Black Moonlight

by Amy Patricia Meade

“He made you angry, Creighton, that’s all,” she excused. “I half-expected to get into an argument with him myself. I thought he’d accuse me of being a fraud or phony, like he’d done to everyone else. Only he didn’t. Instead, he asked me for my professional opinion.”

  “Opinion? Regarding what?”

  “He believed someone wanted to kill him.”

  “I’d say he called that one right,” Creighton cracked. “Did you tell him that if he were nicer to people he wouldn’t have had that problem?”

  Marjorie pulled a face and folded her arms across her chest.

  “No? No,” Creighton deduced. “Did he give any hint as to who might want to kill him or why?”

  Marjorie shook her head. “Not exactly. The day before yesterday, he had found a rather menacing note on his desk. The note had been typed and bore no signature. However, it had to have been put on his desk by someone in this house. In addition, a brief inspection of the ribbon on the typewriter in your father’s office proved that the note had been typed on that very machine.”

  “Father never locked that office door. All of his confidential documents were stored in the safe or hidden away.” Creighton sighed. “Which means that anyone could have gone in and typed that note.”

  “Precisely.”

  “Did he notify the police? They might have been able to dust the typewriter for prints.”

  “No, he didn’t want the police involved, nor did he put much faith in their abilities. Instead, he went to a solicitor yesterday morning, and had him draw up a new will.”

  “You mean he was serious about that?” Creighton asked in disbelief.

  “I didn’t see the new will myself, but I believe he was telling the truth,” Marjorie averred. “He assumed that the writer of the note was after his money; he thought he’d remove the money and with it, remove the threat. Your father believed that he had created an ‘insurance policy’ safeguarding against the note writer taking any further action.”

  “Apart from qualifying himself as the greatest prophet since Custer predicted he was going to surround all those Indians, did he tell you anything else?”

  “That his new will names you as his sole heir,” Marjorie stated.

  “Me? You’re joking. Why would he—?”

  “He had to name someone. You weren’t on the island, so you couldn’t possibly have left the note,” she explained.

  “And you? What did he expect you to do?”

  “Despite all his machinations regarding the will, your father was still frightened. He must have sensed that the writer of the note was motivated by more than mere money. I think he consulted me because he wanted someone to confirm his fears, and because he needed someone to know the truth in case …”

  “Swell. You know the truth and can pass it along to the police. Problem solved. No need for you to get involved in the investigation. No need to get your hands dirty.” He punctuated the statement by wiping his hands together.

  “You don’t understand. Your father was murdered the same day he named you as the sole inheritor of his estate. On the precise day that you and I arrived in Bermuda. Creighton, the police are going to consider you the primary suspect.”

  His jaw dropped. “But the note,” he argued.

  “There’s only your father’s word that he received it when he did.” Marjorie threw her hands up in the air. “What am I saying? We don’t even have that anymore. It’s my word only and I have something of a vested interest in seeing that you stay out of prison.”

  Creighton reached into the kitchen cupboards and pulled out a large serving platter. He took a well-formed scone from the cooling rack, placed it on the platter and handed it to Marjorie with a broad grin.

  “Just in case,” he explained. “Not that I think we’ll need it. You’re used to dealing with the Hartford County Police, but you have to realize that not every policeman is like Jameson or Noonan. Now, I’m going upstairs to change; I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

  Creighton bounded down the stairs, dressed in a blue-and-white-striped twill shirt, white linen trousers, and a pair of white oxfords. He turned toward the study to find Marjorie serving coffee to two unknown gentlemen who were seated upon the overstuffed settee.

  The younger and taller of the two had blonde hair, blue eyes, and might have spent his spare time modeling men’s apparel for Sears Roebuck catalogs. The older man was shorter, stockier, and had a dark, swarthy complexion which, on a man of leaner proportions, might have been described as “exotic.” For the stout man in the wrinkled suit, it was better defined as “greasy.”

  The sound of Marjorie’s laughter resonated through the room. “Your mother reads my books?” she addressed the younger of the two men. “How wonderful! I’ll be sure to send her some signed copies as soon as we get back to the States.”

  “That’s quite kind of you,” the young man replied in a deep voice tinged with an English accent.

  The older man, in the meantime, devoured his scone and marmalade with gusto.

  “Oh, I don’t mind,” Marjorie replied. “It’s the least I can do for hard-working law enforcement officers such as yourselves.” She crossed one shapely ankle in front of the other and struck a demure pose.

  “Goodness,” the older man prompted in a Welsh cadence. “While you’re at it, maybe you wouldn’t mind giving my wife your scone recipe. Mrs. Jackson is a good woman, bless her heart, but she can’t bake a scone to save her life.”

  Creighton stood motionless in the study doorway, wondering if he were truly awake.

  “There he is,” Marjorie stated with a smile. She waved her husband into the room. “Darling, these gentlemen are from the Criminal Investigation Department of the Bermuda Police Force.” She motioned toward the older man. “Creighton, this is Sergeant Roger Jackson.”

  Jackson took a deep bow. “Morning, sir.”

  Creighton replied in kind.

  “And this is Inspector …” she looked at the younger man, her face a question.

  “Philip,” he stated.

  “Inspector Detective Philip Nettles,” Marjorie introduced.

  The younger man extended his hand. “How’d you do, Mr. Ashcroft? So sorry for your loss.”

  “Thank you,” Creighton murmured as he shook Nettles’ hand.

  “I was just telling Inspector Detective Nettles and Sergeant Jackson that we’ve solved many a crime back in Ridgebury,” Marjorie stated. “And how the police department there has come to rely upon our sleuthing skills over the past few months. But I’ll let you continue the story, Creighton, while I put on more coffee.”

  The men stood up as she left the room. Once she was out of sight, they returned to their seats. An awkward silence ensued.

  “As my wife was saying, we solved many crimes back in Connecticut.”

  “Mmm,” Jackson responded. “Lovely woman, your wife.”

  “Quite lovely,” Nettles agreed. “My mum reads all of her books. I’ll have to tell her how lovely she is in person.”

  “Mmm,” Jackson replied once again. “Lovely woman. Good scones, too.”

  “Good what?!” Creighton leapt from his seat, ready for a fight. “Oh, the, the scones. Yes, they’re light and fluffy and pleasantly un-lopsided aren’t they?” He sat back in the upholstered wing chair. “So, any ideas so far?”

  “Ideas?” Jackson repeated obtusely.

  “About the murder,” Creighton clarified.

  “Oh that.” Jackson ate the last of his scone and brushed the crumbs from his face with short stubby fingers. “We haven’t gotten in there to take a look. We told your wife we were waiting for a few more men to arrive to collect the body and, after introducing us to the other members of the household, she whisked us in here and sent everyone else to wait in the drawing room. Lovely woman, your wife.”

  “Yes, adorable,” Creighton flippantly agreed. “Now that you’ve both eaten, may I suggest we move into the dining room to examine … things?”

  The detectives briefly conf
erred with each other and, finding agreement, followed Creighton out of the study, down the hall, and past the young constable standing guard at the dining room entrance.

  “He’s in there.” Creighton pointed to the carved chest that stood in the corner, its lid still propped open.

  As the men approached the scene with the utmost caution, Marjorie returned from her kitchen duties.

  “Who found the body?” Nettles asked. “Not your—?”

  “No, not my lovely wife,” Creighton answered abruptly. “The housekeeper found him—or she found the chest, at least. When we came downstairs, the lid was closed. I don’t know if she opened it, saw the body, and let it slam shut, or if the blood alone was enough to frighten her. She’s been too shaken up to give us any details.”

  Nettles nodded his reply. “What about these tracks in the blood? They look—”

  “Feline,” Marjorie offered. “One of the strays on the island seems to have adopted me.”

  “Oh, you like cats do you?” Nettles asked in a conversational tone. “I’m more of a dog lover myself, but if you like cats, you should visit this place in town that’s full of ‘em. It’s on … on … Roger, what’s the name of the street where that green grocer is?”

  Jackson glared at him and leaned over the body. “Looks like someone gave him a good cosh over the head. Probably what killed him. But we’ll know more when we get him back to the morgue. Sorry it’s taking so long for the other boys to arrive, sir, “ he explained to Creighton. “We’re not accustomed to handling these sorts of things. There’s only seven of us in the Criminal Investigations Department and you’re looking at two of ‘em.”

  “The finest two, I’m sure,” Marjorie remarked with a sweet smile.

  Creighton swallowed his saliva to purge the bile inching up his throat.

  “I don’t know about that, Miss,” Jackson said humbly. “The whole department is … hullo, what’s this?” He bent down and, using the handkerchief from his front jacket pocket, seized a small brass statue of an angel from the hardwood floor.

  “I brought that in here,” Creighton explained. “Selina, our housekeeper, was very upset after finding the body. The whole household came dashing down here this morning, unsure of what we’d find.” He chuckled slightly. “Habit, I suppose, from my time spent living in New York City, or our cases, but I instinctively grab something heavy or sharp before I investigate.”

  “Hmm. Where was it when you grabbed it?” Jackson asked.

  “Oh, I don’t know. It had to be somewhere between our bedroom and here, but I honestly can’t remember. We were all in such a hurry. Maybe on the chest in the front hall. Why?”

  “Because I believe this is the murder weapon.”

  “What?” Creighton nearly shouted.

  “How could that be?” Marjorie asked. “It wasn’t in the room when we arrived. I distinctly recall Creighton carrying it in here.”

  Jackson shrugged. “Someone didn’t want us to find it. They wiped it clean, or tried to. See?” He motioned to Marjorie to join him. “There’s a dried substance in the etched part of the angel’s wing.”

  Marjorie looked closely at the area indicated before her eyes caught something else. “Look. The velvet on the base is stained as well. In fact,” she took the handkerchief-wrapped statue from Jackson’s hand and held it so that the base was close to, but not touching, the wound on Ashcroft’s head.

  Jackson nodded in agreement. “They’re the same size and shape. Looks like a match to me.”

  “Nicely done!” Nettles complimented.

  “Thank you,” Marjorie smiled.

  Jackson took the handkerchief and statue from Marjorie’s hand. “I’ll wrap this up and take it back to headquarters so they can verify the match and check for fingerprints.”

  “Fingerprints?” Creighton cried. “If it was cleaned after the murder, the only fingerprints on there will be mine.”

  Jackson shrugged again. “If those are the only prints we find, then those are the only prints we find. But there’s more to a murder investigation than fingerprints. We’ll round up all the men in the house and find out their motives and whereabouts.”

  “Why just the men?” Marjorie challenged.

  Jackson laughed. “You’re not going to tell me that a woman lifted that man and shoved him into that trunk, are you? I know women are wearing trousers nowadays, but there are still some things they simply can’t do.”

  “I’m not denying that a woman couldn’t lift him into the chest. I’m saying that perhaps they didn’t have to. Here, I’ll show you. You be Mr. Ashcroft.” She positioned Jackson in front of the trunk and stood behind him. “If the lid of the trunk was open, all I’d need to do is lure you to this corner of the room and whammo!” She swung at Jackson’s head with an invisible statue. “Now, we all know that people fall forward, not backward.”

  “Of course,” Jackson stated.

  “Naturally,” Nettles agreed.

  “Precisely,” Marjorie continued. “Meaning that Ashcroft falls into the trunk, well, the majority of him anyway. I bet that’s what happened, too. Yes! Take a look.” She pointed to a set of indentations in the wall that were the exact same height as the upper corners of the trunk lid. “The weight of the body would have moved the trunk forward against the wall, while an arm, or leg probably caught on the lid, forcing it to open as far as it could go. That’s how these marks were created.”

  Jackson scrutinized the marks and scratched his chin pensively.

  Nettles stepped in, “If Ashcroft’s torso was already in the trunk, it wouldn’t take too much effort to roll him onto his side, fold his legs and arms beneath him, and shut the lid.”

  “Meaning that anyone in the house—male or female—could have done it,” Marjorie completed the thought.

  “It’s possible,” Jackson allowed. “But we don’t know when those marks were made. They could be months, even years, old.”

  “No they couldn’t,” Creighton argued. “I’ve come here every year on holiday and that chest has never been in this room.”

  “That’s right,” Marjorie agreed. “According to my father-in-law, it had been in storage until he presented it to us as a wedding gift last night.”

  “Okay,” Jackson acknowledged, “you may have something. I’ll question every person in the house, starting with you, sir.”

  He pointed directly at Creighton.

  “Actually,” Marjorie countered, “I was thinking you could start with me. I’ll give you my take on events and then we can question everyone else. See how their stories fit with mine, that sort of thing.”

  “I think that’s a bang-up idea,” Nettles opined.

  Marjorie smiled appreciatively at the Inspector.

  “We?” Jackson repeated.

  “Well, you and Nettles,” Marjorie communicated. “And me.”

  “You, my lass, are a civilian,” Jackson pointed out.

  “Not if you count the number of cases I’ve helped to solve. Or the number of murder mysteries I’ve written. You’ve seen first hand what I can do.”

  “She’s done as good a job as other five inspectors, Sergeant,” Nettles said appealingly.

  “And I can bake scones,” Marjorie added. “Scones you can take home with you tonight. And a recipe you can take home to Mrs. Jackson when the case has been solved … by the three of us.” She slid a surreptitious wink in Creighton’s direction.

  There was a sharp intake of breath as Jackson mulled over his options. “Scones …” he could be heard murmuring before announcing. “All right, Miss McClelland, um, Mrs. Ashcroft, into the study. You’re first!”

  As Marjorie followed Jackson and Nettles out of the dining room, she passed Creighton a slip of paper.

  “What’s this?” he asked of his wife.

  “The scone recipe. If we’re sending some home with Jackson tonight, you’d better get baking.”

  “A note.” Jackson mused after Marjorie had recounted the previous night’s dinner and
the subsequent meeting with her father-in-law.

  “And all it said was ‘The day of reckoning is nigh?’” Nettles confirmed.

  “Yes. Typed in all capital letters,” Marjorie described. “In fact, if you want to see it, it’s probably in Mr. Ashcroft’s jacket pocket. That’s where he put it after he showed it to me.”

  Jackson nodded to Nettles. “Go check for the note, eh?”

  The inspector obediently left the room.

  “And because of this note, Mr. Ashcroft believed his life was in danger,” Jackson summarized. “So instead of calling the police, he changed his will, and consulted you.”

  “That’s right,” Marjorie corroborated. “In hindsight, I wish he had called the police, but Mr. Ashcroft wasn’t the type to ask for help. Indeed, I think he wanted to use the situation to his own advantage.”

  “So, because of this meeting, you were the last person to see Mr. Ashcroft alive,” Jackson asserted.

  “No, the last person to see Mr. Ashcroft alive was his killer,” Marjorie corrected. “I was simply the last person to leave the dining room following that fiasco of a dinner.”

  “What time was that?”

  “When I left the dining room? Oh, about eight-thirty.”

  Jackson took notes in a small black book. “Where did you go from there?”

  “I went outside to look for my husband.”

  “You didn’t know where he was?”

  Marjorie silently debated whether or not she should mention Creighton’s argument with his father. She had already told Jackson that her father-in-law had had words with every member of the household, but she had failed to impart the sheer magnitude of Creighton’s anger.

  After a few moments’ hesitation, she concluded that it was better that Jackson hear the story directly from her than from the likes of Griselda or, heaven forbid, Cassandra. “Creighton and my father-in-law got into a bit of a row last night.”

  “Bad?” Jackson asked.

  Marjorie nodded.

  “Did it come to blows?”

  “No, but it might have. Selina—”

  “The housekeeper,” Jackson verified.

  “Yes, the housekeeper. Selina stepped in and told Creighton to go outside and cool off. Clear his head. I was about to follow when my father-in-law called me back.”