Peril at Somner House

by Joanna Challis

  “It’s called ‘Jazz in New York,’” Sir Marcus informed, trying to inspire us to dance.

  I shook my head, preferring to keep my legs outstretched on the grass and to watch the black swans swirling in the lake.

  Lord Roderick took a place beside me. “You’re not going to dance with the others?”

  From the corner of my eye I surveyed Kate and the Major engaged in a fox-trot, Josh and Angela laughing beside them. “No. You?”

  “Certainly not.” He grinned and reclined there in companionable silence.

  After a time, I turned to him. “This is like a dream.”

  “Yes, it is, but I’m afraid to believe it…to believe what I hope is possible.”

  This dire admission drained some of my sleepiness away. “Why don’t you believe good times are possible? They are yours for the taking. You don’t need to bury yourself away in your tower, you know. It takes courage, but surely such happiness is worth the gamble.”

  “You’re speaking of love,” he laughed, his voice so soft it echoed with the afternoon breeze.

  “Love is not alien to you.” I reminded him of the book of poetry I’d seen at his tower. “If it were, you would never keep such a book on your shelves. I find the fact that you do most…”

  My voice drained off. I couldn’t find the word. I didn’t want to encourage him unnecessarily, yet I felt the urgent need to promote the belief that love prevailed over all else. No struggle surpassed the truest love. I believed it with every fiber of my being, yet I, sadly, had not experienced it.

  “Oh, Daphne,” he murmured, not daring to face me, “I love how you live each day with such optimism. I sincerely hope your time at Somner hasn’t been too catastrophic?”

  I assured him it had not. His brother’s death, though I dared not admit it, had interested me far more than it should. Was it a callous disregard for the victim, or a growing obsession with my study of life, the study of people and their motivations? I wondered.

  “I wish I knew who murdered my brother, but he had so many enemies, who can tell?” Roderick asked.

  “Jackson the gardener seems your most likely suspect,” I said. “He has the greatest motivation. A daughter and grandchild to think of.”

  “No,” came the gentle response.

  I languidly turned my head to see Bella sprawled out as I was upon a blanket beside Sir Marcus and Angela. In amongst this happy crowd lay a resplendent Kate and the dashing Major. “Your sister-in-law says that she’s innocent as well.”

  “I am sure she is. A man had to have done it, judging by his face.”

  I lowered my eyes.

  “It’s curious, you know, I thought Max was invincible. He survived the war and many scrapes in it only to die…like that.”

  “Whatever he did, he didn’t deserve such a death.”

  My words echoed in the ensuing silence and Roderick suggested we join the others at cards. I stayed a little while apart, sensing the Major’s amusement at my antisocial behavior. At social events, he had the upper hand, whereas I paled into the shadows.

  When Mrs. Trent came to take away the basket and dirty plates, I offered to help and followed her inside the cottage.

  “Bless ye, dearie, ye didn’t ’ave to help me. I can do it on me own.”

  “Oh, I know you can. How long have you been here, Mrs. Trent?”

  “Oh, a few years now, ever since I got married. It’s a bit quiet and I miss Penzance, that’s where I grew up, but it’s a good livin’ workin for the Trevalyans.”

  “It must have come as a great shock, Lord Max’s death. Did he ever come here with…friends?”

  I’d caught her unawares and her guilty expression answered me.

  “I suspect she had the child here,” I went on. “Is it true, Mrs. Trent? Did Lady Kate know of it?”

  Mrs. Trent looked outside. “She knows everythin’. Lord Max had many vices, but at least he didn’t keep secrets.”

  “She wanted a baby…Lady Kate. It must have been heart-wrenching when her husband’s mistress bore the son she can never have.”

  Mrs. Trent arched her brows. “Well, that’s the way of it. I know nothin’ more of the matter.”

  I turned to leave her, knowing she thought I spoke out of bounds. But I had one last question. “What did you think of Rachael Eastley?”

  “A lady. Not born one, mind.”

  Yes, but was she a lady with secrets?

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  “Daphne, what on earth are you doing out here?”

  “Oh, hello Josh. I’m interested in this particular flower. Do you know what it’s called?”

  “I don’t blame you.” He grinned, kneeling down beside me in the garden. “I’m not very good with cards either. That’s why I went for a walk, hoping…” He glanced down the hill to where Kate stood clapping her hands. “Women! I can’t make them out.”

  “I am a woman, sir.”

  His keen eyes studied me. “So you are. But you’re different somehow. You see people and you glean the beyond. I’ve watched you, you know. One has to keep aware of the quiet observers.”

  I laughed. “I am not entirely a hermit.”

  He smiled, his haunted gaze intent on the merry card group.

  “I suppose it’s too early to ask if you and she—”

  “Plan to marry?” Scowling, he took the unusual blue flower from my hands. “Kate is like this flower. She’s like a wild thing who has to be protected. How I wish I had better means to do so!”

  “Both of you never imagined there would come an opportunity where marriage would become possible.”

  “No,” he agreed. “We did not.”

  “And now it’s awkward?”

  “Devilishly awkward! I don’t even know how to treat her. Friend? Lover?”

  “Will she marry you?”

  “I don’t know,” he murmured. “When this business is over, I guess we’ll see.”

  “They cannot arrest you again, surely.”

  “They can and they will. For who else do they have but me?”

  I followed his retreat down the steps to the others. Greeting him with fervor, Kate suggested we take a walk before we were due to catch the boat home.

  Josh’s lips tightened. My heart went out to him. He didn’t know whether to go or to stay as he was forced to accept crumbs from his changeable lover.

  “A walk,” Sir Marcus protested. “After all this food and wine? I daresay that’s a criminal offense.”

  So the party, save Sir Marcus, started out for a late-afternoon walk. The shoreline lay not far from the cottage. We strolled along the beach and into the hinterland beyond, exploring, absorbing the delightful sea air under the watchful eye of squawking seagulls.

  What I enjoyed most was just listening, to the sound of the surf rolling into the solid backs of the rocks; to the crunch of the soft, sandy beaches beneath our feet; and the gentle breeze blowing across the hills.

  “Hullo there!”

  I stopped and shut my eyes. I could no longer hear the sea air. “Major Browning, you are not helping my cause at all. Shhh. Listen.”

  Grinning, he watched my effort to stand perfectly still and unruffled by his presence. “I think it only proper to advise that the wind is lifting your skirt, Miss du Maurier.”

  “I know it is but I don’t care. Hear the storm coming? It is growing and shall strike soon.”

  And it did, with dire precision. A sudden lightning streak across the darkening sky and I jumped into the Major’s arms.

  “You should predict more often.” His laughing breath caressed my forehead. “It’s not every day you jump into my arms.”

  “I did not jump willingly,” I pointed out.

  “Willfully, you did. Willfully, you want to kiss me.”

  He was right. I did. There was something comforting about a storm brewing on the horizon and being wrapped in his arms. Throwning my pride to the wind, I gave myself to him completely, moving so close that I could feel his breath on
my neck. I had taken him by surprise for once.

  “Daphne!”

  “Browning!”

  “Now there’s a name.” Waving to our friends on the opposite headland, the Major reluctantly let me out of his arms. “Mrs. Daphne Browning. My Mrs. Browning.”

  “You are wrong. I shall never marry you,” I avowed, nearly slipping on the rocks before he steadied me.

  “I am never wrong,” the Major returned, climbing down and holding out his hand for me to follow. “The fact is you need a husband to look after you. Otherwise, lightning will strike your head one day.”

  “I’m not an imbecile,” I retorted. “I can take care of myself.”

  We’d reached a sharp stretch of jagged rocks. I faltered at the wide gap and he gallantly proffered his hand once more.

  “I know you can take care of yourself, Miss Independent. Jump across now before the rain comes.”

  Grinding my teeth, I accepted his helping hand. We had nearly caught up to the others and must have looked a sight, running back along the beach to the cottage, the rain and thunder pelting down upon us. We all sat with blankets around ourselves within the fire-blazing parlor of the cottage.

  “We’ll have to stay. We can’t go back now,” Roderick declared.

  A party of guests, stranded at her humble, wayside cottage by the sea, all demanding food and lodging for the night was quite the unforeseen occurence, but Mrs. Trent handled the situation with aplomb. Disappearing and reappearing, she pronounced the rooms ready and waiting, and to my eternal distress, it appeared that I would have to share with Arabella. Angela and Kate were in one room, Roderick and Sir Marcus in another, and Josh Lissot and the Major were designated the study enclosure.

  Fresh towels and basins of steaming water awaited us in the bathrooms. I realized this was the primitive offering of a bath in such circumstances, and I offered Bella the opportunity to go first. She accepted without reservation, and I waited on the hastily made bed, quivering from the cold.

  Eventually, she emerged and apologized for taking so long, to which I lamely smiled. Once inside the bathroom, I rolled my eyes. Could I survive a night with Bella? I knew she considered me a threat. When I emerged in my towel and began combing my newly washed hair, she eyed me with a tinge of hostility.

  I sat down on the edge of my bed to dry my hair and put it in some kind of order. “Oh, did you ever think we’d be stranded here overnight!”

  To my amazement, Bella, curled up in her swamp of warm blankets, sent me an uncharacteristic smile of quiet, self-assurance mixed with curiosity.

  “Is there or is there not something between you and my cousin?” Her whisper shot out in the semidarkness.

  “I…I cannot tell you,” I stammered truthfully.

  “Or is it the Major? I’ve watched you two together, too, and I won’t allow you to hurt my cousin. He’s doesn’t like to be played.”

  I was about to answer “I am not the kind to do so” when my pride got the better of me. Knowing it would annoy her, I answered her question with a question. “I might ask something of you. Are you in love with Rod or with Somner House?”

  She laughed the nervous schoolgirl laugh one makes when discussing boys and secrets. Discarding her blanket, she began to undress, stripping almost bare before me and parading her lithe figure about the room.

  I turned an abhorrent eye. She did it for the purpose of an exhibition, to shock, to prove she was a desirable woman.

  Determined not to give her any recognition, I feigned complete nonchalance. Outside, the wind howled as lightning flashed, and from down the hall, the gramophone started playing a French song I hadn’t heard since the war.

  Eager to get away from Bella and sacrificing my vanity by leaving my hair unset, I strolled out of the room and into a dream.

  Lounging by the window, Major Browning lay reading a book, his profile partially softened by the lamplight, a gentle smile upon his lips as he listened to the lilting caress of Edith Piaf’s “Non, je ne regretted rien.” The rest of the room, a collage of floral-covered chairs, faded carpet, burgundy-and-cream-striped wallpaper cluttered with small pictures of various animals and children’s faces, and lamps, a dozen lamps adorning every nook and cranny, blurred into the background.

  Since I approached quietly, the Major didn’t see me at first. Choosing the opportunity to linger awhile in the shadowy hallway, I studied the man of many faces. Scotland Yard trusted him. My father respected him. I should rely on him. He had an interesting face more than a handsome one, I decided, his nose not quite aquiline but distinctive, his cheekbones and jawline well-defined, all leading down to the sensual curve of his mouth.

  A peaceful radiant warmth accompanied me as I walked into the room. As his long fingers caressed the pages of the book, I choked away a sigh of longing for what could not be mine. A man like the Major was too well-liked by women to be anything more than a friend, and suddenly, seeing him in this repose, I wished it wasn’t so. His hot gaze now fell upon me, slowly dissecting every inch of my unkempt appearance. A slow smile played at the corner of his mouth. He rose out of his chair and ever so subtly caught me, his hands cupping my face and his lips engaging mine in an ethereal, intoxicating kiss. Forces out of my control gripped us both and I suddenly understood the danger of passion.

  “Well, well, here’s a to-do.”

  Gaping dramatically from the door, Sir Marcus whistled.

  “No, no, go ahead, my friends. I’m not one for interrupting romantic interludes.”

  Scarlet-faced, I detached myself from the Major. Fleeing to the safety of the vacant parlor, I proceeded to engross myself in the business of finding another record to play as, blessedly, Mrs. Trent announced the time for dinner and asked if we would like a predinner drink.

  I said yes, hastily. Sensing my distress, Sir Marcus slid to my side the moment the others entered the room, all convivial and noisy as usual. Had I really wantonly kissed the Major? Had I really given him a glimpse of my inner soul, the secrets I guarded so passionately?

  “There, there.” He proudly patted my hand. “All fixed and all’s well, as Shakespeare says.” He next whispered, “I’m so relieved you’re not a prude, m’girl. Though I am distressed you didn’t pick me as your kissing partner.”

  I sipped my champagne and allowed it to drift straight to my head. I didn’t care. I had to forget my momentary lowering of the guard. To no one had I shown what I’d shown Major Browning, a man who chatted amiably with Kate Trevalyan and Arabella Woodford as if nothing had occurred between us.

  Thunder rumbled outside.

  “How glorious,” Angela laughed, clapping her hands. “We’re stranded!”

  “With only the clothes on our back,” echoed Roderick, his curious, questioning eye darting from the Major to me.

  I blushed. Did he know? Had he seen us? Oh dear. If he had seen me with the Major, what must he now think of me? Did he think me a wanton gadabout?

  Roderick’s good opinion mattered to me. He had displayed a romantic interest in me by opening his mind and his heart and I did not wish to repay the compliment by flirting shamelessly with another man.

  Apologizing for the lack of time to prepare a proper meal, Mrs. Trent shepherded us into the cramped dining parlor adjacent to the kitchen. It proved a tight squeeze accommodating all eight of us around her walnut country table. Her best linen and dinnerware had been brought out of the cabinet on the far wall for the occasion.

  “Smells delightful,” Sir Marcus said as he sniffed the air. “Roast beef and potatoes and Cornish pasty pies. Heaven!”

  Bottles of wine lay open on the table and the Major swiftly rose to his feet to see to the ladies first, and then the gentlemen. Draped windows kept the terror of the storm outside, its odd clap of lightning and thunder heightening the drama of the occasion.

  “Where on earth is Josh?” Kate muttered, poking around. “His dinner will grow cold or lies in deep peril of Sir Marcus devouring it.” Smiling as Mrs. Trent brought out ye
t another tasty dish, she covered Josh’s plate with a napkin. “It smells absolutely delicious, Mrs. Trent. You’re a marvel…doing all this at the last minute.”

  Mrs. Trent beamed. Eager to impress, she left us to help ourselves to the roast beef and vegetables and potato pie wrapped in pastry.

  “If Josh doesn’t show up soon,” Sir Marcus warned, heaping his plate to a pinnacle of splendor, “I’m afraid there won’t be any left! And it’s no good trying to hide that plate from me, Katie girl. I know exactly where it is.”

  “I ought to fetch him,” Kate said, but the Major, as he was Josh Lissot’s designated roommate, offered to do the duty.

  He returned almost immediately, his face whiter than I’d ever seen before.

  “Whatever is the matter?” Kate, half laughing at a quip of Sir Marcus’s, looked up with an innocent, childish gaze.

  “Mr. Lissot…”

  There was a long pause.

  “Mr. Lissot,” the Major attempted again with a deep swallow, “is dead.”

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  “Dead!” Angela shrieked. “Are you jesting, Major? Is this some kind of a midnight ruse?”

  “No, it is not.”

  Dropping her knife, Kate sprang to her feet. “Whatever do you mean? It has to be a ruse! It must be! He can’t be dead…”

  She raced off toward his room. The Major tried to hold her back, indeed, he tried to hold all of us back, but like a herd of elephants, we hurried down the hallway and into the bathroom.

  Poor Josh Lissot, murdered in his bath. A knife stuck out of his heart and I turned away, sickened at the sight of blood. It was tragic, but in death, he never looked more beautiful. His luxuriant black hair had curled around his face where a surprised expression remained fixed. I felt ill, so did the others, and Kate wept. Sliding to her knees, she hugged the corpse, her anguished cries cursing whoever had done it, whoever had committed the foul deed.