Peril at Somner House

by Joanna Challis

  “Josh thought he had,” Kate wept profusely, “at first. We dragged the body out to the beach—”

  The truth now came tumbling out.

  “—but then I heard Max murmur. Josh,” she said, lowering her eyes in shame, “offered to finish him off but I said no. We left then, truly we did.”

  “And what of the weapon?” Sir Marcus delivered a rendition of the epitome of a Scotland Yard detective.

  “We left that, too…and his face wasn’t like that when we left him. It wasn’t, I swear it wasn’t.”

  “Did Josh stay with you the entire time afterward? Do you have any witnesses?”

  “No witnesses.” She swallowed, her great eyes turning in an appealing way to me. “Except when Daphne came to the room in the morning.”

  Sir Marcus and I digested all of this information, each of us forming our own conclusions. Fernald could arrest Josh Lissot. There was enough evidence to convict him and the indisputable transparent motivation spelled his doom.

  Still fighting for her lover, Kate lifted her eyes to both of us. “I’ll do anything to protect Josh. I even said I did it but Fernald won’t listen and Josh is too stubborn.” A whisper of a smile eluded her bloodless lips. “He’s from Irish stock, and as proud as they come. He won’t hide behind any woman’s skirts and I don’t wish to see him suffer for a crime he didn’t commit. Oh, don’t you see? There’s nothing we can do if Fernald has made up his mind…nothing…nothing…”

  “Yes, there is.” Opening the door, Angela sashayed into the room. “I’ll say I did it. I killed Max.”

  Chapter Eight

  Angela stood in the doorway.

  We all stared at her as she came into the room. “Dearest Kate, you simply must let me say it.”

  Sir Marcus’s loud cough broke my shock.

  “Valiant of you, m’dear, but completely unnecessary. Fernald won’t hear a word of it, despite how convincingly you can concoct a story.”

  Angela was enraged. “It’s not the time for pessimism, Sir Marcus. Kate’s desperate for our help.”

  “Not pessimism. Realism.”

  “But if we can get Josh to agree—”

  “Afraid you’re wasting your time, ladies. From what Katie implies, he’s already half confessed, which is good enough for a full arrest.”

  Truth…and silence. Perched upon the stool, I tried to concentrate on my sketch. Filling in a few more lines on my tower, I adjusted the window sizes and the door. I didn’t know what else to do since everybody sat in brooding silence. A few minutes passed before I sensed Lady Kate monitoring each line I drew. I suddenly felt her soft murmur against my ear.

  “No, Daphne; that window ought to go like this.”

  The languid, precise strokes confirmed her familiarity with the tower and her prowess as a great painter. She worked so fast and so quickly, yet everything was captured perfectly, even down to the last, tiny details.

  I asked her if she had ever lived in the tower and, pausing, she shook her head and continued. Within moments, my tower rose up from the canvas, alive and ready for color, and she handed the pencil back to me.

  “You must paint, as you write, with great detail.”

  Her words, and her reluctance to talk about the tower, accompanied me as I dressed for dinner that night. Relieved to see no sign of Arabella hovering around the place, I soaked in the bath for half an hour or so, resting my toes on the lion head spout.

  It was then that an idea came to me.

  Kate…and Roderick…in the tower. Kate’s knowledge, her intimate knowledge, of the tower’s architecture and her decorative influence with the African theme alluded to more than a passing, sisterly interest in Roderick’s home. Or perhaps I read it wrong. Perhaps Roderick had great respect for his sister-in-law, and often heeded her advice. I thought back to when I first arrived, when she insisted he stay for dinner. He hadn’t wanted to stay, but he had done so at her gentle command.

  Kate Trevalyan. She commandeered men better than a ship’s captain and without half the effort. Which led me to ponder: Had she, the wily captain, knowingly or unknowingly ordered her husband’s death?

  I thought I’d question Angela prior to dinner, as we dressed, our sisterly custom since we’d come to this house.

  “Why are you offering to protect Kate? Do you and she share some dark secret?”

  “No, no, and no” was the swift reply, to which I pointed out that “no” was not a sufficient answer to a question containing “why.”

  She growled her agitation, shoving her hands up in the air. “Leave me alone.”

  I did for a little while, until we were about to leave the room. Closing the strap on my shoe, I spied her frustrated attempts to locate her own. “The blue shoes are over there, by the window.”

  She marched over, swept them up, and then marched to the door.

  “Ange,” I pleaded on the way out, forcing her to pause, “does Kate hold some power over you? Did you and she ever commit a folly, something that binds you together? Is that what you’re afraid of?”

  “Afraid?” she scoffed. “I am not afraid.”

  Spinning on her heels, she started down the corridor, leaving me to lock the door. I don’t know what possessed me to take this precaution, since we had little valuables inside. However, my notes on Max’s murder lay exposed on my bed and I had a vision of Arabella creeping into our room in search of clues, and I dreaded her reaction to my suspicions. She firmly believed her cousin had been murdered, but whom did she suspect? Kate? Josh? Kate’s friends? I hesitated…Angela?

  “She’s got a nasty eye, that one,” Sir Marcus drawled, swooping me aside the moment my feet hit the carpet of the last stair. “Wouldn’t want to be shackled to her.”

  I cast a fleeting gaze over Miss Woodford’s thin, tall frame. Standing with her arms crossed, forehead creased and scowling openly in Kate and Josh’s direction, she looked ready to blurt out an accusation.

  Sir Marcus shivered. “She gives me the frosties and she doesn’t like our Katie, does she?”

  Open hatred bubbled from Bella’s ill-humored snarl of discontent. Was such a creature predisposed to a sulky disposition? Or had it been forced upon her in having to live such a dreary existence?

  Sir Marcus believed otherwise. “That creature would find the thorn in any garden.”

  His words proved true over dinner, as another strange evening of stilted conversation commenced. Kate seemed paler than usual, Josh Lissot unusually quiet and pensive, Roderick an inanimate boulder who may as well have been dead, and Arabella’s continually suspicious, downcast eyes surveyed us all. When she finally decided to speak—at the time Hugo arrived to clear the dishes—it was to return to the case.

  “When is Mr. Fernald due back, Cousin?”

  Forced to elicit a reply, Roderick blinked in Kate’s direction. “Friday, I believe.”

  “Friday! That long when it’s obvious that he…”

  Her voice trailed off, her insinuation clear.

  Sir Marcus lifted a very high brow to me.

  “When it’s obvious what?” Angela spat. “If you never finish your sentences, Miss Woodford, how can we possibly understand you?”

  Sir Marcus’s mouth dropped open.

  So did mine, and looking around the table, I believe I saw the tiniest tinge of color scathe Roderick’s face. Kate lowered her eyes, and Josh challenged the accusation, tapping his hands on the table.

  “I take it you’re referring to me, Miss Woodford?” Pushing back his chair, he shrugged off Kate’s calming hand. “No. I will not endure this.”

  Arabella suddenly clammed up. Cornered, she appealed to her cousin who, true to character, simply stared at the wall.

  When no apology issued forth from Bella, Josh seized his jacket and stormed out of the room, tossing his coat over his shoulder.

  Kate gazed after him, her eyes full of sadness.

  She did not, however, run after him. That would have made their affair obvious and, as Arabella had
accused, suspect.

  “Come,” Angela said, rousing Kate out of her chair, “let’s go to the drawing room and I’ll order tea.”

  “Tea sounds good,” Sir Marcus chimed, “though I’d infinitely prefer a nip of brandy.”

  Roderick promptly offered the supply available in the study, but refused Sir Marcus’s invitation to join him for a nightcap. He said he had an early start the next morning and excused himself from the party.

  Sir Marcus looked at me. “It’s you and me.”

  “Is that a bad thing?” I smiled, accepting his arm.

  “Fernald will arrest Lissot on Friday,” Sir Marcus murmured as we entered the study, his eye immediately detecting the liquor cabinet while I went to the desk.

  “Shrewd Daphne rummages through private drawers.” I heard his amused chuckle, offering a glass to me.

  “No thank you.”

  He looked disappointed. “No, you’re absolutely right. Young, pretty girls like you should only be drinking champagne and pink lemonade. Nor, I do say, should you be drinking anything at all with an old libertine like me.”

  Relaxing in my lord’s armchair, blissfully unaware of anything but enjoying his brandy, he saluted my efforts. “Shouldn’t really be looking through those, Daphne girl…what if our erstwhile Lord Rod should return for a midnight nip and catch you out?”

  “It’s not midnight yet.” I continued to turn the pages of an ordinary household ledger book. Nothing interesting dawned on the pages; there were various entries on household accounts and expenses, property improvements, kitchen maintenance, et cetera, all meticulously recorded in a neat black hand. I doubted Max kept such neat accounts, so this work must have belonged to Roderick. “My, my, Max and Kate certainly liked to spend large…you should see the drawing amounts labeled ‘personal K’ or ‘personal M’!”

  “We estate owners are allowed to draw from our estates, you know. It’s our hereditary blessing. Whose drawings are larger out of Katie and Max?”

  “They are equal but she draws an extra for housekeeping. Hmm, housekeeping, I wonder if that entails purchases of fine art and supporting lovers?”

  I continued to scan each page, dismissing any feelings of guilt. Max had been murdered, I kept reminding myself. Someone had murdered him for a reason.

  Closing the book, I hunted through another neat stack of papers. Obviously, Roderick had cleaned up his brother’s affairs. I couldn’t see Max’s desk looking so organized. Tidiness did not fit his character. “Pity we didn’t get to this desk just after Max died,” I sighed, moving to the second drawer, which held more papers.

  Sir Marcus barely raised a brow, quite happily sipping his brandy while I perused the room. “It’s very Spartan, isn’t it? I wonder if Rod threw out all those graphic nude Nubian postcards I brought Max from Africa last year?”

  I blushed in spite of myself.

  “No sign of them languishing under all those papers?” Sir Marcus asked hopefully.

  “Why? Do you want them back?”

  “Well,” he said, clearing his throat, “’twould be a great waste to throw them out. I spent some time choosing those…by the way, heard from Major Browning lately?”

  I paused. “What is your association with him? You’re not another detective, are you, hiding under the shade of your title?”

  “‘The shade of my title,’” Sir Marcus echoed. “I like that, and no, can’t abide the fellows. Police. Scotland Yard. I’m more interested in the whys and hows and I suspect from your upturned lip that that blaggard Browning never contacted you after the Padthaway affair.”

  I tried to lift an indifferent brow.

  “It might interest you to know he was called away.”

  I said I didn’t care. How hard was it for a man at sea to pick up a pen and write? He couldn’t even spare one minute when I’d taken the trouble to post two letters. “There’s a locked drawer here.”

  “A locked drawer.” Rubbing his hands together, Sir Marcus was inspired to get up out of the chair. “The proverbial bottom drawer in every man’s study. Why do you think it’s always number three? The lower one, the one to be ashamed of, the one to hide risqué postcards?”

  While he pondered, I explored. No way in…unless…“Do you have a key?”

  A cynical brow answered me.

  “Trust me. It worked once.”

  “At Padthaway?” Intrigued, Sir Marcus handed me one from his pocket. I asked him which one of his many properties did this key belong to and he grimaced. “A modest cottage. Do you believe me?”

  I said I did not, too busy trying to jimmy the key in the drawer.

  “You’d better not break that,” Sir Marcus cautioned. “His lordship might take offense, especially if he’s watching his pennies.”

  I said “hmmm,” though I had difficulty imagining Roderick exhibiting any great emotion. Max, on the other hand, yes. “Do you think Max ever hit Kate?”

  Sir Marcus chewed on his lower lip. “Saw him squeeze her neck against a wall once…he was drunk, of course, and we intervened. He did seem sorry for it later when he sobered up. Poor fellow was a madman.”

  I shivered and felt sorry for Kate. It must have been dreadful being condemned to live with a man given to violent outbursts, immoderate habits, and uncontrollable alcohol abuse that invariably led to a beastlike nature. I understood why she’d picked Josh Lissot for a lover. He possessed a calm certainty, and he was a man to look up to, not to fear. “Has she had many affairs over the years?”

  “I believe the two had an understanding in that department.”

  “Hence the great marriage façade,” I echoed, now frustrated with the drawer. “I could break the underlay. Even just a little piece might do the trick.”

  Ignoring Sir Marcus’s cautionary glance, I broke a piece off and pulled it out. A small hole emerged, large enough for two fingers to slip through and probe. “More papers,” I moaned, “oh, and something round…feels like a scroll.” Carefully sliding out the beribboned scroll after a few efforts, I chuckled softly and thought of Ewe Sinclaire and how she’d love to embroil herself in this mystery.

  “What have you?”

  Sir Marcus peered over my shoulder.

  “A last will and testament, I hope.” Unrolling the purloined item on the desk, I grinned. “And written by Max Trevalyan himself, it seems.”

  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.”

  Chapter Nine

  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.