Peril at Somner House (8 page)

Down at the bottom written in large legible letters were the words: LAST WILL AND TESTAMENT OF MAX TREVALYAN.

“The usual preliminaries…then, ah, here it is:
I hereby leave the bulk of my estate to my son born out of wedlock…Connor Jackson.
”

“Jackson,” Sir Marcus echoed. “Jackson the gardener's grandson. Any mention of the mother?”

“A ‘Rachael Eastley,'” I said, triumphant.

“And duly signed and witnessed.” Sir Marcus whistled, coming to stand behind me. “Well done, Daphne…I suppose we ought to put the thing back now.”

“Yes.” But on leaning down to see the name of the witness, we both stammered in unison: “Hugo?”

 

Feeling the importance of such a find and perhaps a little guilty for allowing my forage through a private desk, Sir Marcus decided to confess our sin to Roderick the next morning.

Lowering my gaze at Roderick's calm acceptance of our confession, I nervously awaited the outcome. He did not speak right away, which increased my nervousness and Sir Marcus's prattle.

“Devilish thing, isn't it? I swear we only read a little and put it back where we found it. I daresay you discovered it only recently?”

“Yes,” Rod eventually conceded. “I knew my brother always hid certain things in his bottom drawer.”

“I'm sure it won't ever stand up, a frantic note written like that,” Sir Marcus sympathized. “I know a good lawyer, but the way I see it, you won't have need of one.”

“I sincerely hope not,” came his reply.

“You can count on our silence,” Sir Marcus vowed, steering me to the door. “Can't he, Daphne?”

“Y-yes,” I promised. Part of me wanted to share our find with Angela, but her snappy mood that morning quickly overrode the urge. One could only trust a sister so far, and shared secrets with Angela in the past often lacked confidence on her side. She loved to gossip with her girlfriends, and Jeanne and I had learned to be cautious for good reason.

And Somner House was such a reason.

Still refusing to explain her ridiculous attempt to rescue Kate by offering herself as a sacrificial lamb, I observed her frank glumness at breakfast. The shadows beneath her eyes betrayed lack of sleep and she was more restless than usual.

However, a little life sparked to her listless eyes when a strained Kate entered the room, choosing the seat furthermost from Arabella. No love lost there, the two women sat straight-backed like ships poised at battle over the breakfast table. Battling for whom or for what? I mused.

Roderick tried his best to make conversation for the sake of
his guests. He mildly suggested a day trip to the Old Town, if anybody was interested, and Sir Marcus swooped upon it, declaring it would be good for all of us to get out in the fresh air for the day. His lively hand then squeezed Kate's across the table, suggesting this was exactly what she needed.

Josh Lissot remained curiously absent and I asked after him.

“Fernald came this morning,” Lord Roderick replied in a grim tone.

“Oh?”

“I'm afraid Josh Lissot's been arrested for the murder of my brother.”

Sir Marcus endeavored to do his merry best as our guide of  an island that he frankly admitted to knowing nothing about, but Lord Roderick filled in the blanks along the way.

“This entire island was once a part of the Duchy of Cornwall. Essentially, it is and always has been its very own little kingdom.”

I liked that expression. Little kingdom. It suited Cornwall perfectly.

“St. Mary's is the bearer of many ancient sites…though archaeological sites are dotted all over the Isles.”

As there were six of us, we traveled to the sites in two motorcars, Sir Marcus, Angela, and I in one; Bella, Roderick, and Kate in the other. However, at the first stop, some random monument that professed to be a noteworthy ruin, though I saw nothing noteworthy in it, Kate switched into our car.

“I won't stand another minute of that sour-face.” She spoke of Arabella Woodford, of course. “She thinks Josh and I mur
dered Max. She's happy they took him away. She's happy because finally she's triumphed over me.”

“How so?” Angela's reassuring voice expressed doubt.

An odd laugh escaped Kate's lips. “I suppose in a curious way she has triumphed over me, for she loves that I am no longer mistress of Somner. She loves the title and the tower, she wants to live here; that's why we're forever enduring her presence, but Max couldn't stand her and Rod, well, I
thought
Rod tolerated her, but now I'm not so sure.”

Deciding, for once, upon discretion, Sir Marcus did not question her comment. I did, but in silence. Was she inferring Roderick and Bella, one or both of them, planned to kill Max so they could inherit and preserve what remained of a dying heritage?

I began to whisper to Sir Marcus at the first opportunity, but he pressed a finger to his lips, his right eye rolling in the direction of Bella, who had her sharp ears poised, armed, and waiting to catch any slight blunder of the tongue.

We stopped at the first Iron Age village, a rambling array of stones and partly uncovered walls, wild and old and enhanced by whispers of the past.

“Enchanting,” I murmured, thinking myself alone as I explored, my fingernails scraping along the primeval stone, wondering who had lived amidst the ruins long ago.

“Cavemen and Vikings.” Sir Marcus's long graceful fingers traced the other side of the wall. “Any stirrings for a novel, Miss Daphne?”

I looked beyond the wasteland to the hills bathed in wayside flowers, a plethora of color, yellows, pinks, oranges, reds, and my favorite, lavender. Inhaling the fresh hint of jasmine
in the air, I closed my eyes and daydreamed. In the picture of my mind, I added wild growing rhododendrons and azaleas and a long, winding drive…
at the end of the drive, a man waited, my husband. I was a young and inexperienced bride, afraid of my new life, afraid I should not fulfill the requirements befitting a great lady. I was a girl, really. A gauche schoolgirl, a nervous kind of creature. How could I become the mistress of such a vast estate? I shivered, gazing ahead at the long line of servants standing there to welcome me.
…

“I am insanely curious,” Sir Marcus's face broke my reverie. “What were you thinking just now? I cannot hope that you were dreaming about me, so it must be a story idea?”

I nodded.

“A romance? What kind of romance? Adventure-romance? Mystery-romance?”

I shrugged off his gibe. “Why do all men assume that if women write, they must write romance?”

Smiling, Sir Marcus explained his theories on the “other” sex all the way to the next ruin. I was glad for his company. His personality alone lightened the atmosphere, yet it did not trivialize the peril looming over Somner House.

“I wager that Arabella has something to do with it, with or without our sturdy Roderick's knowledge. Think. They both love Somner House, they want to protect its future. If left in Max's hands, they'd lose the estate, I guarantee it. Look at the ridiculous note he wrote in his will, leaving the whole lot to his illegitimate son!”

“I agree,” I whispered back. “And we were right to suspect the gardener. Rachael must be his daughter and Connor, his grandson. Yes, it all seems to fit, doesn't it?”

“Like a glove,” Sir Marcus enthused.

“But the violence of the crime? What kind of heartless villain could do
that
to a face?”

“I know,” Sir Marcus pondered aloud. “It's a conundrum.”

“What's a conundrum?” Stepping out from behind a tombstone, Roderick studied us both. His somber expression sobered me, and I blushed as Sir Marcus prattled on about the mysteries of ancient civilizations.

“He definitely heard
something
,” I said to Sir Marcus a few minutes later, after we'd walked some distance away from Roderick, who'd been joined by Bella. “I feel awful. How can we face him again?”

Rolling his eyes, Sir Marcus proffered his arm. “You worry too much. In any case, I am the one with the criminal tongue; you just agreed, which invariably you must do because I am always right.”

“Always?” I teased.

We'd reached the museum and stopped to admire a figure-head from a clipper ship when Roderick happened upon us a second time.

“Something appears to be amusing you two.”

I exchanged a glance with Sir Marcus. His guilty face, I imagined, mirrored my own.

“I am sorry, my lord,” I began. “We did not mean to cause offense under the circumstances—”

“You mistake me, Miss Daphne. I merely wanted to share your amusement.”

Sir Marcus and I exchanged another look.

“Oh, er, we were just debating on the works of contemporary female writers.”

“The subjects and so forth,” put in Sir Marcus.

“Novels, mainly,” I added. “Just random ideas. Nothing of any import.”

“Plots and motivations,” Sir Marcus confirmed.

“I see…”

At that precise moment, Kate drifted over to retrieve Sir Marcus, and I gulped, left alone to face Roderick.

“Sir Marcus,” Rod remarked, “has the happy manners to enliven any company.”

“Yes, he does,” I echoed, asking where we intended to lunch. I still couldn't work out if he'd overheard us or not. His expression gave no indication and his eyes remained a trifle skeptical.

“Hugh Town. I believe, Miss Daphne, you will like it.”

When he spoke, he seemed to take a great deal of time to do so and I wondered whether he was merely shy. His brother had been born with lively manners. Had such manners placed him further and further in his brother's shadow? Had he resented his brother for it and had such resentment led to anger and, ultimately, murder?

 

I loved Hugh Town just as Roderick had predicted. The charming seaside port, the old pubs, narrow lanes, and salt-sprayed weathered houses carried years of history. The hint of yesteryear lingered in the air, on the grimy streets, and in the faces of the friendly locals.

“Don't care much for this Hugh Town place.” Sir Marcus screwed up his nose. “Ghastly cold, windy place. What say we head over there to that warm-looking pub?”

While Arabella and Roderick continued to tour the local
attractions, Sir Marcus, Angela, Kate, and I headed to the Old Windmill.

“Appropriate title,” Sir Marcus commented on the way in, “full of townsfolk and stranded sailors exploiting windy tales.”

Despite Sir Marcus's dislike of the town, the charming old inn appealed to me. It was a modified mill, whitewashed, extended to encompass a newer building where most of the locals congregated. One entered the pub via the round mill tower, stepping down a sharp left-hand flight of stairs to descend into the main dining area full of raucous laughter. It was a quarter to noon and yet every stool, table, and chair swarmed with men of all descriptions. Sailors, farmers, and townsfolk filled the place, with the odd woman amongst the entourage serving cider ale and hot food.

Kate couldn't help but smile, her eyes sparkling for the first time since her husband's death. Perhaps the scene reminded her of happier days, during the war, when she had entertained soldiers in the air force. I ached to hear the beautiful singing voice I'd heard so much about. Angela had used the phrase “hauntingly ethereal.”

Sir Marcus guided us to a place in the middle of the thoroughfare.

“We'll have to stand at the bar, I'm afraid, unless one of these gents would be so kind as to give the ladies a seat.”

He spoke loudly and achieved the desired result, forcing two lonely sailors away from their table. They looked as if they'd consumed too much ale as they staggered out of the pub.

“You ladies fancy a warm brew?”

Kate answered for the three of us, dispatching Sir Marcus to fetch the island's famous cider ale.

“The funeral will be tomorrow,” Kate murmured, accepting her mug of warmed cider from Sir Marcus. “Roderick thought a quick, quiet affair would be proper, under the circumstances.”

“Yes, under the circumstances,” Sir Marcus echoed.

Kate turned her enormous eyes to him. “Oh, Markie, is there any way…any way at all…”

“To help Josh old boy?” Sir Marcus finished, his watchful gaze monitoring the room. “Sorry, Katie girl. Fernald's dug his toes in and he's the man in charge.”

“But what of his superiors? Surely they can look into the case?”

“Possibly, but with the weather and the tides, it looks like Mr. Lissot will have to spend weeks in a dank island cell. They'll move him later, I suspect, where he'll stand trial and—”

“Oh, no! I can't bear it!” Hands cupping her face, she struggled to hold back tears. “It's my fault. He's a good man. I can't let him die when he only sought to protect me and he
didn't
kill him. He
didn't
.”

“It's not
your fault
.” Angela rubbed Kate's frozen arms. “You mustn't allow fear to ice your days. Hope is what matters.”

A wan smile touched Lady Kate's bloodless lips. It was a troublesome time and depressing to see the self-assured, confident, effervescent, and mesmeric Kate Trevalyan reduced to such a withering despondency.

Angela seized the moment to lighten the mood. “Why don't you sing? Sing for the sailors?”

“What, here? Now?”

“Why not? Like Sir Marcus said, they're stranded and could use some cheering up. We
all
could use some cheering up.”

Angela thus took charge, Sir Marcus and I unable to stop
her. Leading Kate to the center of the room, she soon got everyone's attention—easy to do for an actress of her caliber—and elicited a welcoming round of applause from the audience.

Drawing from experience, Kate adopted her stage-actress face and began to sing. I wondered what she'd choose, thrown unexpectedly into the arena, and the emerging tune polished every rough soul in the place. The men's faces softened and became wistful, almost dreamy, perhaps recalling better, calmer days before the Great War.

In amongst the crowd I saw him like an illusion. Yet it wasn't an illusion. He was there, in the crowd, smirking from the back wall.

He saw me, too, dipping his head in mock salute. I turned away, my face resuming a lobsterlike quality. Seething, I pulled at my fingers, resisting the urge to bite my nails. I'd not sit here and watch him adoring Kate Trevalyan and her performance, not now, not ever.

“She's extraordinary, isn't she?” Sir Marcus whistled in my ear. “And not as fragile as she looks. I've seen her shoot a lion, you know.”

If I hadn't been so consumed with seeing him, I might have asked where this extraordinary event had transpired. But I could not. I could only seethe, dreading his unwanted entry into my life again, and yet powerless to stop it.

The men shouted for an encore and Kate complied as I was forced to hear another love song. This time it was a famous French tune that proved to be torture,
extreme
torture, for it dredged up my days at Padthaway—of David, and of the Major, later neglecting to reply to my letters. How dare he consider
me
a brief flirtation when I deserved better!

“Not up to clapping?”

Prompted by a curious Sir Marcus, I buried my pride and remembered my manners. Soaring to the occasion, I trusted I put in a good enough effort to divert suspicion of jealousy.

Unfortunately, the frustratingly astute Sir Marcus soon located the source of my discomfort and exchanged a jolly handshake with the Major. Obviously, the two knew each other and Sir Marcus, to my dismay, pointed me out rather cheerfully.

Fortunately, an exuberant Angela partially shielded me from the Major's view. “Look at Kate, Daphne. She's positively glowing. This was good for her.”

Good for her.

“What's wrong with you?”

One could never fool a sister. “Oh, it's…” I whispered the reason for my frustration, and flattered by this sudden confidence, Angela nodded, her wide eyes quick to detect the Major in the crowd. Assuming immediate sisterly control, she squeezed my hand. “Greet him cordially and coolly and don't show him any emotion.”

It was difficult thing to do when all I wanted to do was hurl the remainder of my beer at him. How
dare
he ignore my letters after all we'd been through at Padthaway…

“Prepare.”
Angela's hoarse whisper scathed one side of my face. “He's coming over.”

His first port of call was Kate, of course. Hearing her squeal of surprise upon seeing him, I realized I should have expected they'd know each other. In fact, the Major seemed to know every person on the planet, which irritated me far beyond his avoidance of my correspondence. Yes, yes, he had contacts in Scotland Yard. Yes, yes, he made it his mission in life to assume and collect information like one collected seashells or works of art.

“Hello, Daphne.”

Angela elbowed me.