Peril at Somner House (3 page)

We dressed in silence that evening.

Angela's thoughts were far away, introspective. She often behaved so before dressing for an important social function.

“Daphne, pass me the violet lipstick, would you?”

Awed by the theatrical aspects of her appearance, and the process involved in which to achieve such a spectacle, I had paid scant attention to mine.

“You're not really going to wear
that,
are you? You look positively a hundred years old!”

Thus chastised, I shrugged, swapping my dismal skirt and blouse for a cream-colored lace gown, one I'd worn to my cousin's wedding last summer.

Using Angela's hand mirror to brush and curl my hair into shape and apply more than the usual scant makeup, I waited for her return from the bathroom.

“They'll be here any moment and we have to make an impression,” she said, twittering about the room, searching for her handbag.

I dumped the hunted item into her hands.

“You seem on edge, Daph; are you regretting you stayed? Wished you were on your way to the boat and boring old Fowey?”

“No, you have it wrong.”

A vague smile of vacuity passed her lips. “Of course. I always have it wrong.”

On our way down to the parlor to await the celebrity guests, I sensed her flurry of nervousness, her excitability, and I hurried on to press her hand. She glanced at me then, a faint smile on her lips, and pressed mine back. No words were needed but she knew I was here, and that I had decided to stay for her.

I was glad I stayed, too, if I was honest. This place intrigued me as much as any old church or mansion, and staying here presented more possibilities than dreary London or Fowey.

“Beautiful!”

Angela's mood considerably brightened for Kate's benefit, who embraced us both, robed in her own sequin ensemble, shining emerald green and silver.

Max stood beside her, suitably sober and dressed in a black evening suit of impeccable quality. Roderick was there, too, seated in the far corner, his face characteristically inscrutable. Acknowledging our presence with a brief incline of the head, he gazed ahead at a painting on the far wall that had somehow escaped my notice.

A large, long canvas hung above the fireplace, shocking in its gruesome intensity. It was a war time painting of a village under siege, a French village judging from the labyrinth of cobbled streets and quaint rust-colored roofing. Openmouthed mothers screaming for their children, blood-splattered aprons, anguished terrified faces dotting the scene, like unwanted ants
on a picnic blanket, and in the far corner, the German tanks steaming onward with their brutal and deadly approach.

“See the children hiding in the wine vats?” Max's hot breath scathed my ear, “half dead with disease, fright, and starvation? I saw them.”

I blinked at him. “What did you do in the great war?”

“Pi lot,” he saluted. “Firefly Max. We crashed in the forest. I was wounded. These villages brought us food. Kept us alive. Hid us from the Germans.”

Now I understood his penchant for wild, reckless behavior. Anything to escape the dormant terrors of his mind. “Do the fires still burn, Max?” I whispered softly.

Losing his haunted expression, an open vulnerability suddenly usurped the boyishly handsome face. “Yes…they still burn. They burn every day, curse it.”

“Oh, darling.” Lady Kate glided toward us and I stepped a little apart, a trifle intimidated by her luminous, magnetic presence. I didn't know what it was about her. At various times I suppose we all meet with someone who has the power to startle a room. Even if she were mute, I believed she would possess the quality to silence any room at her entry and commandeer a second look.

The others had arrived, three entering the room. The first, Cousin Arabella Woodford of Devonshire, a girl of my age with upswept dark brown hair and a pale, thin face hiding behind spectacles, wearing a sensible gray woolen suit, stockings, and unfashionable boots.

“May I present Sir Marcus Oxley.” Dismissing Bella, Kate betrayed her weakness for nobility. “Sir Marcus has a lovely house just north of London, don't you, Marky?”

A short, stocky man of thirty or so, Sir Marcus Oxley had a
fresh face if not a handsome one, and an adaptability to exude wit, charm, and intelligence all at once. I liked him immensely.

“And Josh.”

I noted the way Kate's voice softened at the name. Was he a special friend of hers, a relative, perhaps? Whoever he was, I was placed next to him at dinner.

“Josh Lissot,” he obliged as he took his seat and my hand. “Of a modest yard in Ireland.”

He was not only young and bright, but quick-witted, too.

“Don't listen to a word he says,” Max said rather too loudly from his end of the table. “Josh lies for a living.”

“Oh?” Angela lifted an amused brow. I'd seen her acknowledge Bella and Sir Marcus, but she didn't seem to know Josh.

“I'm a poor struggling artist, actually,” Josh relayed merrily, quite attractive with his unruly, curling black hair and short, slim stature and kind eyes.

“On the hunt for a new commission,” Max further supplied, tipping his wineglass in mock salute. “Katie's always plugging her contacts for Josh's benefit. How's the sculpting business, old chap?”

“Miserably slow.” Josh smiled. “But I'm working on something entirely new…and hope to finish it while I'm here.”

“Are you staying the whole winter, Mr. Lissot?” Angela asked.

“That depends,” he said, smiling at us all, “on the inspiration factor, and, I suppose, on the tides! We may all be stranded here at your mercy, my lord.” He tipped his glass in polite gesture to Max. “Thank you for having us in your home.”

Typical of his mood, Max ignored this gesture. I had seen his brow glower, and also noticed Kate's sudden edginess, a glassy fear sprinkling her eyes.

As it happened, Sir Marcus carried most of the conversation, helped by Kate, Josh, and occasionally, myself. Bella stared at her plate or bowl or whatever came next throughout dinner, and Roderick, in usual fashion, sat there like a boulder.

I was very interested in Josh's sculpture creation and in Kate's new painting, which she insisted upon keeping to herself. “If one talks too much of it, one won't do it,” said she, and I heeded the wisdom, extremely reluctant to discuss my current work.

Angela operated differently.

“I can't wait to write,” she murmured to me as we labored up the stairs, full with Hugo's delightful, if plain, feast. “What a wealth of secrets lay here.”

I squinted at my watch chain while she saw to the lights. One o'clock! I thought it was late but I hadn't anticipated such lateness, especially considering our guests had endured a long, tiresome journey.

“Did you see Arabella Woodford's face? Dull as a dead horse!”

I checked the door, reminding Angela that Bella's room was directly opposite our own and that she may hear us.

“I doubt it. Sound asleep if I know her type.”

I had to ask for an explanation.

“Hmmm, frustrated female, no marriage offers, getting older, looking after her sickly mother, desperately in love with Rod.”

“Rod?”

“Yes, him. Didn't you see her face light up when he spoke to her or the one smile of the whole evening during their short conversation? What ails these silent types, do you think?”

I didn't know. Intimidation when in the presence of certain
boisterous people or crowds? Afraid to utter a reply should it fail to impress or sound foolish?

Yawning, I began the routine of undressing, locating nightgown and slippers and carting my toiletries to the bathroom.

“Oh, sorry,” I said on bursting through the door.

Bella stood there, brushing her teeth.

Her dark eyes flashed at me.

I promptly shut the door to wait, thinking how strange she looked without her glasses. A very odd girl. And perhaps not entirely devoid of secrets of her own.

 

Morning light burst through the shutters.

Leaving Angela to sleep in, I fetched my umbrella and coat and headed outside.

I should have changed out of my nightgown, but since it was dawn and the house was silent I shrugged off the notion to change. What did it matter if I explored the house in my nightgown? Who would see me?

The weather looked promising. An icy winter's day, gray skies, but clear of rain and wind.

A still quiet reigned downstairs and I wandered through the rooms, absorbing everything from Lady Kate's displayed paintings to how the house appeared after last night's party. The dining table had been cleared, but the drawing room had not been attended to yet. Cushions and chairs remained all over the place, and the odd wineglass graced the mantelpiece by the fire.

Sneaking out through the whiny terrace door, I glimpsed another hallway to the left, the entrance screened off by a carved wooden dividing screen of exquisite fretwork. The
darkness of the wood barred the light from entering, hence concealing the hallway from view. Placing my umbrella on a chair, I reentered the house and slid behind the screen. Heart racing, I prayed Hugo would not catch me in the act.

The floorboards creaked. I paused. Holding my breath but drawn to the light, I tiptoed in my great big walking boots. A door emerged at the end of the corridor, left slightly ajar. Passing two other doors that were locked to my profound disappointment, I proceeded to the far door.

Then I heard a noise.

Crying, footsteps, and two voices whispering, a male and a female.

I had come thus far, I would not recant. Going as close to the door as possible, I lingered in the dim light of the passageway.

“He left no note?”

It was Josh Lissot's voice.

“No. Nothing.” Kate…and Josh Lissot.

“He's often done this sort of thing. You mustn't concern yourself.”

Bare feet and a white satin peignoir crossed toward the waiting arms of her lover, and I started to inch my way back.

The door was soon kicked shut and laughter followed.

Sneaking out from behind the screen, startled by the liaison I'd just witnessed, I hunted for my umbrella.

“Looking for this?”

Planted there like a stalwart rock, Hugo's great eyes bored into mine. There was no accusation in his eyes, but certainly an awareness that I had trespassed where I oughtn't. “Oh, y-yes, thank you,” I stammered to the hunchback, extracting my umbrella from his hand as I hastened outside.

Fairly certain Kate and Josh hadn't heard me and that Hugo wouldn't report it to his mistress, I kept to the gardens. I didn't want to stray too far from the house lest I miss something important like Max catching his wife and her lover together.

Unfortunately, to my profound disappointment, their very notable absence during breakfast was the only occasion of the morning.

“Where's Kate?”

Glancing several times at the door, Angela asked the others if they knew her location.

Sir Marcus lifted his shoulders and Bella Woodford said nothing, simply stirred her tea in silence.

Suddenly Roderick Trevalyan emerged. Glaring at us under his heavy, solemn brow, he surveyed each of us, a grim line forewarning an impending announcement. “Where's Kate?” he asked.

“We don't know.” Angela tried to be helpful. “We haven't seen her
or
Mr. Lissot this morning, have we?”

Bella rose out of her chair, concern marking her features. “And I haven't seen Max, either, Rod. We were supposed to go fishing early this morning but he never showed.”

“No, I'm afraid I've bad news. Hugo! Lady Kate must be found, immediately.”

“Aye, milord,” the hunchback nodded.

“I think I know where she is,” I blurted out after he'd gone, slowly rising out of my chair. “I'll go and fetch her.”

Slipping behind the screen before anybody could question me, I went to knock on the door where I had eavesdropped. Silence, a noise, then a terrified, bedraggled Kate appeared at the door. Seeing me, and Hugo not far behind, she froze.
Had she expected her husband? “You must come quick,” I breathed. “Rod's here. He needs to see you.”

Nodding, new worry sharpening her eyes, Kate accepted the large coat hastily thrown to her by Josh.

“Thanks for covering for me,” Kate whispered as we sped up to meet the others.

“Kate.” Roderick went straight to her, holding both of her shoulders with his steady hands. “Have you seen Max this morning?”

“No…he's disappeared again.”

“Then prepare yourself. The boatmen found a body on the grounds and it looks like Max.”

I don't think anybody spoke for a full ten minutes.

Without a word, Kate disappeared with her brother-in-law, leaving us to stare at each other in shock. Bella's face turned pasty white, and she removed to stand limply at the window. Angela and Sir Marcus broke the silence, discussing the hopeful, if improbable, possibility of mistaken identity.

“I'm going out there.” Heaving from the window, a frazzled Bella slipped out the terrace door.

I suppressed the desire to follow her. I knew she was going straight to the beach, where I suppose Kate had the grim task of identifying the body. Would a police inspector be there, I wondered, or was it too early for one to have arrived at the scene?

“Daphne found a body on a beach last year,” Angela began to say, filling in the silence with my adventure at Padthaway.

I couldn't bear to listen to it. I didn't want to be reminded of Padthaway, or of Lord David. I had thought I had loved him but how did one define true love? Certainly not by the kind Kate Trevalyan shared with Josh Lissot. Their kind of relationship appeared driven by art, lust, and passion.

Copying Bella's route of escape, I retreated to the gardens. Heading straight for the old pergola, I jumped when a hand touched my shoulder.

“Forgive me.”

It was Josh Lissot, glancing frantically around and behind me.

“Are you alone? I saw Bella go this way down to the beach.”

He swallowed, his face drawn and pinched with anxiety. Laying a kind hand on his arm, I indicated we should go to the pergola to talk. He nodded and together we climbed up the four crackled, painted steps to a dry, leafless seat in the far corner of the hexagon-shaped decaying vista. Wisteria hovered above our heads, dribbling down from a delightful arched roof.

“Thank you,” he said under his breath, “for not exposing us. Max knows, but not the others.”

“Does he?”

Mr. Lissot nodded. “Kate and he have an arrangement. The blind eye routine. It's been that way for some time.”

It appeared I had been correct in my former assumption. The marriage was not one of love.

“Yes…poor Kate's had a devil of a time with Max and his addiction.”

“Addiction?”

“To drugs. After the war…”

“Ah, I see.”

I did see, too, having witnessed many returning soldiers, even amongst my own family, suffering the ill effects of such blatant violence. I remembered all too clearly Max's words to me last evening. “You don't really believe Max is the body out there, do you, Mr. Lissot?”

“Please call me Josh.” Correcting the buttons on his shirt, he searched through his pockets before getting up to leave. “To be honest, I hope so. Kate's suffered enough.”

He left then, and I sat awhile in the fresh morning breeze, loving the way the draping wisteria swayed, oblivious to its owner's possible tragic demise. Closing my eyes, I pictured Kate and Josh, my sudden intrusion, her husband's disappearance, and now…a body. Were all of these events connected?

I didn't stay long outside.

The air had suddenly turned too chilly for comfort.

 

A little before noon, we heard the first news.

Hugo reported it to Sir Marcus, who'd gone in search of a fresh cup of tea.

“No sign of Miss Woodford or Mr. Lissot,” he announced upon entering the room bearing a tray of fine English china. “Hugo obliged. Apparently Kate returned to the house terribly shaken. They've put her to bed.”

They?
The silent question failed to deploy from my lips for Sir Marcus went on to relate the current news.

“Mr. Trevalyan promises to be back within the hour to speak to us all. He wants us assembled for I believe he's bringing the village police.”

“The police!” Angela gasped. “So it's true. It
is
Max out there…how dreadful.”

“We are not sure of the details yet,” Sir Marcus advised in his scholarly, upper-class tone.

Despite his attempt, we all knew it must be Max. Why else
put Lady Kate to bed? Yes, shaken to see anybody reposed in death, not to mention one's own husband. I frowned, thinking of Josh Lissot and the still missing Bella.

“I didn't see Miss Woodford. Did any of you?”

Angela and I shook our head.

“And Mr. Lissot? Still curiously absent? Hm, it's very odd. Not how one behaves in this sort of tragic affair.”

Sir Marcus's running commentary amused me, though I suppose it was not how one should react in this sort of circumstance. Affable by nature, his wit refined by superior learning, experience, and observation, he was a man after my own heart. I did not say as much, of course, but I may have implied it while we engaged ourselves over the next hour talking of history and various subjects.

I was annoyed that Angela had betrayed my connection with Padthaway and its notoriety, but Sir Marcus kept wisely away from any topic related to fine houses, aristocracy, or scandal.

Appreciating his acute sense of perception, considering the great case at Padthaway and its sequel, I relished our return to the weighty matter looming ominously over this house.

“Pity,” Sir Marcus sighed. “I daresay we'll have to all go home now.”

“How? There're no boats,” Angela pointed out. Getting out of her chair to walk across the room, she tapped her lips in deep thought. “And no. Knowing Kate as I do, as I am a particular friend of hers, I know she'd prefer that we stay. It will help her to grieve and address all the horrible things associated with a death in the family.”

I gaped at her, a trifle embarrassed. Her voice sounded
entirely too cold and analytical for my liking. Why? Did she, like Josh, wish Max dead in order to free Kate from her burden?

“Oh, there's Bella and Josh!” Gleaning from the window, putting aside his tepid, distasteful cold tea, Sir Marcus bid them entry.

Had Josh stumbled upon her on his way to the beach? Shivering against him, a white-faced Miss Woodford smiled her thanks. Guided to a seat, Mr. Lissot depriving a chair of its rug to place around Bella's icy shoulders, he explained his absence, mentioning me and the pergola.

“Why didn't you say you'd seen him?” Angela railed at me. Turning to Mr. Lissot, she said, “We were searching for you
everywhere.
”

She was hunting for more information.

Mr. Lissot supplied none.

Shielded in his attentiveness to the frozen-limbed and silent Miss Woodford, he inquired after Kate.

“Put to bed,” Sir Marcus said.

“Perhaps I ought to go to her?” Angela mused aloud.

“I think it's best,” Mr. Lissot eventually replied, “that we leave her be for now.”

Monosyllabic sympathies ensued until Sir Marcus inquired if anybody was hungry.

“Food!” Arabella shrieked, shooting to her feet. “How could you even
think
of food when my cousin is dead!”

Returning, sobbing, to Josh's compassionate arms, we all stared guiltily at each other.

“She saw the body.” Mr. Lissot searched his pocket for a handkerchief to give Bella.

“Forgive me,” Sir Marcus began.

“Ah, Mr. Trevalyan!” Rushing to the door, Angela relieved
him of his great, droplet-strewn overcoat. “We've been
beside
ourselves with worry.”

Reminiscent of a Spanish inquisitor, Roderick Trevalyan grimly gravitated toward the seat nearest to him, which happened to be the head of the table. Had the fact already occurred to him he was now lord of this house? I searched for an obvious sign of joy in his victory, found none, and consigned myself to my own treacherous imagination.

“You will all be shocked to learn we have positively identified the body as my brother, Max.”

It was a glacial, remote voice, not dissimilar to Angela's. Or Josh Lissot's, for that matter. Did everyone hate Max so much as to wish him dead? I felt intensely sorry for the departed. Certainly, he wasn't
dearly
departed, was he?

Roderick now lowered his stoic gaze to address each face, all in systematic order. When he came to me, a slight dent crossed the middle of his forehead. “We have no inspector here on the island. The village county police will handle it until the weather changes.”

Sir Marcus coughed. “You lead to my next question. In the circumstances, should we seek alternative accommodation on the island? We do not wish to impose upon your sister-in-law or yourself in your grief.”

Good grief,
thought I,
he delivers a very pretty speech.
Appropriate and poignantly tactful.

“I shall stay.” Bella spoke first, dusting her thick glasses. “I am one of the family. You don't mind, Rod, do you?”

I lifted a brow at her pleading, earnest face, how it transformed where Roderick or Max where concerned. She evidently loved her cousins very much and I suspected they'd all grown up together.

“I cannot speak for my sister-in-law,” Roderick murmured, “but I see no need for you all to leave. Accommodation is scarce out here—”

“And Kate needs her friends.” Braving his brevity, Angela smiled to soften the impact and to make up for her former insensitivity. “Above everything, she
dreads
being alone. And at such a time…”

She left off with an unfinished thought. Supremely clever of her, I thought, and, to be truthful, I was grateful. I had no wish to dither around the island, looking for someplace inspirational to stay. Judging from where we'd disembarked, the choices were dismal.

“No, I am quite determined you shall all continue your stay at Somner House…in the interim. Now, if you will excuse me, I have matters to attend to before Mr. Fernald arrives.”

 

“How strange,” echoed Angela, agitated to have been sent away not once, but twice, from Lady Kate's door. “They've posted Hugo at her door. He's shelling peas.”

No lunch, but dinner seemed to have been ordered and I made a mental note to transmit this news to the starving Sir Marcus.

“And Josh Lissot! Who does
he
think he is! Did you see how he cut me down?”

Storming to her bed, Angela fluffed her pillows, very like the aggressive strokes Lord Max had done to the fire on the previous eve.

“Aren't you being a little overprotective, Ange? Kate's a grown woman. She and Mr. Lissot may be great friends—”

“Great friends,” she sneered. “More like…”

She couldn't seem to stomach the word.

“Lovers,” I finished for her. “Can you blame her? Like you said, after what she's suffered with Max and they do share a love of art. It's perfectly natural. It's more than natural. It's
human.
”

“Natural! Yes, but not
Josh Lissot
. He's not right for her.”

“Who is?”

Silence answered me.

Brooding upon this, Angela swept up the magazine on her bed. I also did the same, but with a book.
The Tenant of Wildfell Hall
by Anne Brontë. It suited my mood, considering the heroine's suffering and her rakish husband's likeness to Max himself.

Max…dead? I had difficulty believing it. So sudden and unexpected, an accident, no doubt, or could it have been a suicide propelled by drugs? No, I had since learned from my experiences at Padthaway. What appeared on the surface, the logical speculations, could mask the truth.

I had barely reached halfway through my chapter of
The Tenant
when we were summoned downstairs by Bella. She knocked on the door, the expression in her eyes partially hidden by her thick-rimmed glasses. I noted some color had returned to her face. What distressed her more, her cousin's death, or her obvious love for Roderick and her fear Angela or I would steal him away?

A dreary milieu certainly awaited us in the drawing room.

Sir Marcus paced by the fireplace, where Max and I had shared our private tête-à-tête; Roderick sat austere in the middle of the most upright divan, Arabella swift to take a place beside him; Josh Lissot preferred to pace along the side wall, feigning the odd glance up at Kate's paintings, and the village police chief hovered behind me.

He was a man of average height, slight build, and hairy arms. Younger than I anticipated, and quite good-looking with short, dark blond hair, even features, and a ready smile.

Once Angela and I made use of the last divan left, Kate entered the room.

Cloaked in a gown of black velvet, a dusky pink crocheted shawl gracing her shoulders, she slipped almost unnoticed into the room. Her hair lank, her face drawn and her eyes downcast, she attempted a tiny greeting to everyone, but it was clear she was still shaken by the news.

“And Lady Trevalyan,” nodded the police chief, introducing himself as Mr. Fernald. “Ladies and gentleman, I won't keep ye long today though further questionin' will be ongoing here at Somner.”

“Perhaps it would be best if we remove to—”

“Oh, no, Sir Marcus,” Kate decreed. “I can't bear to face all this alone. Please,” she said, glancing around the room, “I don't want any of you to leave.”

“Roderick?”

Covering my mouth to conceal my shock, I couldn't believe the policeman addressed Roderick Trevalyan so informally.

“It's fine with me, Fernald,” Roderick Trevalyan replied, not showing the slightest offense. “You may use the study or the library to conduct your interviews.”

The new master of the house delivered his first decision. I expected once the grieving process ended, Somner House would embark upon a new era. A dramatic change that would affect Kate above everybody else—a childless, penniless widow now dependent upon the goodwill of her brother-in-law. Poor Josh, Kate's lover, lacked the financial freedom to relieve this impending burden.

“I'll need to speak to everyone privately in the next few days,” Mr. Fernald said. “I needn't tell ye that none of ye are to leave the island, for it's clear murder.”