A Most Novel Revenge Page 5

  She looked up as I hovered in the doorway, and it was too late to retreat.

  “Oh, good morning, Mrs. Ames.”

  I would not have taken Isobel Van Allen for an early riser. She seemed to me the type of woman who would enjoy lounging about in her negligee until noon, but perhaps it was unfair of me to assume such things. She certainly was well turned out this morning. She wore a black, exquisitely cut suit, and her makeup was flawless. Her hair, too, was perfectly done. Eschewing the more current short styles, she wore it in a low chignon at the back of her neck. The sleek elegance of it suited her.

  “Good morning, Miss Van Allen.”

  I went to the sideboard. There were a great many dishes from which to choose. I settled on eggs, toast, and fruit, and poured myself a cup of coffee from the silver pot.

  “I see we have beaten the others to breakfast,” I said, taking a seat at the table.

  “I developed the habit of rising early in Kenya,” she replied. “I loved the sunrise. It was unlike anything on earth, I think, that bright orange globe setting everything it touched ablaze.”

  There was a faraway expression in her eyes as she spoke and a note of tenderness in her voice. It was almost like the expression of a woman in love. Clearly, her adopted homeland had won her heart. I wondered once again what had really brought her back to England.

  “You’re wondering why I came back, I suppose,” she said, with somewhat uncanny accuracy.

  I smiled. “Perhaps it’s true that no place compares to home.”

  She laughed, though there was more bitterness than humor in it. “Not at all, Mrs. Ames. England has no great appeal for me, not anymore. Especially in winter. I hate it.”

  It was, at least, one thing that she and Desmond Roberts had in common.

  “Then what brought you back? Surely you needn’t have come to Lyonsgate to write your novel.” I was almost surprised to hear myself ask the question, but Miss Van Allen was a plainspoken woman, and I didn’t suppose there was any reason that I shouldn’t be the same.

  She looked as though she was about to say something, but then seemed to think better of it. Instead, she smiled. “I would much rather have stayed away, but one can’t always follow one’s heart, can one? Of course,” she went on, artfully shifting the subject, “you seem to have been lucky in that respect, Mrs. Ames. Milo seems very devoted to you.”

  Since she had been out of the country for years, I didn’t think this was meant as a spiteful reference to Milo’s less-than-sterling reputation and our well-publicized marital troubles.

  “We’re very happy,” I said, and I meant it. These past few months had been some of the happiest of our marriage, and, for the first time in years, I felt that I had found my footing where Milo was concerned.

  “Yes, I can see that you are. I’ve always thought it would take an extraordinary woman indeed to secure Milo Ames. I compliment you for having succeeded.”

  It was an odd sort of accolade, but seemed to be a sincere one. I smiled. “Thank you.”

  She took a sip of her coffee. “There was a time when I had hoped to find such happiness, but life often takes us in unexpected directions.” Her tone was not bitter, nor did it ask for pity. In fact, I was certain she would have despised the idea that she might elicit compassion.

  This conversation was not going the way I had expected. Everything I had seen of her thus far had prepared me to dislike Isobel Van Allen completely. Now I felt the tug of some other emotion. It wasn’t sympathy, exactly; she was not a woman who would require it. Yet I felt that she had revealed something of herself to me that was normally kept hidden beneath the flawless exterior. “It’s never too late for happiness, surely,” I said lightly.

  She looked at me, her gaze curiously intense. “Do you think it’s necessary for people to pay for their sins, Mrs. Ames?” she asked.

  I hesitated. “I believe redemption is possible,” I said at last.

  Something flickered across her face. I might have mistaken it for contempt had I not been sure that there was a deep sadness in her eyes.

  “I wish I could believe that,” she said, rising from her seat. “Sadly, I think sometimes it is too late, and all one can do is prepare to make the payment. Good day, Mrs. Ames.”

  She walked from the room before I could formulate a reply, and I was left wondering just who it was that Isobel Van Allen thought had a debt to pay.

  * * *

  DULY NOURISHED, I decided to pay a visit to Laurel’s room before rousting my husband from bed.

  I found my cousin wrapped in a robe of marigold-colored silk and drinking a cup of coffee near the fire, a tray of half-eaten breakfast on the table beside her.

  “I couldn’t bear to come down,” she said when I had seated myself across from her. “Not after what happened last night. I hadn’t the stomach for it this morning. Was it as awful as one might suppose?”

  “Apparently, nearly everyone felt the same as you did. It was only Miss Van Allen and me at breakfast.”

  “Poor Amory. It was cruel of us to leave you alone with her. I’ll attend lunch, I promise. Was she unbearable?”

  “Not at all. She’s a very interesting woman,” I said thoughtfully. “Laurel, will you tell me what happened that night?”

  She didn’t ask what night I meant. She was quiet for a moment, and then she set down her cup and saucer and pulled her robe more tightly around herself.

  “I don’t really know,” she said at last. “That’s the dreadful thing. Not really knowing what happened, how things might have been different if we had behaved differently.”

  Her voice trailed off for a moment, and I waited, giving her time to gather her recollections.

  “It was after one of the long weekend parties. Almost everyone had gone back to London, and there was only the small group of us remaining. It was after dinner, quite late, but we were all in high spirits and in the mood for a bit of adventure. Someone—I don’t remember who—had the idea that we might go out on the lake in the boats and we all seemed to think this was a grand idea. But we found the water was too frozen along the shore, and so we went into the summerhouse. Someone started a fire and there was a phonograph. It was Isobel’s, I believe. There was a little desk in the summerhouse, and she would go there to write, even then. We were dancing, laughing. There had been a great deal of drinking, and other things.”

  “Drugs.”

  “Yes. You know I’ve never been interested in that sort of thing. In truth, the weekend was rather more excessive than I had expected. I’d had only a glass or two of wine at dinner, and I decided after a while to go back to the house. I went to my room and fell asleep. It wasn’t until morning that I knew anything was amiss. I had just come down for breakfast when I heard Freida outside, running up from the summerhouse. She was screaming. Sometimes I still have nightmares about her screams.”

  So it had been Freida Collins, the final guest who would arrive tomorrow with her husband, Phillip, who had discovered the body. Freida was the only one of the group, aside from Laurel, with whom I was acquainted. We had been at school together, but I had not spoken to her since before the tragedy. I wondered absently what she had been doing walking outside early on a cold morning after a wild night.

  “We all ran outside to see what had happened,” Laurel continued, “all of us from different parts of the house, as if her shrieking was some sort of siren’s song. Freida was hysterical, pointing in the direction of the summerhouse. We all ran down there and…”

  She stopped, and I waited for her to collect her thoughts.

  “And then we found him dead in the snow,” she said softly. “It was dreadful, Amory. He was so very white. And his eyes were open, staring. Such a ghastly expression on his face.”

  She shuddered. She was clearly still deeply affected by what had happened.

  “I’m sorry, dear. If you don’t want to say anything more…”

  She shook her head. “It’s been a long time. Perhaps I should have talke
d about it before now.”

  “What happened then?” I asked.

  “It was Gareth who called the doctor. He called the police as well, I think. He was the only one of us who seemed to have any sense.”

  I thought it surprising that the dreamy-eyed Mr. Winters should have been the one with enough presence of mind to send for the authorities.

  “Was everyone there when they found him?”

  “I … I think so. Freida had collapsed up at the house and didn’t go back with us, and Phillip went back to look after her. I remember Bradford walked away and was sick. It was Beatrice who got a blanket from the summerhouse and covered Edwin. The rest of us just stood there until the doctor came.”

  “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.”