Peril at Somner House

by Joanna Challis

  I couldn’t resist a mystery, especially one so beguilingly set on an island.

  “So you’re swapping the city for the Secrets of Somner House,” Angela joked, seeing I’d fully unpacked and my clothes hanging neatly in the closet.

  I ignored her caustic, mocking tone and continued to sort out my books.

  “But are you prepared to uncover all the secrets, whatever they may be?”

  Leaning by the wall, her arms crossed, I registered the same smirk I’d seen on Max’s face earlier this afternoon.

  “Well, I’m glad you’re staying,” she said finally when I remained silent.

  Watching her leave the room confirmed my resolve.

  Angela was in possession of a secret…and I had to uncover it.

  Chapter Three

  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.”

  Chapter Four

  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.