A Most Novel Revenge

by Ashley Weaver

  “I … I’m not feeling very well. I wonder if I could have a moment of your time.” It was not, in fact, a lie. I wasn’t feeling at all well. Though I hadn’t wanted to admit it, even to myself, I did not feel entirely recovered from the ordeal of finding Miss Van Allen’s body. I had not slept well since, and there was a continual dull ache in my head that I did my best to ignore.

  “Certainly,” he said.

  “Thank you. My room is this way.”

  I led him to my bedroom and he closed the door behind us, setting his bag upon a table near the door.

  “Inspector Laszlo tells me that Mr. Roberts has regained consciousness,” I said. “Will he be all right?”

  “He seems to be feeling better. He needs rest and fluids. I’ll come back around tomorrow to check on him. What can I help you with?”

  “I’m sorry to have troubled you. I just thought that, while you were here…”

  “No trouble at all, Mrs.…”

  “Ames.”

  “Mrs. Ames. My name is Dr. Jarvis. What seems to be the trouble?”

  “Oh, it’s hard to say, specifically,” I said. “I just have been feeling a trifle under the weather. I’m very tired and my head aches a bit.”

  It seemed that his gaze became a bit sharper. “Have you had any stomach trouble?”

  “No,” I said. “My stomach has been fine.”

  “Dizziness?”

  “No.”

  He appeared to be losing interest. “Is your throat sore?”

  “No, my throat isn’t troubling me.” I decided, since my time with the doctor would no doubt be limited, that I had better be direct. “It was dreadful about Miss Van Allen.”

  “Yes,” he said noncommittally. “Have you had a fever?”

  “I don’t think so. It was very dreadful for me because … you see, I … I was the one who found her.”

  A bit of sympathy fought its way to the surface of his expressionless face. “That must have been very difficult for you,” he said.

  “Yes, I’ve been quite troubled by it.” This was not a lie either, though I allowed a slightly exaggerated note of distress to creep into my tone. If he thought I was a hysterical female, so be it.

  “This could be the source of your difficulties. Such a thing can affect one profoundly. Very trying to the nerves, you know. The best thing for it is to get plenty of rest. Have you had trouble sleeping?”

  “Yes,” I answered honestly.

  “Would you like me to prescribe you a sedative?”

  “No, I don’t think so. But perhaps if I could just talk to you for a few moments.”

  “Certainly,” he said kindly. “Would you like to tell me about it?”

  “Well, I went to her room to speak with her and found her on the floor. I didn’t realize she was dead at first. I thought perhaps she had fallen and hit her head or some such thing, for there was a glass on the floor beside her. It seemed to me that she might have been taken ill while drinking her wine.”

  “Indeed.” There was something guarded about this response, as though he found the information interesting but didn’t want me to know, and he looked into his bag as though searching for something. It seemed that I would have to press on.

  “I understand that this is not the first time that someone has died tragically at Lyonsgate,” I said sadly.

  He looked up at me. “What do you mean?”

  “There was a death here several years ago.”

  “Oh, yes,” he said brusquely. “Edwin Green, I suppose you mean.”

  “Yes. I suppose you were called out here at that time, too.” I wondered if my pressing for information would seem too obvious, but I could really see no other way to get the information I was searching for.

  “No, I wasn’t the doctor here then. That was Dr. Brockhurst.”

  “Oh,” I said, a bit deflated. It had been my hope that he would be able to give me a firsthand account of Edwin Green’s death. Now it seemed that I had exaggerated my symptoms to no effect. There was still the off chance I might be able to learn something useful, but I was not optimistic. Perhaps if I could speak to this Dr. Brockhurst.

  “He moved away after the scandal occurred, I suppose?” I said casually.

  “No such thing. He still lives in the village. Retired, you might say, though he still sees patients from time to time. Some of his older patients haven’t taken to me. Six years and I’m considered a newcomer.”

  “I see. So you weren’t living in the village at the time of Edwin Green’s death.”

  “No. I remember reading about it in the papers, of course. I was hesitant to take a job here, I don’t mind telling you. I don’t hold with scandal. But things have been fairly quiet … until now, at least. But you’d best not think too much about it, Mrs. Ames. If you start to feel troubled, drink a glass of brandy.”

  It seemed he would be of no further use to me at the moment. “Thank you, doctor.”

  There was a perfunctory tap at my door and Milo came into the room. “I hear there has been some excitement. I … Oh, excuse me,” he said, his eyes moving from me to the doctor and back again.

  “Dr. Jarvis, sir,” the doctor said. “You are Mr. Ames?”

  “Yes.”

  “I wonder if I might have a word with you in the hallway.”

  Milo’s eyes came back to me, and then he nodded. “Of course.”

  Dr. Jarvis turned to me. “Make sure you get plenty of rest, Mrs. Ames. And take the brandy if you feel that you need it.”

  “Thank you, doctor.”

  He hesitated on the threshold. Then, seemingly afraid I might seek a second opinion, he added, “Dr. Brockhurst is in Italy just now. Must be lovely there this time of year.”

  Milo shot me a significant look, refusing to let me forget that we had exchanged a holiday in Italy for this dismal trip to Lyonsgate.

  Then the gentlemen went out, and I breathed a disappointed sigh. Dr. Jarvis had not been at all helpful. To make matters worse, the doctor who had been called to the scene of Edwin Green’s death was away on holiday. I wondered if it would be possible to find anyone else in the village who would be willing to share their recollections of the incident.

  A few minutes later Milo came into the room and shut the door behind him. “What was that about?” I asked.

  “The doctor said your nerves are in a most fragile state and that I should treat you delicately,” Milo said skeptically. “You’ve clearly been lying to him.”

  I laughed. “He prescribed brandy and sedatives. He seems to think I will feel much better if I am nearly unconscious.”

  “Speaking of unconsciousness, I hear that there has been some trouble with Mr. Roberts?”

  “He lost consciousness in the hallway. It was very alarming.”

  “And you were so distraught that you needed to speak to the doctor, I suppose.”

  “Something of that nature.”

  He raised a brow and waited for me to continue.

  “I wanted to know about Edwin Green’s death,” I admitted with a sigh, “but he was not the doctor at the time, so he was of very little use to me.”

  “How unfortunate. Let us hope he was at least of use to Mr. Roberts, who was actually in need of his attentions.”

  I made a face. “You needn’t make it sound as though I callously stole the doctor’s attentions. Mr. Roberts is going to be fine. I would not have called Dr. Jarvis away if I felt that it would be detrimental to Mr. Roberts’s health.”

  “Well, that’s reassuring.”

  “Yes,” I replied, refusing to be baited. “I’m very glad that Mr. Roberts is going to be all right, but I do wonder…”

  “Wonder what?”

  “I wonder if it’s a coincidence that Isobel and Mr. Roberts both became ill.”

  “Amory…”

  “Yes, yes, I know. It’s none of my concern.”

  As Milo had begun to assume his exasperated face, I decided it was best to let the subject drop for the present. That
did not mean, however, that I intended to forget about it.

  16

  DINNER THAT NIGHT was a strained affair. We were all of us, I thought, a bit demoralized by Mr. Roberts’s illness. There was an atmosphere of oppression that seemed to steadily grow the longer we stayed at Lyonsgate. It seemed as though the house was closing in on us.

  I was not the only one who felt it. Laurel leaned toward me as we went in to dinner. “I do wish we didn’t have to stay here any longer. But I can’t leave Reggie to bear all of this alone. Beatrice is not in the least sympathetic, and Lindy cares only for men and horses. Reggie needs me, as much I should like to get away.”

  I knew the feeling. Truth be told, I was sorely tempted to accept Milo’s suggestion that we escape to Italy. I didn’t feel, however, that I could leave now, not with everything unresolved. I certainly didn’t want to leave Laurel to deal with the matter herself. As capable as she was, I knew how disheartening it was to face things alone. So Laurel would stay for Reggie, I would stay for Laurel, and we would all just wait and see what might happen next.

  It was a relief when the meal was over, and I was able to go back to my room. Laurel went up with me and we talked in hushed voices as we walked along the shadowy hallways. I felt vaguely as though we were heroines in some gothic novel. If only the villain would commence twisting his mustache and laughing maniacally. It would make things so much easier.

  We stopped at Laurel’s door. We were anxious to discuss the murder, but also very tired. There would be plenty of time for commiserating and conspiring tomorrow.

  Laurel opened the door to her room, but didn’t go in at once. “There’s got to be a way to find out who’s done this. Only, I worry…” She looked at me. “What if the truth is worse than not knowing?”

  “I suppose we must cross that bridge when we come to it,” I said.

  She nodded wearily. “Yes, you’re right. One day at a time.”

  “Yes, perhaps a good night’s rest will give us clearer heads.”

  “I hope so. I’m exhausted but I feel as though I shan’t sleep a wink.”

  I knew very well how she felt. I had not been sleeping at all well myself.

  “Well, good night, Amory.”

  “Good night.”

  I went to my room and found the fire crackling brightly in the hearth. Everything was still and quiet. I had given Winnelda the night off. I had meant for her to get rest, but I had little doubt that she was somewhere gossiping with the household staff.

  I prepared for bed, changing into a pair of silk pyjamas. Even with the fire roaring in the fireplace, the cold left me wishing I had something more along the lines of thick flannel.

  As quickly as possible, I ensconced myself within the bedclothes. Milo was having an after-dinner drink with the gentlemen, so I would have a few moments of peace to read.

  I picked up the book again. It was certainly rife with juicy tidbits, and I could see why it had caused such a furor. Nevertheless, it had not been exactly enlightening as far as containing possible motives for murder.

  I flipped to the beginning of the next chapter and begin to read. I had taken to substituting their real names for the pseudonyms Isobel had given them. It was much easier that way.

  After a few paragraphs, I sat up. This passage was particularly interesting. I started reading quickly and then forced myself to slow down so I could absorb the details. It seemed that there was something here that might be important. I didn’t know how, exactly, but something told me this was a piece of the puzzle not to be overlooked.

  The torrid affair between Beatrice, Edwin, and Bradford was coming to a head. In the novel, the characters meant to be Bradford and Beatrice had arranged to meet in her room after the house was asleep. The reason for the secrecy of their rendezvous was not exactly clear to me, given the rather open nature of the relationships occurring at Lyonsgate. I could only assume Isobel had wanted to add an additional element of tension to the novel.

  It appeared to have been an effective strategy, for I was drawn into the scene at once.

  It was nearly two o’clock in the morning and the house was silent, save the creaking of its ancient beams as the wind screamed and clawed at those warm and safe within its walls. Bradford slid from the bed and moved into the corridor as quickly as he dared. Already, it was very late. Beatrice might think he wasn’t coming, and he couldn’t bear the thought of a lonely princess waiting in her tower.

  He made his way down the dark passages, careful to avoid the squeaking boards that ached to betray his secrets with each footfall. With every step he felt the beat of his heart increase and his breath quicken in anticipation.

  He reached her room and tapped softly on her door, his hand trembling. There was no sound from within, only the heavy silence of the darkened passageway in which he stood. Overcome with emotion, he flung open the door and moved into her bedroom without waiting for a response. There she was, standing before the fireplace. She wore no negligee and her nightgown was thin and translucent. The light from the fire glowed through, illuminating the outline of her beautiful body. It was as though she was swathed in flame. Desire surged through him and something more: love so deep it hurt.

  He stood, frozen and speechless, looking at her. She turned slowly, as though she had not been waiting for him at all, as though she barely knew that he was there. He always felt that way, as though she were some sort of mirage he could never quite touch. Whenever she was in his arms, he wondered how it was that he had come to be worthy of her.

  Wordlessly, he rushed toward her, anxious to feel the warmth of her against him, to be enveloped in her flame. It was only when she resisted being pulled into his arms that he realized something was wrong.

  “What is it?” he asked in a breathless whisper.

  “It is never going to work between us, Bradford.” Beatrice’s face was drawn and quite white, and Bradford knew at once that this was not one of the games she liked to play. He felt himself grow cold as he looked at her, as though something inside him was beginning to die, the fire withering to embers.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, we’ve had our fun, haven’t we? We have enjoyed one another’s company, but these kinds of things never last.”

  He stepped back, reeling. “Don’t say such things. You mustn’t say such things.”

  “I’m sorry.” Her voice was cool and hard, and she didn’t sound sorry. She sounded as though she couldn’t wait to be rid of him. He couldn’t believe it. He felt momentarily numb, dumbfounded. And then a surge of a new kind of heat, hot fury, as another thought occurred to him. Somehow he knew. He knew exactly what it was.

  “It’s Edwin, isn’t it? Tell me. Tell me the truth!” He sounded like a madman to his own ears, but he didn’t care. He had been sure she loved him, sure that they were going to be together. And now this.

  She looked back at him, those brown eyes he had always loved, that he had seen as brimming with warmth and laughter, were suddenly flat and dark with hidden secrets. He felt in that moment that he could kill her. It was not a meaningless thought, born of anger, and sweeping quickly through him. It was like a sudden weight in his chest, bearing down on him, crushing the life from his heart. It was real, pure hatred, totally consuming the love he had felt only a moment ago, and he clenched his fists to keep himself from putting them around her long, white neck.

  “You look rather as though you’re enjoying that,” Milo said. I hadn’t heard him come in from his room. He stood in the doorway of the bathroom in his nightclothes and dressing gown.

  “It’s rather tawdry stuff,” I said. “But there’s something very interesting about this.”

  “Indeed?” He did not sound at all convinced.

  “Yes, listen to this.”

  I read aloud to Milo the passage I had just read, and then continued on.

  She was saying something, but somehow he couldn’t hear what it was. It was as though he were underwater, as though she was holding his head benea
th the sea, and speaking to him, mocking him with her artificial platitudes. She was killing him, that’s what she was doing. Killing him slowly with her heartless indifference.

  He felt as though his heart would explode. He couldn’t breathe.

  Milo snorted, spoiling the intensity of the moment. I ignored him and continued reading.

  She was everything to him, and now he realized that it had all meant nothing. He had nothing left, nothing in the whole world to live for. And he still couldn’t breathe. He gasped for breath, felt as though he were going to die for lack of air.

  “This is quite ridiculous.”

  “Do be quiet, Milo.”

  “Pure melodrama.”

  “He needed air,” I read loudly, determined to ignore my husband’s distracting commentary. He rolled his eyes, but sat down in a chair and let me go on.

  If he didn’t have air he would die. And it was Beatrice who was stopping him from breathing. It was her fault. This pain was all her fault. The only way to stop it was to stop her. The only way to breathe was to stop her from taking all the air.

  Milo sighed heavily.

  She let out a strangled cry as he put his hands around her throat and began to squeeze.

  She struggled against him, her nails clawing at him, but he barely felt the sting.

  “Do you mean to tell me she made money writing this drivel?” Milo asked, putting a cigarette to his lips.

  “A great deal of money.”

  “Astounding.”

  “Be still and let me finish reading this passage.”

  He took his lighter from his pocket and sat back in his chair, lighting the cigarette.

  I read on.

  They struggled, hitting a table, sending it crashing to the floor, the objects upon it shattering into thousands of pieces like his heart had done. The noise was tremendous, ringing in his ears, yet he did not release his grip on her throat.

  Suddenly there was a blinding flash of light as pain exploded through his head. He crumpled to the floor. It was only a moment later, the air pounding in his lungs, that he came to himself.

  Beatrice stood over him, gasping for breath, a heavy brass candlestick clutched in her hand.