A Poisonous Journey (48 page)
"He is right." I stifle a yawn. "Let us try to sleep, and we will find a solution in the morning. Caspar’s murderer has been caught at last, that is most important."
Jeffrey frowns while he gets to his feet, holding out a hand to Briony. "In all probability, you are right, though I do not take pleasure knowing a complicit to murder is sleeping safe and sound under my roof."
"We cannot know how well she was informed. It will be best if Briony and Evelyn confront her tomorrow. One way or another, a decision will be made."
Amidst general agreement, we go to our rooms. Briony and Jeffrey sleep on the western side of the house, Daniel and I on the eastern side. Thus, Daniel and I are left alone upon the landing.
Unspoken words hang heavily in the air between us, but before I can encourage elucidation, he swallows them and only wishes me a weak goodnight. When I close the door of my room behind me, I hear his footsteps growing fainter as he walks away.
So much has happened in so little time. It was really only a moment ago I snuck out of Aunt Agnes’ house in Eaton Square. Recalling my rather underhand action, I remember the envelope, which arrived in the post today. A letter from the very woman. I didn’t open it when Briony gave it to me, but instead left it on my dressing table, almost afraid of the harsh words and accusations it might contain.
But now … I walk to the dresser where the unassuming envelope is still waiting in a puddle of yellow lamplight. I pick it up gingerly with the tips of my fingers. The paper is smooth, yet heavy in the way of high quality stationary. Her prim and precise writing is instantly recognizable on the back. I gnaw on my bottom lip. I faced two murderers in as many days. Should I not be able to open a simple envelope? Reaching for a hatpin, I slice it open.
The letter is longer than expected, two sheets filled with delicate boarding-school handwriting. I can picture Agnes at her Chippendale table in the blue parlor overlooking the square, scribbling away to that thankless niece of hers. I crouch down on the end of the bed and, with a tightness around my heart, begin to read.
April 20, 1925
12 Eaton Square
Belgravia, London
12 Eaton Square
Belgravia, London
Dear Evelyn,
I received your telegram two days ago. The letter you left at least informed me that you had not been abducted. I am glad you are well. Long voyages can bring on all sorts of illnesses, not to mention the inherent perils. Briony is a sensible girl and will see to it that you do not disgrace yourself. I was sorry to hear of the death of the Englishman and hope it has been resolved.
A slight change in the color of the ink here leads me to believe she wrote the following at some later time.
Evelyn, your low regard of my person has not escaped me. You have made your disdain for my way of life, for my attitudes, clear on many occasions. I am not so obtuse as you may imagine, and you not so talented an actress. I will not make accusations, for I do understand. I understand I am not your mother. You have never viewed me as such, and perhaps I am to blame. You have resented me for not being my sister, either sister, I should add. You have always loved Iris much more than me. Maybe I am not a particularly warm person, nor do I make my sentiments known to those around me. We all have our faults, do we not? A fault I will not own, however, is that I do not love you. After the fire, Iris and even your father’s family wanted charge of you, but I would not hear of it. Brendan and I faught for you, and we never regretted it. I am set in my ways, heaven knows, I was stubborn even as a child, but this one time, my determination bore fruit. We always regarded you as a daughter, our daughter. If I was cross or rigid in your upbringing, it was because I felt the need to protect you. To keep you, this fragment of my lost sister, alive and safe as I had promised I would. I am sorry you felt the need to flee home so secretively, though I will not deny I would have attempted to prevent such a flight.
When you decide to come back, you will always have a home here, whether you see it this way yet or not. Harris and Milly send their love.
Take care, my dear.
Yours faithfully,
Agnes
Agnes
I sit motionless on the edge of the bed, the letter in my lap. The words drift through my mind.
I faught for you … you will always have a home here.
She felt the distance between us as acutely as I did. I wince at the unadorned truth behind her revelations. I did resent her, wanted my mother or Iris, anyone but her. I hated her rigidity, hated her conservative views, the way she was bent on crushing any thought of excitement or adventure. And she knew. She
knew.
I faught for you … you will always have a home here.
She felt the distance between us as acutely as I did. I wince at the unadorned truth behind her revelations. I did resent her, wanted my mother or Iris, anyone but her. I hated her rigidity, hated her conservative views, the way she was bent on crushing any thought of excitement or adventure. And she knew. She
knew.
Putting the letter on my bedside table, I turn off the light. The room is nearly black now. This day, this long day is finally at an end. So many confessions, so many truths uncovered. Some can make the world better and some … only more complicated.
I close my eyes. Coming here was like dropping a stone into a pond, ripples forming all around, Caspar’s death, Darius’ breakdown, Paul’s confession. Good as well though; being with Briony, visiting Knossos, meeting Daniel …
CHAPTER 43
I wake up early the next morning and remain idly in bed in a weak attempt to delay the conversation we must have with Niobe, dreading what Dymas will say about Paul. .
Just as I am convinced I can make out Pegasus in the rough plaster swirls of the ceiling, I hear a knock on my door and jolt upright at the idea of Niobe having come looking to brush my hair … or scalp me.
"Who it it?"
"It’s me," Briony answers, and I breathe a sigh of relief.
"Come in!"
She does and the door swings open, revealing my cousin already dressed in a dark blue sheath.
"You look well." I pat the spot beside me. Briony crosses the room and climbs onto the rumpled duvet.
"I could barely sleep, Evie."
Indeed, upon closer inspection I notice the deep shadows under her eyes and experience a stab of guilt that I, oddly enough, was able to sleep like a babe. I blame it on sheer exhaustion and not on lack of compassion or conscience.
"Is Jeffrey awake?"
"Yes, he asked us to join him for breakfast in half an hour, so we may discuss how to proceed. I told cook we only want some toast, so Niobe won’t enter while we are discussing her fate in this household."
"It has to be done, and so far we don’t know if Dymas will charge her with anything.
Nobody can prove she was in any way complicit. Paul wouldn’t admit to it, especially if she tells him she is having his child."
"The morals of a murderer." Briony shrugs.
"Yes, it is still hard to believe two people in our aquaintance have committed such crimes, taken lives."
"Do you think Daniel has, too? He was in the war, in France, surely—"
"That is different!" I insist with more vehemence than intended. Briony raises a curious eyebrow, and I continue in a more even tone. "He was a soldier. In war … in war, I suppose, it’s not considered murder."
"It is still killing. Don’t misunderstand, I am not judging him. If not for men like Daniel, things may have ended very badly for us. I only wonder how he copes with it, especially now. He has dealt with a great deal of tragedy in his life, carries around so many ghosts, sometimes he himself seems like one. Still, he appears more alive than he did three months ago. Jeffrey agrees with me, as it happens."
While I am not deaf to the meaning of her words, I am not ready to embark upon such a discussion, so I only shrug and reply, "What will happen to Niobe?"
"Jeffrey insists we let her go. He assumes Dymas will arrest her, but as you say, there is little if any evidence and none, if Paul wishes to keep her out of it. Besides, she is an islander. The people here tend to protect their own against outsiders. It was bad enough Darius turned out such a bad seed. Dymas is probably relieved Paul is the person responsible for Caspar’s death. He can dismiss it as a squabble between foreigners."
"Give him some credit. He has acted very fairly and even kept us informed all the while." I feel slightly defensive on the part of the inspector.
"Fair or not, you must admit Paul being the guilty one makes the situation significantly easier for him."
"Politically perhaps, though in no other way I can think of. Paul will never meet his child, and Rosie has lost the one person who had hope in her recovery. It is a tragic situation."
Briony nods in sad agreement.
"What do
you
want to do, about Niobe?" I ask. Mentioning Niobe and Paul’s child has cast a shadow over her eyes. To her credit, she does not moan about the unfairness of it all. A woman—likely was complicit to murder—has exactly what she herself has been yearning for.
you
want to do, about Niobe?" I ask. Mentioning Niobe and Paul’s child has cast a shadow over her eyes. To her credit, she does not moan about the unfairness of it all. A woman—likely was complicit to murder—has exactly what she herself has been yearning for.
Briony leans against the headboard. "She and Yannick must marry soon. They will live with her family. Yannick can retain his position here. Niobe would soon leave us anyway, wouldn’t she, when the child is born."
"This sounds like the most practical solution," I answer slowly, assessing her expression.
"It is for the best. There are many women who can take her place."
By some instinct, or simply the desire to see a smile upon her face, I ask, "Have you finished Areta’s dress?"
The smile appears, though small and sad. "Yes. I will give it to her on Saturday."
"Have you …" I falter, biting my lip as I am in the habit of doing. "Have you spoken to Jeffrey? About adoption?"
"No, he has been under so much pressure these past days; first, the museum and then Darius and now Paul. It seemed best to wait. I will speak to Sister Sybil first."
"Oh Briony, you must tell him soon. You cannot make these plans with the Sister and not consult the would-be father."
"What if he refuses?"
"You must take him to meet the child."
"If he says no then, it will be even worse. It will mean he does not like her."
"Nonsense. If he says no, it shows he is afraid. He will be afraid. Taking on a child not biologically yours is an endeavour worthy of contemplation, for your own good and Areta’s."
"Do you think he will agree to accompanying me?" Briony looks at me with pleading eyes, reminding of a much younger, no less vulnerable version of herself. I clasp her hand and give it a small squeeze.
"I do." Adding in a lighter tone, "and if he does not, I certainly will."
The smile touches her eyes, and I am once again reassured in my decision to come here.
"Shall we go to breakfast?" Briony is already climbing off the bed.
"In a minute, first I have to show you something." I reach over to the bedside table where Agnes’ letter lies waiting. Unfolding the stiff paper, I show it to my cousin. "Aunt Agnes wrote to me."
"I know. I gave you the letter—"
"No, look." I hold it out to her. Reluctantly she takes the sheaves from my outstretched hands.
"I can’t read this, it’s private!"
"Forget decorum for a moment, Briony. I could just as well tell you what it says."
"Fine, give it here then." Reluctantly my cousin takes the letter and leans against the sturdy bedpost as her eyes dart across the pages. When she is finished, Briony places them gently on my bedside table.
"Are you pleased?"
"Pleased? Do you mean, am I relieved she doesn’t hate me as I suspected?"
"Come now, don’t be so dramatic. You always knew she didn’t hate you."
"I never felt loved, never accepted. Why would she fight for me as she says, if she couldn’t kiss me when I scraped a knee or hold my hand when I went off to school?"
"It’s not her way."
"What an easy explanation!"
"I am not her greatest champion by any means. I just want to say, it was hard for her, too. In some sense, she probably assumed providing in other ways was more important, that it compensated enough. Perhaps she thought she was doing you a favor, hardening you in a way."
"Hardening me? Why should a child need to be hardened? I had lost my parents!" I notice the volume of my voice creeping up as I vent my frustrations, feel the heat in my cheeks as I put into words the pain that has dwelt within me for so long. I never liked speaking about it, only jokingly complaining about Agnes’ shortcomings, rarely daring to acknowledge much more. There was always a barrier of guilt and necessary gratitude preventing me. I forced myself to remember the ways in which I was fortunate to have Agnes in my life. Those past years of unvoiced unhappiness building up inside of me created a bitterness I was not truly been aware of. I lean against the bedpost, self-conscious at my outburst and oddly relieved at once.
"I know." Her voice carries a hint of melancholy, and she takes hold of my hand. "What happened to your parents was so tragic. Agnes is not the sort of person to comfort with kindness. Her comfort was by being useful. She was probably under the impression that she was helping you, as well as helping herself by being useful. Jeffrey is the same. After we lost the baby, he buried himself in his work. I think that is why I sometimes so resent it. There are different people on this planet, countless different people, who see and feel and grieve differently. We cannot possibly understand it all."
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