A line of gawkers stood at the top of the road leading to the Cliff House—a six-story chateau that risked the cliffs to bring civilization to the sea. To the majority, it was a marvel; but for Isobel, it was an eyesore. She blocked the clumsy hotel from view and focused on navigating the sand dunes. Not an easy feat in her current guise. Heels were impractical for walking, but supremely practical for attracting attention, which was exactly what she currently needed.
As she sunk into the sand with every aggravating step, the lightness in the air turned heavy with the touch of death. The sun seemed dimmer, the air colder, and those gathered wore solemn masks that couldn’t quench the excitement rippling through the crowd.
Death was a curious fellow. He brushed the shoulders of some, settled on others, and for the truly unlucky, he hounded their every footstep; either way, everyone felt his passing. Except Isobel. She much preferred to chase the phantom. And when she neared, she sensed his presence. That heavy footprint that he left in his wake.
The crowd kept a respectable distance from the writing in the sand. No one wanted to erase the last message of a troubled woman. The tide would do the job soon enough, and nothing would be left of the woman named Violet. The message was exactly as Cook had recited: Violet loves kindness, and she does not always get it in this country.
A peculiar sort of message for a woman contemplating suicide. Had the woman always referred to herself in the third person? When teetering on the edge, had Violet stopped being her, and looked down on her body with a detached sort of eye? The message sounded more like a threat, or mockery.
Isobel walked the message’s length, thirty feet in all, written in a large slanting hand. It had been carved into firmer sand that had been smoothed by the tide. Footprints churned the area around the message. Boots and surfmans’ slippers walking the length as she did now, only much closer. The onlookers had trampled over the writer’s footprints.
Ever conscious of the tides, Isobel consulted her internal table. High tide was at half past midnight, and low was an hour before sunrise: six o’clock. High tide would come again at noon. She looked at the beach, estimating that the message could have been written any time after three o’clock in the morning. A wide window of time.
Satisfied, Isobel stepped towards the message (in between the not and always), planted her umbrella in the ground and bent her knees. Corsets were not conducive to bending; however, she fancied that she made for a pretty picture of feminine delicacy.
A blue-uniformed surfman hopped forward. “Hold on there, Miss. You’re to keep away from there.”
“I have no intention of disturbing the words,” Isobel replied, never taking her eyes off the message.
The man moved to her side. “Still, this is police business.”
Isobel had seen what she wanted. A sharp, careful point had carved the message into the sand. She straightened, taking in with one upward sweep the surfman’s shoes, the uneven crease of his trousers, his bowed-legs, paunchy belly, red nose, and finally his eyes. “Police business—surely this is a child’s scrawl?” She tilted her head towards the man, looking at him from beneath her broad-brimmed hat.
“No, Miss,” he answered, puffing up his chest. “There’s been a death. A woman was dragged out of the water not long ago.”
“Murdered?” Isobel gasped.
Disappointment entered his eyes. “The Deputy Coroner declared it a suicide, and carted the poor girl away.”
“How dreadful,” she whispered. And she meant it, if not for the reasons the surfman assumed. It was a truly dreadful thought that the police had dismissed the death so quickly. “Did you discover the unfortunate woman?”
“No, Miss. That gentleman over there spotted her in the water,” he said pointing.
‘That gentleman over there’ was a large middle-aged gentleman wearing a homburg and monocle. He held a small dog and he stroked its fur rhythmically.
That was another thing about Death. People liked to linger in his cool footprint, breathing the air that he touched, reminding them of their own living state.
Isobel touched her fingertips to her lips, careful not to smudge the rouge. “Do you know, I have a friend named Violet. Did the police happen to mention her last name?”
“I’m not sure that they know that yet.” His features sagged in sympathy.
“She has red hair—” Isobel began, and the man’s face grew alarmed.
“Perhaps you best speak with my crew. Jasper and Gower fished her out—I mean, er, recovered the body.” He offered his arm, and she accepted it, along with his name, Willie Saxby.
“Charlotte Bonnie,” she returned.
Saxby left orders with the other guard, and escorted her through the growing crowd. The monocled gentleman and two surfmen in white stood by the Lurline Pier. It was known as the Olympic Pier by most. Both names were incorrect in Isobel’s none-too-humble opinion. The Lurline Pipeline would have been more apt. It was an intake pipe with a filter that pumped saltwater into two downtown baths: the Olympic Club and the more public Lurline bath.
There was a wire rail on either side of the pipe line and a big free standing gate to keep trespassers off its length. But the only thing the gate served to do was to tempt boys (and the occasional girl). Children circumvented the gate with ease to sit on its pump, or balance along its rounded length and fish off the end. Once upon a time, Isobel had ventured down to jump, intending to swim back. The surfmen and their longboat had fished her out of the water. The tides could be dangerous, but it all depended on the ocean’s mood. Isobel, being on familiar terms with the tides, had been infuriated by their ‘rescue’.
When Isobel and Saxby neared, the small dog began to growl at her. She planted her umbrella and glared at the little beast.
Introductions were made. The younger of the two surfmen looked about her own age: twenty. He had the lean, broad-shouldered build of a swimmer, straw-haired and tan and smooth as a wet seal. His name was Tobin Gower. The second surfman, Mr. Jasper, was older, a veritable walrus with a musculature that spoke of long days of rowing. And lastly, the monocled gentleman who had spotted the girl, Nigel Harrison. The Englishman held himself stiffly and looked as though she should recognize his name. Isobel did not.
“It seems Miss Bonnie may be acquainted with the deceased,” Saxby explained. “Maybe you can put her mind at ease either way by describing the girl.”
Tobin Gower’s sun touched features paled. He mumbled apologies and avoided her eyes, focusing on the dog instead. Isobel kept his reaction in the forefront of her mind as the others tipped apologetic hats.
“I’m not sure,” she hastened. “Violet and I weren’t especially close, but if I can assist, then I’m willing. Perhaps you best tell me what you told the police.”
Harrison swept a gold monocle over her, and began a recitation that hinted at many dry retellings. “I walk Brutus every morning at sunrise. When we reached the top of the Cliff House road, I turned, as I always do, to appreciate the view. That’s when I noticed the peculiar message. We went down to investigate, and as I was standing there, where the surfman currently is, I looked at the empty beach. A bit of white caught my eye, tossing in the water by the pier. I can’t say why, but something worried me enough to skirt the gate, and walk out onto the pier to get a closer look. It was a young woman. Quite dead.”
“Did you drag her out?” Isobel asked.
“I can’t swim,” he explained, looking away in shame. “I hurried straightaway to the life-saving station.”
Isobel made appropriate noises of understanding, and looked to the two members of the life-saving crew, who had likely pulled more dead bodies out of the unforgiving sea than breathing ones (as well as protesting little girls who had only wanted to swim to shore).
The Walrus picked up the narrative. “As Mr. Harrison was saying, she was quite dead. But the er—” he hesitated, looking to the other men for help.
Isobel read his unease. “I was trained as a nurse, Mr. Jasper. I’m n
ot the squeamish sort.” This, of course, was an utter lie, she was not a nurse unless one counted the poking, examining, and dissections of dead animals.
Satisfied, the Walrus went on. “The fish and gulls hadn’t yet gotten to her, so she was as serene as the dead can be. She had red hair, longish, about mid-back, I’d wager. Blue eyes, perhaps, but it’s always difficult to tell with the dead. A pretty thing.”
This statement prompted another question. “Clothes?”
“Wearin’ nought but her undergarments,” he admitted. “Course the rest was bundled up and filled with sand to weigh her down.”
“How was her clothing weighing her down if she wasn’t wearing it?”
“It was tied around her legs.”
“The rest of her clothing being?” Isobel prodded.
“Skirt, blouse, and a matching coat.”
Isobel swallowed an impatient growl. “The color?”
“Grey, I think,” the Walrus scratched at his drooping mustache. “There were some little flowers on the hem.”
“Violets?” she gasped.
“Why yes, Miss, I think you’re right. Little purple ones.” His features fell as realization struck. The dead woman might be her friend after all. To Isobel, it was simple—what other stitching would decorate a grey skirt worn by a woman named Violet? While some might claim it was a lucky guess, Isobel called her conclusion common sense.
“Any birthmarks, freckles?”
The Walrus cleared his throat. “I didn’t look any closer than was proper.”
Isobel studied the other three men. They were, to a man, apparently perfect gentlemen. What she wouldn’t give for just one proper scoundrel today. She aimed her eye at the swimmer who had not uttered more than a murmur.
“Did you notice anything?”
“No, Miss Bonnie,” he mumbled, avoiding her gaze.
Isobel could tell a lot about a person by looking them in the eye. It was a knack she had always had. From as far back as she could recall, she had puzzled over the effect that a charming smile and a flattering word had on the masses. Adults were easily swayed by, what to her, was clear deception. Salesmen and politicians, especially, oozed slime. It was a gift that had never steered her wrong, like her unerring sense of direction. Isobel never got lost—not at sea, not underneath, not on land, and not with people.
And now, she thought of Violet’s red hair and her supposed message—‘not of this country’. “Was she wearing a rosary?”
“She was,” said the Walrus. Another startled look, and he corrected himself. “Maybe not. It was a little lamb with a cross.”
Isobel frowned, and added a faint tremble to her voice, “Violet’s Agnus Dei.” A Catholic symbol denoting sacrifice.
Eager to prove that the woman was not Isobel’s friend, the Walrus continued, “She had another necklace on too. A little black square of cloth, but I didn’t get a good look at it.”
It sounded like a devotional scapular, but Isobel could not remember the color’s significance. Although Isobel’s mother was Portuguese, and therefore Catholic, her German father was not, and the only time Isobel set foot in church was for baptisms and weddings.
“Violet did have a scapular, but so many do—I don’t know if she’s my friend or not,” Isobel said with a flutter of distress.
“You can view the body, you know,” Saxby offered.
“One can do that?” she asked.
“Tell the coroner that you might know the woman, and give him my name. I’m sure he’s eager to identify her.”
“I’ll go straightaway,” Isobel said. Before Saxby could offer his arm again, she latched onto to the lean swimmer. “Would you escort me to the terminus, Mr. Gower?”
Given the vice lock she had on the swimmer’s arm, he had little choice in the matter.
“You can end your shift, Tobin, and call it a day,” Saxby said.
“Gentlemen,” Isobel lowered her lashes, and they tipped their hats as her quiet suspect led her over the sand. She leaned in close to the athlete. He was strong and wiry, and his strength was apparent beneath the thin duck cloth, but there was more. Tobin Gower was wound tight as a spring about to break.
“You look ill, Mr. Gower,” she noted.
“Tired, I suspect,” he mumbled.
“Mr. Saxby said that you could end your shift. Does that mean you work all through the night?”
Tobin did not say a word. He didn’t need to. Isobel knew the answer.
“Do you patrol all night?” she pressed. “Or just sleep?” The accusation proved a suitable enough prod to loosen his tongue.
“Depends on the night,” he said. “Some nights there are troublemakers on the beach. When the storms start and the waves crack, then there are wrecks to watch for, and warn the public away.”
“What about last night? Was there anyone on the beach?”
The arm felt like iron beneath her hand. “It was quiet,” he said.
Isobel tipped her head to look up at the tall fellow. The wind caught her hat, and it flew off, tumbling into the sand. Tobin hastened after, bent to retrieve it, and straightened. When he returned her hat, Isobel looked him square in the eyes.
The man looked more than tired; he looked guilty.
“The dead are quiet, Mr. Gower,” she said.
“What?” This time, he did not avert his gaze, but his eyes widened.
“The dead are quiet,” Isobel repeated, putting steel in her voice to drive through him like a sword point. “But they don’t always go quietly, and they certainly don’t stay that way.”
“What are you getting at, Miss Bonnie?”
Isobel took her time resettling her hat. When she was satisfied with its placement, she tilted her head up to look at the man. “You’ve the look of a man with blood on his hands.”
Tobin stepped back as if he had been struck. “A woman is dead. On my shift. Course I feel responsible. But there’s lost souls who come from downtown nearly every day to throw themselves in the sea. They don’t give a wit about anyone but themselves—most especially the men who have to fish them out.”
“Then why are you acting as if you shoved her in yourself?”
Tobin ran a hand over his face, turned, and walked towards the life-saving station. Isobel flung helplessness aside, and stalked after her prey, or tried to at any rate. Damn her heels and his long stride. He outdistanced her in no time.
“How do you know Violet was from downtown?” she called after him.
“The terminus is that way, Miss Bonnie.” Tobin Gower practically ran from Isobel’s diminutive five-foot presence. The corner of her lips lifted with satisfaction. Something, as the saying went, was definitely afoot.
5
The Silence
THE DEAD WERE QUIET. And pale. Not a breath, not a stir, or a flutter of unease. Isobel could stare at the corpse until her own lips turned blue, and no one would notice. There was more life in a chair, because the absence of everything the woman once was howled into the silence.
Isobel studied the greyish-white slab of flesh, wondering what Violet’s laugh had sounded like, what her fears looked like, and what those eyes had seen before ending in the sea.
Isobel had seen her own death more times than she could count: a speeding wagon, a wild horse with fury in its eyes, an aggravated bull, blades and guns, fierce winds, the cold glint of a man’s eyes, and always, the welcoming deep. But she had taken that final step in name only. Isobel had made Alex Kingston a widow. Her name was dead, but she still breathed.
Isobel touched the lifeless hand on the table. It was not much larger than her own. She picked up Violet’s hand and, turning it this way and that, studied the palm, the knuckles, and finally the fingernails.
Whatever Violet’s occupation, it did not involve hard work. Unlike Isobel’s own roughened hands (it was fortunate that gloves were a part of a lady’s ensemble), Violet did not possess a single callus. And her nails reinforced that observation.
She reached for the l
eft hand, and a throat cleared behind her. “I can’t imagine why you’d need to examine the deceased’s hands to determine whether she is your friend, Miss Bonnie.”
Isobel turned slightly, eyes flickering to Deputy Coroner Duncan August. The fit doctor was in his mid-thirties. With chestnut hair and a fine profile, he looked more suited for a Society soirée than a morgue. Intelligence shone from his green eyes.
Isobel weighed her options, and decided on a direct approach. “Is there really no reason you can think of?”
“There’s reason, but not the ones for which you entered my morgue.”
“I’m here for the reason I stated, Dr. August. To identify the body.”
“You don’t know her.”
“I do not,” Isobel admitted. “But I’d like to find out her name as much as you.”
“Why does it matter to you?” he asked.
“What did you conclude?”
“I can have you removed, Miss Bonnie.”
“Then you’ll never know why,” she said, straightening.
August crossed his arms. “I could have you arrested.”
“On what grounds?” She arched a brow. “Failing to identify a body? You strike me as a more reasonable man than that, Dr. August.”
August rubbed his smooth chin. “She drowned. It’s a clear suicide.”
“And that is precisely why I want to know her name.”
Confusion flickered over his eyes. “I don’t understand.”
“I don’t think this was a suicide,” she announced.
“On what grounds?” August parroted, stepping forward to look down on the corpse.
“The message in the sand,” Isobel replied. Without asking permission, she launched into a closer inspection, starting with the woman’s head.
“Most suicides generally leave a final note,” August pointed out.
“But how many refer to themselves in the third person?”
An impatient breath swept past August’s lips. “Anyone who commits such a rash act is clearly insane, Miss Bonnie.”
“Did you notice these bruises on her arm?”
A Bitter Draught Page 3
