A Most Novel Revenge (31 page)

The car behind us was not daunted. It matched our pace. In fact, it seemed to be gaining on us.

“Milo…” I began warily.

Milo looked over his shoulder and then at me. “Darling, I think you should brace yourself.”

I looked at him. “What do you mean?”

Milo didn't have time to respond before he swerved to the left just as the car behind us jetted past, swiping along the side of the car. It seemed then that everything began to happen very slowly, and yet there was not time enough to do anything about it. I watched the car continue on without slowing, disappearing into the rain.

It felt as though our automobile hovered for a moment on some invisible precipice and then we slid off the road into the ditch.

 

28

THANKS TO MILO'S
swift reaction, we did not drop off at the deepest part of the ditch. The trench into which we slid was relatively shallow, but the impact was still jarring as we hit the bottom, coming to a stop. It seemed we sat in silence for a fraction of a moment, the rain pounding against the roof.

“Are you all right, Amory?” Milo asked, turning to look at me.

I took inventory. Everything seemed to be in working order. “Yes, are you?”

“Certainly, but I'm afraid the same can't be said for my car.”

He pushed open the door.

“Milo, perhaps you shouldn't…”

He ignored me and stepped out into the rain. Because of the angle at which we had landed, I was unable to open the door on my side. In fact, I was leaning against it. Not that it mattered. I had no intention of getting out in the rain until absolutely necessary.

I wished that I had thought to bring a rain jacket. It had been cold and crisp only this morning. It hadn't occurred to me that we could be forced to drive home in a torrential downpour.

Milo circled the car, taking stock of the damage, completely ignoring the rain pelting down upon him. I caught occasional glimpses of his features in the light of the car's headlights, and it didn't look as though the news was good.

A moment later, he got back into the car.

“How bad is it?” I asked.

“It appears that the damage is minimal, but there'll be no getting it out of the ditch until morning, I'm afraid.”

I considered the implications of this piece of news. This road was practically deserted during the day. I did not think it was likely that another car would come along before morning. It was far too cold to sit in the car all night. We would be miserable, especially Milo now that he was wet to the skin. It seemed that there was only one option remaining.

“We'll have to walk,” I said. It was only a few miles back to Lyonsgate, not a walk I relished, but certainly not impossible.

“We could wait in the car,” Milo said. “But I don't suppose anyone is bound to come along this time of night.”

“Yes, there's rarely anyone on this road, and it's getting colder. Lyonsgate can't be that far, can it? We should be able to reach it fairly quickly on foot.”

“In this rain? Your shoes won't hold up, I'm afraid.”

I looked down at my heeled leather shoes, one of my favorite pairs. I was fairly sure he was correct. Well, perhaps sacrifices would have to be made.

“It's better than spending the night in a tilted car,” I said. “We won't be able to get a moment's rest. And you're soaked clean through.”

He shrugged. “Very well. If you're game, I am. You'll have to come out this way. Your door won't open.”

He got out of the car, then reached in to take my hand. I climbed across the seat and out of the driver's side door. His hands on my waist, he lifted me to the ground and I stepped into ankle-deep water. I leapt sidewise and sank into a pool of mud. Very cold mud.

“You might have set me down on the road,” I grumbled.

“The road is wet, too. Everything is wet.”

“An astute observation.”

Milo held out his hand and I clasped it. Then we climbed up out of the ditch. In a matter of moments, I was completely soaked, my hair falling into my face, and commenced at once to shivering. I could only assume that a brisk walk would do something to warm me up.

We began trudging along, the rain showing us no pity. I had tried holding a newspaper I had found in the car over my head, but it had become limp and sodden within seconds, and I had given it up.

I stepped into another puddle and somehow a stone became lodged in my shoe. I fished out the stone, tossing it aside.

“Shall I carry you, darling?” Milo offered.

It was a tempting offer, but there was no reason why he should have to lug me across the country like a sack of grain. It wasn't his fault we had been run off the road. I thought about the driver of that car. Surely they must have seen us go into the ditch. Common courtesy would have dictated that they come back to help us.

“I wonder who was driving that car,” I said.

“A very good question. I am also curious as to why they should want to run us off the road.”

“The road was wet, and it was very dark.”

“That it was, my love, but that was not the reason the car hit us.”

I stopped and turned to look at him. “What do you mean? Are you saying they hit us intentionally?”

He smiled. “That is exactly what I'm saying.”

“Are you sure?”

“Quite sure.”

“But that's horrible.”

“It certainly wasn't very nice,” he agreed.

In my shock, I stood staring at him. He took my arm in his and pulled me along. “Come, darling. You may gape at me later, when we're out of this weather.”

I quickened my steps to keep up with him. “But who might it have been?”

“I can only assume that it was someone from Lyonsgate.”

“But, how…”

“There are other roads that lead to the village from Lyonsgate, I'm sure. Someone must have heard your call to Laurel and decided to stop us.”

It was possible, of course. It was likely that she had, in her haste, taken my call on the hall telephone, where anyone might have overheard her.

If so, had they really sneaked from the house and brought out a car to push us into the ditch?

“But that's dreadful!” I said.

“Well, you may tell them all about how dreadful it is if we ever get back to the house.”

Yes, but who? The likely candidate was Mr. Collins. Perhaps he had overheard what I had said to Laurel and had left the house in order to silence us. He could not, however, be sure that his plan would succeed. He must have seen that we had not gone off the road in a dangerous spot and had survived his attempt unscathed. Surely he must know that we would point him out when we reached the house.

But perhaps he didn't care. After all, there was no proof against him. We could tell our theory, but I was certain that if Freida had shielded him for this long, she would continue to do so.

If only there was some way to find proof.

We walked a few more moments in silence. When I spotted a slight clearing, little more than an overgrown path through the trees, in the direction of Lyonsgate, an idea came to me.

I stopped suddenly. “Milo, I think we should try to get to the summerhouse. It don't think it's very far from here.”

“The summerhouse?”

“Yes. Reggie told me that Isobel used to write in the summerhouse. And that she kept photographs and newspaper clippings about the group there. Perhaps we can find some evidence…”

“Darling,” Milo said, his voice betraying a hint of impatience. “I don't think now is the time…”

“Now might be the only time,” I protested. “And it's closer than the house in any event. Perhaps the rain will die down while we search.”

Luckily, it was too dark for me to see Milo's expression. I was sure it was not approving. “Very well, darling,” he said at last. “Lead the way.”

I trudged along the little path through the trees, my feet sliding in the mud, cold water sloshing inside my shoes. I sincerely hoped I was right about the summerhouse being nearby.

We reached the edge of the path through the trees and came out on the meadow. To my relief, I could make out the dark outline of the summerhouse situated near the lake. The water looked cold and black, and I felt a little shiver that had nothing to do with the icy water dripping on my neck.

In the distance I could see the lights of Lyonsgate. It would be a fair walk to get back to the house. I wondered how long it would be before Laurel started to worry.

By the time we reached the summerhouse, I was completely soaked and could no longer feel my fingers or toes. I could only imagine how my hair looked. I glanced at Milo and found that his appearance was in no way diminished by the soaking. He looked a bit more rugged than usual, perhaps, but no less attractive. I found it very irritating.

The door was, of course, locked. I tried it a second time, just to be sure, and I then I stood there a moment, trying to decide what to do.

“Shall we break a window?” Milo suggested unhelpfully.

“No, we can't do that,” I said. “Someone would notice.”

“Well, it's not as though we don't have a good reason.”

“But, perhaps…” I walked to one of the windows and peered inside. I wondered …

I put my hands against the grime-streaked glass and pushed. My fingers slid against the wet panes, but I tried again and the window gave ever so slightly.

“It's unlocked,” I said. I pushed against the glass again and it began to rise. At last, I had opened it wide enough for entry.

“Give me a boost,” I demanded.

Milo gave a sigh, but cupped his hands for me to step into them. I put my hands on the sill and he pushed me up. I slipped through and landed on the floor in a puddle of water that had come through with me. Rising to my feet, I went to the door and unlocked it so Milo could step inside.

He closed the door behind us and we stood for a moment in the darkness, just glad to be out of the rain. It felt as though there was something a bit sad about the place, as though the ghost of Edwin Green lingered. I shivered again.

“Lucky I don't use matches,” Milo said, pulling his silver lighter from his pocket. The light flickered, and seemed very feeble in the darkness. I resisted the urge to shudder again.

“I wonder if there are any candles about the place,” I said.

I made my way to the large stone fireplace and saw in the dim light of Milo's lighter that, even better than a candle, there was a lantern resting on the mantle. Milo came to light it, and a soft glow filled the room. I felt better already.

I turned to examine the summerhouse. I had expected it to be more sinister in appearance, somehow. Instead, it appeared to be much like any other long-abandoned room, dusty and cobwebbed, with white covers thrown across the furniture.

“My dress is soaked,” I said. I took the hemline in my hand and wrung it out, water dripping on the wooden floors. I was half tempted to wrap myself in one of the dustcovers. My teeth were chattering with cold.

Milo took off his jacket and tossed it aside. “I hope you're satisfied now. It was your grand scheme to come to Lyonsgate instead of what might have been a perfect holiday in Italy. Now we are stranded here when we could, at this very moment, be running naked through an Italian villa.”

I raised a brow. “That's your idea of a perfect holiday, is it?”

“Isn't it everyone's?”

“Well, we shall have to indulge your fancies at some other time. Although, I'm half tempted to take off this wretched wet dress until we go back to the house.”

“A pity Mr. Winters isn't here. He could paint your alabaster skin in the lamplight.”

I gave him a dark look before looking across at the other side of the room.

There was a large piece of furniture under a dustcover by the window. It seemed to me that it might be the right shape for a desk. I went to it and pulled away the dustcover. It was indeed a desk, a solid oak piece. I wondered if that was where Isobel had done her writing. I realized that anything of value might have been removed long ago, but there was no harm in looking.

I tried to pull open the door, but it was stuck. I gave it a firmer tug and at last it came free. There was a small stack of papers inside, and I pulled them out.

“I wonder if the police went through all of these documents,” I said.

“I doubt it. They thought it was an accident. They would have had little reason to do a thorough search of the premises.”

That was a good point, and it gave me hope that I might find something of value.

I began sifting through the papers. There were a few sketches of Isobel that seemed to me to be the predecessors of the painting Mr. Winters had shown me in the picture gallery. She really had been a lovely woman.

Beneath those there were some sketches that could belong to no one but Lucinda. I remembered that she had said Mr. Winters had taught her to sketch. They were done in the style of fairy-tale illustrations, in bright colors. There was one of a golden-haired damsel riding behind a knight on the back of a horse and another of a maiden in a tower. Despite the youthful subject matter of the artwork, there was merit in the sketches. Lucinda Lyons had talent.

Next, there were a few photographs. There was a one of a large group in fancy dress. It appeared they had been having a Grecian-themed fete, for women and men alike were draped in revealing swaths of fabric, laurel crowns resting upon their heads. I noticed the faces of the group here at Lyonsgate, full of youthful exuberance. In addition to the familiar group, there were two gentlemen I had never had the chance to meet: Edwin Green and Bradford Glenn. There had been photographs of Edwin Green in the papers after the tragedy, but this was the first time I had seen Bradford Glenn. I recognized him at once from his character's description in
The Dead of Winter
. He was dark and very handsome, his face full of the confidence of youth. He stood beside Isobel in the photograph, his eyes shining, something of a secret in his smile. I felt again a pang of sadness that so many lives should have been devastated.