A Most Novel Revenge (32 page)

I put the photographs aside and looked at the papers underneath.

There were several pages of what appeared to be a story. I assumed it must belong to Isobel, and I began reading eagerly. I was soon disappointed. It seemed that, before the tragedy, Isobel had been writing a Gothic romance of some sort.

Despite the uselessness of the story, I found myself reading it with interest. The opening pages chronicled the start of what was clearly a tempestuous romance, but it seemed that Isobel had never finished writing it. A few pages were all there were.

I set the story aside and looked again at the sketch of Isobel. Something Mr. Winters had said to me that day in the picture gallery seemed to linger in the back of my mind.

I sifted through more of the papers. Beneath a few newspaper clippings, I found an envelope with a letter inside. I read the contents, my brows rising. Then I looked through the rest of the papers, and one at the bottom caught my eye. I glanced at it again. Then I picked it up and stared at it, my blood running cold as everything clicked into place.

I turned suddenly.

“Milo,” I said. “We need to get back to the house at once.”

 

29

WE MADE QUITE
a sight, I'm sure, appearing at the door of Lyonsgate out of the rain, completely soaked. Milo still managed to maintain a dashing air, for the maid stood staring at him as we dripped on the wooden floors.

“Oh, Amory!” Laurel came running out to meet us. “What on earth? What's happened? Are you all right?”

“Yes, we're fine. Our car went into a ditch.”

“Are you sure you're all right? Come, let's go upstairs and get you out of these wet clothes!”

“Just a moment,” I said, lowering my voice. “Where is Inspector Laszlo?”

“He's gone outside to get his car. We were going to come looking for you. I was very concerned.”

“Thank you, Laurel. It seems you were right to be worried. We were run off the road.”

Her eyes widened. “By whom?”

“I don't know, but we think it must have been someone from Lyonsgate. Where were you when you took my call?”

“At the hall telephone.” It was as I had suspected. The telephone was located at the base of the stairs. It was possible that anyone standing on the landing above might have heard her.

“Did you notice anyone leaving the house after Amory phoned you?” Milo asked.

She shook her head. “I spoke to Inspector Laszlo and then went upstairs to prepare for dinner. It's not likely that we would have noticed anyone slipping out. It's likely even the servants were preoccupied, and the inspector was in Reggie's study going over some notes. It would have been easy enough for someone to leave without being detected.”

“And everyone was here for dinner?” I asked.

She nodded. “They must have arrived back just in time to come into the dining room. Oh, how dreadfully cold-blooded.”

“Speaking of cold blood, I think I will go up and change,” I said. My clothes seemed to be growing colder by the moment. “Where is … everyone else?”

“In the drawing room. We've just finished dinner.”

“Good. Keep them there, will you?”

She stepped closer, lowering her voice. “Amory, are you going to tell me…?”

“In a moment,” I said. “In the meantime, I need you to keep everyone together, and make sure that Inspector Laszlo doesn't leave.”

She nodded.

Just then Freida Collins and Mr. Winters came from the drawing room.

“Oh, dear,” Freida said, her eyes sweeping over Milo and me. “What's happened?”

“A little trouble with my car, I'm afraid,” Milo said.

Mr. Winters was observing me with his pale eyes, his head tilted slightly to one side.

“I'd like to paint you as you look now, Mrs. Ames,” he said at last. “The way your gown lays when wet…”

“Yes,” Milo said, moving forward and taking my arm. “Let's just go get you out of that dress, shall we?”

“If your maid is at dinner, I'd be glad to come with you,” Freida said.

I couldn't have asked for a better opportunity to speak with her. There was one matter I wanted to clear up with her, and then everything would make sense. “Thank you, Freida. That would be lovely.”

Laurel guided Mr. Winters back into the drawing room and we went upstairs, Milo to his room and Freida and I to mine.

The room that had once seemed so cold now seemed a tropical paradise in comparison to the walk we had just had.

I went behind the screen in the corner and stripped off my wet clothes, setting aside the item I had found in the summerhouse. My skin was damp and icy to the touch. It would be a wonder if I didn't catch my death.

Freida went to the wardrobe and pulled it open. “You've so many lovely gowns,” she said.

“Thank you. Choose something warm, will you?”

She brought me a gown of emerald green velvet, and it felt wonderful to pull on something dry, though I would much rather have wrapped myself in a blanket and sank into my bed.

Next, I went to the mirror and tried to put my hair in some sort of order. I knew it would likely be impossible, but I did my best.

All the while, I was turning over in my mind the best way to question Freida. Finally, I decided there was nothing to do but to go ahead with it.

“Freida,” I said, turning from the mirror. “May I ask you something?”

“Certainly,” she said at once, but I did not miss the wariness that suddenly showed itself in her eyes.

“What really happened the night that Edwin Green died?”

“I … I don't know. No one knows.”

“I'm sorry,” I said. “I know that it's difficult to do, but I feel that it's very important that you tell me the truth. Mr. Collins was missing that night, wasn't he?”

She was silent for a moment, and then she let out a heavy breath, as though she had been holding it in. “Yes,” she said. “That's why I was out there that morning. I couldn't find Phillip. I thought perhaps he was still in the summerhouse. And then I found the body. Edwin's face was … bruised, worse than I remembered it being after his fight with Bradford.”

“And you thought Mr. Collins was responsible because he and Edwin had had squabbles over their mutual investments.”

She looked up at me, unable to hide the fear in her eyes. “Yes, but … I didn't know for sure.” She hadn't wanted to know, and I couldn't really blame her. “He … he has had some violence in his past, you see. And he was so very secretive about that night.”

“You thought it was possible, and you've been living in fear ever since?”

“Oh, no,” she said too brightly, her face trying to convey something she obviously didn't feel. “Things haven't been all bad.”

“Haven't they?” I was a bit surprised by my forwardness and so, it seemed, was Freida. She stared at me for a moment before tears sprang to her eyes.

I immediately regretted pressing her. I was not much good with emotional scenes, and I had been involved in all too many of them as of late. However, she recovered quickly, dashing the tears away.

“It's true. I haven't been happy. He … he isn't a loving man, my husband,” she said. “I should have listened to the things that people said about him, but I didn't much care. I thought I was in love, and nothing was going to change my mind. Perhaps you understand that?”

She was referring to the fact that I had fallen in love with Milo while engaged to another man. I could understand to a certain extent. My marriage had been a hasty decision, one that I had questioned the wisdom of on many occasions. Luckily, things had improved immeasurably. Perhaps the same could happen for Freida, in time.

“I'm sorry that things have been difficult for you,” I said.

She shrugged. “I haven't been happy since … well, not truly happy for a very long time. But my children make me happy. And I would do anything to protect them. Anything.”

“Including shielding their father.”

She said nothing, but the look in her eyes told me that I was right.

“I know that you want to shield him in order to protect your children … but he didn't do it, Freida,” I said softly.

She looked up at me, blinking as though confused. “What do you mean?”

“Your husband didn't kill Edwin Green.”

“How … how do you know?” There was desperation in her voice, and something else: hope.

“Because…” I hesitated, knowing that what I had to tell her might bring her pain. “Because he was with Isobel Van Allen that night.”

Her eyes widened. “What do you mean?”

“They were having an affair.”

She frowned and then, unexpectedly, she laughed. “An affair? Isobel and Phillip? Are you sure?”

“Fairly sure,” I told her. “At first, I suspected that he might have been involved in Edwin's death, just as you did. Then tonight I found a note from your husband to Isobel in the summerhouse. It was … fairly evident that they were … involved with one another. And an undergardener saw two figures coming back from the summerhouse late that night. One of them was your husband. He looked back later and saw your husband going into the house alone. Isobel must have just entered the house. I think they spent the night together.”

“Then you mean…” a smile broke out across her face, one of pure relief, “he didn't do it. If he was with Isobel, he didn't kill Edwin.”

“Yes,” I said.

And then, to my horror, she burst into tears.

I quickly grabbed a handkerchief and pressed it into her hand. She sobbed into it, and I patted her back, feeling helpless and a bit confused. I was not entirely sure whether she was heartbroken or overjoyed.

At last she recovered herself, wiping at her face and drawing in a shaky breath. “I thought he might have done it. I thought … oh, I'm so relieved. So very relieved.”

I was relieved, too. I had worried that the revelation of the affair might upset her, but it appeared that the proof of her husband's innocence far surpassed her feelings on that subject.

I could only wonder at the strange love of Mr. Collins, who had thought it better that his wife suspect him of murder rather than unfaithfulness.

*   *   *

A FEW MINUTES
later we went back down to the drawing room. Despite my change of clothes, I still felt chill and disheveled. Milo, of course, had never looked better.

Laurel came at once to my side as we entered the room, and pressed a cup of coffee into my hands. “Thank you,” I said, sipping it gratefully.

“Inspector Laszlo came back in, and I told him what had happened,” she said in a low voice. “He went out to the garage to look at the cars.”

I nodded. Surely the water on the car would have dried by now, but there was the possibility that there might be some other sign that one of the cars at Lyonsgate had been out tonight.

“Is everything all right, Mr. and Mrs. Ames?” Reggie asked. “Laurel was quite worried when you didn't return home for dinner.”

“We were, in fact, run off the road,” Milo said in a nonchalant tone, lighting his cigarette.

This announcement was greeted by the appropriate level of shock from those present.

“Oh, how dreadful!” Lucinda cried. “I do hope you weren't hurt, Milo. Or you, either, Mrs. Ames!”

“No, we weren't hurt,” I said. “But it was rather alarming. You see, someone did it on purpose.”

This was met with silence, everyone staring at us in surprise.

“What's more,” Milo added conversationally, “we have reason to believe that it may have been someone here.”

“Why would someone do such a thing?” Beatrice asked.

Milo smiled. “I think that's a very good question, Mrs. Kline.”

She opened her mouth to reply, but at that moment Inspector Laszlo came into the room.

There was an expression on his face and something in his posture that drew my attention at once. We all stopped and watched him, as though we knew that something important was about to happen.

It was then I looked down at the object in his gloved hand. It was a knife.

He held it up. The metal glinted in the firelight and there was something else on the blade, something which looked to be dried blood.

“Does this look familiar to anyone?” he asked. His voice was calm, almost conversational, but his dark eyes were sharp. I wondered again if, perhaps, I had underestimated him.

“What is that?” Reggie asked, his voice strained.

“This,” Inspector Laszlo said, looking down at the knife, “appears to be the murder weapon.”

There was a moment of silence punctuated only by a slight gasp from Lucinda and a sharp intake of breath from Reggie.

“Where did you find it?” It was Beatrice who asked the question, her voice cool and calm.

The inspector's gaze moved to her, and there was something in it that made me wary of what was to come.

“Where do you suppose I found it, Mrs. Kline?”

“I'm sure I don't know.”

His brow rose. “Don't you?”

“I've just told you I don't,” she retorted, her voice hard.

He shrugged. “Very well. Then I will tell you where I found it. I learned that Mr. and Mrs. Ames were run off the road tonight, so I went out to the garage to inspect the cars. One of the automobiles had tires heavily caked with fresh mud. When I opened the car, I found the knife. And whose car do you suppose it was?” His dark eyes bore into Beatrice. “It was yours, Mrs. Kline.”

I looked at Beatrice. True to form, her features betrayed nothing of what she was feeling. Her gaze was cold and completely blank as she looked back at the inspector.

“I'm afraid I shall have to arrest you for the murder of Isobel Van Allen,” he said.

“Very well,” she said, her tone as expressionless as her voice had been.