Curses Are for Cads

by Tamara Berry

  This doesn’t appear to impress them. Ferguson crosses his arms and watches me speculatively. “If you can see things in your mind, then why d’you need us to tell you anything?”

  It’s a fair question, and one I’d have been sure to ask when I was that age. Unfortunately, the certainty of youth has long since left me. All I have left is wisdom and the ability to strike fear into people both young and old.

  “It’s okay.” I shrug and resume a standing position. “You don’t have to tell me anything. I have no power over you. But don’t be surprised if you get a visit from the police while you’re with your great-aunt. They’ll have quite a few questions about the bribes you took from a dead woman.”

  From the wide-eyed shivers that move through the boys, I’m afraid I took things too far. It’s one thing to threaten adults with the hand of the law, quite another to frighten children that way. But it turns out the shivers are more delighted than fearful, and the next time they share a look, it’s one of gleeful capitulation.

  Ferguson drops his voice to a near-whisper, forcing me to lean in to hear his confession. I wonder if priests and vicars get this same thrill when they hear the sins of others. There’s something delightfully suspenseful about it.

  “She wanted to know where Nanna keeps the silver,” Ferguson confides.

  I’m oddly disappointed by this. “The silver?”

  Ferguson casts a darting look around and, seeing no one, adds, “And where to find the key to get it.”

  “Did you tell her?” I ask.

  Jaime nods. “It was easy. The silver isn’t locked up. It’s in the kitchen.”

  This revelation proves to be equally disappointing, if only because of Birdie’s lack of ingenuity. When I resort to bribery, I like to make sure it’s worth my while—which the Stewart family cutlery is decidedly not. Two pashminas seems like a steep price for such paltry information.

  “That’s it?” I ask, probing further. “She didn’t want to know about secret hiding places or the wine cellar or chests of pirate gold?”

  Ferguson shakes his head. “The only one who keeps asking about the gold is you.”

  Yes, and a good thing, too. I’ve been left holding the gilded torch, as it were. If I don’t do something to yield tangible results, no one will.

  Then again, someone did kill Birdie less than twenty-four hours ago. She may have been closer to the truth than I realize.

  “Well, she did try all the spoons,” Jaime adds with a self-conscious prod at the hole in his smile. “Even the big ones. They barely fit in her mouth.”

  Several thumps from the top of the stairs warn me that a body will soon be heading this way. As blasé as the boys seem to be about this whole death thing, I’m not eager to put them face-to-face with a corpse.

  “She tried them?” I echo. “You helped her do this?”

  “Well, we didn’t ’xactly help,” Jaime admits. “She didn’t know we were there. I think she wanted it to be a secret.”

  The thumps from upstairs are accompanied by a groan from Ashley and a quotation on the ephemeral nature of death, so I give the boys a nod and allow them to hasten off. I only wait until their small figures round the corner before taking myself off in the opposite direction.

  And not, as a bystander might assume, because I’m disinclined to come face-to-face with a corpse myself. In this instance, I have a much more important task to undertake.

  Bridget Wimpole-White. In the kitchen. With the silver.

  It might not be the slam dunk I’ve been looking for in terms of this case, but if my suspicions are correct, it’s a step in the right direction.

  * * *

  To prove to Birdie—and myself—that subtlety is much more likely to yield results than the bribing of children with stolen scarves, I join Elspeth in the kitchen.

  As usual, she’s hard at work, stoking the wood fire and standing over bubbling pots. She’s still wearing the faded blue dress with the coffee stain, but her serene cheerfulness appears to be restored.

  “They’re taking Birdie down to the boat now,” I inform her. “I came to see if you needed anything.”

  “Isn’t that sweet of you,” she replies. “You’ve been a most helpful guest.”

  A twinge of guilt rises up from my stomach. On the contrary, I’m neither sweet nor particularly helpful. Nicholas might look at me and see someone worth admiring, but he’s blinded by the throes of affection. It’s the Otises and Birdies of this world who see me for what I really am.

  “Sid asked if we could use the silver service this evening,” I say, lying through my teeth and proving my point to perfection. Nothing could heap more work on this woman’s head than to dine in stately grandeur. “I thought I’d help by making sure it’s all polished. I imagine it tarnishes easily in this climate.”

  Elspeth turns to look at me, a look of surprise on her face, but she doesn’t raise a protest. “To be sure, if Ms. Stewart wishes it. You’ll find it in that cupboard by the woodpile. Will we be using the good plate, as well?”

  I’m not willing to push my luck—or her workload—that far.

  “No, just the silver. I made the mistake of telling her that it’s a lunar metal.” When Elspeth responds to this with a bewildered blink, I add, “It’s very cleansing. It should help to restore balance in the house.”

  My duplicity works. Elspeth shows no more interest in my doings than a mild remark that I’ll find the silver polish in the top drawer of the cupboard.

  I begin to regret my actions as soon as I realize how much silver the Stewart family has in its possession. Forget the missing gold—there’s more than enough of this second-best metal to keep them in riches for generations to come. Fortunately, it’s all in good repair. Whether because Elspeth stays on top of things, or because Birdie herself took a rag and aluminum silicate to the spoons, everything gleams like it’s come straight from Buckingham Palace.

  Angling my back to Elspeth, I lift one of the spoons and put it to my mouth. I don’t, as the twins suggested, pretend to eat from it. Instead, I bite.

  And nearly chip a tooth in the process.

  “Ouch,” I mutter as I almost drop the spoon. I catch it just in time, quickly replacing with another and testing the metal again. It’s still strong, still hard.

  In other words, it’s not melted-down pirate gold masquerading under a silver veneer.

  I could have told you that, comes a voice I’m starting to recognize all too well. That was one of the first things I checked.

  I don’t point out the obvious—that the things Birdie could tell me number in the thousands. The entire knowledge of the universe might be at her fingertips now that she’s dead, but unless she starts sharing it with me, it’s basically useless.

  The acrid tang of fire fills my nostrils, so I pause in my pretense of polishing the silver. “Oh, dear. I think something on the stove is burning. Do you need a hand before I start setting the table?”

  “I haven’t burned a roast in this oven since the day it was brought in,” she says with a dignified air. “In aught truth, I haven’t burned a roast in this oven since the day I was brought in.”

  I’m about to ask her when exactly that was—how many years of her life have been spent in service of the Stewarts—but the burning scent is growing stronger. It’s not filling just my nostrils now; the whole room seems to be swirling with it, though there’s nothing but a few motes of dust in the air.

  “Are you sure it’s not something on the back burner?” I give up on the spoons and join Elspeth at the enormous, fiery stove. She’s noticed the smell by now and, like me, seems concerned as to its source.

  “Maybe something spilled over.” Elspeth opens the oven door. The waft of air that hits us is rich and hot and meaty. I might question such a heartily carnivorous choice when we’ve all recently touched a corpse, but it smells too good to bother. “That’s odd. I don’t see anything amiss.”

  The back kitchen door bursts open in a whirl of brimstone-scented air.
Elspeth and I turn as one, the older woman’s elbow knocking into a saucepan and sending the contents flying. I’m too busy trying to avoid scalds from the tomato-laden broth to notice who’s standing on the threshold, but that question is answered for me as soon as he speaks.

  “‘The triumphal arch through which I march, with hurricane, fire, and snow—’ ” Ashley begins.

  “Bless you, Mr. Stewart, coming in here all in a tiz,” Elspeth interrupts him before he can weave one of his tangled linguistic webs. “You know I don’t understand poetry any more than that doormat you’re standing on. You’ll have to tell me in plain speaking. I was always a sad case when it came to your Romantics.”

  I can’t help but admire the deft way she handles him. I wish I’d feigned a similar lack of education, but it’s too late now. Besides, with the door hanging open like that, we’re being bombarded with more than the just the scent of smoke. A damp, smoldering seepage starts to fill the room.

  “Fire,” Ashley says on a gasp. Now that I’m paying closer attention, he’s looking decidedly disheveled. His mustache is no longer combed flat, and there’s a smudge of what looks like soot along one side of his jaw. “Down on the dock.”

  “Fire?” Elspeth cries with an alarmed look at me.

  “The dock?” is my contribution.

  Ashley decides to answer my question first. He grimaces and rubs his hand along his jaw, causing the sooty patch to spread. “It’s Otis’s boat. Someone lit it on fire. In a few more minutes, it’ll be gone.”

  * * *

  “Oh, dear.” Elspeth is the first to react to the sight of the sinking hull of Otis’s tour boat. Neither of us took the time to grab a wrap, but she had the foresight to bring a dishtowel with her. She’s holding it to her mouth now, her words muffled but strong. “That doesn’t look good.”

  Her comment is an understatement to end all understatements. I’m no seafaring expert, and the whip of the wind is blowing salty, smoky water in my eyes, but that’s a sinking pirate ship if ever I’ve seen one. A blast of what looks to be a cannonball has formed a huge hole on one side of the boat, making it dip sideways under the slapping waves. The flames are concentrated on the main cabin, which is blazing up as though it’s made of, well, wood.

  “Nooo!” Otis cries. He’s so close to the flames that they reflect orange and gold on his skin. “Not my boat. It’s gone too far this time.”

  Considering that Birdie’s body is lying shrouded and unattended at the top of the dock, and she’s the third in the spate of recent deaths that can be laid at the curse’s door, Otis’s comment seems a little drastic. His expression is wild as he struggles to free himself from the grip Nicholas has on his shoulders.

  “I have to get to the cabin,” he says, fighting and bucking against my beau’s restraining arms. “I have to secure the hold.”

  If he were paying heed to anything but the loss of his livelihood, I could have enlightened Otis on the futility of his efforts. Nicholas Hartford III is a deceptively strong man. He might look long and lean, but he’s carried me over fields and along tunnels and through much more difficult scenarios than this.

  “Otis, don’t,” Nicholas says, his voice as strong as the rest of him. “You can’t possibly board her in this condition.”

  “But my navigation equipment! My logbook! My—” He casts an anxious look at me and swallows. “The rest of my belongings.”

  I have no idea what else he was going to admit to storing on board the boat, but it doesn’t matter. We stand there, a silent and forlorn group, watching as the remaining flames start to fizzle. It’s all they can do as the boat continues to keel sideways. I have no idea when that hole was put in the side, but the boat must have been taking on water long before the fire was set. What we’re witnessing are the final death throes.

  As if in solidarity, the sky itself starts to churn up billowing black clouds that swell on the horizon. From here, they look like plumes of smoldering smoke, the last gasps of a ship that will never again sail the seven seas.

  “I can’t afford another like her,” Otis says as the boat creaks and groans with eerily human-like sounds. “I’m ruined.”

  I’m not so removed from financial hardship myself that I fail to appreciate the enormity of Otis’s despair, but we’re facing a bigger problem than mere loss. His boat was sabotaged with intent and with malicious ends in mind.

  “Someone did this on purpose,” I say. I’m sure this has occurred to everyone standing on the dock, but someone has to move the conversation along. Like it or not, we’re going to have to face the fact that we’re stranded on this island.

  Together. With a murderer.

  As if understanding our predicament, a rumble of thunder breaks out above our heads. Nicholas glances up, only to be hit in the eye with a huge splash of rainwater. He whips out a handkerchief to wipe the moisture away before realizing the futility of his actions. After one more ominous boom, the rain starts to fall—not a trickle or a drizzle, but an oceanic sheet that drenches us within seconds.

  “What do we do now?” Elspeth asks. She hasn’t made a move to protect herself from the elements. I find it odd until I realize that she’d have to walk past the body in order to make it to cover.

  “We’ll have to take Birdie back up to the castle,” Otis says, his gaze also alighting on that unmoving shroud. “We can try to get out a request for help, but it’s not likely that the call will make it through in these conditions. My ship’s radio could have done it, but . . .”

  We all look to the smoking, half-submerged wreckage, our thoughts shared and unspoken. That radio isn’t going to do us a particle of good now.

  “Elspeth and I will notify the others,” I say. “You three will have to find a way to get Birdie somewhere safe and dry. The wine cellar, perhaps. She’d like that.”

  No one finds anything odd in this pronouncement. The men nod their assent and bend their attention to the task of carrying Birdie—no light burden—back to the house.

  Taking Elspeth quietly by the hand, I lead her back up the stairs. Since she’s still a little too quiet for my taste, I take it upon myself to speak in the hearty tones of one who’s accustomed to women dying on remote islands and escape boats sinking in fiery crashes. “I’m not sure where Dr. Fulstead is hiding himself, but I think Sid is lying down on her bed,” I say.

  A few days ago, I might have taken Sid’s fragility as yet another sign of her inability to cope with real-world problems, but now I’m starting to think otherwise. Her absence is too conspicuous, too well-timed. Too much like an alibi.

  “If you’ll let the doctor know what’s going on, I’ll attend to Sid,” I add.

  Elspeth, in her kindhearted way, assumes I plan to take Sid some supporting broth and comforting tea. I don’t bother correcting her. What I have to offer Sid isn’t sustenance—it’s an interrogation.

  I don’t share these thoughts with Elspeth, who squeezes my hand as we make our way up to the castle. “The boys, at least, will be delighted,” she says with an attempt at a smile. “They were none too excited to be carried off before the adventure was over.”

  The boys. For Elspeth’s sake, I bite back a groan, but it takes some doing. The one good thing about all this was that Jaime and Ferguson were finally going to be toted off to safety. Now even that reassurance is going to be denied me.

  It’s with a heavy step and an even heavier heart that I find my way to Sid’s bedroom. I peeked inside during my first few days at the castle and found little there to interest me. Like most of the rest of the house, it’s decorated as a tribute to the spirit of acquisition. Heavy furnishings, beautiful treasures, and impeccable wallpaper might make for a pretty room, but it doesn’t make for a very inviting one. Even the few personal items Sid brought for her stay—toiletries and clothing and a small alarm clock in the shape of a bird—do little to dispel the stifling pomp of it all.

  The door is ajar when I arrive at the threshold to her bedroom. Manners demand that I knock befo
re I enter, but from where I stand, I can just make out the sprawl of her body across her bed—either deep in sleep or determined to give the appearance of it.

  “Oh, Madame Eleanor, is that you?” Sid sits up and stretches, a yawn parting her lips. “I was having such a good dream. Isn’t that odd, with everything that’s been going on?”

  It doesn’t take her long to realize something is wrong. Most of it is the way my body is shaking, since I’m drenched to the marrow and feeling the full effects of the storm, but part of it is the way I have yet to speak. I can’t help it—I’m trying to figure out how to frame my next words.

  “What is it?” Sid asks. “What’s happened to make you look like that?”

  I’m careful to keep my expression neutral and my tone flat. “I’m afraid there’s been an accident.”

  Sid blanches convincingly, but I don’t buy it. A few days ago, she’d have out-and-out screamed or fainted at such a piece of news. “Not . . . Otis?” she asks. “Or Nicholas?”

  I shake my head. “Not that kind of accident. It’s your cousin’s boat. I’m afraid it’s no longer a viable means of transport.”

  Her lips press together in a thin line.

  “Someone sabotaged it—broke a hole in its side and then set a fire to make sure the job was done. It’s currently making its way to the bottom of the ocean.”

  “I see,” she says, a faint crease between her brows. “Then I suppose this isn’t a good time to notify you about the phones. I tried to call ahead to warn the coroner that we’d be coming, but it’s always difficult to get cell reception in stormy weather.”

  I wish I could say that I find this surprising, but I don’t—not the news nor her delivery of it, which almost rivals my own in terms of matter-of-factness. “Are you sure it’s the storm?” I ask, watching her. “It’s not someone jamming the signal?”

  At this, Sid makes a convincingly wide-eyed show of alarm. She does look genuinely concerned to be trapped on this island without any means of communication, but that could be because, well, we’re trapped on this island without any means of communication.