Black Moonlight

by Amy Patricia Meade

  “Are you implying Prudence faked the scene?”

  “I’m saying that Mrs. Ashcroft is a very impressionable young woman. It is not outside the realm of possibility for our killer to have planted the idea in her mind.”

  “But why kill Cassandra?” Nettles asked.

  “It’s apparent she knew something about the murder. The killer didn’t want her to talk.”

  “Given her background,” Creighton added, “I wouldn’t be surprised if she were using the information for blackmail.”

  “That would have required Cassandra to have been alone with the killer,” Jackson pointed out. “Tell me, how is Selina feeling?”

  “I don’t know,” Creighton answered. “That sedative your doctor gave her knocked her out cold. She was sound asleep the entire time I was there. Well, at least I think she was, I—”

  “Sound asleep, eh? Then Selina wouldn’t have noticed if you happened to sneak out and visit the stables,” Jackson posed.

  Marjorie’ eyes grew wide. This was the moment she had been dreading since the discovery of her father-in-law’s body.

  “Wait one minute, you think that I—?” Creighton couldn’t bring himself to say the words.

  “What I think is that you and I should go to headquarters,” Jackson stated firmly. “There’s a rumor that you stood to inherit your father’s estate.”

  Creighton looked away.

  “Ah, you knew about that? Well, I’m going to make a few phone calls to confirm the rumor and then afterwards, we’re going to have a long conversation regarding your actions last night and this morning.”

  “But you haven’t finished questioning everyone,” Marjorie pointed out. “There’s still George. And … and Selina when she wakes up.”

  “Nettles can handle those two on his own as well as keeping an eye on you, Miss,” Jackson responded. With a firm grip on Creighton’s arm, he escorted him out of the stable and along the white gravel path.

  Marjorie watched in dismay as Jackson led Creighton past the house and onto the stairs that led to the cove and the pier. Never before had she felt such an overwhelming need to solve a case.

  She knew that, given the terms of the new will and his whereabouts during the murders, Jackson would feel little need to look beyond Creighton as the culprit behind both crimes. She also knew that Creighton’s eminent arrest had already limited her access to vital evidence, thus reducing her chances of finding the real killer. There was no way around it; she had to find a way to stay involved in the investigation.

  Marjorie needn’t have worried, for the single tear that had worked its way down her cheek was soon joined by others. And she found a sympathetic ally in Inspector Philip Nettles.

  “I’m sorry.” He removed the handkerchief from his jacket pocket and handed it to her. “Once Sergeant Jackson gets an idea in his head, it’s difficult to dissuade him.”

  “Thank you,” Marjorie said softly as she took the handkerchief and dabbed at her cheek. “I can’t pass judgment on Sergeant Jackson. I’ve been guilty of a bit of stubbornness on more than one occasion.”

  “He’s a good policeman,” Nettles assured. “And a good man. He’s simply accustomed to doing things a certain way. He was a Detective with Scotland Yard, you know.”

  “Really? Why did he come here?”

  “His wife was tired of the English winters. Jackson and the Missus never had children; it’s just the two of them. So, if she’s unhappy, you can bet Jackson does his best to make things right.”

  “Smart man,” Marjorie remarked between sniffles.

  “So is your husband,” Nettles responded. “That’s why I don’t think he murdered his father or Cassandra.”

  “You mean, you don’t think he did it?” she asked hopefully.

  “Of course I don’t. Like I said, your husband is a smart man. If he had murdered his father, he wouldn’t have drawn our attention to the murder weapon by bringing it downstairs this morning. It’s nonsensical. Nor would he have stuffed the body into the trunk his father gave to you as a wedding gift. It’s too theatrical.” Nettles bit his lip meditatively. “I won’t even touch upon the absurdity of him doing all of this on his honeymoon. Feelings for his father aside, I find it hard to believe he’d ruin your time together.”

  “Too bad Jackson doesn’t share your point of view.”

  “He will eventually. Like I said, he’s a good detective,” Nettles smiled. “But, enough discussion. We’d best go inside. There’s work to be done.”

  “‘We?’” Marjorie repeated.

  “Of course. Why not?”

  “Well, I thought with Creighton …”

  “That you’d no longer be considered ‘trustworthy’? I’ll take the risk, if only to have access to your keen intuition,” he teased. “Come on.”

  She followed him into the house, where they were instantly met with a red-faced young constable.

  “Sir,” the constable tipped his hat at Nettles. “Mr. Pooley is in the study and the others are gathered in the drawing room.”

  “Thank you, Constable,” Nettles replied.

  “Oh, and, um, sir,” the constable added, “I’m sorry about the second murder. I was so busy making sure that no one left the island, I had no idea that …”

  “That’s all right, Constable,” Nettles assured. “None of us have much experience with murder cases. In future, keep a closer eye on things or Jackson will have both our badges.” Nettles warned turned into the drawing room with Marjorie trailing close behind.

  Upon their entrance, Edward leapt to his feet. “Is it true? Is it true Cassandra is dead?”

  “Yes,” Nettles replied. “Murdered.”

  “Murdered. And the whole island crawling with police,” Edward scoffed.

  “It won’t happen again, sir,” Nettles assured him.

  “How do you know it won’t happen again?” Miller challenged. “I don’t mean to get on the wrong side of the Bermuda Police Service, but this doesn’t seem the sort of thing they’re accustomed to handling. How do we know we’re safe?”

  Griselda who, since their last meeting, had accessorized her swimsuit with oversized red-framed sunglasses and a wide-brimmed hat, stepped forward. “The men are right. You keep us prisoner on this island so that the murderer can’t escape, but in the meantime we’re dropping like flies.”

  “First my father,” Edward counted, “now Cassandra, and even Prudence. How can you be certain that my wife’s alleged overdose wasn’t an attempt on her life? Someone could have drugged her drink last night or,” he slid his eyes toward Marjorie, “her coffee this morning.”

  “Me?” Marjorie drew her hand to her throat. “Why me?”

  “My father told me about your background,” Edward stated with a glare. “What is this, the fourth murder investigation you’ve been involved in? Strange how death always seems to follow you, don’t you think?”

  Marjorie pulled a face. “Well … yes it is,” she admitted. “But that doesn’t make me a killer.”

  “You may not have committed the previous murders, but I’m sure you had your hand in these.”

  “Yeah,” Griselda chimed in. “I saw Creighton leaving with Sergeant Jackson. It’s only a matter of time until they catch on to you, too!”

  “This coming from the woman who’s spent the day of her husband’s murder sunbathing and reading Hollywood magazines,” Marjorie commented.

  “Look where we are!” Griselda cried. “What else am I supposed to do?”

  “True,” Marjorie agreed. “If he had been murdered in New York City, you’d be better able to demonstrate your grief—with Benny in a booth at the Stork Club.”

  “Why, yooooou!” Griselda shrieked as she sprang forward and grasped for the other woman’s throat. In a flash, Inspector Nettles grabbed her arms and yanked her back.

  “Stop it!” he shouted. “Stop or I’m bringing the whole lot of you to the station.”

  The room fell silent.

  “Good,” Nettles dec
lared. “We’re going to take turns and find out where each of you were when Cassandra was killed. Now,” he reviewed, “we know that Cassandra was alive when Creighton went to the cottage to check on Selina.”

  “Right,” Miller agreed. “They met each other on the path behind the house. I saw them through the window.”

  “Were you here the whole time?” Marjorie asked.

  “No, I went into the kitchen to make myself a sandwich. I was going to eat it outside, on the patio, but then I heard the commotion in the hallway and thought I should stay put. So I ate the sandwich at the kitchen table.” He pushed his glasses farther up his nose with a neatly manicured finger. “Then I came back here to the drawing room.”

  “Did anyone see you in the kitchen?” Nettles followed up.

  “No, but George saw me come from there, so he can vouch for where I was.”

  “He was in the hall?”

  “Yes. Looked like he had come in from outside,” Miller stated.

  “Hmmm … and you, Mrs. Ashcroft?” Nettles addressed Griselda. “Where were you?”

  “You know where I was,” Griselda replied flippantly.

  “Refresh my memory.”

  “Sunbathing and reading Hollywood magazines.” She shot Marjorie a dirty look.

  “Where were you doing this sunbathing and reading?” Nettles quizzed.

  “In the closet,” she taunted. “Outside. Where else?”

  “He meant where outside,” Marjorie simplified.

  “I’m not talking to you,” Griselda replied. She then repeated the sentiment directly to Nettles, “I’m not talking to her.”

  “Answer the question,” Nettles ordered.

  Griselda sighed noisily. “Okay, I was out front. That’s how I was able to see Creighton leaving with the Sergeant.”

  Nettles turned his attention to Edward. “And you?”

  “Upstairs. I realized that, in the chaos of this morning, I had forgotten to shave, so I went upstairs to take care of it. I had just finished shaving when I heard Prudence downstairs, in the study, crying. That’s when I came down to see what was happening. You can both finish the story from there.”

  “Thank you, everyone. Now, if you’ll be so kind as to stay here in the drawing room until further notice, I would appreciate it.”

  “What? But the sun is outside,” Griselda spoke up. “What am I supposed to do in here?”

  “Read some Hollywood magazines,” Nettles quipped before leaving the room.

  Marjorie made a face in Griselda’s direction and then followed the inspector down the hallway and into the study, where a sullen George Pooley stood, staring out an open window.

  Nettles approached the boy and shook his hand. “Hullo, George. Sit down, will you?” He motioned to one of the wing-back chairs before selecting one for himself.

  George obediently took a seat while Marjorie positioned herself in the middle of the settee.

  “How are you, George?” Nettles asked warmly.

  George shrugged.

  “Would you tell us a bit about your part in last night’s events?” the Inspector urged.

  “You mean the man who’d been keeping us as servants all these years was my father?” George sneered.

  “Yes,” Nettles replied. “I’m very sorry. That news must have been tremendously difficult for you to receive.”

  “I—I had always believed that my father left my mother when he found out that she was having a baby. And I have always hated him for it. Without even knowing him, I hated him for leaving a woman as good as my mother. But to find out that your father has been keeping you and your mother as glorified slaves …” His hands gripped the arms of the wing chair as he choked back his tears.

  Nettles gave him a chance to compose himself before presenting the next question: “Where did you go after dinner last night?”

  “The drawing room. Mr. Edward was there. He and I spoke about our father; he was very sympathetic.”

  “And then?”

  “I went outside to speak to my mother.”

  “At what time was this?”

  “About eight-forty-five.”

  “Are you certain?” Nettles pressed.

  “Yes. I remember looking at the drawing room clock before I left.”

  “Really?” Marjorie challenged. “Because at eight-forty-five, I was on the path that leads from the house to the outbuildings. If you had been on it, I would have seen you.”

  “I—I m-must have been wrong about the time, then,” George stammered.

  “You seemed positive about it a few moments ago,” Nettles interjected.

  “I … don’t want to answer any more questions.”

  “What are you trying to tell us, George?” Nettles pressed.

  “Nothing. I’m not telling you anything. I promised my mother that I wouldn’t.”

  “Not talking to us makes you and your mother appear guilty,” Marjorie pointed out. “Don’t do it, George. Just tell us what happened.”

  The young man rose from his chair with a final “No!” and stormed from the room.

  Their questioning at Black Island complete, Marjorie and Nettles boarded one of the small boats the harbormaster had provided for the Police Service. Nettles directed the pilot to steer a course for Hamilton. Pulling away from the pier and out of the cove, they watched as uniformed policemen swarmed the property in search of clues to the murderer’s identity.

  “You must be glad to get out of there, if only for a little while,” Nettles remarked.

  “It is a relief, yes,” Marjorie admitted. “Especially with our last victim having been killed in the middle of the day, in the middle of a police investigation.”

  “I don’t think I’ve ever dealt with a criminal quite that bold,” Nettles averred.

  “Or desperate,” Marjorie suggested.

  “Somehow, I find that the more terrifying of the two.”

  “So do I,” Marjorie stated in earnest. “Speaking of desperation, couldn’t you have taken George into custody? Just to get him to talk.”

  “I probably could have arranged something. But I’m not sure an afternoon with Jackson at the station is what that lad needs right now. With all he’s learned and experienced the past few days, he’s just about set to burst.”

  “Granted, but we need him to tell us what he knows. Especially if …” her voice trailed off.

  “If he’s the murderer,” Nettles completed the sentence. “Do you think he is?”

  “I’d like to think he wasn’t. He’s a very intelligent, polite, responsible young man but, if we’re talking about these murders being crimes of passion and desperation—”

  “He certainly fits the bill,” Nettles interjected.

  “Yes, one of the strongest motives of anyone in the house. Not to mention, we can’t account for his whereabouts for either murder.”

  “That’s right. Miller said he saw him come in from outdoors around the time Cassandra was killed.”

  “Exactly. However, if he is the murderer, the thing that doesn’t fit is the note,” Marjorie explained.

  “What do you mean?”

  “My father-in-law received that threatening note before Creighton and I arrived on the island. But George only learned of his paternity the night of the murder.”

  “Meaning that the note wasn’t referring to his paternity,” Nettles allowed. “However, George still had enough reason to be cheesed off prior to the night of the murder. Remember, Ashcroft had denied him the money to go on to University.”

  “True, but I don’t think so,” Marjorie shook her head. “When he mentioned it to Creighton and me, he seemed more disappointed than angry. Selina on the other hand …”

  “Was she angry?”

  “She didn’t appear to be, but she certainly wanted the issue to be addressed. She even brought it up to Creighton.” A gleam ignited in Marjorie’s eyes, “Hmm … she writes the note to scare Ashcroft into forking out the money. Only the plan backfires. Between the threats and
the note, she’s pushed too hard. Instead of paying out tuition, Ashcroft takes away the only weapon she has left in her arsenal: George’s paternity.”

  “So Selina murders Ashcroft,” Nettles deduced.

  Marjorie nodded. “Ashcroft forgot a very important principle: that a woman will go to extraordinary lengths to protect her child.”

  Nettles rubbed his chin meditatively. “It fits, I’ll give you that much.”

  “It certainly does. It explains George’s reluctance to talk. And it puts a very sinister spin on Selina’s words to me in the dining room that night, ‘I’ll take care if him.’”

  “That’s troubling, isn’t it?” Nettles remarked with a loud gulp. “And what about Cassandra? Where does she factor into the equation?”

  “Perhaps Cassandra could identify Selina as the killer.”

  “You have proof of that?”

  “No, not hard evidence, but if you could have seen Cassandra on the verandah that night … she was, well, angry. I suppose that was the word I was looking for earlier. Smug. She knew something, mark my words.”

  “Oh, I believe you. But how did Selina murder Cassandra? She’s been asleep all day.”

  “You’ve never pretended to be asleep?” Marjorie challenged. “There were several times today where she was left unattended. She could easily have seen Cassandra from her cottage window, followed her to the stables, and bam! Or …”

  “Or she could have asked George to do it,” Nettles assumed.

  Marjorie nodded again, this time somberly. “When did the doctor say we could talk to Selina?”

  “This evening. We’ll do it as soon as we get back to the island.”

  As Nettles made this announcement, the pilot brought the boat to rest in Hamilton Harbor and tied off to one of the many cleats that lined the dock area.

  After instructing the boat pilot to wait for them, Nettles and Marjorie set off on the short walk to the Hamilton Police Station. The station was a small, gray, two-story limestone building at the corner of a busy intersection. Nettles escorted Marjorie across the carriage- and bicycle-filled street and up the station steps, where the voice of Sergeant Jackson wafted through the open windows.

  The pair stepped inside to find Jackson, seated at a large mahogany desk, a telephone receiver to his ear. “Yes … well, that’s very interesting, doctor … and when can we speak to her? … what do you mean she refuses to speak to anyone? … yes, I know her mental state is fragile … yes, but … well, she’s a suspect in a murder investigation … no, I understand you need to guard your patient’s health … very well, then … I will call again tomorrow to see how Mrs. Ashcroft is progressing. Good day.” He slammed the phone back onto its cradle.