Peril at Somner House

by Joanna Challis

  “Why, yes. I like to dally about in the kitchen…unless anybody has any objections?”

  Nobody dared to object and the plan was set. Unfortunately, the laboriously quiet meal that eve left a bitter taste in my mouth. In truth, I began to look forward to the Major’s arrival the next day. A pleasant diversion was needed and I trusted he and his three companions would break the monotonous sobriety of the silent Rod, the withdrawn Kate, and the petulant, tight-lipped Bella.

  Due to their recent tête-à-tête at the funeral, Angela managed to implore the latter to talk of her home in Devon where she cared for a tyrannical aunt and what sounded like a jungle of a garden. Listening along, I pitied Arabella and understood why she fancied coming to the island, to Somner. I pictured her in her little cottage, her aunt badgering her, and Bella, hoping, waiting for that letter, that invitation to return to Somner House once again. Somner became her salvation.

  “His murder was unduly cruel,” Bella said the next morning at the breakfast table to Angela and me, since the others had not yet made their appearance.

  “I agree with you.” Angela nodded, liberally buttering her toast. “But Mr. Lissot will soon be charged.”

  “But they haven’t charged him yet. They still delay, when it is obvious. Why?”

  Angela gave a nonchalant shrug. “These things take time. How is dear Rod coping? You know your cousin best, Bella. He’ll need your help now…living all alone on the island.”

  Bella’s face brightened.

  “You should marry him,” Angela advised with a tinge of sarcasm in her voice, causing the color to deepen on Bella’s face. “Together, you could rescue Somner out of deep peril and preserve the legacy.”

  I could see the thought had already occurred to Bella.

  After breakfast, I went for a walk. Trudging along the beach path, the path where they’d found the body, I envisaged Max lying there, his head encased by a pool of blood, his face bludgeoned and unrecognizable. I shivered. It was horrible. What manner of person would do such a thing? Jackson? I had observed a shrewdness in the gardener’s face. He would push the Trevalyans for benefits, for his daughter and grandson, but the question remained, how far would he, or had he, pushed? I could see him hiding in the bushes, waiting for Max, a sickle in his hand.

  I glanced up. My feet had carried me along the beach toward the tower. Cursing my lack of thoughtfulness in not bringing a shawl or my woolen fedora, I climbed up the beach path, my teeth chattering in the face of the icy wind.

  The lure of the tower beckoned. How sad and lonely it looked, emblazoned against the wintry sky.

  “You there!” Suddenly an old man appeared jabbing a pitchfork at me. “Who are ye? Didn’t yer read the sign? It says no tresspassin’.”

  Gasping for my breath, I raised a friendly hand. “Sorry, sir. I’m not trying to break in. I’m a houseguest at Somner House. Lord Roderick’s guest, in actual fact,” I added in all haste.

  “Eck?”

  The pitchfork lowered a fraction.

  “Yes,” I confirmed, keeping my voice calm as I related how I’d come to the island and how my sister knew Lady Kate Trevalyan.

  “Ah.”

  Lowering the pitchfork to the ground, he wiped his mouth on his grimy sleeve. “Ye lost then?”

  “Not really.” I blushed. “I know Lord Roderick is not at home, but I do so love to explore this island. Have you always lived here? Do you work for the Trevalyans?”

  The man frowned at me. Too many questions, I realized, and employing Sir Marcus’s tactic, I resumed the cheery conversational mode. “I adore the ocean and boats. I watch them from my home at Ferryside in Fowey. I love the way they glide across the water. One can never be freer than in a boat, don’t you agree, Mr….?”

  My elaborate friendliness worked. Setting aside his pitchfork, the man gestured to the boatshed. “Pencheff’s the name, and if ye like boats, Missy…”

  “Oh, I do,” I assured him.

  “Then I’ll let ye have a look round. I don’t think Mr. Rod’ll mind, seein’ ye his guest and all.”

  I didn’t know what I expected to find or if there existed a logical point to my current endeavor, but I had not lied. I did live in Fowey and I did admire boats. I could sit and watch them all day, tapping my fingers on the windowsill, except, of course, when there were chores to do. My mother did not like idleness and I often received a stern reprimand for my frequent daydreaming.

  Having visited a few boatsheds, this one intrigued me with its rusty tin exterior and cobwebs trailing down from the corners of the haphazard workshop, where tools, machines, and nature collided. “This is the newest boat you’re building for Lord Trevalyan?” I asked, caressing the side of the simple schooner. “Where does he keep them or do you sell them?”

  “We sell ’em.”

  Nodding, I continued my quiet tour of appreciation, gaining his respect by mentioning one or two things a woman didn’t usually know about boats.

  “Er, Missy,” Mr. Pencheff grimaced, “not many boats for fancy folk. These are small and built for fishin’. Ye like these ones, do ye?”

  “Yes. They are more of a challenge.”

  He wanted to show me the latest rudder, explaining how “Mr. Rod” designed it and how they’d tested the invention out together.

  “Everybody likes Lord Roderick,” I said. “But they don’t seem to have liked his brother.”

  “O-ei! Bad blood, that one. Good he’s dead. Would’ve happened sooner or later.”

  “They say it’s murder,” I murmured, wide-eyed. “The wife’s lover did it, they also say. What do you think?”

  I received no response, but following my inquiry regarding the painting of the sanded-down boat, Mr. Pencheff gave out a whoop of righteous indignation.

  “Poor lady. Don’t know how she’s put up with Mr. Max all these years. Can’t blame her. Pity they’ve got to lock her friend away.”

  “She’s worried they will lock her away,” I said, and my companion’s eyes rounded, an unknown seafaring curse escaping his lips.

  “Mr. Rod won’t have it. She should’ve married him after all.”

  I agreed, treading upon the subject with a modest degree of caution. “Did Lady Kate ever come to the tower?”

  The boat builder neither confirmed nor denied it.

  “It would be a nice end if she married Lord Roderick,” I said, “but this man in jail was special to her and then there’s the cousin—”

  Mr. Pencheff spluttered his disgust. “Oh, heard she’s here again. Funny girl, that one.”

  “Yes,” I said, waiting for him to give me a history of Bella’s association with the island and its folk. When none came and the quaint inference hung about unfulfilled, I pressed him on the subject.

  “It ain’t me ye should be talkin’ to but me Mrs.”

  “Mrs. Pencheff?”

  He nodded and I asked for directions to see Mrs. Pencheff.

  “It’s the first cottage on the hill.”

  He pointed up to the ridge and I thanked him, walking briskly in case he should change his mind. Salt air assailed my face as I climbed the winding little beach track, only a few yards from the tower.

  The stone and slate cottage was easy to find. It was the first cottage on the left, and I noticed the closed shutters; the tended, yet suffering garden; and the weathered roof. I love seaside cottages and this one was undeniably charming.

  Taking a deep breath, I knocked on the door.

  “Who is it? Ivy? Is that you, Ivy?”

  “It’s not Ivy,” I said through the wooden grooves. “I’m a stranger. You don’t know me but I just spoke with your husband.”

  “Eh?” Pounding footsteps and then the door sprang open to reveal a wiry-haired woman. Her keen eye quickly examined me. “Ye lost then? We don’t get any fancy folk knockin’ on our doors.”

  Realizing this woman may be my closest find to a village gossip, I explained my purpose.

  Heavy-lidded eyes narrowing, she c
rossed her arms and I wondered if she intended to keep me standing out in the cold wind. “Please,” I implored as the door began to close.

  Shrugging, instead of shutting it, she opened the door wider and bid me entry. Without saying a word, I was led inside the tiny cottage, to the warm kitchen out the back. I tried not to look at the stacks of dirty dishes waiting to be washed or the faded curtains at the windows bearing more than a few years of dust.

  She faced me from behind the kitchen, clicking her tongue. “I tell me man to keep quiet on the subject, I do. But does he listen to me? What’s he say, then, about Arabella Woodford?”

  “Not much. He said I should ask you.”

  She clicked her tongue again. “Why do ye want to know about her?”

  “She may be,” I cleared my voice, “we all may be suspects in the murder of Max Trevalyan.”

  She smiled. “Always knew it’d happen. Those house parties, bringin’ all sorts to the island…I said so to Ivy. Ivy’s a great friend of mine and we’ve watched the goings on of Somner House for many a year.”

  I ached to learn more but she remained closemouthed. She was the kind of gossip, I feared, who collected information to share only for her benefit or among her inner circle. I did not belong to her inner circle and I had nothing to pay her with except news from Somner, news about the murder inquiry, news that might be priceless to a woman like Mrs. Pencheff.

  “Did you go to the funeral?” Mrs. Pencheff asked archly.

  “Yes, of course. My sister and I had only recently arrived before it happened. We were shocked, naturally.”

  “And who is your sister and who are you?”

  She wanted to know every pertinent detail so I humored her, giving a brief summary of my upbringing, my connections, and how I’d arrived at Somner house.

  “Du Maurier,” she mused aloud. “I ain’t heard the name but that’s nothin’. I’ve been here me whole life, I have, and never ventured off it.”

  “The island? You’ve never left the island?”

  “No. Why should I? Me parents were same before me and me grandparents before that. All fishermen and boatbuilders, we are.”

  “And your family has witnessed many things during that time, has it not?”

  Mrs. Pencheff huffed. “Maybe we have or maybe we haven’t.”

  I lowered my eyes, trying a new tactic. “It’s all very shocking to us, my sister and myself. We don’t know what to make of it.” And I went on to volunteer information regarding Kate’s fears regarding the reading of the will the next day.

  This interested Mrs. Pencheff. “The readin’s tomorrow, is it?”

  “Yes. We all believe Lord Roderick will inherit, which is only fit.”

  “It should be only fit. He’s the only good blood in the family.”

  “What of Max’s son?”

  “Eh? That little bastard? He’s nothing, though ye can’t tell Jackson that, can ye? He has grandiose ideas for the boy but he won’t be cheatin’ Rod out of his rightful inheritance. That boy’s a bastard and he’s the wild eyes of his father, I can tell ye that.”

  “I confess I never knew Max Trevalyan very well,” I ventured slowly, “but I thought him very wild, very wild indeed.”

  “Pfff! Wild is not the least of it. He was very bad. Evil, even. I says so to Ivy and Mr. Pencheff many a time. But do they listen to me? No! Only now they listen.”

  “Lord Max had few friends, it seemed,” I went on as Mrs. Pencheff bustled away to boil the kettle. I allowed myself a little smile as I hoped she’d accepted me into her inner circle.

  Bringing back a tray of fresh tea, Mrs. Pencheff shook her head. “There’s none blamin’ Lady Kate over it, poor lass. Who’s to blame her goin’ off with her gentleman fellow for puttin’ up with such a husband as him! I’m surprised Mr. Fernald’s locked up the lover. Not fair, if he were protectin’ her.”

  “I agree completely,” I murmured, drawing up to glance out the window while she poured the tea. “You have a very fine view here, Mrs. Pencheff.”

  She shivered. “Not with them winds up. The only place on the island to get warm is down at the pub.” Flicking a hand toward the other room, she gestured to the cottage’s dismal spurting fire. “So, ye want to know ’bout Miss Woodford, eh? What d’ye make of ’er?”

  “She’s quiet and reserved, however, there has been an occasional emotional outburst. She loves her cousins, which is natural—”

  “Hark!”

  A tirade of curses sprang forth in a language unknown to me.

  “No natural thing there. To the cave, they’d go, first with Max, Max and she, barely off the apron strings and once it were Mr. Rod. Well, I only saw him go there once, but that Max”—her mouth took a grim line—“he’s a rogue to do that with his own cousin!”

  Concealing my surprise, for I never suspected Arabella would interest a man like Max Trevalyan, I mentioned his affair with Rachael Eastley.

  Mrs. Pencheff raised her eyes to the ceiling. “There’s likely half a dozen bastards of ’em around. You’ve seen Mrs. Eastley, have ye?”

  “Yes. She’s very attractive.”

  “Psh! Attractively landing her son on Max. Tho’…the boy has the look of him and he’s the only bastard he’s claimed.”

  “Claimed,” I echoed. “So Max accepted the boy?”

  “Well,” Mrs. Pencheff pressed my hand. “Ye never heard it from me, but Ivy and I, we’ve seen him visit her and the boy, bringin’ the boy presents. If that’s not acceptance, I don’t know what is. Heard a few other girls over the years tryin’ the same sort of thing, but he’d have none of it.”

  “Mrs. Eastley was different. Perhaps he loved her?”

  “Who knows? The person I feel sorry for is that Lady Kate. It ain’t right what Fernald’s doin’. Who’d blame her or her fancy fellow for protectin’ themselves. That’s not murder, I say.”

  “They will view it as manslaughter.”

  “Manslaughter my foot! How can it be when ye protectin’ yourself? It don’t make no sense to me and that half-baked brain of Fernald, he ain’t real clever. Ye watch him now, won’t ye, over at the big house?” She looked at me then, archly. “And ye’ll come back and visit me with the news, won’t ye?”

  I promised I would. “Good-bye, Mrs. Pencheff.”

  She stood at the door watching me, despite the cold, and I wondered what she was thinking as she watched me go.

  Chapter Twelve

  “Sir Marcus is looking for you.”

  Languidly sprawled on her bed, Angela directed a lazy eye at me. “He seemed very put out you weren’t around. Said something about the kitchen and dinner?”

  Oh dear! I’d forgotten completely. Whipping off my coat and gloves, I headed down to find him juggling two steaming saucepans.

  “Quick!” he ordered. “Take this.”

  Muttering under his breath, Hugo stood cross-armed while I hurried over to rescue Sir Marcus, emptying the charred remains of the saucepan down the sink.

  “You were supposed to be here at ten,” Sir Marcus growled. “Now my minestrone casserole is ruined. Where were you? You’d better have a good excuse.”

  After tying on my apron, I smiled mysteriously. “I do have a good excuse but first, what can I do to help? We’ve still time to make another dish.”

  Giving me one last glare, he fired a series of curt instructions and I followed them to the best of my ability. I seldom ventured into the kitchen, except to extract an apple or a picnic basket, and it never occurred to me the amount of preparation involved in preparing a dish. Sir Marcus’s extravagant plan bemused me. “I should call you ‘Lord Kitchener,’” I joked while peeling and cutting vegetables and fetching various herbs and spices.

  Within the hour, we’d finished. A watchful Hugo still haunted a corner of the kitchen, but Sir Marcus continued blithely on, whistling away. I wished I had his sort of temperament. I couldn’t relax in an atmosphere where I knew we weren’t wanted. Hugo objected to noisy guests blundering abo
ut his domain and making a mess in the process.

  Locating a space on the kitchen bench to sit and observe his new creation bubbling away, Sir Marcus struck up a conversation with the unwilling Hugo. “We met Mrs. Eastley at the funeral, old chap.”

  Hugo’s slanted eyes remained uncommunicative.

  “Max’s son is a nice-looking boy,” Sir Marcus continued. “Wonder he didn’t leave the estate to him. Oh, but, how silly of me. He’s not legitimate, is he? Does it matter with these Trevalyans? I know my own estate can only pass on the well-oiled line, but others are more accepting of children out of wedlock. What say you, Hugo, old boy?”

  The hunchback floundered like a fish caught on pavement. “Er…”

  “Er. Er—yes,” Sir Marcus pretended to understand. “All will come out in the official reading of the will. Tomorrow, isn’t it? Shall you be there?”

  “What, me? His lordship said nothin’ to me. What’s it got to do with me?”

  His eyes betrayed the smallest hint of fear.

  “But you’re always the man about the house,” Sir Marcus pacified in his best engaging manner. “You see things. You caught Miss Daphne here creeping into a forbidden room, so what else have you seen? What else have you witnessed?”

  Hugo became indignant. “I told the police everythin’ I know and seen.”

  “And heard?” I blurted out. “It’s funny how one often forgets hearing things in the middle of the night. You must have heard something, dear Mr. Hugo,” I pleaded in a sweet tone.

  The hunchback paused to brood and I gently laid my hand on his arm. “Please, it may be important. I know you wish to protect the Trevalyans and I promise no harm will come to them.”

  Not sure whether to trust me or not, or whether to speak or not, he groaned.

  “There were a squeak,” he said eventually.

  “A squeak?” Sir Marcus echoed.

  “The terrace door. It makes a noise, even tho’ I’ve tried to oil it. Three times, I hear it that night.”

  “And you told Mr. Fernald this?” Swooping upon the clue, Sir Marcus’s eyes glimmered like a cat.

  “He weren’t too interested in it.” Hugo shrugged. “The first two times it were quietlike, as a thief would do, and then the last time it was loud. I left me bed and went down there, but nobody was there.” Crossing his arms, he frowned at us. “I told Fernald all this anyway…why’s it so important?”