Peril at Somner House (7 page)

“Yes, there is.” Opening the door, Angela sashayed into the room. “I'll say I did it. I killed Max.”

Angela stood in the doorway.

We all stared at her as she came into the room. “Dearest Kate, you simply must let me say it.”

Sir Marcus's loud cough broke my shock.

“Valiant of you, m'dear, but completely unnecessary. Fernald won't hear a word of it, despite how convincingly you can concoct a story.”

Angela was enraged. “It's not the time for pessimism, Sir Marcus. Kate's desperate for our help.”

“Not pessimism.
Realism
.”

“But if we can get Josh to agree—”

“Afraid you're wasting your time, ladies. From what Katie implies, he's already
half
confessed, which is good enough for a
full
arrest.”

Truth…and silence. Perched upon the stool, I tried to concentrate on my sketch. Filling in a few more lines on my tower, I adjusted the window sizes and the door. I didn't know what else to do since everybody sat in brooding silence. A few minutes passed before I sensed Lady Kate monitoring
each line I drew. I suddenly felt her soft murmur against my ear.

“No, Daphne; that window ought to go like this.”

The languid, precise strokes confirmed her familiarity with the tower and her prowess as a great painter. She worked so fast and so quickly, yet everything was captured perfectly, even down to the last, tiny details.

I asked her if she had ever lived in the tower and, pausing, she shook her head and continued. Within moments, my tower rose up from the canvas, alive and ready for color, and she handed the pencil back to me.

“You must paint, as you write, with great detail.”

Her words, and her reluctance to talk about the tower, accompanied me as I dressed for dinner that night. Relieved to see no sign of Arabella hovering around the place, I soaked in the bath for half an hour or so, resting my toes on the lion head spout.

It was then that an idea came to me.

Kate…and Roderick…in the tower. Kate's knowledge, her
intimate
knowledge, of the tower's architecture and her decorative influence with the African theme alluded to more than a passing, sisterly interest in Roderick's home. Or perhaps I read it wrong. Perhaps Roderick had great respect for his sister-in-law, and often heeded her advice. I thought back to when I first arrived, when she insisted he stay for dinner. He hadn't
wanted
to stay, but he had done so at her gentle command.

Kate Trevalyan. She commandeered men better than a ship's captain and without half the effort. Which led me to ponder: Had she, the wily captain, knowingly or unknowingly ordered her husband's death?

I thought I'd question Angela prior to dinner, as we dressed, our sisterly custom since we'd come to this house.

“Why are you offering to protect Kate? Do you and she share some dark secret?”

“No, no, and no” was the swift reply, to which I pointed out that “no” was not a sufficient answer to a question containing “why.”

She growled her agitation, shoving her hands up in the air. “Leave me alone.”

I did for a little while, until we were about to leave the room. Closing the strap on my shoe, I spied her frustrated attempts to locate her own. “The blue shoes are over there, by the window.”

She marched over, swept them up, and then marched to the door.

“Ange,” I pleaded on the way out, forcing her to pause, “does Kate hold some power over you? Did you and she ever commit a folly, something that binds you together? Is that what you're afraid of?”

“Afraid?” she scoffed. “I am
not
afraid.”

Spinning on her heels, she started down the corridor, leaving me to lock the door. I don't know what possessed me to take this precaution, since we had little valuables inside. However, my notes on Max's murder lay exposed on my bed and I had a vision of Arabella creeping into our room in search of clues, and I dreaded her reaction to my suspicions. She firmly believed her cousin had been murdered, but whom did she suspect? Kate? Josh? Kate's friends? I hesitated…Angela?

“She's got a nasty eye, that one,” Sir Marcus drawled,
swooping me aside the moment my feet hit the carpet of the last stair. “Wouldn't want to be shackled to her.”

I cast a fleeting gaze over Miss Woodford's thin, tall frame. Standing with her arms crossed, forehead creased and scowling openly in Kate and Josh's direction, she looked ready to blurt out an accusation.

Sir Marcus shivered. “She gives me the frosties and she doesn't like our Katie, does she?”

Open hatred bubbled from Bella's ill-humored snarl of discontent. Was such a creature predisposed to a sulky disposition? Or had it been forced upon her in having to live such a dreary existence?

Sir Marcus believed otherwise. “That creature would find the thorn in any garden.”

His words proved true over dinner, as another strange evening of stilted conversation commenced. Kate seemed paler than usual, Josh Lissot unusually quiet and pensive, Roderick an inanimate boulder who may as well have been dead, and Arabella's continually suspicious, downcast eyes surveyed us all. When she finally decided to speak—at the time Hugo arrived to clear the dishes—it was to return to the case.

“When is Mr. Fernald due back, Cousin?”

Forced to elicit a reply, Roderick blinked in Kate's direction. “Friday, I believe.”

“Friday! That long when it's obvious that
he
…”

Her voice trailed off, her insinuation clear.

Sir Marcus lifted a very high brow to me.

“When it's obvious
what
?” Angela spat. “If you never finish your sentences, Miss Woodford, how can we possibly understand you?”

Sir Marcus's mouth dropped open.

So did mine, and looking around the table, I believe I saw the tiniest tinge of color scathe Roderick's face. Kate lowered her eyes, and Josh challenged the accusation, tapping his hands on the table.

“I take it you're referring to
me,
Miss Woodford?” Pushing back his chair, he shrugged off Kate's calming hand. “No. I will not endure this.”

Arabella suddenly clammed up. Cornered, she appealed to her cousin who, true to character, simply stared at the wall.

When no apology issued forth from Bella, Josh seized his jacket and stormed out of the room, tossing his coat over his shoulder.

Kate gazed after him, her eyes full of sadness.

She did not, however, run after him. That would have made their affair obvious and, as Arabella had accused, suspect.

“Come,” Angela said, rousing Kate out of her chair, “let's go to the drawing room and I'll order tea.”

“Tea sounds good,” Sir Marcus chimed, “though I'd infinitely prefer a nip of brandy.”

Roderick promptly offered the supply available in the study, but refused Sir Marcus's invitation to join him for a nightcap. He said he had an early start the next morning and excused himself from the party.

Sir Marcus looked at me. “It's you and me.”

“Is that a bad thing?” I smiled, accepting his arm.

“Fernald will arrest Lissot on Friday,” Sir Marcus murmured as we entered the study, his eye immediately detecting the liquor cabinet while I went to the desk.

“Shrewd Daphne rummages through private drawers.” I heard his amused chuckle, offering a glass to me.

“No thank you.”

He looked disappointed. “No, you're absolutely right. Young, pretty girls like you should only be drinking champagne and pink lemonade. Nor, I do say, should you be drinking anything at all with an old libertine like me.”

Relaxing in my lord's armchair, blissfully unaware of anything but enjoying his brandy, he saluted my efforts. “Shouldn't really be looking through those, Daphne girl…what if our erstwhile Lord Rod should return for a midnight nip and catch you out?”

“It's not midnight yet.” I continued to turn the pages of an ordinary household ledger book. Nothing interesting dawned on the pages; there were various entries on household accounts and expenses, property improvements, kitchen maintenance, et cetera, all meticulously recorded in a neat black hand. I doubted Max kept such neat accounts, so this work must have belonged to Roderick. “My, my, Max and Kate certainly liked to spend large…you should see the drawing amounts labeled ‘personal K' or ‘personal M'!”

“We estate owners are allowed to draw from our estates, you know. It's our hereditary blessing. Whose drawings are larger out of Katie and Max?”

“They are equal but she draws an extra for housekeeping. Hmm, housekeeping, I wonder if that entails purchases of fine art and supporting lovers?”

I continued to scan each page, dismissing any feelings of guilt. Max had been murdered, I kept reminding myself.
Someone
had murdered him for a
reason
.

Closing the book, I hunted through another neat stack of papers. Obviously, Roderick had cleaned up his brother's affairs. I couldn't see Max's desk looking so organized. Tidiness did not fit his character. “Pity we didn't get to this desk just
after Max died,” I sighed, moving to the second drawer, which held more papers.

Sir Marcus barely raised a brow, quite happily sipping his brandy while I perused the room. “It's very Spartan, isn't it? I wonder if Rod threw out all those graphic nude Nubian postcards I brought Max from Africa last year?”

I blushed in spite of myself.

“No sign of them languishing under all those papers?” Sir Marcus asked hopefully.

“Why? Do you want them back?”

“Well,” he said, clearing his throat, “'twould be a great waste to throw them out. I spent some time choosing those…by the way, heard from Major Browning lately?”

I paused. “What is your association with him? You're not another detective, are you, hiding under the shade of your title?”

“‘The shade of my title,'” Sir Marcus echoed. “I like that, and no, can't abide the fellows. Police. Scotland Yard. I'm more interested in the whys and hows and I suspect from your upturned lip that that blaggard Browning never contacted you after the Padthaway affair.”

I tried to lift an indifferent brow.

“It might interest you to know he was called away.”

I said I didn't care. How hard was it for a man at sea to pick up a pen and write? He couldn't even spare
one
minute when I'd taken the trouble to post
two
letters. “There's a locked drawer here.”

“A locked drawer.” Rubbing his hands together, Sir Marcus was inspired to get up out of the chair. “The proverbial bottom drawer in every man's study. Why do you think it's always number three? The lower one, the one to be ashamed of, the one to hide risqué postcards?”

While he pondered, I explored. No way in…unless…“Do you have a key?”

A cynical brow answered me.

“Trust me. It worked
once
.”

“At Padthaway?” Intrigued, Sir Marcus handed me one from his pocket. I asked him which one of his many properties did this key belong to and he grimaced. “A modest cottage. Do you believe me?”

I said I did not, too busy trying to jimmy the key in the drawer.

“You'd better not break that,” Sir Marcus cautioned. “His lordship might take offense, especially if he's watching his pennies.”

I said “hmmm,” though I had difficulty imagining Roderick exhibiting any great emotion. Max, on the other hand, yes. “Do you think Max ever hit Kate?”

Sir Marcus chewed on his lower lip. “Saw him squeeze her neck against a wall once…he was drunk, of course, and we intervened. He did seem sorry for it later when he sobered up. Poor fellow was a madman.”

I shivered and felt sorry for Kate. It must have been dreadful being condemned to live with a man given to violent outbursts, immoderate habits, and uncontrollable alcohol abuse that invariably led to a beastlike nature. I understood why she'd picked Josh Lissot for a lover. He possessed a calm certainty, and he was a man to look up to, not to fear. “Has she had many affairs over the years?”

“I believe the two had an
understanding
in that department.”

“Hence the great marriage façade,” I echoed, now frustrated with the drawer. “I
could
break the underlay. Even just a little piece might do the trick.”

Ignoring Sir Marcus's cautionary glance, I broke a piece off and pulled it out. A small hole emerged, large enough for two fingers to slip through and probe. “More papers,” I moaned, “oh, and something round…feels like a scroll.” Carefully sliding out the beribboned scroll after a few efforts, I chuckled softly and thought of Ewe Sinclaire and how she'd love to embroil herself in this mystery.

“What have you?”

Sir Marcus peered over my shoulder.

“A last will and testament, I hope.” Unrolling the purloined item on the desk, I grinned. “And written by Max Trevalyan himself, it seems.”