A Most Novel Revenge

by Ashley Weaver

  “Everything all right?” Milo asked, coming into the entrance hall and catching me frowning. It appeared that they had finished dinner, for I could hear the others approaching from the direction of the dining room.

  “Yes, I think so.”

  “Good. Are you coming back to the drawing room for coffee?”

  I shook my head. “I don’t think so. I’m tired. I think I’ll go back to my room.”

  “Shall I come with you?”

  “That’s not necessary. Perhaps you should go in and be kind to Lucinda.”

  He sighed. “I do wish you would make up your mind.”

  “It wasn’t at all nice of Beatrice to embarrass her that way at the dinner table. I only thought that if you go on behaving as normal, she’ll feel less awkward about it all.”

  “Very well. But I go under protest.”

  “Yes, I know how very trying it is for you to make yourself pleasant to women.”

  He frowned at me and went into the drawing room.

  “Well, that was unpleasant,” said Laurel who had reached my side just as Milo left. “It was kind of you to go and speak to her, especially considering that what Beatrice said was true.”

  I shrugged. “I can’t blame her for enjoying Milo’s company. She’s lonely, and he’s…”

  “Yes, I know what he is,” she interrupted. “Well, I’m sure it shall all pass in time. It’s not as though there aren’t other things to distract us.”

  “Like the fact that Isobel was poisoned, for instance,” I said. “Did you see Inspector Laszlo this afternoon?”

  I had thought perhaps my question would throw her off guard, but she didn’t appear at all flustered. “Yes,” she said, “but only for a few moments.”

  “Did he say anything to you about the poison?”

  She shook her head. “That was a complete surprise. Do you really think that two people were trying to kill Isobel?”

  “I wish I knew. The whole thing seems incredibly complicated. I’m sure Inspector Laszlo had his suspicions, however.”

  I looked at her expectantly, and she laughed. “Don’t look at me that way. You act as though we were the best of friends. The inspector doesn’t tell me anything. He’s very proper, you know.”

  “Yes, I’m sure that he is.”

  She laughed. “You seem to suspect me of some secret love affair, but I assure you there is nothing of interest to tell you.”

  “Very well,” I said. “But perhaps you can learn something yet this evening. See if you can talk to Reggie, will you? I’m very interested to learn more of what Inspector Laszlo had to say.”

  “You aren’t coming to the drawing room?”

  “No, I think I’m going to make an early night of it. I’m rather worn out.”

  “All right. I’ll report to you in the morning, shall I?”

  “Excellent. Good night, Laurel.”

  “Good night, Amory.”

  She went into the drawing room, and I went up the stairs and to my bedroom. Winnelda would not have expected me back so soon after dinner, so I suspected it would be a while before she came back to my room.

  I was exhausted and could think of nothing I would rather do than go straight to bed, but then I caught sight of The Dead of Winter sitting on the table.

  I felt, as I had from the beginning, that the book held the key to the entire thing. It was all well and good to hear an account of Edwin Green’s death, but I needed to see how Isobel had portrayed it. I didn’t have much left. It was time to finish it.

  I undressed quickly and put on a nightgown and my robe. Then, once again settling into the chair by the fire, I began to read.

  23

  I READ, AS I had before, putting the names of the people at Lyonsgate where the pseudonyms had been. I could feel the momentum building in the story as things came rushing to a climax. Isobel had done a good job of creating tension and suspense. Even though I knew the conclusion, I found myself caught up in the drama of it all.

  I came at last to the passage about the fight that had occurred between Edwin Green and Bradford Glenn the night before Edwin’s body had been discovered in the snow partway between the summerhouse and the manor house.

  The passions were building, and it was clear that they would not be denied for much longer. The storm that was brewing would not be contained, and the clouds were prepared to burst, raining down fury upon them all.

  There was a tension that hovered in the air that night, as sure as the cold that hovered in the air outside. As bitter as the wind that howled through the trees, it wound its way through their hearts, stinging everything it touched.

  The water in the lake was too frozen to launch the boat as they had intended, and the cold wind had swept away much of their enthusiasm. Into the summerhouse they went. One of the servants had managed to start a fire, but it was a paltry weapon against the cold, and so they poured more drinks to warm themselves instead.

  Beatrice sat, head held high, basking in the glow of their attentions and the heated animosity between the men who vied for her hand. She was queen of her realm and heedless of impending tragedy. She was in no hurry to make a decision between the two men. She enjoyed the power she held over them, the strength it gave her.

  Already her anger at Bradford had faded, for she did not intend to lose him, not completely. She had forced him to plead, to beg at her feet for forgiveness and, with the air of a merciful queen, she had granted him pardon.

  Bradford, eager to worship his gracious sovereign, had poured a drink into a glass, a bit of it sloshing over the sides in his unsteady hands, and carried to it to her. Their hands brushed, and the drink spilled across her fingers. He laughed and lowered his head, his lips brushing the liquid from her knuckles.

  It was only when he had managed to take his eyes from hers that he saw Edwin Green watching him from across the room with dark eyes.

  “I don’t know why you look at me that way,” Bradford said, a rush of hatred welling up inside of him. “She doesn’t want you, Edwin. She never has.”

  “You think I don’t know what you’ve been doing?” Edwin cried. “Of course, I know. And you aren’t going to get away with it. I hope you understand that.”

  “Why you…” Bradford launched himself across the room with a speed that startled them all. He struck Edwin on the jaw, and Edwin staggered back before hurling himself forward at Bradford. They began to fight, hitting, grabbing at each other. They were, neither of them, completely sober, and their blows were ineffectual. Nevertheless, they continued to rain them down upon each other, two stags fighting for their territory.

  They all watched, Beatrice with the glint of approval in her eyes. It was all that she had hoped, having the two of them fight for her hand.

  “Enough of this,” Isobel said at last, somehow slipping into the midst of the fray, her slender frame dwarfed by the two men who towered over her. She stood, in danger of blows from either of the enraged men, but she did not seem to realize the peril in which she had placed herself.

  “There’s no reason to come to blows over this. Go to your corners, gentlemen, and have a drink.”

  There was a moment of silence before Bradford turned, walking toward Beatrice and taking a seat beside her. Edwin stared at him for a moment before he took a seat himself.

  It wasn’t over between them, Bradford vowed to himself. He had reached the end of his patience with Edwin Green. Things would have to be settled between them, once and for all.

  I couldn’t help but smile at the regal and heroic way in which Isobel Van Allen had portrayed herself. Apparently, the gentlemen had heeded her words, for they had both backed down, though there was still, according to Isobel’s book, “the stench of bitter hatred in the air.”

  It was also patently obvious that Isobel Van Allen had not liked Beatrice Lyons in the least. I wondered if her unflattering portrayal of Beatrice had been out of jealousy. Perhaps Isobel had been angry that two of the men at Lyonsgate had not wanted to be with h
er, but had chosen Beatrice instead.

  Was it possible that Isobel had been in love with either of the two men? Laurel had said that things had cooled considerably between Isobel and Reggie before that weekend, and I had wondered if she might have fallen in love with someone else. I had thought, when talking to Mr. Winters, that he might have been the other man, but it seemed that he had not held sway over her heart for long.

  I considered it. It seemed unlikely that she had loved Edwin Green. As mercenary as she might have been, I could not see her attempting to profit from the tragic death of a man she had loved. There was, of course, the possibility that she had done it to bring attention to Edwin’s killer. Perhaps she had truly believed that Bradford had killed him and wanted to make his guilt known.

  It was also possible that she might have loved Bradford Glenn and, having been scorned in favor of Beatrice, had attempted to get her revenge. If that had been her objective, she had certainly succeeded.

  The next chapter was the account of the rest of the evening. It had evolved into a rather wanton affair, with all of the guests partaking in a great deal of alcohol, drugs, or some combination of the two. Isobel had not excluded herself from the revelry. Her character had consumed a great deal of alcohol and had stumbled back in a haze to her bedroom in the manor house. One by one, all of them had gone to the house until there was no one left but Bradford Glenn and Edwin Green.

  At last, the moment came, and I bit my lip as my eyes moved more and more rapidly across the page.

  Bradford awoke suddenly, his body stiff and sore, his head pounding, to realize that the room was empty. The others must have gone back to the house. He had fallen into a drunken stupor on the settee and hadn’t heard them leave. He rose unsteadily and began to walk toward the door. He wanted to find Beatrice. He sought her, even in his drunkenness, as a sailor might seek the North Star.

  That was when he saw Edwin slumped on the sofa. Edwin had had more than his share of alcohol and drugs throughout the night, and it didn’t seem that he took any notice of Bradford’s movements. Bradford moved closer, looking down with loathing at the still, handsome face, wondering if Edwin could feel the heat of his hatred.

  Edwin shifted suddenly, and Bradford started guiltily toward the door. Yet somehow he could not bring himself to leave, not just yet. There were the hazy beginnings of a plan forming in his mind, some foreign idea that he felt he could not quite interpret. Then, as if through a fog, it came to him: he should kill Edwin.

  The thought was not accompanied by the immediate sense of horror and shame such thoughts ought to have invoked. No, instead, he felt the strange stirrings of excitement, as though something he had long wanted to do was finally coming to pass. “It would be so easy,” Bradford thought. “So easy.”

  He glanced around the room. He was still a bit unsteady, the natural movement of his muscles muddled by intoxicants, but somehow he felt that his head had never been clearer. With Edwin out of the way, he would have a clear path to Beatrice’s hand. He would have her all to himself, and they could be together at last, nothing between them.

  He glanced around. How would he do it? He could hit Edwin on the head with something, but even in the fog of his inebriation, he knew that would not work. He would be found out. He and Edwin were the last two here, and someone would know. Besides, he did not know if he was strong enough to deal a fatal blow, not in his current condition.

  He lit a cigarette and sat on the edge of the settee, smoking and thinking. The clock ticked noisily in the background, his nerves growing tighter with each passing second, the urgency to do something building like a fire in his blood.

  The wind whistled in the chimney, shrieking like the voice of an angry ghost, and it was as though that ghost spoke to him. He knew what the answer was.

  He threw down his cigarette and ground it out with his toe. Then he rose and walked to the sofa where Edwin lay.

  “Edwin.” He shook him with a hand on his shoulder. Nothing.

  “Edwin!” he said again, loudly, shaking him harder. Still there was no movement. Perhaps it was just as well.

  Edwin was unconscious, completely limp, and very heavy. Bradford pulled him up from the chair and over his shoulder. Bradford was not completely steady on his feet. He could still feel the liquor coursing through his system, slowing him down and yet giving him strength, courage.

  With Edwin still draped across his shoulder, Bradford opened the door, the cold wind whipping around him. He had wondered if Edwin would awake, but he could tell now that there was no danger of that. Edwin had indulged heavily and he was already as good as dead.

  The snow crunched beneath Bradford’s feet, seeping in his shoes, as he walked toward the house, his burden slung across his shoulders.

  He stopped several yards from the summerhouse and dropped Edwin in the snow, looking down at his face for any sign of consciousness. Nothing. Edwin lay still, unmoving in the snow. He looked as though he was asleep, peacefully dreaming on a blanket of white.

  Bradford looked down at him for a few moments. He felt rather like he was in a dream himself. Everything made sense, in some strange way, and yet nothing made sense at all.

  It occurred to Bradford suddenly that if he wanted to make it look as though Edwin had fallen on his own, he would have to turn him. He leaned down and pushed him onto his stomach, Edwin’s face half buried in the snow. Perhaps he would even suffocate before he froze.

  How long would it take him to die, Bradford wondered? Would there be enough time? He thought there would. The wind was blowing, and Edwin was lying on a bed of snow. Surely he would be overcome before the night was out. It would be an easy, painless way to die.

  Bradford looked around, conscious now of the possibility of being seen. He looked back at the manor house, aware that lights blazed in several of the windows. It was not unusual. He knew that everyone had indulged as much as he had.

  The snow had begun to increase, and Bradford knew that it would obscure his footprints before the night was out.

  He took one last look at Edwin Green lying in the snow. Then he turned and began walking toward the house without looking back.

  There wasn’t much in the rest of the book that was anything new. Isobel’s account of the discovery of the body was surprisingly accurate, at least according to the accounts I had had from the others of that morning. Freida had gone out early and had come back screaming, having found Edwin’s lifeless body in the snow.

  They had all run out to where he lay, but it was too late. He had apparently been dead for several hours.

  There was a chapter on the inquest and then Edwin’s funeral, in which Isobel had featured prominently in her best mourning costume.

  I turned to the final page.

  They went their separate ways after the funeral, all of them going on to other things, to lead other lives. But for Edwin Green there would be no future. He left it there as he lay, cold and blue on the hard ground of Lyonsgate. Will his story live on? His voice whispers it into the wind. “Who will remember me?” Who will remember the dead of winter?

  24

  I CLOSED THE book, feeling both dissatisfied and melancholy. It was a bleak ending, and, despite Isobel’s pretentions, I was still affected by the tragedy of it all. It was sad that the actions of one night had affected the lives of so many people.

  I could not see, however, that it had revealed anything more than what I already knew. The question foremost in my mind had not been answered. Why had Isobel done it? Why had she written the book, and why had she implicated Bradford Glenn in Edwin Green’s murder? It seemed that all of it must come back to that.

  I heard a noise in Milo’s room, and I assumed he must have come in from downstairs. I got up and went through the adjoining bathroom to his door.

  He looked up as I entered. His valet was removing his dinner jacket, and only glanced in my direction. Parks always seemed vaguely disapproving of any interactions that took place between Milo and me in the bedroom. He th
ought, perhaps, that we should conduct all of our conversations in more appropriate rooms.

  Milo knew this and enjoyed making Parks as uncomfortable as possible.

  “You can go, Parks,” Milo said, removing his tie. “Mrs. Ames can help me undress. It’s much more interesting when she does it.”

  I frowned at Milo, but couldn’t quite stifle a smile.

  “Very good, sir,” Parks said coolly, gliding silently from the room.

  “You shouldn’t say such things to him,” I said when he had gone.

  “I don’t know who is more easily shocked, Parks or Winnelda,” Milo replied. “It’s simply too easy.”

  I took a seat on Milo’s bed as he continued to change from his dinner clothes.

  “I’ve just finished the book,” I said.

  “Oh? Any surprises?”

  “Not really. It was all pretty much as we’ve heard. There’s just one thing that doesn’t make sense to me. I can’t help but wonder why she chose to make Bradford Glenn look guilty.”

  “Perhaps he was.”

  I sighed. “It can’t be that easy. It’s possible, of course, that she thought that he might be guilty. There was, after all, an altercation between Bradford Glenn and Edwin Green that night, presumably over the affections of Beatrice. Everyone I’ve talked to has admitted as much.”

  “Does she say in the book how she came to suspect him?”

  I shook my head. “She only says that Bradford awoke to find himself alone with Edwin and dragged him out into the snow to die. She does mention the brightly lit windows of the house. Perhaps someone saw something out the window. Her other scenes were accurate, from what I’ve been able to determine. I don’t know why this one in particular should have been any different.”

  “Suppose she did witness something. Why go on to write the book?” he asked. “Out of a quest for justice? It seems unlikely.”