A Most Novel Revenge

by Ashley Weaver

He looked up at her, dazed. How had this happened? His hands burned and his fingers ached from what he had done. And yet he could not really believe he had done it. Had he really tried to strangle her? Had she really hit him? It seemed as though it must have been a dream, but he lay on the floor and she looked down at him, an expression of absolute revulsion transforming her beautiful face into a mask of horror. It was all much too real.

  The door was flung open just then and Reggie and Isobel stood in the doorway.

  “What the devil’s happened?” Reggie demanded. “Beatrice, are you all right?”

  Bradford didn’t look at them. Instead, he lay on the floor, looking up at Beatrice with the expression of a suppliant.

  “Beatrice,” he whispered brokenly, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it. But you must believe that my love is true. You must.”

  “Get up and get out of here,” she hissed. “Get out of here at once.”

  He staggered to his feet, dizzy and disoriented. He rushed from the room, past Reggie and Isobel, spots dancing before his eyes.

  But the pain in his head was nothing compared to the pain in his heart. His entire world had come to an end.

  I closed the book and looked up at Milo. He blew out a stream of smoke, supremely unimpressed.

  “What absolute rot,” he said. “No wonder she was forced to leave the country after its publication.”

  “She’s not Dickens, naturally,” I said. “But it’s fairly compelling stuff. Bradford Glenn tried to kill her. No wonder she wanted nothing more to do with him after the murder. And Isobel witnessed it. It seems clear now why they all thought that he killed Edwin Green. He was clearly capable of violence.”

  “If, that is, it happened as she said.”

  “It seems very realistic to me.”

  “It’s fiction, my love. For all you know, she fabricated every bit of it.”

  “Perhaps,” I said, unconvinced. Isobel might very well have invented the confrontation, but to what purpose? She had been very careful to portray each of the people at Lyonsgate very clearly. This confrontation between Bradford and Beatrice definitely made a case for Bradford having killed Edwin.

  “She included this for a reason,” I said. I opened the book again and started the next chapter. “Because it gave Bradford Glenn a motive to kill Edwin Green.”

  “Or because she knew she would make a great deal of money exploiting and embellishing a tragedy. Who knew being a novelist was so lucrative? Perhaps I should take up writing. Would you like me with a furrowed brow and ink-stained fingers, darling?”

  “I think the typewriter is customary in this day and age,” I said, turning the page.

  “Then I shall have to have a secretary.”

  I looked up at him. “A young, pretty one, I suppose.”

  “Naturally.”

  “In that case, I forbid it.”

  “And thus ends my career as a celebrated novelist, thwarted before it’s begun.”

  “I suppose you shall have to content yourself with being handsome and rich.”

  He did not argue as I went back to reading.

  The next chapter did not expound about the late night encounter between Bradford and Beatrice, saying only that Bradford “eyed her with extreme distress and longing across the breakfast table.” Beatrice had apparently been unmoved by these silent entreaties for she left to go out walking with Edwin Green shortly thereafter.

  I again wondered if it had really happened as Isobel wrote it.

  I could think of only one way to set my mind at ease about the subject. I was going to have to ask Beatrice Lyons Kline.

  17

  I SLEPT FITFULLY and woke up just before dawn, my mind in a tumult. I knew at once that it would be useless to try to go back to sleep. It would be too early for breakfast, and I didn’t feel as though I wanted much to eat at any rate.

  Not that being awake at such an hour would prove of much use. I doubted anyone else would be up. In any event, it would be impolitic to discuss murder at this hour. Beatrice Kline seemed unapproachable at the best of times; I could only imagine how she would react to being questioned before breakfast.

  It was then I remembered that Laurel had said Reggie Lyons often took long solitary walks about the property quite early in the morning. I wondered if there was any chance I could seek him out. We had not had a chance to talk privately, and I felt that his part of the story was something that might prove useful. He had been Isobel’s lover, after all. He would likely have insight that the others did not.

  I rose and dressed in my warmest wool suit as well as my cream-colored wool coat with fur collar and cuffs. I selected a hat that was an excellent compromise between warmth and fashion and pulled on a pair of leather gloves. My sturdy walking shoes diminished the overall effect somewhat, but practicality won the day.

  Properly turned out for my errand, I looked back at the bed. I had not been particularly quiet, hoping that I would wake Milo and he would be persuaded to accompany me. It was just as well that he did not wake, I supposed, for I thought that Reggie would be more likely to speak openly to me if I was alone.

  I saw only one maid in passing and made my way outside into the frigid morning air. The sky was a strange silvery color, glowing almost white as the sun rose above the horizon. I stood for a moment on the steps, deciding in what direction I should walk. I did not even know if Reggie Lyons had ventured out this morning, let alone in what direction he might have traveled.

  My eyes traveled east toward the lake, glistening with the sheen of ice in the early morning light. Halfway around, near the shore, I could see the summerhouse, the scene of the tragedy, nestled in a copse of trees. I wondered if there might be anything useful to be gained from investigating it.

  It was, I thought, probably farther away than it looked, but there was only a dusting of snow. I didn’t think it would be too difficult a walk, but I wondered how I might explain my curiosity. There was really no good reason for me to go peering in the windows.

  It wouldn’t hurt, however, to walk in that direction. The bracing air felt as though it would be useful for clearing my head.

  I walked across the gravel drive and then onto the lawn and down toward the lake, the frost on the grass crunching beneath my feet. I could see my breath in the air. It was an exceedingly cold morning, and I felt as though my breath was turning to fog in my lungs.

  I was perhaps halfway to the lake when I caught sight of a figure walking from the opposite side of the lake. It was Reggie. I veered in his direction. He was walking slowly, his head down, and I didn’t think he had seen me.

  “Good morning, Mr. Lyons,” I called when I was within shouting distance. I felt a bit silly calling out so loudly to him, but I didn’t want to startle him.

  He looked up, gave me a wave, and began walking my direction.

  “Good morning, Mrs. Ames,” he said when he reached me. “You’re up early this morning.” His face was bright red with cold, and I wondered how long he had been out in the elements.

  “Yes, I couldn’t seem to sleep and thought I could do with some fresh air. It’s very beautiful out here this morning.”

  “Yes,” he said. He glanced around, but it seemed to me that he paid no particular attention to our surroundings.

  “I thought I would walk to the lake.” I looked at him somewhat expectantly and began walking in that direction. He was too polite not to accompany me.

  We walked in a not uncomfortable silence for a few moments, each of us lost in our own thoughts. When we reached the shore, we stopped, both of us gazing out at the water.

  There was a stone bench sitting nearby. The sun must have warmed it, for there was no snow on it. I took a seat and looked out at the lake. The summerhouse was a good distance away now, almost directly across the lake.

  I looked up to see Reggie standing stiffly beside me, his gaze trained on the water.

  “Do you want to sit for a moment?” I asked.

  He looked at me as though he had o
nly just remembered that I was there, but he took a seat beside me.

  The air was very cold and the place felt lonesome somehow, as though bad memories still lingered in the air around the lake. Reggie Lyons seemed to feel it, too, for he was rigid, his eyes dark with unspoken memories.

  “It’s rather tranquil here,” I said at last. This, of course, would not be perceived as a tranquil spot to anyone who had been here that day seven years ago.

  He pulled his collar up a little higher around his neck and crossed his arms, as though to keep out the cold. His eyes had gone back to the lake and there was that faraway look in his eyes that I had seen so often on the faces of others since coming to Lyonsgate.

  “I don’t know whether I love or hate this place,” he said. “When I was a child it seemed there was no place in the world as wonderful as Lyonsgate. Now I feel as though it’s some sort of prison. A place that I will never be able to escape, no matter where I go.”

  “I know it must be difficult,” I said, “with everything that has happened.”

  “It’s been wretched. I wish I had never come back.”

  “Do you think … would you like to talk about it?” Though I was interested in his account of the murder for my own reasons, it was genuine concern that motivated the question.

  “That was a rotten business,” he said at last.

  I didn’t have to ask him what he meant. He wasn’t talking about Isobel’s death, but that night seven years ago. It seemed that no one who had been there at the time had been able to forget it. I suspected that, though they had not all been responsible for Edwin Green’s death, each of them felt a certain responsibility for what had happened. They had reveled in the frivolity of youth, and they were still paying the price for it.

  “Yes, I imagine it was awful.” I hoped my sympathy would inspire him to reminisce further, and it seemed to have worked. I wondered if any of them had ever had the opportunity to discuss it with someone who had no preconceived ideas about the incident.

  “Edwin and I grew up together, perhaps you’d heard that.” He didn’t wait for my answer but continued, as though he was afraid to stop himself. “We went to war together and came home together, and I thought that perhaps he would be my brother if he married Beatrice. I would have liked that.”

  “It seems that everyone was rather fond of him, excepting Mr. Glenn.”

  “And Collins,” he said. “He and Collins got into more rows than I can count. Of course, they were in some sort of business together, and Collins was forever saying that Edwin had no head for it.”

  This was new information. I hadn’t heard of any bad blood between Edwin Green and Mr. Collins. Freida had told me distinctly that everyone but Bradford had been friendly with Edwin Green. It seemed that was not the case.

  “What sort of business?” I questioned casually.

  “Some investment or other that Collins had been involved in in South Africa. Mines, I think. I remember Collins received a telegraph that week that made him fly into a rage. Then, of course, Edwin was killed and there was nothing else to be done about it. Collins made a good deal of money in the end, I think.”

  This was a curious development. I wondered why there had been no mention in Isobel’s book of volatile business dealings between Mr. Collins and Edwin Green.

  “Just as well for Edwin that he died, really. Might have been just as well for any of us not to have survived that night … I’m sorry. I shouldn’t say such things. I don’t mean them, you know. It’s just that…”

  He stopped, and for a moment there was no sound but the gentle rippling of the water and the melancholy call of a bird somewhere in the distance.

  I ought to have felt uneasy sitting there with him, I was sure. There was something in his tone, some bitterness that I didn’t like. But somehow I didn’t feel as though I was in any danger. Whatever malice had been in him was in the past. It still ate at him, but there was a finality to it as well.

  “I understand that he had had too much to drink,” I said hesitantly. It wasn’t, perhaps, nice of me to press him in his obviously emotional state. Nevertheless, I felt I should take advantage of this moment, when he was inclined to talk.

  “I don’t remember much about that night. None of us do, really. We all gave our accounts to the police, of course. Couldn’t very well tell them that we were too far gone to know what was happening. But it’s all sort of a haze, like a dream. Or perhaps a nightmare.”

  I said nothing, giving him time to collect his thoughts, to decide what he wanted to say. At last he continued.

  “Edwin and Bradford had had a row that night. I’m sure you’ve heard about that.” He laughed bitterly. “If you’ve read Isobel’s book, you’ll know most of what happened.”

  “I’ve read some of it,” I conceded. I had not yet reached the part of the book that recounted Edwin Green’s death. After I had read the chapter aloud to him, Milo had made it very difficult to concentrate on reading.

  Reggie nodded. “Most people read it. Rotten luck for Bradford.” He rubbed a trembling hand across his mouth, and it was almost as though he was drinking from an invisible glass. “They came to blows, though they were both too intoxicated to do much harm to each other. I think it was Isobel who stepped in at the last and kept them from going at each other’s throats.”

  I found this interesting. Everything I had seen of Isobel Van Allen indicated that she enjoyed provoking confrontation, not putting a stop to it. But perhaps that was an unfair assessment of her character. I had not known her, but I had seen a glimmer of something other than cold malice beneath the mask of incendiary behavior.

  Reggie had stopped, but my silence seemed to encourage him, and he went on.

  “After a while, things began to become a blur. It was cold in the summerhouse. One of the servants had started a fire, but we had let it go out. Most of us decided to go back to the house, though we were not in much condition to get there. We had all had too much to drink, and some of us had had worse than liquor. I’m surprised we all made it, in fact. It was lucky only one of us was found frozen on the lawn.”

  His voice trailed off and I wondered if he would continue.

  “It was very cold that night?” I asked to gently prod him on.

  “Yes. Very cold. I had had far much too much to drink,” he said again. “I wandered into the drawing room and passed out on the sofa.”

  I wondered where Isobel Van Allen had been at the time. She and Reggie had been lovers, but I also recalled that things had not been going well between them. Perhaps she had gone to her room alone.

  “I woke up hours later, very much disoriented. It was no longer dark, but it was very cold in the drawing room. I remember thinking that it must be what the dead feel like, stiff and cold. I had no idea…”

  He was quiet again for a moment and I left him with his thoughts. I didn’t want to press too much. I felt as though he needed to tell me in his own time and in his own way. It would be better for him that way. And, in all probability, the information would be more useful.

  “I thought I would wander into the dining room, perhaps find something to eat for breakfast. It was then I heard the screams.”

  His voice trailed off for a moment and I waited. He reached into his pocket and removed a cigarette case. He offered me one, which I declined, and then set one between his lips, shielding the flame of his lighter with his hand.

  He breathed in deeply then blew out a cloud of white smoke into the cold air and then went on, his eyes on the lake.

  “I didn’t know what was happening at first. I went out into the entrance hall and Freida came in, still screaming and white as death. I don’t know that I’ve ever seen anyone so pale.”

  “Everyone was there? In the house, I mean?”

  He nodded. “I don’t know where they all spent the night. They came running from various places and various stages of undress. We all ran out of the house and charged toward the summerhouse, as though there was something we could do. T
he cold air was refreshing. I remember that it felt good on my aching head, the cold wind.”

  He took another long draw on his cigarette before continuing.

  “We got nearly to the summerhouse, and all knew at once that it was far too late, by then. He was already stiff. And his eyes were wide open, staring.”

  I resisted the urge to shudder that had nothing to do with the wind. How awful it must have been. How terrible to wake up to such a thing. I could well understand why it had been so difficult for all of them to move past it.

  “I’d seen my share of bodies, of course, in France,” he said, and his voice had lost some of the haunted note that had been in it a moment before. “Friends just as good as Edwin Green.”

  “But this was so unexpected,” I said.

  “Yes.”

  “Did you think, at the time, that Bradford Glenn might have been in any way responsible?”

  “I thought that it was just what it appeared to be. A man had taken too many drugs and had drunk too much alcohol. I never had a thought of anything else.”

  I remembered what I had overheard him say to Beatrice in the breakfast room, about wondering if it was possible that Isobel Van Allen “knew.” What was it that he thought she might know?

  “It must have been a shock when Isobel Van Allen wrote that book,” I said.

  He swore under his breath. “Yes. She was always writing things. It was a great dream of hers to write a novel. She wrote often in the summerhouse, scribbling stories and things. I suppose she saw this as her chance. What happened here was in every paper in London.”

  “And she chose to exploit it,” I said.

  “I shouldn’t have been surprised. She was forever having photographs taken of us, and she would stash articles from the gossip columns we were mentioned in away in her desk drawers like they were prizes we had won. It was fame she was after. She was willing to get it any way she could.” He sighed. “Isobel always got what she wanted, one way or another.”

  “That must have been difficult for you, especially since she was a woman you cared about.”

  “I hated her,” he said, tossing down his cigarette and grinding it beneath his boot. “I suppose that’s a wicked thing to say, now that she’s dead. But it’s the truth. There was a time when I would have done anything—anything—to make her love me. Now I can’t believe that there was ever a time when I didn’t despise her.”