Black Moonlight

by Amy Patricia Meade

  “And what, George?” Selina demanded. “Gotten yourself killed, too? No, I’m glad you didn’t go.”

  “Your mother’s right,” Jackson affirmed. “This isn’t the sort of person you want to tangle with, if you can help it.”

  “But if I had caught the person, Mr. Creighton wouldn’t be in jail right now,” George frowned.

  “You have helped Creighton,” Marjorie pointed out. “By telling us everything you have, you’ve corroborated his alibi for the time of Cassandra’s murder. Hasn’t he, Sergeant Jackson?”

  “He’s given your husband a few minutes of an alibi,” Jackson allowed. “We’ll see about the rest tomorrow.”

  “Tomorrow?” Marjorie said in disappointment. “Can’t you arrange something for tonight?”

  “I’m sorry Mrs. Ashcroft,” Jackson explained, “but that new will gives your husband the strongest motive of anyone here. I shouldn’t need to tell you that. However, your husband’s bail hearing is tomorrow morning, so if you desperately need him back in your eager arms, then you should make sure you’re present. “

  “Bail,” Marjorie said to herself with a frown. “I don’t know if I’m able to. We eloped and got married on the ship. We haven’t taken care of any of the formalities, like marriage certificates and bank accounts.”

  “Well, then you should have used that one phone call to contact a solicitor, instead of calling your policeman friend in the States, hadn’t you?”

  “That phone call is going to solve your case,” Marjorie vowed.

  “We’ll see,” Jackson commented and donned his hat. “Miss Pooley, thank you for your help. George, you take care of yourself and your mother.” He tipped his hat at Marjorie. “Mrs. Ashcroft, give that intuition of yours a rest this evening … please.”

  “We’ll see,” she volleyed as Jackson disappeared out the bedroom door.

  Nettles followed close behind Jackson. “Goodnight, Miss Pooley. George.” He pulled Marjorie into the living room. “We’re taking Worth and the other boys back with us, but Smith will be standing guard all night.” He handed her a small metal object strung onto a long cord. “Take this and wear it. If you see anything suspicious, use it and Smith will come running. Understand?”

  Marjorie looked at the item in her hand. “A whistle?”

  “A police whistle. It’s mine, so don’t lose it. But I thought it might help you to rest a bit easier tonight.”

  Marjorie smiled. “It will. Thank you, Inspector.”

  Nettles winked his farewell and followed Jackson and Worth out of the cottage and up the path that led to the house and, beyond it, to the cove. Watching from the doorway as the policemen disappeared from view, Marjorie was struck with a profound sense of sadness. So long as she was busy looking for clues and questioning suspects, it was easy to push Creighton’s absence from her mind. But here, in this isolated, foreign land, with nightfall slowly encroaching, Marjorie had never felt more alone.

  “Mrs. Marjorie,” came Selina’s gentle voice from her kitchen. She had donned a colorful pink floral housecoat and was moving carefully to the old wood stove.

  Marjorie hastened to the kitchen. “What are you doing up?”

  “Oh, I’ve been in that bed all day. I need to do something useful. Besides, it’s high time we have supper.”

  George came in, carrying an armful of wood. Marjorie stepped out of his way as he loaded it into the stove.

  “You’re not cooking for the entire house, are you?”

  “Oh no. When Mr. Edward heard I was awake, he came by to tell me not to worry about dinner. I told him I wasn’t worried at all.” Selina laughed. “But I am worried about you, Miss Marjorie. You haven’t eaten all day, have you?”

  Marjorie thought back to what she had consumed throughout the day. “Umm, I had half a scone this morning. And some coffee.”

  “Half a scone? That’s not a proper meal. Where are your vegetables and your meat?” Selina lit the largest of the burners with a long match and then passed the match to George, who used it to light the cottage’s gas lanterns in anticipation of the impending darkness.

  “Well, I …” Marjorie wracked her brain for an excuse.

  “You’re not going to be any use to your husband if you’re sick from hunger.” She summoned George, who pulled a cast-iron Dutch oven from the icebox and placed it on the lit burner. Selina opened the lid and gave the contents a stir. “Fish chowder,” she announced.

  As if on cue, the small black cat appeared in the open front door of the cottage.

  “Hello, puss,” Selina greeted. She removed a hunk of dense white fish from the pot, placed it in a small bowl, and presented it to the cat, who immediately began to gobble it down.

  “I see you know each other,” Marjorie commented.

  “Oh yes, it is bad luck to turn a black cat out of your home. Good thing this one enjoys my cooking. Hopefully you’ll enjoy it, too.”

  “Well, I don’t want to put you to any trouble.”

  “No trouble, child. I just have to bring it to a boil and add a few more things and we’ll be ready to eat. I did most of the simmering this morning before everything happened. Good thing George thought of putting it in the icebox to keep.”

  “You know I hate to see chowder go to waste,” George explained. “Mum makes the best chowder of anyone I know,” he said to Marjorie aside.

  “I thought I made the best chowder on the island,” Selina asserted.

  “Did I say that?” George teased.

  “You most certainly did,” his mother answered.

  “Well, I’ll have to taste it again tonight and tell you if I was lying.”

  Selina laughed out loud and threw a dishtowel at her son. “You rotten boy! Go get the rum and set the table for three.”

  Marjorie smiled broadly. It was the first display of genuine family warmth and happiness she had witnessed since arriving on the island and she was loath to leave it. However, she didn’t want her presence to be a hardship on the Pooleys. “Oh, no. Only set a place for me if you think you have enough,” she warned, somewhat half-heartedly.

  Selina saw right through her. “‘Oh, no’ Mrs. Marjorie protests,” she chuckled, “but each time she breathes in, her eyes get bigger.”

  Marjorie laughed again. “It does smell wonderful. I just want to make sure you and George have enough to eat, too.”

  George placed a shot glass and a bottle of dark Bermudian rum on the table. “We’ll have plenty. Mum makes enough to feed my entire cricket team.”

  “That’s because you eat as much as the entire cricket team,” Selina quipped.

  “Can I help you with anything?” Marjorie offered.

  George shook his head and took three bowls from the cupboard.

  “No, child,” Selina answered. “You can have a seat at the table and in a moment, when this is ready to simmer, we can have our talk.”

  “That’s right,” Marjorie recalled. “You wanted to talk to me about Creighton,”

  “Yes, but first, would you like something to drink? Some tea? Or some ginger beer?”

  “I’ve never heard of ginger beer. Nor have I ever tasted rum,” Marjorie replied as she nodded to the bottle on the table.

  “The rum is for the soup,” George piped up as he drew three spoons from a kitchen drawer. “And Mum’s tea.”

  “Yes, I enjoy a cup of tea with rum every evening before bed. Now Mrs. Marjorie knows my secret,” she teased. “Right now, though I’d like a ginger beer. Would you like to try one? They’re nice and cold.”

  “Sure,” Marjorie accepted. “Why not? When in Bermuda …”

  “That’s right. You are about to have a true Bermudian meal. Something most visitors do not have the opportunity to experience,” Selina stated as she pulled three bottles of ginger beer from the icebox and opened them.

  “All the hotels serve either English or American food,” George said. “Local specialties aren’t an option. Even Mr. Ashcroft—my father,” he added reluctantly, �
�never wanted anything other than roast beef and Yorkshire pudding.”

  “Get Mrs. Marjorie a glass, please, George,” Selina instructed as she passed him his bottle of ginger beer.

  “Don’t bother with a glass,” Marjorie told her hosts. “I’ll drink it from the bottle.”

  Selina handed Marjorie the bottle of ginger beer and sat beside her at the table. George, meanwhile, took a sip of ginger beer and gave the pot a stir.

  “You know, this reminds me of old times,” Selina said with a smile. “I was a young girl, a little older than George and had just started working here. Mrs. Ashcroft—not Mrs. Griselda, but Mrs. Madeleine, the boys’ mother—came out here with two bottles of ginger beer she had picked up in Hamilton. Richard was in the house working and she was lonesome.”

  George, his curiosity piqued, sat down at the round table, across from his mother and to the left of Marjorie.

  “It became a habit with us,” Selina continued. “Every time the Ashcrofts would visit, she’d come down here after dinner, or later on, after she had put the boys to bed, and we’d drink a few ginger beers—she drank it from the bottle too—and we’d laugh and laugh.”

  “Later, when she was ill, I’d bring the ginger beers to her bedroom and roll her chair out onto the verandah. But we never abandoned the tradition, even though she knew she was dying,” Selina went on. “You know, you remind me of her, Mrs. Marjorie. Not in your appearance, but your manner. She was fearless.”

  “Thank you,” Marjorie said gratefully. “That means a lot coming from you. Although I’m not sure I’d call myself fearless.”

  “Yes, you are,” Selina insisted. “You working with the police in order to prove Mr. Creighton’s innocence. And helping George and me along the way … well, Mrs. Madeleine is no doubt watching over you.”

  “Lets hope so,” Marjorie sighed and raised her bottle to toast her companions.

  “Here’s to getting Creighton out of jail.”

  George and Selina met her bottle with theirs, resulting in a resounding clink.

  Marjorie took a swig of ginger beer and swallowed it. “It sounds like you and Creighton’s mother were very close.”

  “We were close friends,” Selina confirmed. “She always teased and said that I was a better match for Richard than she was. I laughed at the time, but then, two years after Madeleine’s death, there I was, in love with her widower.”

  “Have you ever told Creighton about your ginger beer ‘get-togethers’? I’m sure he’d love to hear about them.”

  “No. Richard—Mr. Ashcroft—forbid us from talking about Mrs. Madeleine. It was tough on the boys, but especially Mr. Creighton. He was only nine years old and so lost after she died, poor lad. Mrs. Madeleine loved both of her boys, but she always had a special place in her heart for Mr. Creighton. They were of the same mind, those two.”

  “Creighton told me that they weren’t permitted to speak of their mother after she died. I find it very strange,” Marjorie mused. “I know Mr. Ashcroft’s and Creighton’s mother didn’t get along well, but still …”

  “That’s what I needed to talk to you about,” Selina stated as she tpped back her head and drank the rest of her ginger beer. “I need to tell you the reason Richard did not want to speak of his wife.”

  “Do you want me to leave?” George asked as he hovered over his seat.

  “Ye—” Selina started, and then changed her mind. “No. You may not know all there is to know about the world, but you’re not a little boy. I don’t want there to be any secrets on this island any longer.”

  “I’d like that,” George beamed and sat back in his chair.

  “Not so fast. You may not have to leave, but you can get us more ginger beer,” Selina instructed as she reciprocated the smile.

  George pulled a face and ran off toward the icebox.

  “So,” Selina prefaced, “where was I? Oh, yes. Last night, when Mr. Creighton argued with his father, he accused him of killing Mrs. Madeleine. Did he tell you what he meant?”

  “Yes,” Marjorie answered. “The night before his mother died, Creighton overheard his parents arguing. Apparently his father confessed to having an affair. Well, in truth, he more than confessed—he recounted every last detail.”

  George, in the meantime, returned with three new bottles, all the while giving Marjorie his rapt attention.

  “George, my love,” Selina snapped her son from his reverie. “Have you been drinking my ginger beer?”

  George looked absently at the two bottles in his hands, each bearing a different amount of liquid. “Sorry,” he muttered as he passed a bottle to his mother.

  Selina accepted it with a smile and a good-humored wink in her son’s direction.

  Marjorie chuckled and then completed her story. “According to Creighton, Mrs. Madeleine was devastated at the news. She died the next morning.”

  “It’s as I thought,” Selina sighed and held her head. “I loved Mrs. Madeleine and, therefore, I’ve kept it a secret all these years, but I can’t any longer. Mr. Creighton needs to find some peace with his father. The affair that Richard was describing wasn’t his, it was hers.”

  “What!” Marjorie and George cried in unison.

  “Before Mrs. Madeleine and Richard married, Mrs. Madeleine was seeing another young man. And she loved him, deeply. But he was poor and her family had lost their fortune in the last depression.”

  “So they pushed for her to marry someone else,” Marjorie presumed.

  “Yes,” Selina confirmed. “Her family had a fine reputation, but no money. The Ashcrofts had money, but little in the way of reputation. It was a perfect match.”

  “Except that it didn’t work,” George stated.

  “You took the words right out of my mouth,” Marjorie laughed quietly.

  “Mrs. Madeleine’s parents got rid of the poor suitor.”

  “Naturally,” Marjorie remarked.

  “Some time later, two years or so after the Ashcrofts had married, the young man returned. He had made his fortune and asked Madeleine to leave Richard and run away with him. She should have taken the offer and run, but that wasn’t Madeleine. She had taken a vow and she was determined to remain faithful to it, although she and the young man did write to each other on a regular basis. Long letters; beautiful letters. During one of our last ginger beer meetings, she let me read a few of those letters.” Tears welled in Selina’s eyes. “He had been with her the day she learned she had cancer, and had visited her at the house every afternoon since.”

  “Visited. Do you mean … ?” Marjorie asked.

  “No,” Selina stated emphatically. “Madeleine swore up and down that she had stayed truthful to her vows. I think even if she had wanted to, she was probably too sick anyway.”

  “If the relationship was platonic, why the big argument?” George asked. “And how did Mr. Ashcroft find out about the affair in the first place?”

  “He found the letters,” Selina explained. “And although Mrs. Madeleine maintained her innocence, Richard didn’t believe her. Especially since the letters started shortly before Mr. Creighton came along—”

  “He thought that Mr. Creighton was … ?” George uttered in disbelief.

  “Richard could never understand the boy,” Selina stated.

  “Of course, how better to explain the differences than to claim he isn’t yours?” Marjorie commented.

  “Richard had been jealous of this other man from the outset,” Selina resumed the story. “He knew that’s where Madeleine’s heart resided. The letters made him furious, but the situation did not come to a head until one afternoon. Richard came home early from work and found him there in the house on one of his afternoon visits. Richard had the man thrown out of the building, and he vowed to never let Madeleine see, speak, or write to him again. She never did.”

  “She died the next morning,” Marjorie filled in the blanks.

  Selina nodded.

  The trio drank their ginger beers in silence.


  “What am I supposed to do with this story?” Marjorie finally asked. “How is it going to help Creighton?”

  “Mr. Creighton has spent his entire life believing that his mother had never known a day of happiness; that she never knew true love. And he’s blamed all of that on his father. I’m not claiming that Richard’s actions were entirely innocent during their marriage, but I do know that he loved Madeleine very much, and that he never stopped. I think he tried very hard at the beginning of the marriage to make her happy, to win her over. But he knew that she married him out duty to her family, and that he was her second choice for a husband. It’s a difficult thing to love someone whose heart resides with someone else. Eventually, you give up on love altogether.”

  With a wry smile, Selina rose from her seat and quietly went about getting supper on the table.

  It was going on nine o’clock by the time Marjorie, her stomach full of Selina’s delicious chowder, departed from the cottage.

  “I don’t feel safe with you up in that big house tonight,” Selina said worriedly. “Why don’t you get your things and stay here?”

  “You can have my room,” George offered. “I’ll sleep on the sofa.”

  “No, no,” Marjorie argued. “I’ll be all right at the house. I need to stay there to keep an eye on everyone. Besides, if anything happens, Inspector Nettles gave me this,” she held up the shiny silver whistle.

  “What are you supposed to do with that?” Selina asked skeptically. “Blow it in the murderer’s ear?”

  “It’s a police whistle,” Marjorie explained. “I blow on it and the Constable watching the pier will come to my rescue.”

  “I don’t know about the Constable, but George and I will definitely come running.” Selina pulled a face, “Now I’m going to be awake all night, listening for the sound of a whistle.”

  “No, you won’t. You’re going to sleep well and get up tomorrow morning feeling better than you ever have.” Marjorie reached her arms around the woman. “Thank you for dinner.”

  “You’re welcome, child. And if you get frightened, please come here. It doesn’t matter what time it is.”

  “I will,” Marjorie assured her as she gave George a goodnight hug.