A Most Novel Revenge

by Ashley Weaver

  There was something almost defiant in her gaze, and I could not help but feel that she was lying.

  Freida excused herself a few moments later, and I sat alone in the drawing room, pondering our conversation. There had been something strange in her manner, and I wondered if she had something to hide. How I would discover what it was, however, I didn’t know. It had been a long time since we had been confidantes.

  Reluctantly leaving the warm seat by the fire, I went back out into the entrance hall just as Mr. Roberts came down the stairs.

  “Good morning, Mr. Roberts,” I greeted him. I knew how hard it must be for him to be so out of place at Lyonsgate, especially since Isobel had done everything in her power to make them unwelcome.

  “Good morning,” he replied absently. He reached the bottom step, and I noticed at once that something was amiss. He looked worried, almost pale beneath his bronzed skin.

  “Is there something wrong?” I asked.

  “I … I’m not certain. Isobel is in her room, but the door is locked and she won’t answer.”

  I felt a strange sense of foreboding that I tried to fight back.

  “Perhaps she’s still sleeping,” I suggested, and even as I said it I realized that it was not likely to be true. I had seen for myself that she was an early riser. I did not think she would be so deep in sleep as not to hear a knock at her door.

  “I don’t think so. She always rises early,” he said, echoing my thoughts.

  “Perhaps she is writing and doesn’t wish to be disturbed.”

  He shook his head. “I don’t think so,” he said again. “You see, she was quite ill all night. I thought perhaps she had taken poorly to something that she had eaten and that she would be well again this morning, but now I wonder if there is something seriously wrong.”

  That did not sound at all encouraging.

  I walked to the steps beside him, trying to fight my growing unease. “I’m sure there’s no reason to be alarmed. Perhaps she’s still feeling ill.”

  “I think there’s something wrong,” he insisted. “I wonder if I should ring for the doctor?”

  “Perhaps we should look in on her first,” I suggested. “She may answer the door if you try again.”

  We reached the landing, and I followed him down the hall to Miss Van Allen’s door. He knocked, almost pounded, against the wood, and I thought there was something like desperation in it. There was no answer at first, and he tried in vain to turn the knob. The door was locked. I began to wonder if I should ask Mr. Lyons if he had a spare key.

  A moment later, however, I heard the bolt being slid back. Then the door opened and Isobel Van Allen looked out at us from the dark room, a black velvet robe wrapped tightly around her. She was a bit paler than usual, but her dark eyes were sharp.

  “What is it?” she asked, her tone lined with impatience. The question was directed at Mr. Roberts, and I wasn’t sure at first that she even noticed me standing there.

  “I … I was worried,” Desmond stammered. “You wouldn’t answer the door.”

  “I was trying to sleep. You know I was ill last night. I took some sleeping tablets.”

  “Are you … are you feeling better?”

  “Yes, Desmond,” she answered with a sigh. “It was likely only something I ate. I’m much better now.”

  “Can I get you anything?”

  “Thank you, no.”

  “Well, let me come in and sit with you.”

  “No,” she said sharply. Then her tone softened. “Don’t worry about me. Run along and enjoy your morning. I’ll need you to type for me later.”

  She looked at me then, and I was caught by something in her gaze. “You’ll take care of dear Desmond, won’t you?”

  “I … certainly,” I replied.

  “Thank you for looking in on me,” she said. She reached out and patted his cheek.

  “You’re such a dear, my sweet Desmond,” she said.

  Then she leaned in to kiss him on the mouth. I turned away at once, embarrassed to be privy to so intimate a scene.

  Then she closed the door.

  Mr. Roberts let out a breath, as though he had been holding it. I thought at first that he had forgotten me, but at last he turned from the door. He gave me a shaky and somewhat rueful smile.

  “I … I’m sorry I made a scene, Mrs. Ames,” he said. “It was just so unlike her not to answer her door.”

  “Well, I’m very glad to see she’s all right.”

  “Yes,” he replied vaguely, his thoughts obviously elsewhere.

  We parted ways then as he went into his room. I couldn’t help but think as I walked away, however, that there was something amiss in the scene I had just witnessed. Isobel had been acting strangely. It could, of course, be nothing more than that she was still feeling unwell. Sickness often made people peevish.

  However, there was something in her behavior that struck me as odd. Desmond hadn’t looked satisfied with their encounter. Despite Isobel’s display of affection, he had stiffened when she’d kissed him, and he had seemed distracted as he went into his room. I didn’t know if it was embarrassment at her kiss or annoyance at her dismissal, but it seemed that all still was not well in paradise.

  * * *

  IT WAS PERHAPS an hour later when Milo came into my room.

  Winnelda was following Parks’s example and mercilessly polishing my riding boots while I read in the chair near the fire.

  “Still reading that dreadful thing, are you?” Milo asked, indicating the copy of The Dead of Winter in my hand. Well, I’ve come to rescue you from it. I’ve just been out to the stables and asked the groom to saddle horses for us. Are you ready for the ride you promised me?”

  “I suppose so,” I answered absently. To be honest, I had not been reading for some time. Try as I might, I had not been able to concentrate much on the novel. My thoughts were still on Isobel Van Allen. Something about the scene at her doorway nagged at me, but I could not determine what it was.

  “I am flattered by your enthusiasm,” he remarked dryly.

  I smiled and turned my attention to him. “I’m sorry. I was thinking about something else.”

  He looked at me warily, but said nothing.

  “A ride sounds lovely,” I told him, rising from my seat.

  “Good.” He went across to the door to his room. “It shall only take me a few moments to be ready.”

  “Very well.” I set the book aside and moved to change into my riding costume, a white blouse and tan trousers tucked into my now-gleaming black boots. Winnelda insisted upon brushing my dark jacket before I could put it on, so I sat back down to wait.

  Normally, I would have been pleased at the prospect of a ride with my husband, but I could not seem to get my mind off of Isobel Van Allen. Perhaps she really had been ill and hadn’t wanted Desmond to know.

  I glanced at our connecting doorway. Milo was not finished dressing, and Winnelda was not ready to relinquish my jacket. Perhaps I should look in on Miss Van Allen again before we left. I was sure she wouldn’t be pleased to be bothered again, but it would set my mind at ease to know that she was all right.

  “I’ll be right back, Winnelda.”

  “All right, madam. I’m nearly finished.”

  I left my room and went down the hall.

  “Miss Van Allen?” I called, knocking lightly on the door to her room. It had apparently not been securely closed after she had spoken with us, for it opened beneath my fist.

  I could see inside, but not very well. The heavy curtains were still drawn, and the room was dark. Perhaps she was still sleeping, after all. If so, I didn’t want to disturb her. She had not seemed at all pleased with Mr. Roberts for doing so this morning.

  I hesitated on the threshold, something within in me both urging me to go in and warning me to retreat.

  It occurred to me that she might be worse. Perhaps I should check on her and call for a doctor if her condition had not improved.

  “Miss Van Allen?”
I called softly.

  I stepped into the room, and stepped immediately into a puddle of wine, the glass lying empty on its side not far from the door.

  My eyes followed the puddle and it was then I saw Isobel Van Allen lying on the floor, still in her black robe, arm outstretched, her head turned away from the door.

  I was glad that I had followed my instincts. We would need to summon a doctor at once.

  I went down to my knees beside her, the wine soaking into my trousers.

  “Miss Van Allen? Isobel?” I reached out and touched her outstretched hand. It was cool to the touch, but not cold.

  I tried to gather her into my arms to see if I could rouse her, but as she fell heavily against me, her head fell back, her dark, unseeing eyes staring up at me.

  I gasped, too horrified to scream, and, gently laying her back on the floor, stumbled to my feet and out into the hallway just as Milo came around the corner.

  He stopped when he saw me, an expression I had never seen crossing his face. “Oh, God,” he breathed.

  I looked down and realized that it was not wine in which I was covered. It was blood.

  9

  MILO WAS AT my side in two long strides, his eyes moving over me, his hands running over my arms and then my torso. “Where is it coming from?”

  “I … I…” I couldn’t seem to speak; to form the words seemed an impossible task. I felt incredibly lightheaded, and my legs felt as though they wouldn’t hold me much longer. She’s dead. She’s dead. The words kept playing over and over in my mind, but I couldn’t seem to make myself say them.

  He grasped my shoulders, his voice firm but very gentle. “Amory, look at me.”

  I blinked then forced myself to focus, to meet his gaze. The intensity in his bright blue eyes captured my attention, as did his next words. “Where are you bleeding, darling?”

  It was only then I realized that he thought the blood was mine. I had stumbled into the hallway, soaked in blood. Of course, he had thought I was injured. I hastened to reassure him, but the words were slow in coming.

  “No, it’s not mine. She … she’s…” I pointed to Miss Van Allen’s room, my hand shaking.

  His hand still gripping my arm, Milo stepped into the threshold and looked into the room. One short glance was apparently all it took.

  Then he moved back to my side. “Are you hurt, darling?”

  “No. I … we…” I wanted to explain what had happened. I wanted to know what he was going to do about Isobel Van Allen and to tell him that we should call for help, but I could not seem to find the words. It was as though I knew what I wanted to say, but my mind was not completely connected to my body. My thoughts were racing too quickly for me to catch hold of one enough to speak it. It was a maddening sensation.

  “You’re certain you’re all right?”

  “Yes, but…”

  I drew in a deep breath, trying to calm myself. It was just so awful. But perhaps there was still hope. She hadn’t been cold …

  I started to step toward the room, but he slipped his hand around my waist and blocked me from the doorway.

  “There’s nothing you can do, darling,” he said. “Come away.”

  He was right, of course. That much was perfectly obvious, though I hadn’t wanted to believe it. There was nothing anyone would be able to do for Isobel Van Allen.

  Half supporting me, Milo led me down the hall and back to my room.

  As he ushered me into the bedroom, Winnelda turned from where she was brushing my riding jacket. She took one look at me and screamed. Very loudly. It was enough to rouse me somewhat from my stupor.

  “I’m all right,” I said. “It … it isn’t mine.” My voice was steady, if a bit faint.

  “Winnelda, draw Mrs. Ames a bath.”

  She stood staring at us.

  “Winnelda, please do as I ask,” Milo said impatiently.

  She gave a little sob and fairly ran into the bathroom.

  Milo sat me down in a chair and knelt before me, deftly unbuttoning my bloodstained blouse. “It’s going to be all right, darling. You’ve had a shock. We’ll get you cleaned up and you’ll feel much better.”

  “You should send for a doctor,” I said.

  He hesitated for only an instant. “There’s no need for a doctor.”

  I had known it from the moment I saw her, but I hadn’t wanted to believe it. “She’s dead,” I whispered.

  “Yes.”

  “There was so much blood.”

  “I know, darling.” He stripped off the bloody blouse I was wearing and tossed it aside. I hugged myself against the cold of the room and the deeper cold I felt inside, but Milo swiftly removed his jacket and put it over my shoulders. Then he leaned down to pull off my riding boots. The brightly polished boots were now stained with blood.

  I looked down at my trousers, the fawn-colored fabric bright red, and felt a wave of dizziness.

  Milo looked up and must have noticed that I had paled, for he cupped my face in his hand, drawing my eyes from my bloodied trousers to his face. “It’s all right, darling.”

  I nodded. It wasn’t all right, but I loved him for trying to convince me that it was.

  Winnelda came out of the bathroom, wringing her hands. “Oh, madam,” she said, her voice breaking. “Oh, madam.”

  “Winnelda, you must get hold of yourself,” Milo said firmly. “I need you to tend to Mrs. Ames.”

  She did a very poor job of stifling another sob, and it was apparent that I was going to have to collect myself before she went into hysterics. I wished for the first time in my life that I had been inclined to carry smelling salts. Instead, I drew in a deep, steadying breath.

  “It’s all right,” I said calmly. “There’s … there’s been a … an accident, I’m afraid. Miss Van Allen is dead.”

  “Oh!” Winnelda’s hand went to her mouth.

  Milo took both my hands in his. The warmth of his grip was reassuring. “Will you be all right if I leave for a moment?”

  “Yes. Yes, I’ll be fine. I’m much better now.” He studied me for a moment, as though to be sure I meant it, then rose and turned to Winnelda.

  “Can I trust you to look after her?”

  She nodded. “Yes, Mr. Ames. I’ll look after her.”

  “Good. Help her off with the rest of her clothes and get her into the bath,” Milo said. He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and, though he turned his back to me, I could see that he was wiping the blood from his hands.

  He turned to me as he reached the door. “I’d better notify Lyons and ring for the police.”

  I looked up at him and our eyes met. We were both thinking the same thing. Isobel Van Allen was dead and, despite what I had told Winnelda, it most definitely had not been an accident.

  * * *

  BY THE TIME I had washed the blood away in the bath and Winnelda had helped me into a dark tweed suit, I was again fully in possession of my faculties. I felt incredibly tired, drained of energy, but my thoughts were clear. I almost wished that they weren’t, for I could still remember the sensation of the blood seeping into my clothes, though I hadn’t been aware of what it was at the time.

  Even worse, I kept picturing Isobel’s dark eyes staring blankly up at the ceiling, the brightness that had flashed in them completely gone. A chill swept through me.

  “Are you all right, madam? Can I get you anything? Perhaps some tea?”

  Winnelda seemed to have calmed herself, and I was glad that we had both escaped the throes of full-blown hysteria.

  “Thank you, Winnelda, no. I need to go down to the drawing room. I shall have to go down and speak to the police shortly.”

  In truth I would have liked nothing better than to drink a hot cup of tea and lie down for the rest of the day. My head was beginning to ache, and I did not relish spending the next hours answering pressing questions. Unfortunately, I knew from experience what would be required of me.

  Milo had come back shortly after leaving me to ascertain
that I was all right and then had gone away again to speak with the doctor and the local coroner, who had apparently arrived together. I supposed they were examining the body—so sad and strange to think of Isobel Van Allen in that way—but they would no doubt wish to see me soon.

  “I can’t believe it’s happened again, madam,” Winnelda said mournfully. “Bodies turning up wherever you go.”

  “Yes, it’s dreadful,” I answered. As dreadful as it was, however, I could not say that I was completely surprised. It had been shocking, of course, to find Isobel dead, but I had been uneasy since I had arrived at Lyonsgate. With emotions running high and so many secrets running deep, it had almost seemed only a matter of time before something awful happened. Not that I had expected murder. But I had seen firsthand the lengths to which people would go when they were crossed, and Isobel Van Allen had crossed a great many people.

  As I went out into the hallway, I glanced in the direction of Miss Van Allen’s door. It was closed. I wondered if the doctor and the police were still inside.

  It appeared they were, for the drawing room was empty, save for Reggie Lyons. He was pacing the room, his face white. He held a cigarette between his fingers, but he seemed to have forgotten it was there, for the ash had built up on the tip and crumbled, unnoticed, to the rug as he paced.

  He stopped for a moment when he saw me. “This is a rotten business, Mrs. Ames,” he said. His voice sounded as tired as I felt.

  “Yes,” I replied. I could think of nothing better to say. “Are the police upstairs?”

  “Yes. Your husband was kind enough to show them to … to Isobel’s room. I … I have an aversion to blood, you see.” If possible, he had grown even paler as he said this.

  “Perhaps you should sit down, Mr. Lyons,” I said gently.

  He seemed too weary to protest and sank into a chair by the fire, rubbing his face with his hand.

  I remembered that Laurel had once spoken of the difficult time Reggie had had upon returning home from the war. He had seen some very bad things, she said. Things he vowed never to speak of, but that had apparently replayed before his eyes at odd moments as he stared off into the distance.

  I was glad he had not come across me when I had stumbled from Isobel’s room. Milo had been surprised and, I thought, momentarily shocked, but it was not the sort of thing that would trouble him for long. It would have had a much worse impact upon Reggie Lyons.