On a Desert Shore

by S K Rizzolo

  “I won’t take up much of your time,” Chase said to Mrs. Yates. “I hope you can answer a few questions I have about the day of Mr. Garrod’s party.”

  “I’ve told you all I know. Surely we covered that ground at the inquest.”

  “Not so. You see, ma’am, I’ve been a fool.”

  “I don’t understand you. I’m sure you’ve done the best you could. It’s difficult—you were put in an impossible situation.”

  “Impossible because I was hired to guard a girl who has lost her wits? I don’t suppose she really understands her actions. We must forgive her, don’t you agree? She requires special care?”

  A hectic light showed in her eyes before it was doused. The color drained from her cheeks. She looked old and unsure and anxious. Chase watched her struggle to frame a reply and felt not the smallest compunction for pushing her. She said, “Marina is my niece, sir. You will not speak ill of her to me.”

  “No?” he said softly. “May I assume you’re willing to excuse attempted murder? After all, those scissors were sharp enough to have done the job.”

  “Yes, yes, I would forgive her anything.” She sat down hard in her armchair, the crimped material of her gown rustling. The grooves around her mouth deepened as she set her lips, her thoughts obviously unpleasant.

  He watched her straighten her posture and compose her features; then he said, “Well, since you’re busy this morning, let’s turn to business, Mrs. Yates. You see, I’ve spent too much time thinking about the hothouse. An understandable error, perhaps, but still thickheaded on my part. The teapoy sat there, more or less unattended for much of the day, including the period when everyone was at dinner and when the staff had finished with their work. Moreover, the missing key and the poisonous beads were also found nearby.”

  “Because that’s where the poisoning occurred,” she replied in a dull, lifeless tone. She looked at her hands, which were clasped in her lap, and pressed them together so that the black-green veins protruded.

  “True but not necessarily where the poison was put into the sugar. I believe that may have happened earlier in the day in the drawing room, specifically between half past nine and ten o’clock. So I’ll ask you to account for your own movements and the movements of anyone you may have seen downstairs at this time. Start with Miss Garrod. Where was she?”

  “I don’t know,” she said, almost whispering. “Upstairs, I think. I didn’t see her until after breakfast.”

  “Were you anywhere near the drawing room at that hour? I see from my notes that you yourself take breakfast only after the family has eaten when there’s a lull in your work, but you would have gone into the morning room to check the hot water or make sure nothing else was needed? You were there at ten o’clock to ask Mr. Garrod for the key to his teapoy. Isn’t that right?”

  When she didn’t answer, Chase said, “I believe you are quite fond of your nieces and nephew? Active on their behalf?”

  “I’m not sure what you mean, sir, but I have done nothing wrong, absolutely nothing.”

  “You haven’t answered my question, ma’am. Were you or weren’t you near the drawing room between half past nine and ten? And did you encounter anyone else? Mr. Tallboys eager for his appointment with Miss Honeycutt? A member of your family who came downstairs earlier than usual?”

  She stared at him with dawning horror.

  ***

  After his conversation with Mrs. Yates, Chase went in search of the under-gardener Higgins. But after following the circular walk for an hour, peering into the turn-offs from the main route to find fountains playing to no one and luxuriant flowers flaunting their beauty in innocent seclusion, he gave up and moved back toward the house. His temper was foul. The pleasant summer morning, cool and cloudy, offered a relief from the oppressive heat, though this could not compensate for the feeling that he was running out of time. He needed results—and fast. He had shaken Mrs. Yates but not broken her. Now she would have time to refurbish her narrative and strengthen her defenses, and Chase would be no closer to proving the truth of the suspicions now assuming solid form.

  Then, as if in answer to his summons, he heard a voice: “Chase!”

  He was in a small wilderness in a corner of the garden that he hadn’t visited before. He stopped and looked around. Noah Packet stood in dappled sunlight, an uneasy expression on his face, his mouth pulled down, his eyes furtive.

  “I was hoping you’d turn up,” said Chase. “Got something for me?”

  “I knocked at the kitchen door. They told me you’d walked out. Been looking for you.” Packet cast a glance around, as if afraid the trees might be listening. As a general rule, Chase was not a man who appreciated the beauties of nature, but Packet, creature of grimy city streets and smoky taverns, looked as much a fish out of water as anyone he had ever seen.

  “You found me,” Chase said.

  Packet drew the medicine vial from the inside pocket of his coat. As he held it out, the green glass sparkled in a ray of light. The thief’s eyes shot briefly to Chase’s face, then fell away. “You’ll be glad to have this back.”

  Chase took it. “You’ve learned where it came from?”

  Packet recited a name and address, then said, “The chemist would have nothing to say to me. Maybe you can persuade him.”

  “I’ll do that.” Chase extracted several coins from his purse and gave them to Packet. “Be off before someone decides you’re up to no good.”

  “You mean up to no good like you?” Packet thrust the coins into yet another inside pocket and set off, whistling tunelessly, in the direction of the Wandsworth Road.

  ***

  The next step was to inquire how Marina Garrod had passed the night, but when Chase approached her bedchamber, Lewis stood outside the door with two new guards, one of them sitting in Chase’s chair. As Lewis argued with them, a dark-haired, burly guard, who had an angry boil on his chin, patted the truncheon at his side. The man in the chair—slim, fair-haired, and vacant—stared at the wall.

  “I just want to speak to her,” Lewis was saying. “Can you at least deliver a message?”

  “That’s what we can’t do,” said the one with the truncheon. “No offense, mind. Orders.”

  “Mr. Chase’s orders?”

  “No,” said Chase, coming up at that moment, “not my orders. What’s this about? The boy merely wishes to assure himself that Miss Garrod is well. And who the devil are you two?”

  “No visitors. No messages. The young lady is to be left entirely undisturbed,” said the burly guard.

  For once Lewis looked happy to see Chase. His brow lightened, and he reached out to grip Chase’s coat sleeve. “They’ve locked her up, sir. We must get her out.” He leaned around the burly man to deliver a rap at the door. “Marina, can you hear me?”

  The vacant guard showed sudden signs of energy. Jumping up, he stepped closer to his companion, and they formed a barrier, elbows raised aggressively. “You watch it, boy,” this man said, speaking for the first time. “Don’t make any trouble, or we’ll remove you.”

  “You just try it! Let her come and speak to me herself.”

  “She sees no one,” said the burly guard.

  Chase went still. “By whose orders do you confine Miss Garrod?”

  “The Reverend Tallboys, sir,” they chorused, responding to the unmistakable note of authority in his voice, and the burly guard added, “He said anyone who questioned the order was to speak to him directly.”

  “Where can I find him?”

  “He’s in Mr. Garrod’s study, sir,” the guard answered. He relaxed a little, letting his cudgel dangle from his hand, and gave a tentative smile.

  A couple of local men, Chase thought, hired to isolate Marina Garrod from her friends. No doubt the rumors had been spreading since her appearance at the inquest, but wouldn’t the family want discretion? Possibly the
guards had been told she was distraught over her father’s death and needed to be alone with her grief. They would have heard that her mental state was questionable.

  “From the village, are you?” he asked the men.

  “Yes, sir,” they said.

  “Stable hands?”

  “How’d you know?” said the burly one.

  “Your friend has a piece of straw sticking out of his boot,” said Chase. Before Lewis could renew his protests, Chase said to him in an undertone, “Be patient. Let me find out what’s going on.”

  “The young lady is ill and needs her rest,” volunteered the more talkative guard, trying to be helpful.

  Lewis hesitated. “Something’s wrong, Mr. Chase. You’ll bring me word as soon as you can?”

  “Yes. Don’t do anything stupid.” Chase walked away.

  ***

  Samuel Tallboys opened the door at Chase’s knock. “Well,” he said, smiling with all his teeth, “this is fortuitous. I needed a word with you, though my time is not my own this morning. The funeral, you understand. Come in, come in. I can spare you a few minutes.” He waved a casual hand at an armchair in front of Garrod’s desk. “Have a seat, sir.”

  Chase sat. Tallboys took his place behind the desk, smoothing the sleeve of his well-brushed black suit and straightening his pristine cuffs. As he reached into the drawer, he briefly admired his hand upon which a mourning ring of gold and jet gleamed. A moment later the hand reemerged with a bank draft, which he pushed across the polished surface toward Chase. “The balance of your fee, sir. I trust you find it satisfactory?”

  Chase didn’t pick up the check. “My fee? I thank you, sir, but I can’t accept it for work undone. Mr. Garrod’s killer has not been apprehended.”

  “Work undone? Those are the precise words used by Mrs. Wolfe when I tried to pay her for the magazine profile she was to have written. She refused.”

  “This surprises you? She feels as I do. It’s not possible.”

  “Why not?” Tallboys said reasonably. “Though she was not able to complete the commission due to the tragedy that has overtaken us, she has lost several days of her valuable time and undergone an ordeal. We feel it is the least we can do. And the same is true for you. You mustn’t think we blame you for what happened to Hugo. I am not certain it could have been prevented if the devil was bent on having his way. You may accept your fee in good conscience.”

  “What’s this about? Why have you turned off the Bow Street constables and stopped access to Miss Garrod?”

  Tallboys turned an aloof gaze on him. “You are too impatient.” He pointed at the bank draft. “There is your money. Take it. This makes us quits, I believe.”

  “You are discharging me?”

  “Your usefulness has come to an end, Mr. Chase. You were employed as escort for Miss Garrod, but these services are no longer required.”

  “In short, you are turning me off.”

  “I cannot help it if you choose to take it like that. Please understand. My responsibilities are immense at the present time. I must attend to an ever-increasing load of business in relation to the estate, consult with lawyers, be of comfort to my old friend’s family, and care for his daughter. This in addition to my parish duties and my work as magistrate—” Tallboys broke off, drawing a hand over his eyes, overcome with emotion. When he pressed his head against the back of the chair, the fruity odor of the pomade from his curled wig reached Chase’s nostrils.

  “What about Miss Garrod? Allow me to speak to her.”

  “I’m afraid I cannot allow that. Poor, poor girl. Anyone must feel for her.”

  “Does Honeycutt know she is confined to her room? He told a room full of people yesterday that she is his affianced bride.”

  “Marriage.” Tallboys shook his head. “That must be a consideration for the future. First things first, Mr. Chase. She must be made whole, purified, if you will, of her evil humors before she can become a suitable English wife.”

  “Be plain, Tallboys. What are your intentions for her?”

  “Oh, you need have no fear on that score. She will receive the most tender attention.” He looked at Chase sadly. “No one can be more eager to serve her than I. According to the terms of the will, I am to be joined with another in the guardianship of this child. It is a heavy charge, Chase. I don’t mind owning that.”

  “You mean to bring in doctors to see her?”

  “That has already been discussed. In any case, she is soon to depart.”

  “To…go…where?” said Chase, throwing as much force as he could into each word. A look of alarm crossed the clergyman’s face, but he managed to scowl back from under his bristling white brows. Chase himself knew his attitude was all show. Tallboys had the law on his side. He had the right to send his ward to school, banish her to the country, send her abroad—anything he chose—and there would be nothing Chase could do.

  Tallboys knew it too. “I don’t owe you an explanation,” he said mildly. “But as a courtesy, I’ll tell you that we have made arrangements for her to go away for a few months until such time as she is more composed and can be trusted not to endanger herself or others.”

  “Preposterous. Miss Garrod is no danger to anyone. You do realize that the scene enacted for our benefit last night was faked. If you’re the honest man you claim to be, you should ask yourself why Mrs. Yates bothered. Ask yourself, who benefits from Miss Garrod’s disgrace? Ask yourself, who hopes to profit from her father’s death?”

  “Ah, but you see. I already know the answer to these questions. Though Hugo was in the habit of altering his arrangements frequently, one fact is beyond dispute. He was quite determined on making Marina his heiress. There is your motive, sir. Surely you sympathize with my wish to protect this family as much as possible. One person is dead, and I will not have the blood of others laid to my account.”

  Chase felt a muscle ticking at the side of his mouth. “You’re wrong. Marina Garrod did not kill her father. The girl is as sane as you are—as I am. There is a conspiracy against her, and for all I know you are in the thick of it. Where are you sending her? To a private madhouse?”

  “To the moon, sir. To the moon. Where better for a moonstruck girl?” He stood to signal the interview was over.

  Chapter Twenty

  “Who did it?” said Penelope. Sitting on a high-backed settle in the private parlor at the Windmill Inn, she addressed this question to John Chase, who rested an arm on the mantel as he kicked one booted foot against the fireboard. This board, designed to block the fireplace hole in summer, showed a painting of a large flowerpot that Chase probably scuffed without realizing. Edward Buckler didn’t bother to point this out. He was perched on the window seat opposite, gazing at a sequence of hunting prints on the walls, which chronicled the destruction of a fox. He felt a paralyzing coldness within.

  Chase said, “I have my own ideas about that. If more than one of them is involved, we know the reason.”

  “Greed,” said Penelope.

  He nodded. “They won’t hesitate to destroy Miss Garrod’s name even if they suspect, or know, that someone else is the real killer.”

  Sitting next to Penelope on the settle, Lewis Durant stirred, and her hand drifted over to pat him, though she kept her focus on Chase. “I agree,” she said. “Money is at the root of this crime.”

  Chase gave the fireboard one last kick and went to throw himself into a chair at the small dining table. “A clever plot. One with few obvious mistakes.” He leaned his elbows on the table and propped his chin in his hand. He described the gardener Higgins’ testimony along with his own conclusions. “I asked the head gardener where Higgins was today. He’s gone off to a plant nursery to collect some supplies. He’ll be back soon. I must see this man.”

  “Even if Higgins gives you the name of the person who sent him to the boiler room, I don’t see how that’s proof o
f guilt,” objected Penelope.

  “You’re right. That’s been the trouble all along, hasn’t it? Without a witness to place someone purchasing the poison or interfering with the teapoy, proof is hard to come by. What we need is a mass of circumstantial evidence—and knowledge of the will’s contents.”

  Still, Buckler said nothing, but he wondered uneasily if Chase was aware of the reason for his silence. This reflection only increased his self-consciousness, his sense of being set apart from the people he cared for most, and his overwhelming fatigue. But at least he had no need to question whether Penelope understood him. He had been pretending not to notice the searching looks cast in his direction for the last quarter of an hour.

  Lewis addressed Buckler. “What about Marina? Do they really mean to lock her up in a madhouse? Will you allow it, sir?”

  Buckler didn’t want to look into Lewis’ pleading face; instead, he stared at the hideous print that showed a pack of dogs baying over a cornered fox, their teeth snapping inches away from its nose. After a pause, he said, “We don’t know Tallboys’ precise intentions. He may intend only a rest cure at some spa. She may have nothing more sinister than that to fear.”

  “I don’t believe that,” said Lewis. “They mean her harm. I’m sure of it.”

  “Why not murder her then?” asked Chase, his tone thoughtful. “Why go to the bother of sending her away if they need to eliminate her? Why not quietly ensure she takes an overdose of laudanum?”

  “To get her on her own so that we can no longer protect her?” said Penelope.

  “Marriage,” said Buckler.

  They stared at him. Chase’s eyes kindled with interest. “What the deuce do you mean?”

  A faint smile twitched at Buckler’s mouth. “Garrod told you from the first that he wanted his daughter wed. No doubt his will reflects that ambition.”

  Penelope squeezed her brother’s knee and released it. Rising, she crossed the room and stood near Buckler. “But if he thought her mentally incapable?” she argued. “He wouldn’t make her the heiress, Edward. The family systematically fed her father’s doubts about her and made her appear superstitious and unpredictable.”