I wanted to press him on the topic, but couldn’t bring myself to be so vulgar as to inquire about her finances. The best I could manage was to formulate a question about her motives.
“Then that letter she received from Bradford Glenn was not what spurred her on, and finding out who really killed Edwin Green was not her primary objective.”
He looked up at me, and shook his head. “No. She never received any letter from Bradford Glenn before his suicide. That was all a lie.”
I stared at him, still reeling from what he had just told me. “What do you mean?”
“She made it up. She was trying to provoke a reaction, I think. She said she wanted the truth to come out.”
“The truth about what?” I asked.
He shook his head. “I don’t know. She wouldn’t tell me.”
I recalled the conversation Milo and I had overheard between Desmond Roberts and Isobel on the stairs the day before her murder. She had said that soon enough everyone would find out what she wanted to reveal. What was it that she had meant to uncover? I wondered if we would ever know.
There were footsteps in the hall and a moment later Lucinda Lyons came into the room. She stopped when she saw us. “Oh, good morning. I’m not interrupting, am I?”
“Not at all,” I said.
“You look as though you could use some air, Mr. Roberts,” she said cheerfully. “Would you like to go for a walk with me? I don’t feel hungry just yet.”
He hesitated.
“I know it’s ghastly,” she said. “Everything’s so dreadful. But perhaps you would feel a bit better if you got some air.”
He looked at me, as though waiting for my input on the subject.
“I think Miss Lyons might be right. Perhaps the fresh air would do you good.”
He stood, taking in a deep breath. “Thank you, Mrs. Ames,” he said simply, before turning and following Miss Lyons from the room.
The others trickled in to the breakfast room not long afterward. We finished breakfast, talking pleasantly of inconsequential things, but all the while my mind was churning. Once again, I had been cast in the role of confidante, and once again I had been presented with a confusing tangle of information.
Two thoughts were at the forefront of my musings. First, that there had been some hidden motive for Isobel’s return. She had wanted to come back to Lyonsgate for a specific reason, something other than the desire to gather information for a second book.
The second had to do with the tragedy that had preceded their departure from Africa. It seemed to me that Desmond Roberts now had another very good motive for wanting Isobel Van Allen dead.
* * *
I HAD JUST reached the foot of the stairs when Henson, the butler, walked toward me. “Mrs. Ames, there’s a telephone call for you.”
“Oh. Thank you, Henson. I’ll come directly.”
I wondered who it might be. Not many people knew I was at Lyonsgate. I went into the library and picked up the receiver. “Hello?”
“Mrs. Ames, you didn’t tell me that you were at Lyonsgate,” Mrs. Roland said without further greeting.
“I…” I hesitated, unsure of what to say. She had obviously caught me.
“It was in the papers this morning, you naughty thing,” she went on, not waiting for my confirmation. “You do know how to involve yourself in a mystery, don’t you?”
“Well, I…”
“I have the details on the death in Kenya. Myron Roberts. Took up with Isobel and then she threw him over for his brother. Afterwards, he killed himself with a revolver.”
“Yes, I heard something about it after I spoke with you.” Another tragedy to be laid, at least in part, at Isobel’s feet.
“Nasty business, that. Isobel Van Allen once again forced to leave the country. In some ways, I suppose it’s lucky she died before she had no continents left where she was welcome.”
I could think of no appropriate way to respond to this statement, but, as usual, was spared the necessity as she sailed onward.
“Now, if you want to know about what happened when Edwin Green died at Lyonsgate, there’ll be no better person than Mrs. Hildegard Fletcher.”
“Hildegard Fletcher?”
“Yes, she’s the sister of a dear friend of mine, Emily Bridgewater. I thought that she lived nearby, but I called Emily to confirm it. Mrs. Fletcher lives in the village, has for years. Emily assures me that Hildegard would be only too happy for you to drop in for tea anytime. She loves visitors. If you want to know what really happened, I suggest you go and see her. She is likely to know more about it than I could ever tell you.”
I knew this must be a very difficult admission for Mrs. Roland to make, and I very much appreciated it. “Thank you, Mrs. Roland.”
“Of course, my dear. Of course. I am only too happy to help you. Let me give you her address.”
I wrote it down, thanking her again for the trouble she had gone to on my account.
“My pleasure. Of course, if you should learn anything of interest, I would be delighted for you to tell me all about it.”
Mrs. Roland had a connection with the gossip columns, and I knew that anything I could tell her about Isobel Van Allen’s death would be a boon. Perhaps there would be something I could share later, when I knew more. “I will try to ring you up if I learn anything important,” I assured her.
“Thank you, my dear. I wish you the best of luck. Happy hunting!”
As I often did after speaking to Mrs. Roland, I took a moment to collect my thoughts and catch my breath.
It was then that Milo wandered into the library.
“Here you are, darling,” Milo said. “Henson said you were on the telephone. What sort of trouble is looming now?”
“I’ve been talking with Mrs. Roland.”
“Oh dear. Better you than me.”
“I have some interesting things to tell you,” I said, “but wait just a moment.”
I picked up the receiver once again. There was one more call that I wanted to make.
It took the operator a while to connect me to Scotland Yard, and then the switchboard operator connected me with Detective Inspector Jones.
At last I heard the familiar voice on the other end of the line. “This is Detective Inspector Jones.”
“Good morning, Inspector. It’s Mrs. Ames.”
“Mrs. Ames. To what do I owe the pleasure?” As usual, I could detect a faint note of something akin to suspicion beneath the pleasant tone. I was sure he realized at once that I would not be ringing him up at this time of the morning to inquire after his health.
“Have you seen the papers this morning?”
“No, I’m afraid I haven’t had the time. What is it?”
“I’m afraid it’s going to be rather difficult to believe,” I said.
I was fairly certain I heard him sigh. “Someone’s dead, I suppose.”
He might have been joking, but I couldn’t tell from his tone of voice. He was difficult to read in person, let alone over a long-distance telephone line. I decided to answer simply. “Yes.”
“Who?”
“Isobel Van Allen.”
There was a pause, and then he said in his deceptively neutral tone, “You’re at Lyonsgate.”
“Yes. You know about what happened.”
“Yes, of course. Isobel Van Allen is something of an infamous figure, even after all these years. My wife read The Dead of Winter when it was released and was quite overcome by it.”
“She was going to write another book,” I said. “I think that’s what may have led to her murder.”
“Why don’t you tell me what happened.”
I related the events as they had occurred. I tried to be as clear as possible, and I found that the recitation of facts calmed my nerves. I gave him the basic information without embellishment and withheld a great deal of what I had learned in my own inquiries. I didn’t want him to know how deeply I had involved myself, although I was fairly sure that he suspected as m
uch.
Milo sat listening, smoking a cigarette and blowing smoke disinterestedly into the air.
“And so I feel that I am so close to the truth, and yet nothing really seems to make sense,” I concluded.
“And what is it you would like me to do?” he asked calmly.
“I’m not entirely sure,” I said. “But I thought that perhaps you might speak with this Inspector Laszlo. Perhaps you might put in a good word for us, so to speak.”
“I doubt this Inspector Laszlo will enjoy having Scotland Yard poking into his affairs. But I can make a phone call or two.”
“Thank you, Inspector. That would be lovely.”
“I don’t suppose I need to tell you not to get involved in anything dangerous, Mrs. Ames.
“Naturally, I am doing my best to keep from getting too deeply involved.”
“Liar,” Milo murmured.
“Be quiet,” I said.
“I beg your pardon?”
“Oh, not you, Inspector. I was talking to Mr. Ames.”
“He’s there with you? Might I speak with him?”
“Of course. Thank you again, Inspector. I shall ring you up when we are back in London with a full report.”
I turned to Milo. “He wants to talk to you.”
Milo’s brow rose, but he took the telephone from me. “How are you, Inspector? Yes. I’m afraid so. Yes … it seems I can’t take Amory anywhere.”
I frowned at him, but he didn’t look at me, listening instead to whatever Inspector Jones was telling him.
“Yes, of course,” he said at last. “Certainly. We shall let you know. Good day, Inspector.”
“What did he say?” I asked as Milo rang off.
“It was a private conversation between two gentlemen. That’s all you need to know.”
He was only trying to annoy me, and I refused to give him the satisfaction.
“Very well,” I said, sailing past him and into the hallway, “then I shan’t tell you about the very interesting conversation I had with Mr. Roberts this morning.”
“Did it involve him wanting to see you in the nude?”
“Of course not.”
“Well, one never can tell here at Lyonsgate,” he said.
We reached the entrance hall and stopped at the foot of the stairs. I turned to Milo. “I haven’t time for this nonsense at the moment. Mrs. Roland says her friend Mrs. Fletcher might be able to provide us with information. She lives in the village. Will you take me this afternoon?”
“Of course. I’ve been wanting the chance to drive my car.”
“Oh, Milo, there you are!” It was Lucinda Lyons, coming down the stairs. “I was hoping you would go riding with me this afternoon. This house is about to drive me mad. I’m sure Reggie won’t mind my riding if you’re with me, and I promise not to need to be rescued.”
She smiled a bit ruefully, and I supposed Beatrice’s harsh comments at dinner and our subsequent conversation had discouraged Lucinda from future provocative behavior.
“Perhaps tomorrow,” Milo replied without enthusiasm. “I’m driving Mrs. Ames to the village.”
“Oh.” She looked crestfallen for a moment, and then her face brightened. “Perhaps I can go with you? I should love to get away from this wretched house for a while.”
“I’m afraid my car is a two-seater,” Milo said.
“Oh, I see.” She was clearly disappointed, and I felt a bit sorry for her. I could not blame her for wanting to get away from Lyonsgate, if only for the afternoon. The atmosphere seemed to become more oppressive by the hour.
Milo seemed to sense her disappointment as well. “If you’re not otherwise engaged, however, I’ll teach you to play billiards after dinner,” he offered.
She smiled. Her reply was almost too quiet to hear, but I was fairly certain I had heard it right. “I’m sure I should love anything you would care to teach me.” Apparently, she had not been completely discouraged, after all.
26
WE DROVE TOWARD the village that afternoon, Milo mercifully going a bit slower on the curving roads. There was one especially sharp curve with deep ditches along either side, and I was relieved when we passed through that area without incident.
The day was cloudy, but the occasional burst of sunlight shone through, all the more appreciated for its rarity. I felt vaguely as though I had made an escape from prison.
I leaned back against the leather seat and let out a breath. “I feel as though a great weight is lifted off me the farther we drive from the house.”
“Your color has improved since we left.”
“It is all a bit unnerving at Lyonsgate,” I admitted. “I’m rather on edge.”
“Perhaps it’s time for the sedatives and brandy the good doctor prescribed.”
I laughed. “I don’t think that will be necessary just yet, thank you.”
We drove along in companionable silence for a few moments, and I relished the comfort I felt in Milo’s presence. Things had not always been this easy between us, and the simplicity of a quiet drive along a sun-dappled road was something to be savored. We had been through a lot together in the past year, and it had only drawn us closer.
I glanced over at him, admiring the smooth, handsome lines of his profile. I felt, as I did at odd moments, that flutter in my stomach that reminded me of when I had first fallen in love with him.
“Milo?” I asked at last, as my thoughts traveled over the events of the day.
“Hmm?”
“What did Inspector Jones say to you?”
“Still trying to extract information from unsuspecting gentlemen, I see,” he said, not taking his eyes from the road.
“I’m becoming rather good at it, I think.”
“It helps to be beautiful,” he said. “It puts people off their guard.”
“You know that from experience, I suppose,” I replied, slightly annoyed that he should discount my skills as an investigator. “Perhaps it’s just that I have a knack for detecting.”
He glanced at me, his expression skeptical. “Do you suppose all these men would have bared their tortured, artistic souls to you if you were a hag?”
“You’re far too cynical.”
“Beauty is nothing to be ashamed of, darling. You may as well use it to your advantage.”
“Another thing you know from experience.” It was amazing the doors Milo had had opened to him—figuratively and literally—because of his good looks.
He smiled. “I simply mean to point out that when motives are prettily packaged they are much more easily obscured.”
“Are you going to tell me what Inspector Jones said?” I demanded.
“Of course. You know I can’t resist you when you frown at me that way. But I warn you: you won’t like it.”
“I suspected as much.”
“He told me to do whatever was necessary to keep you out of trouble.”
“Did he indeed?” I scoffed, incensed.
“In fact, he recommended that I bring you back to London at once…” I opened my mouth to protest, but he didn’t give me time. “He also said that he knew you wouldn’t go.”
“I’m glad my faith in his intelligence was not unfounded.”
Milo smiled. “Now fair’s fair. What did Mr. Roberts tell you?”
I recounted the lurid tale of passion and death beneath the hot African sun.
“It seems Isobel incited a great many deaths,” he remarked when I had finished.
“Yes,” I replied. “The last of which was her own.”
* * *
MRS. HILDEGARDE FLETCHER lived in a quaint stone cottage at the end of a quiet lane in the village. She had the kind of home one would expect the village gossip to have. There was a white fence where roses would no doubt grow when the weather warmed, window boxes to hold assorted flowers, and what looked like a small kitchen garden in one corner of the tidy lawn. There were also several large windows in the house, which I felt certain would be beneficial to anyone wishing to see th
e comings and goings of the villagers. It was, in fact, rather an ideal setting.
I had been a bit hesitant about arriving at her house unannounced. She was, I had been led to believe, a widowed lady with a keenly developed sense of propriety. I should have thought that an unsolicited visit from a perfect stranger would be repugnant to her, but Mrs. Roland had assured me that she would enjoy the company.
I had also debated the relative merits of bringing Milo with me to call. While I knew perfectly well how beneficial his charm could be, there was also the distinct possibility that he might prove a distraction.
“Perhaps you should have a drink at the tavern and come back to get me,” I said, getting out of the car before he could come around to open the door. “I won’t be long.”
Milo’s brow rose. “Trying to rid yourself of me already?”
“She is not expecting company, and I thought one might be less intrusive than two.”
“Unwanted, am I? Well, no matter,” he said. “I shall go to the tavern as directed. I suppose there’s not much mischief you can get into here.”
I closed the door without comment, and Milo smiled as he drove away.
I let myself through the fence and walked up the pathway to the door. My knock was opened punctually by a maid in a starched white apron, who told me that Mrs. Fletcher would be glad to see me. It almost seemed as though she’d had warning of my coming.
I was shown into a tidy parlor that was, quite honestly, not what I expected from an elderly widow. Perhaps I had been influenced by Mrs. Roland’s exuberant décor. The room was exceptionally clean and almost Spartan in decoration. There was a table with a serviceable white cloth and four wooden chairs without cushions, and only a few pictures hung on the walls. There were, however, bright curtains upon the window and a colorful quilt on the back of the high-backed settee.
There was a lady sitting and knitting by the fire. She rose when I entered and came to meet me at the door.
“How do you do, my dear?” she asked brightly.
She was a bit different than what I had pictured. Frankly, the name had called to mind something of a fearsome creature, but she was short and plump with a round, ruddy face. Dark eyes sparkled merrily from beneath high brows and a halo of silver hair.
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