gown.

“It's rather tawdry stuff,” I said. “But there's something very interesting about this.”

“Indeed?” He did not sound at all convinced.

“Yes, listen to this.”

I read aloud to Milo the passage I had just read, and then continued on.

She was saying something, but somehow he couldn't hear what it was. It was as though he were underwater, as though she was holding his head beneath the sea, and speaking to him, mocking him with her artificial platitudes. She was killing him, that's what she was doing. Killing him slowly with her heartless indifference.

He felt as though his heart would explode. He couldn't breathe.

Milo snorted, spoiling the intensity of the moment. I ignored him and continued reading.

She was everything to him, and now he realized that it had all meant nothing. He had nothing left, nothing in the whole world to live for. And he still couldn't breathe. He gasped for breath, felt as though he were going to die for lack of air.

“This is quite ridiculous.”

“Do be quiet, Milo.”

“Pure melodrama.”

“
He needed air
,” I read loudly, determined to ignore my husband's distracting commentary. He rolled his eyes, but sat down in a chair and let me go on.

If he didn't have air he would die. And it was Beatrice who was stopping him from breathing. It was her fault. This pain was all her fault. The only way to stop it was to stop her. The only way to breathe was to stop her from taking all the air.

Milo sighed heavily.

She let out a strangled cry as he put his hands around her throat and began to squeeze.

She struggled against him, her nails clawing at him, but he barely felt the sting.

“Do you mean to tell me she made money writing this drivel?” Milo asked, putting a cigarette to his lips.

“A great deal of money.”

“Astounding.”

“Be still and let me finish reading this passage.”

He took his lighter from his pocket and sat back in his chair, lighting the cigarette.

I read on.

They struggled, hitting a table, sending it crashing to the floor, the objects upon it shattering into thousands of pieces like his heart had done. The noise was tremendous, ringing in his ears, yet he did not release his grip on her throat.

Suddenly there was a blinding flash of light as pain exploded through his head. He crumpled to the floor. It was only a moment later, the air pounding in his lungs, that he came to himself.

Beatrice stood over him, gasping for breath, a heavy brass candlestick clutched in her hand.

He looked up at her, dazed. How had this happened? His hands burned and his fingers ached from what he had done. And yet he could not really believe he had done it. Had he really tried to strangle her? Had she really hit him? It seemed as though it must have been a dream, but he lay on the floor and she looked down at him, an expression of absolute revulsion transforming her beautiful face into a mask of horror. It was all much too real.

The door was flung open just then and Reggie and Isobel stood in the doorway.

“What the devil's happened?” Reggie demanded. “Beatrice, are you all right?”

Bradford didn't look at them. Instead, he lay on the floor, looking up at Beatrice with the expression of a suppliant.

“Beatrice,” he whispered brokenly, “I'm sorry. I didn't mean it. But you must believe that my love is true. You must.”

“Get up and get out of here,” she hissed. “Get out of here at once.”

He staggered to his feet, dizzy and disoriented. He rushed from the room, past Reggie and Isobel, spots dancing before his eyes.

But the pain in his head was nothing compared to the pain in his heart. His entire world had come to an end.

I closed the book and looked up at Milo. He blew out a stream of smoke, supremely unimpressed.

“What absolute rot,” he said. “No wonder she was forced to leave the country after its publication.”

“She's not Dickens, naturally,” I said. “But it's fairly compelling stuff. Bradford Glenn tried to kill her. No wonder she wanted nothing more to do with him after the murder. And Isobel witnessed it. It seems clear now why they all thought that he killed Edwin Green. He was clearly capable of violence.”

“If, that is, it happened as she said.”

“It seems very realistic to me.”

“It's fiction, my love. For all you know, she fabricated every bit of it.”

“Perhaps,” I said, unconvinced. Isobel might very well have invented the confrontation, but to what purpose? She had been very careful to portray each of the people at Lyonsgate very clearly. This confrontation between Bradford and Beatrice definitely made a case for Bradford having killed Edwin.

“She included this for a reason,” I said. I opened the book again and started the next chapter. “Because it gave Bradford Glenn a motive to kill Edwin Green.”

“Or because she knew she would make a great deal of money exploiting and embellishing a tragedy. Who knew being a novelist was so lucrative? Perhaps I should take up writing. Would you like me with a furrowed brow and ink-stained fingers, darling?”

“I think the typewriter is customary in this day and age,” I said, turning the page.

“Then I shall have to have a secretary.”

I looked up at him. “A young, pretty one, I suppose.”

“Naturally.”

“In that case, I forbid it.”

“And thus ends my career as a celebrated novelist, thwarted before it's begun.”

“I suppose you shall have to content yourself with being handsome and rich.”

He did not argue as I went back to reading.

The next chapter did not expound about the late night encounter between Bradford and Beatrice, saying only that Bradford “eyed her with extreme distress and longing across the breakfast table.” Beatrice had apparently been unmoved by these silent entreaties for she left to go out walking with Edwin Green shortly thereafter.

I again wondered if it had really happened as Isobel wrote it.

I could think of only one way to set my mind at ease about the subject. I was going to have to ask Beatrice Lyons Kline.

 

17

I SLEPT FITFULLY
and woke up just before dawn, my mind in a tumult. I knew at once that it would be useless to try to go back to sleep. It would be too early for breakfast, and I didn't feel as though I wanted much to eat at any rate.

Not that being awake at such an hour would prove of much use. I doubted anyone else would be up. In any event, it would be impolitic to discuss murder at this hour. Beatrice Kline seemed unapproachable at the best of times; I could only imagine how she would react to being questioned before breakfast.

It was then I remembered that Laurel had said Reggie Lyons often took long solitary walks about the property quite early in the morning. I wondered if there was any chance I could seek him out. We had not had a chance to talk privately, and I felt that his part of the story was something that might prove useful. He had been Isobel's lover, after all. He would likely have insight that the others did not.

I rose and dressed in my warmest wool suit as well as my cream-colored wool coat with fur collar and cuffs. I selected a hat that was an excellent compromise between warmth and fashion and pulled on a pair of leather gloves. My sturdy walking shoes diminished the overall effect somewhat, but practicality won the day.

Properly turned out for my errand, I looked back at the bed. I had not been particularly quiet, hoping that I would wake Milo and he would be persuaded to accompany me. It was just as well that he did not wake, I supposed, for I thought that Reggie would be more likely to speak openly to me if I was alone.

I saw only one maid in passing and made my way outside into the frigid morning air. The sky was a strange silvery color, glowing almost white as the sun rose above the horizon. I stood for a moment on the steps, deciding in what direction I should walk. I did not even know if Reggie Lyons had ventured out this morning, let alone in what direction he might have traveled.

My eyes traveled east toward the lake, glistening with the sheen of ice in the early morning light. Halfway around, near the shore, I could see the summerhouse, the scene of the tragedy, nestled in a copse of trees. I wondered if there might be anything useful to be gained from investigating it.

It was, I thought, probably farther away than it looked, but there was only a dusting of snow. I didn't think it would be too difficult a walk, but I wondered how I might explain my curiosity. There was really no good reason for me to go peering in the windows.

It wouldn't hurt, however, to walk in that direction. The bracing air felt as though it would be useful for clearing my head.

I walked across the gravel drive and then onto the lawn and down toward the lake, the frost on the grass crunching beneath my feet. I could see my breath in the air. It was an exceedingly cold morning, and I felt as though my breath was turning to fog in my lungs.

I was perhaps halfway to the lake when I caught sight of a figure walking from the opposite side of the lake. It was Reggie. I veered in his direction. He was walking slowly, his head down, and I didn't think he had seen me.

“Good morning, Mr. Lyons,” I called when I was within shouting distance. I felt a bit silly calling out so loudly to him, but I didn't want to startle him.

He looked up, gave me a wave, and began walking my direction.

“Good morning, Mrs. Ames,” he said when he reached me. “You're up early this morning.” His face was bright red with cold, and I wondered how long he had been out in the elements.

“Yes, I couldn't seem to sleep and thought I could do with some fresh air. It's very beautiful out here this morning.”

“Yes,” he said. He glanced around, but it seemed to me that he paid no particular attention to our surroundings.

“I thought I would walk to the lake.” I looked at him somewhat expectantly and began walking in that direction. He was too polite not to accompany me.

We walked in a not uncomfortable silence for a few moments, each of us lost in our own thoughts. When we reached the shore, we stopped, both of us gazing out at the water.

There was a stone bench sitting nearby. The sun must have warmed it, for there was no snow on it. I took a seat and looked out at the lake. The summerhouse was a good distance away now, almost directly across the lake.

I looked up to see Reggie standing stiffly beside me, his gaze trained on the water.

“Do you want to sit for a moment?” I asked.

He looked at me as though he had only just remembered that I was there, but he took a seat beside me.

The air was very cold and the place felt lonesome somehow, as though bad memories still lingered in the air around the lake. Reggie Lyons seemed to feel it, too, for he was rigid, his eyes dark with unspoken memories.

“It's rather tranquil here,” I said at last. This, of course, would not be perceived as a tranquil spot to anyone who had been here that day seven years ago.

He pulled his collar up a little higher around his neck and crossed his arms, as though to keep out the cold. His eyes had gone back to the lake and there was that faraway look in his eyes that I had seen so often on the faces of others since coming to Lyonsgate.

“I don't know whether I love or hate this place,” he said. “When I was a child it seemed there was no place in the world as wonderful as Lyonsgate. Now I feel as though it's some sort of prison. A place that I will never be able to escape, no matter where I go.”

“I know it must be difficult,” I said, “with everything that has happened.”

“It's been wretched. I wish I had never come back.”

“Do you think … would you like to talk about it?” Though I was interested in his account of the murder for my own reasons, it was genuine concern that motivated the question.