Peril at Somner House (4 page)

Arabella's face turned a maggoty white. “I think…I think I'm going to be ill…”

As she ran out of the room holding her stomach, we all exchanged horrified glances.

“Murder!” Sir Marcus boomed. “How so, dear fellow?”

“I'm afraid there's no delicate way to put it…. Lord Max suffer'd blows to the head and face, such as would look after the work of a pickax.”

The horrible fact cloaked the house.

I now understood Bella's intense pallor and Kate's sunken, haunted eyes. Both had seen the body.

As had Roderick Trevalyan. However, his inherent detachment gave no indication of his true feelings. I wanted to unravel and stir the dormant layers living inside the citadel that was Roderick Trevalyan.

Angela professed shock several times during the afternoon.

“I went to see Kate. We spoke for a little while but she wasn't in the mood for talking.”

“Can you blame her?”

She considered. “You're right. We just have to be ready and there for her when she needs us.” Her eyes darkened. “I saw her strolling outside with Josh Lissot before…”

“‘Jealousy, a curse,'” I quoted aside from my reading of
The Tenant of Wildfell Hall.
Astounded once again by the similarity between the late Max Trevalyan and poor Helen's dissolute, wayward, alcoholic husband Arthur Huntingdon, I said as
much to Angela. Her response provided further insight into the world of the troubled couple.

“I've been there when he's been bad and it's not pretty. What do you think drives a person to drink? Excitement? Pleasure? A buzz?”

“No. Escape.”

Angela went on to relate what she knew of Max's involvement in the war. “A fighter pilot. He must have looked dashing in his uniform, and I think that's what drew Kate to him. They were all fighting over her, you know. The whole club, even the married men. On their return, Kate used to sing for them at the club and they'd all fight for first place.”

Yes, I began to see shades of the portrait emerge with each passing stroke. “Here, listen to this…Helen received several warnings before marrying Huntingdon and here Huntingdon speaks of his rakish friend Lowborough:

And this:

“I think Max suffered like this,” I murmured. “The eternal darkness, using his empty ‘comforter' between periods of extreme merriness and then irrational gloom and bottomless despair. Do you know if Kate was warned before she married him like Helen?”

“Probably,” Angela replied. “Not that it would have mattered to her. She married him for the title.”

“Besides money and a handsome, if somewhat uncontrollable husband,” I added. “His charms were like a drug to her, too—something she could not refuse.”

“Well, she certainly had her choices…at least five proposals that I know of.”

I seized the opportunity to bring up Captain Burke.

“Oh him.” Angela's dismissive tone consigned poor Captain Burke to the grave. I knew then she'd not marry him and he'd not renew his addresses to her. She'd given him an icy or vague answer and men loathed both qualities in a woman.

There was little else to do but to ponder upon the catastrophe of Max's violent end.

A violent end.
I noted the phrase in my journal. It was a “clear murder” as Mr. Fernald pronounced in his native accent, for one couldn't disfigure one's own face. “Angela, are there any boats at the house?”

“Boats?”

“Yes, rowing boats.”

She rolled her eyes. “I expect so. Why don't you go and find out? I could use some time alone without your endless chattering.”

My endless chattering.
Strange, for I hadn't seen myself in a chatterer's role. Usually, I preferred silence, like Roderick.

I saw him on my way out, on the terrace taking tea with
Bella. Upon my blundering intrusion through the whiny terrace door, they started out of their chairs. I sensed their combined discomfort, perhaps halfway through an intensely private conversation.

“You may sit with us if you wish, Miss du Maurier.” Roderick felt it his duty as host to include me.

I smiled, noting Bella's downcast, brooding eyes upon me, hoping I'd refuse. Clearly,
she
did not wish me present. Thanking them for the kind offer, I pressed on to the refuge of the gardens.

Gardens in winter traditionally suffered during the unfavorable season, but the ones here at Somner seemed to thrive. Giant trees planted by early settlers graced the perimeter amongst the swaying native palms, hedges of crimson bottle-brush and dog-rose berries at their feet. Wild rosemary grew between gardens imbedded with yellow freesias, camellias, creamy hydrangeas, and dusty pink orchids. The red lion amaryllis, a particular favorite of mine, towered above clusters of jasmine, blue cornflowers, and winter chrysanthemums. Everywhere I turned, flowers still thrived in the cold, but the rose garden mourned the loss of its colorful companions, the black baccara rose looking lonely beside the odd wintered red rose.

“‘A strange, nervy kind of creature is Arabella Woodford,'” I whispered to the black baccara rose in my best Arthur Huntingdon voice.

“You know talking to oneself implies insanity?”

Sir Marcus grinned, basking on a shady seat hidden amongst the hedges. Staggering to the side, I upbraided him for his sly behavior in not alerting me to his presence and he laughed.

“I am gloriously incognito,” he confided. “And positively
delicious
for gossip. What else can we do? Clam the mouth and resume a formal detachment?”

We discussed this at length as it was an intriguing subject. How should one fill the days while we remained at this house of death, I began to wonder. Ignore the brutal murder and continue our creative respite?

Sir Marcus proposed we do the opposite.

“I say we head to that window there where I believe our trusty police chief is interviewing Kate…what say you, Sherlock? Or do you intend to lose yourself in sad gardens?”

I swallowed. Eavesdropping upon Kate Trevalyan again? It bothered my conscience. Certainly not twice in one week could I commit such folly.

“Oh, come.” Sir Marcus nudged me. “I know you caught her out with Lissot.”

I stared at him.

“Your face betrays you. You're a keen observer, Daphne. May I call you Daphne? And keen observers sometimes forget to mask their own keen observations. You, for instance, at the breakfast table this morning.”

“What of it?”

“You looked like an innocent girl, shocked by the loose morals of your peers. It was there…all over your face when you said ‘I think I know where she is…'”

Brought to my senses by an unfriendly gust of chilly air, I dissected the ramifications of Sir Marcus's elucidation. Was my face so easily readable? Strange, since nobody in my family thought so. “Close shuttered” was the term, I believe. “Happily close shuttered in my own world,” I'd often retort. But never ever had I imagined others could see so easily into my fiercely guarded world.

I put it down to disbelief. And acute astonishment. A death…and an exposed affair. These events did not occur every day, and if they did, they did not occur together, did they?

“Come.” Grabbing my hand, Sir Marcus propelled the two of us toward the house.

I shivered as we drew near. The panes of the window, splattered with salt spray, encompassed the hazy vision of a sobbing Kate and a military pacing police chief. His heavy frown and blazing eyes suggested direct accusation and obviously no delicacy had been employed.

I did not expect Mr. Fernald to possess the nerve to address a lady in such a manner. It was entirely opposite to the assiduous ministrations of Sir Edward at Padthaway, I recalled.

Concealed from their view, Sir Marcus and I leaned closer to the pane.

“…you and Mr. Lissot! Why did you not mention this before?”

“I tried,” Kate sobbed, “but I couldn't find the words.”

“Couldn't find the words, eh? How
convenient
for ye both. I'll be havin' a word with ye brother-in-law. He won't take kindly—”

“He knows.”

Kate's voice, suddenly calm.

Eyes slit, Mr. Fernald jutted our way. Ducking our heads just before he reached the window, Sir Marcus and I exchanged a halting breath. What if we were detected? How
embarrassing,
and how discourteous to poor Kate.

Yes, poor Kate, suffering from that brute Fernald. How could he be so insensitive? She'd only just identified her husband's
body. The overwhelming shock must have been unbearable. Or perhaps it was no shock at all but a
planned
death?

I whispered this theory to Sir Marcus as we scurried back the way we'd come.

“Mr. Lissot has no money and from what I know of Max, all goes to his brother. The widow will be left with nothing, apart from a small annuity entirely dependent on the goodwill of Roderick. Lord Roderick…funny to think of the old chap as a lord. He's more a man of the land.”

Indeed, I agreed in silence, suddenly recalling my promise to Angela to order afternoon tea.

Sir Marcus decided to accompany me to the kitchen.

“Odd household, isn't it? One man does everything. Not a bad cook, either.”

“I suspect you have a full staff to service your needs in all of your houses,” I joked, hopefully without sounding peevish.

“Ah, a note of envy.” The wily Sir Marcus grinned, usurping a pleasurable delight whilst informing me of his various properties.

I had no idea of his extreme wealth.

“Mostly hereditary,” he added, “and no wife to warm my days. Alas, I am still on the prowl. Hard to find one without the booty being the lure.”

“Not the lure entirely.” I smiled upon reaching the kitchen. “You do have other charms to exhibit, you know. Sharp wit, a jovial nature, and too keen an eye—”

“Aha! You resent my sniffing you out.”

I shushed him before we were overheard by Hugo, who labored over the kitchen sink. I strolled to the china cabinet and had half opened it when Hugo's great shadow over-reached me.

“I'll do it, miss. Tea, is it?”

Sir Marcus and I exchanged a glance.

“Actually, we wouldn't mind Indian tea…there's a good fellow. Need any assistance, old chap? Can't be easy playing all these different roles. You almost need a cap for each one, eh, and I 'spose they don't pay you nearly enough.”

Hugo looked blank and not at all amused.

Before inviting Sir Marcus to take tea with Angela and me, I thought I'd better seek the sisterly approval first. After checking our room, mysteriously vacant when she'd asked for time alone, I joined Sir Marcus on the terrace.

“If you're wondering where your sister is,” Sir Marcus said as he displayed his unfaltering prowess in the art of serving afternoon tea, “she's the latest victim of Fernald's interrogation.”

Grateful to have Sir Marcus here amongst such dire circumstances, particularly as we sat at the very table where Max had snatched my book, we took bets as to who Mr. Fernald planned to torture next.

“How's your tea?”

“Ghastly.” He spat out the word. “Tepid and flagitious.”

“Flagitious?”

“Deeply criminal, as somebody is here.”

 

To my intense surprise, Mr. Fernald chose me next for questioning. Setting down my teacup, I waited for Angela to take my place beside Sir Marcus and noted her high color. What had Fernald said to upset her?

The gloom of the drawing room beckoned. Walking into the room, I hardly connected it to the one on the first night of our arrival. Welcoming, lively, spirited…now dark,
depressing, the walls painted with tales of immeasurable misery, once interesting, now distasteful. The war time death on canvas had stretched its bitter hand over Somner House.

“Miss du Maurier, the younger. What's ye first name then?”

Failing eloquence, Mr. Fernald barked out his words like a trumpet out of tune.

“Daphne.”

He nodded, scribbling a note. “Daphne, then. Do sit down, Miss Daphne. I've a few questions for ye.”

They were standard questions. Where I had been on the night of Max's disappearance, what did I think of the relationship between husband and wife, did I know anything of significance, of a private nature?

I sat there, mute.

“I know you know something, Missy.”

“Mr. Fernald.” I promptly drew to my feet. “I object to your calling me Missy. My name is Miss du Maurier, and yes, I did see Mr. Lissot and Kate Trevalyan on the morning they found the body.”

“They spent the night together?”

I rolled an elusive shoulder.

“You think they did it, eh? The lovers? Kill the husband? Make it look like an accident or attacking to defend, eh?”

I shrugged again.

Mr. Fernald glared at me. “You're not as talkative as your sister, Miss du Maurier.”

“Oh? What did she say?”

“I question, not you. You may go now, I've no further need of ye today.”

Dismissed! In all my character readings, I'd never met any
body like Mr. Fernald. This policeman was beyond rude, he was—

“Flagitious!” I seethed to Angela and Sir Marcus.

“Rightly so,” Sir Marcus seconded, rubbing his hands together. “This calls for a winter warmer before dinner, don't you say? Shall we repair to the library, ladies?”

Sir Marcus had located the library before me. Lagging behind the two, I paused to peruse the overflowing shelves whilst they helped themselves to the liquor cabinet behind Max's desk.

“Shouldn't we ask for permission first?” I said.

“Already have.” Sir Marcus grinned like a schoolboy. “From Rod himself. We are to make ourselves at home, and that, my dear Daphne, entails free access to the liquor cabinet.”