A Most Novel Revenge (7 page)

“And he said it was the drugs and the cold?”

“Yes, that was what he thought. It's what everyone thought, until…”

Until Isobel Van Allen had written her book.

“Miss Van Allen accused Bradford Glenn of murder and shortly thereafter he committed suicide. Do you think he might really have killed Edwin Green?” I asked.

Laurel shook her head a bit as if to clear it, then she seemed to consider what I had said. “I don't think so. Of course, I didn't know any of them very well. One can't really take people's measure in the space of a weekend, but I wouldn't have said I thought that he would do such a thing. He seemed very kind, in fact. Kinder than most of them.”

“In what way?”

“Oh, I don't know. It was little things that I noticed. He spoke kindly to the maids, for example. That isn't, perhaps, something that amounts to anything, but so few people speak kindly to maids. He was kind to Lindy, too, when most people ignored her. He was pleasant when he didn't have to be.”

That was an astute observation, the logic of which I had often seen to be true. I had known a great many people who fancied themselves to be philanthropists yet were absolute horrors behind closed doors when nothing was to be gained by presenting a benevolent front.

“And yet…” she said. “There was something about him…”

I waited as she considered it.

“It's difficult to explain,” she said at last, “but it seemed to me that there was something strange, almost insincere about the way he fawned over Beatrice.”

“What do you mean?”

She considered it. “I don't know, exactly. It's been so long now, and I tried to put so much of that time from my mind. It was just that, when no one else was around, he didn't seem exceptionally fond of Beatrice. It was as though he was doing it just to challenge Edwin Green, making a show of it. But I didn't know them very well, so perhaps I was mistaken.”

Somehow I doubted that. Laurel was an excellent judge of character.

“Who was the last one to see Edwin Green alive, do you remember?”

“I think it must have been Bradford. He and Edwin had fought that evening, and the others said later that it was just the two of them left in the summerhouse. I suppose that's why Isobel drew the conclusion that he had killed him. Both of the men were in love with Beatrice, you see.”

This fact was surprising to me. Though I had known about her purported entanglement with both men, having now met Beatrice Lyons Kline, I shouldn't have thought she was the type of woman over which men would kill each other. There was nothing disparaging in this assessment. I only felt that, as cool and aloof as she seemed to be, she would not be likely to draw such ardent romantic interest. Isobel Van Allen, with her simmering sensuality, seemed more likely to have incited such behavior. Of course, the ways of the heart were not always as one would expect.

“Were Isobel and Bradford Glenn on good terms?” I asked.

She shrugged. “As far as I saw. As I said, I didn't know either of them well. I wish I knew more, but I was an outsider at the time,” Laurel said. “I had formed certain impressions, of course, of all of them. Some I liked better than others, but I shouldn't have thought any of them capable of murder.”

“Perhaps Isobel didn't realize the impact the book would cause. Perhaps she didn't mean to cause any harm,” I suggested, not really believing it.

Laurel's doubts seemed to echo mine as she looked up at me, her brown eyes somber. “I think her visit here proves otherwise.”

She was right, of course. Isobel had admitted as much; she had come to make someone pay.

“I don't mind a scandal for myself,” Laurel said, “but I'm dreadfully worried about Reggie. His nerves aren't at all good. He was never the same after the war, you see. Then that dreadful business happened, and I was worried that he might not recover. I had hoped that he would be able to go away and forget it all. I thought we had all left Lyonsgate behind, but it seems as though one can never escape the past.”

“Yes,” I mused. “Isobel Van Allen said much the same thing.”

*   *   *

BACK IN MY
room, I was very much surprised to see that Milo was not only risen from the bed, but gone. The bedclothes were still askew, so he could not have been gone for long. I wonder if he had gone down to breakfast in search of me while I was in Laurel's room.

I heard movement in his room and went to look inside. It was Parks, Milo's valet, engaged in polishing Milo's shoes. Parks was very fastidious in his duties. Milo called him a dead bore but appreciated his contributions to Milo's sartorial perfection.

“Good morning, madam,” he said. “May I be of assistance?”

“Good morning, Parks. Have you seen Mr. Ames?”

“He went out perhaps fifteen minutes ago, madam. He was dressed for riding.”

Dressed for riding, was he? He certainly hadn't mentioned anything to me about it.

“Thank you.”

I went back into my room and closed the door. I was mildly put out with Milo for having run off, but I was perfectly capable of entertaining myself.

I would spend my morning reading
The Dead of Winter
.

I settled into the chair near the fire and opened the book.

The ghosts of the dead walk among us, their breath the fog that hovers low. Their voiceless whispers are the chill along the spine, begging that their stories be told, and none breathe colder than the dead of winter.

It seemed Isobel Van Allen had a flair for the dramatic. This might prove to be entertaining as well as useful.

 

6

I HAD FINISHED
five chapters by the time I set the book aside. It was much as I had expected. The various players in the Edwin Green tragedy were all there, outlined quite clearly. Even with my very superficial knowledge of those involved, I could tell easily who was meant to be whom, for Isobel Van Allen had not bothered to disguise their identities other than giving them pseudonyms.

I could certainly not count the book a literary masterpiece, but it was definitely intriguing. I could see why it had caused a sensation, for there were enough salacious details to keep one turning the pages to see what would happen next.

As Winnelda had indicated, there were more than a few things that might raise eyebrows. However, I suspected the book might have had more of an impact at the time it had been written. Knowing the people involved as I did now, I felt that these stories somehow belonged to a different lifetime. Youthful indiscretions were not uncommon, after all. Of course, if those indiscretions included murder, it was quite another thing altogether.

I went back downstairs as the luncheon hour approached, determined not to let what I had read influence my perception of the other guests.

Isobel Van Allen and Desmond Roberts were not in the dining room when I arrived, and I was a bit relieved. I suspected dinner was likely to be a lively event, and I had been hoping for a bit of peace at luncheon.

Reginald Lyons came to me as I walked into the room. “Mrs. Ames, I owe you an apology,” he said at once. He seemed to be no worse the wear from his outburst the previous evening, and I was glad.

“There's no need to…” I began.

“Yes, there is. We behaved abominably last night. No matter what my feelings might be on the subject, I allowed things to get out of hand. Please rest assured there will be no repetition of such unfortunate scenes at dinner tonight.”

“I understand that emotions were high. I know it must not be the best of times for my husband and me to have come to visit. If you think it would be better, we needn't stay.”

Even as I said the words, I hoped he wouldn't agree that it would be best for us to return to London. I didn't want to leave Laurel, not now.

“No, please don't go,” he said quickly, much to my relief. “I am happy to have you here at Lyonsgate.”

“Very well,” I said, “if you're sure.”

“Yes, yes, quite sure,” he replied, rousing his hearty host persona. “Now let us eat some of this excellent lunch. Is your husband coming down?”

“I'm not certain,” I answered, taking the plate he had offered me to fill it from the sideboard. “I haven't seen my husband since early this morning. I understand he's gone out riding.”

“Lindy must have dragged him with her,” Reggie said. “She can be rather an annoyance, but she's hard to resist once she sets her mind to something.”

“Milo enjoys riding,” I said mildly. And he wouldn't have gone if he hadn't wanted to.

Laurel joined us, then, and Mr. Winters came shortly afterward. There was no sign of Beatrice Kline, and I assumed she had taken lunch in her room.

We sat down to eat, and our conversation was light and pleasant. I was much relieved to find that the atmosphere was considerably improved by the absence of the most polarizing guest. It seemed she was not far from any of our minds, however.

“It seems she must have learned something new, doesn't it?” Mr. Winters said suddenly. We all knew at once whom he meant.

Reggie looked up sharply, as though he had been awaiting the topic of Isobel to surface.

“But what could she have learned?” he demanded. He was becoming agitated and doing his best to tamp it down.

“Perhaps she doesn't know it herself,” Mr. Winters suggested. “Perhaps she has come back to discover something.”

Reggie said nothing to this, and an uncomfortable silence settled around us.

We were spared the necessity of finding our way back to a less volatile topic of conversation by the entrance of Henson.

“Mr. and Mrs. Collins have arrived, sir.”

“Excellent.” Reggie stood quickly, throwing his napkin on the table. “I'll come at once.”

He started for the door, and Laurel rose from her seat. “I'll just go with you.”

I think neither of us had much appetite left. We followed him, leaving Gareth Winters looking complacently at his plate.

Reggie's voice carried to us before we reached the entrance hall. I could sense that same forced cheerfulness in his voice.

“Hello, Freida. Phillip. Glad you could make it.”

We followed him into the entrance hall to greet the newest arrivals.

“Mrs. Ames,” he said, “might I introduce you to Mr. and Mrs. Collins?”

“We know one another already,” Freida Collins said, coming toward me. “How are you, Amory?”

“Hello, Freida,” I said, grasping her hands warmly. “It's so good to see you again.”

“Yes, it's been far too long.”

Freida Collins, or Freida Maulhause as she had been then, and I had been at school together. We had been fairly close friends, in fact. Both of us were the products of parents who were not exceptionally adept at parenthood, and we had formed something of a bond. Freida's closest friend had been her brother, Matthew, and she had missed him terribly. When he had been killed in the war, I had been the one to whom she had turned for comfort.

After school we had kept in touch, writing letters and seeing each other at various social affairs. When her fiancé had returned from France she had asked me to be a bridesmaid in her wedding. Tragically, that wedding had never taken place. Her fiancé had died suddenly, and she had begun to associate with a wilder set. We had grown apart by the time she met her current husband, Phillip Collins.

Mr. Collins had moved to London from South Africa, and there were a great many unpleasant rumors that followed him. It was not that I objected to rumors. After all, I was not under the impression that Milo's reputation was something to cheer about. Nevertheless, there had been a certain dark undertone to the things that were whispered about Mr. Collins.

Perhaps this was what influenced my perception of him, but my first glance into his hard face was enough to make me distrust him.

“Amory, allow me to introduce my husband, Phillip Collins.”

“How do you do?” I said.

He nodded in response, his face impassive. I wondered if he could sense my instant dislike for him. If so, it seemed the feeling was mutual.

Looking at him, one could almost see something sinister going on behind those cold blue eyes. He was not a physically imposing man, but there was something intimidating about him, nonetheless. I felt that one always had the impression one should step back when he came near. Of course, this might have been my imagination.

“And Laurel,” Freida said, turning to my cousin. “How good to see you again.”

Freida was smiling, but it seemed to me that there was something not quite right in it. It seemed to me that there was barely concealed fear in her expression. I wondered if she, too, was on edge about having been summoned by Isobel Van Allen's mysterious demands. I could not blame her, for there was reason to be worried.

It was strange, I thought, how all of the original participants in that weekend had been willing to return to Lyonsgate, despite the memories the place must carry. I wondered what sort of power Isobel Van Allen had over them all, what secrets they were willing to return to in order to protect.

My thoughts were interrupted as the door opened again, and Milo and Lucinda entered in their riding clothes. Lucinda was laughing gaily, her eyes bright, her golden hair windblown. They stopped when they saw us all standing in the entrance hall.

“Oh. Hello, all. I'm sorry we've missed lunch,” she said, “but our ride was such a lark and we lost track of the time.”

“Yes, well, our other guests have arrived,” Reggie said.

Reggie made introductions, and I did not miss the quickly concealed look of surprise on Freida's face when I explained that the handsome gentleman having such a lark with Lucinda Lyons was my husband.

Introductions concluded, the Collinses were shown to their room, Laurel and Lucinda went back to the dining room, and I turned to go upstairs. I was going to fetch my book and read it until it was time for tea.