Peril at Somner House (19 page)

“Dead!” Angela shrieked. “Are you jesting, Major? Is this some kind of a midnight ruse?”

“No, it is not.”

Dropping her knife, Kate sprang to her feet. “Whatever do you mean? It has to be a ruse! It must be! He can't be
dead
…”

She raced off toward his room. The Major tried to hold her back, indeed, he tried to hold all of us back, but like a herd of elephants, we hurried down the hallway and into the bathroom.

Poor Josh Lissot, murdered in his bath. A knife stuck out of his heart and I turned away, sickened at the sight of blood. It was tragic, but in death, he never looked more beautiful. His luxuriant black hair had curled around his face where a surprised expression remained fixed. I felt ill, so did the others, and Kate wept. Sliding to her knees, she hugged the corpse, her anguished cries cursing whoever had done it, whoever had committed the foul deed.

I don't think any of us slept that night. There was little to do; no authorities could be contacted in the middle of the night, in the midst of a wild, raging storm. We were stranded upon yet another island as mere visitors. Alone, we bore the tragic horror of Mr. Lissott's death, and I felt it most keenly after our conversation on the hillside. He had been so charming and kind and artistic; it seemed a dreadful waste of life.

“Why would anyone want to murder Josh?” Arabella whispered to me from the darkness of our bedroom.

“I don't know…” my voice trailed off, trying to think of a reason.

I couldn't find one. All I knew was that there were seven of us left and therefore seven suspects, nine including Mrs. Trent and her husband, but what reason could anyone have for stabbing Josh Lissot in his bath?

“It's very odd,” Bella murmured despondently. “Poor Mr. Lissott. I don't know why Kate is so fickle. She's had many lovers and she was never a faithful wife.”

“Was her husband faithful to her, though?”

“Max?” Bella laughed, a strange bitter laugh. “Goodness, no. And I suppose I can't blame her, really, for seeking love elsewhere. But I'll never forgive her for toying with Rod. You made him see other women are worthy of his affection. Not just her. That there
are
other women out there, ones just as interesting and desirable as she.”

I registered the pain in her voice. Mentally assessing each possible suspect, I succumbed to the ugliness of it all. Death was never pleasant, but these crimes were particularly brutal.

I cursed the murderer, whoever he or she proved to be, for Josh Lissot was a good man and he deserved a better end.

I imagined Kate awake, crying, unable to believe that her
lover lay a stiff corpse a few feet from her bed. I grieved with her, secure in the knowledge that Angela would comfort her.

 

The morning confirmed her deep reliance on all of her friends. She needed them to help her through the dark tunnel of her life. She confessed her love for him to all of us, tearful, unable to eat her breakfast or even sip a cup of tea. She inconsolably grieved for the man she loved, who had suffered acutely on her behalf. He had been arrested and incarcerated, then liberated, only to meet with such a death.

The morning also brought with it the burning clarity that a murderer resided amongst us.
A serpent within the garden of discontent,
I scribbled down on a sheet of paper whilst sipping my coffee. There was little else to do. Numbed by the horror, we waited. We consoled Kate. We listened to the men discuss the business of the body.

It was quickly decided that it must accompany us back to St. Mary's and taken to Mr. Fernald.

“It's a good thing his boss has arrived,” Sir Marcus said. “I doubt that man would ever catch a killer. He's too…”

“Priggish?” the Major suggested.

“That's not quite the right phrase, but it'll suffice. He failed to come up with a plausible end to poor old Maxie and now Josh at his bath. Disgraceful! Who'd kill a man at his tub? Most inconsiderate. Very ill-mannered and unmanly a thing to do.”

“Don't trivialize the matter,” Angela snapped from a far corner, holding Kate in her arms. “Can't you see it's distressing her?”

“Well, it's a distressing matter,” Sir Marcus defended himself. “And if I appear heartless—”

“Yes, heartless,” Angela insisted.

Seizing an armchair opposite me in the lounge room, Major Browning lifted a brow. “You are mesmerizing, Daphne.” Bending his head low, so that only I could hear, he said it again.

“Mesmerizing,” my soft echo transcended the silent chasm between us. “How does one know one is mesmerizing?”

“When one hears it from an ardent admirer.”

I turned a deeper shade of scarlet. With him so close, so alluringly close, I completely lost my resolve.

“There shall be an inquiry, I suppose, into this death?” I brought the subject up purely out of fear to continue the other.

“More than an inquiry. And everybody has a motive. Even you.”

“Me?”

“Inspiration,” he teased. “Make a murder. Write a story about it. I can see you selling your story to the paper.”

“I'll never be a journalist,” I retorted. “I prefer fiction. And speaking of motivations, what are Sir Marcus's and Bella's then? They can have no reason for wishing Mr. Lissot dead.”

He clicked his tongue. “The only one who is exempt in this affair is Mr. Davis…for he wasn't present at either.”

“Or Rachael Eastley or her father, for neither are here now.” I pointed out.

We both sat in silence. Sir Marcus soon wandered in, Lord Roderick not far behind him.

Offering my chair to Sir Marcus, I offered silent comfort to the long-suffering Lord Roderick as he patiently listened to Mrs. Trent's prattle.

“We'll have to rip out the bathtub,” she told her husband, “and shut off the room.” She shivered. “Ungodly thing to happen.”

“We'll do no such thing,” her husband challenged.

“Oh, yes, we will. It's awful and I'd be too frightened to stay…”

I drew Roderick away to the window to avoid the confrontation.

“A storm passes and another begins,” he spoke, staring at the pale sun on the tranquil garden outside.

We were all relieved to return to St. Mary's Island.

It was the grisly duty of the Major and Lord Roderick to bear the makeshift hessian bag containing the body. They were careful to shield Kate's eyes from it as much as possible, Angela's help being enlisted again, and Bella and I were called upon to oversee everything else.

“The murder weapon was one of Mrs. Trent's kitchen knives,” Bella nudged me. “It's frightening to think one of us did it, isn't it?”

Her sharp eyes searched mine.

“Somebody must have had a reason to hate Josh,” I surmised.

“You naïvely believe
logic
must always provide a reason for murder? Who defines logic, Miss du Maurier? You? I?”

Her reasoning haunted me because of its rationality.

Little conversation ensued for the rest of the drive. Arriving at the house, we all dispersed and I began to mix a little laudanum for Kate.

“No,
opium,
” Kate pleaded, sprawled upon the bed in her
retreat room, for she professed she'd never again set foot in the downstairs bedroom, which had featured so extensively in her life with her dead lover.

Shoving her purse to me, Angela gave the instructions and I was dispatched to mix drugs. I'd never done so before and I felt decidedly uncomfortable. Angela said Kate needed something stronger than laudanum and asked who were we to say no under the circumstance. However, I would have preferred the recommendation of a doctor.

My task became harder when I saw Hugo hovering over the kitchen bench. Tired and irritable, I was in no mood to wait for him to finish cutting up vegetables. “I am in need of a spoon, Hugo. Quick, if you please.”

Slowly putting down his knife, he gave me a passing sideways glance. I looked at the knife and shivered.

Fetching what I required, he returned to his vegetables and I returned to the darkened room. Drapes drawn, Kate moaned appreciatively when I put the tonic I'd mixed into her hands. “Oh, thank you, Daphne, thank you.”

I watched as she faded into sleep, a smile on her face.

“It's the essence of supreme calm,” Angela said. “I'll watch over her…you can go, if you like.”

I nodded, watching Kate Trevalyan sleep, wondering how she'd ever recover losing a husband and a lover.

 

When I emerged from my room some hours later, I hesitated on where to go. Who did I want to see and whom did I wish to avoid?

Creeping downstairs and out the front door, I decided to go and see Mrs. Eastley. She'd find the news alarming, and in
the delivery of it, I hoped she'd betray a confidence. I believed she was somehow involved in Max's death, and that her serene face was merely a veil to hide the truth.

Having put in the effort to come all this way into town when what I really needed was a good, long sleep, I pushed my hand on the door when advised she was not at home.

“It's quite important I speak with her, Nanny.” I added the title as an afterthought, exactly as Mrs. Eastley did.

“She's workin'. If ye must see her, ye'll have to go there.”

“Thank you.” I smiled, and asked for directions.

I still had difficulty equating my well-bred Mrs. Eastley with the local pub and its auspicious name, the Fiddler's Pipe. In my estimation, Rachael Eastley did not belong to this world; I fancied her as a Victorian lady or a governess, soft-spoken and modestly dressed in widow's weeds.

Upon entering the bar, considering my intrusion, I came straight to the point.

Shock spiraled in her large eyes.

“We're all vexed over it,” I went on, “
two
murders in such a short period of time.”

A frown marring her delicate forehead, Mrs. Eastley silently removed her working apron. Leading me to a private room, she thanked me for taking the trouble to inform her in advance of these terrible tidings.

“The murder occurred at the cottage of Mr. and Mrs. Trent.”

The news startled her as we leaned against an obliging wall in the cleaner's room.

“Mrs. Trent helped deliver your baby, didn't she?”

The answer was long in coming. “Yes. How is Mrs. Trent? You left her well, I trust?”

“Troubled, to say the least.”

“In the early days,” she said, a light laugh escaping her lips, “long ago now, Max and I used to meet in this room. Dear Max…he had a gentleness to him back then. The drugs killed it, more surely than any war.”

“Are you afraid for your son's life?” I whispered after a moment's silence.

“Not from Roderick Trevalyan. I'm sure he'd never do anything to harm the boy.”

“But from someone else?”

“Yes,” she breathed, sighing. “I don't trust Arabella Woodford. I never have. I fear
she'd
hurt my boy if he were ever to venture into Somner House.”

In appreciation for Mrs. Eastley's confidence, I shared my own misgivings about Bella.

“I believe
she
finished Max off after my father witnessed Josh Lissot and Kate Trevalayn drag him out of the house.”

“Could your father have killed Max to protect you?”

“Oh, he'd
threatened
to do so often enough, but I know my dad. To kill Max when he had agreed to his demands doesn't make any sense. Dad wants Somner for my son, who is the true heir. You know these old families in Cornwall often include illegitimate contenders to title?”

“Which is why you're still afraid. For your son.”

She nodded in the darkness, retying her apron. “Daphne,
do
be careful up there. Please, let it not be
you
next.”

 

I left Hugh Town decidedly uneasy. Rachael Eastley's words haunted my every step as I crossed the fields of heather and made my return to Somner House.

“Somner House,” I whispered, “a subtle peril grows within you and all those around you. What is your secret?”

My uneasiness increased the moment I hung my coat by the front door. An eerie silence pervaded the empty parlor, the grotesque paintings of war too true to life.

The door creaked behind me and I jumped.

“Forgive me.” Mr. Davis blundered in, shrugging off his greatcoat. “I should be more soft-footed. My mother always said so. Oh dear, is something the matter? Where are the others?”

By his countenance, I could see he hadn't heard the news yet. I lingered in the corridor, wondering if he'd betray his relief at his rival's death. “How is your uncle? I trust you found him well?”

His brow furrowed before he smiled. “Oh, he's not really my uncle. A friend of the family, but we've always called him uncle. He likes to fish—Dear me, are you all right, Daphne?”

I told him of the murder.

“Josh Lissot! Dead! But how? When?
Who?
Blast! I wish I was there. I wish I was on hand to…” He glanced upstairs. “I have to go to her. I have to see—”

“I don't think that's wise right now.” I stopped him. “She's sleeping.”

I neglected to mention the opium but I guessed, having known the couple so intimately all these years, that he was aware of Kate's occasional indulgence.

“Oh, I see…yes, you're right. Sleep is the best thing. She's had too many shocks, and if you're going up there, can you check on her for me? Give her a message?”

“Yes, I can, if my sister allows it. She's guarding her.”

“Kate is very lucky to have your sister. My message is just an embrace. Will you do that?”

“I will,” I promised.

When I went to look in, the room was very dark, and the lamps were turned down low. I heard the peaceful breathing of a deep, dreamless slumber and there the two of them lay, like frightened children, wrapped in each other's arms.

On the little bedside table, I glimpsed a discarded note. Tiptoeing closer, careful of the treacherous floorboards beneath my feet, I reached over to retrieve it. So slow and methodical in my movements, I knew I'd not wake them, not in the midst of a drug-induced lethargy. I began to read the tear-blotted scrap of paper.

My heart swam with pity. Could he have taken his own life? How loathsome and how tragic and I wished—I wished—I could have talked him out of it. I wished I'd paid more attention to him that day on the hillside. The fragile flowers we had so admired were represenative of him—not his erstwhile lover. She must have given him her answer that day.

I felt ill. I wish I'd been there for Josh instead of wandering off and enjoying the Major's company. Why hadn't I been
more thoughtful? Why hadn't I even bothered to look for him? One look at his face and I should have known…

Once in my room, I went over the day in my mind. I had been too immersed in my walk and Major Browning's kiss to perceive anyone else's pain. Josh had walked with Bella and Roderick most of the day, if I remembered correctly, while Kate, Angela, the Major, and Sir Marcus had sauntered on ahead.

Suddenly, all thought deserted me and I drifted to sleep. I dreamt of a dark sky and ferocious birds circling the tower, restless with their beaks and barbed teeth, resembling rats. I stood their victim, partially concealed inside the tower, praying the shadows kept me safe. The sky turned red and Rachael Eastley's face appeared out of a mist, perfect and serene as she looked over Max's body and began to laugh, her black hair blowing in the wind.

I woke with a fright. Hunting for my clock, I saw it was five thirty. I tried to sleep a little more but the nightmare prevented me from it. Frustrated, I switched on the light to write. Scribbling down a wild collage of random names, thoughts, suspects, desires, secrets, motivations, actions, personality traits, and background information. I eventually circled four names.

Content, I awaited the new day.

 

“I have to know who did it!” I announced, barging into Sir Marcus's bedroom.

Darkness enshrouded his body as he plied a pillow over his head. “Oh, go away! Whoever it is, I've only just gone to bed.”

Navigating my way through his discarded clothing, I yanked back the drapes. My startling action caused him to turn seed
ily on his side, propping up his head, one eye open and his brow testy.

“I know who did it,” I blazed on, triumphant. “At least, one of these four.” I shoved the piece of paper before his bloodshot eyes.

“Blimey, girl. Can you write any smaller? I can scarcely see a thing!”

“It's the whiskey, not my writing,” I informed, sitting down beside him. “So this is how you keep a room…. I'm afraid us being married won't do at all, for you are decidedly too messy.”

A lazy shrug rolled over his shoulders as he sighed, collapsing back onto his pillow to read the names on my list aloud. “Bella, Jackson, Kate, and…
Kate?
Have you gone mad? Have you taken leave of your senses?”

“Yes, and no. If you think about it, everything revolves around one person: Kate.”

“And the saintly Mrs. Eastley? She doesn't fit into the equation?”

“She is merely a mother protecting her son. She has no motivation to kill his father.”

“It's…possible that you are correct.”

“Thank you for your confidence in me.”

“I suppose you and Major Magnificent have worked all this out.”

I gave him a woebegone look. “Why ought we when Mysterious M is on the case?”

He blinked, and a curl of pleasure wound its way through his quivering lips. “I must say, I am flattered. You know another word for flattery is ‘to gloze.' Scribe that down, novelist, in your doodles.”

“Doodles? I certainly do not doodle.”

Sitting up, he failed to make any effort to correct his misshapen, spiky hair or the fallen order of his singlet. He did, however, snatch a blanket to conceal his bed-shorts with some modicum of dignity. “You do realize, Miss Daphne, you have compromised yourself by coming here in all this lather to see me.”

“Oh, please. We're in the
twentieth
century now—”

He coughed. “I beg to differ. Your parents, I am sure, would severely disapprove of you entering the apartments of a bachelor, unchaperoned.”

“But Angela—”

“Angela,” he declared, sounding very much the schoolmaster, “lacks your refinement.”

I assumed he was teasing me and called him the “Chief of Gloze” in return. A deep-throated laugh rumbled out of his mouth.

“Shhh! We'll wake them.”

“Wake whom, Miss Daphne? The drugged or Miss Wooden Woodford? If it's the latter, I'd dispense with the pretenses. She already knows you're in this room by now. She keeps tabs on all of us.”

My face turned scarlet.

“And will probably publicize the fact at breakfast…to ruin your honor in the eyes of your copious suitors.”

“I do not have copious suitors.”

“You have two. Major Magnificent and Lord Roderick Trevalyan. Perhaps Davis, too…he seemed rather taken with you. Ah,” he said, tapping his lips thoughtfully, “perhaps our Katie will now accept his proposal? It's either him or Rod. She is the marrying kind of girl. Needing money…and security…”

“That's no reason to marry,” I snapped.

“I've offered her an alternative,” Sir Marcus admitted, referring to his role as a rich benefactor. “A living, as my secretary. And I can set her up in her own studios if she wishes and support her until she gleans out enough patrons of her own.”

“That was very kind of you,” I replied, slightly envious.

“But, of course, she refused.”