“I think we should be having wine,” Marjorie continued firmly, “given the circumstances.”
“The circumstances of your alcoholism?”
“The circumstances of our brother's death, Birdie,” Marjorie snapped. She turned to me and flicked her fingers. “Alexa, go get a bottle. Something fortified.”
“A fortified wine is hardly appropriate to drink halfway through a luncheon –” Bernadette said, “though I suppose, given your drinking habits, something that strong is akin to soda pop to you …”
I put my tray down and stepped from the room, leaving them to continue their tiff while I fetched the wine. As I made my way down to the Cellar, though, it occurred to me that I had no idea what a fortified wine was. I grabbed a Riesling and a Madeira and hoped that one of them fit her description, then hurried back upstairs and down the hall to get to the Dining Room before I missed my chance to speak. Just as I neared the door, Lennox stepped out from the opposite hallway toward it, too, causing me to crash into him.
“Sorry,” I said, barely managing to stoop and catch the wine bottles before they fell to the floor. I straightened back up and swept back a long coppery strand of hair that had fallen from beneath my cap. Lennox's eyes followed it as I tucked it behind my ear, his brow furrowing.
“Are you going in?” I asked, indicating the door.
His eyes snapped back to my face.
“Yes,” he said quickly, but instead he took a step back. “After you.”
“Thank you,” I said stiffly, wondering why I suddenly felt so awkward. I moved to the door then changed my mind. Turning back to him, I showed him the bottles of wine. “Do you know if either of these are fortified?”
“Madeira is.”
“Great,” I said in thanks, slipping the Riesling into my apron pocket to stow for later. Lennox raised his eyebrows.
“You want to serve them the fortified one?”
“Mrs. Pickering asked for it.”
“Ah.”
“You don't think it's a good idea?”
He pulled a face and shrugged.
“I think, given the amount of alcohol they're likely to consume …” he said carefully, “I'd be inclined to give them the Riesling. Or better yet, a sparkling cider.”
“And I'm inclined to agree with you,” I said, then added in jest, “– but only if you tell Mrs. Pickering it was your idea.”
I turned and pushed into the room with Lennox behind me. As I went to the bar cart and uncorked the Madeira, Marjorie's voice barked over the clinking of silverware.
“What do you think you're doing?”
I halted and looked over at her, but she was talking to Lennox. He paused on his way to an empty chair and put his hands into his pockets.
“I was going to have lunch,” he said simply.
“Not with us, you aren't,” Marjorie said. “You can go beg Mrs. Tilly for scraps if you're hungry.”
“I invited Isidore to join us,” Rachel said quickly, glancing between her sister and Lennox. “He's our guest.”
“'Guest' implies that one of us invited him,” Bernadette said. She nodded to me as I filled Marjorie's wine glass to indicate that she wanted some, too. “He's more of an intruder than anything.”
“Well, I invited him for lunch, so he's a guest,” Rachel said. “Please sit down, Isidore. Alexa will get you a plate.”
“Well, fine,” Marjorie said angrily.
“It's probably for the best anyhow, dear,” Bernadette told her calmly. “We wouldn't want him roaming the bedrooms while we're all down here …”
I left the room and circled to the kitchen at the back of the house. Mrs. Tilly was just sitting down to eat when I came in.
“I need another pasty,” I said, stopping her before her fork could pierce the one on her plate.
She looked up in annoyance.
“Did you drop one?” she asked.
“No.”
“You did, didn't you? I told you to be careful carrying the tray –”
“I didn't drop anything: I just need another one.”
“Well, I don't have another one: I made the right amount, and if you did something to one of them, it's on your head.”
“You made enough for the family,” I corrected, “but I need one for Dr. Lennox.”
Mrs. Tilly's expression soured further.
“Oh.” She picked her fork back up. “I'm not cooking for that man.”
“He needs some food. He's waiting.”
“Then share your lunch with him,” she said, nodding to the sandwich she had left for me on the counter. It was nothing more than two slices of bread with the rinds of leftover cheese in it. “Better yet, give him the whole thing: you could stand to lose a couple of pounds if you're hoping to ever find a husband, especially at your age.”
It was a rich comment coming from her, given that she was as old and stout as the seventy year old case of Guinness in the basement, and yet it still stung me. I crossed my arms.
“Mrs. Langston told me to get him a pasty,” I said firmly. “Now, you can either give me yours or I'll go tell her – in your own words – why he's not getting one. It's your choice.”
Mrs. Tilly sneered at me, but shoved the untouched plate of food into my hands. I smiled at her before returning to the Dining Room and placing it in front of Lennox. As he thanked me, I straightened and once again tried to get the family's attention.
“Mrs. Carlton,” I began again, “I –”
“Is this the only course?” Bernadette asked, staring down at the wilted garnish on her plate, which was all that remained of her lunch.
“I –” I stammered, “I think so. But I was trying to tell you before that –”
“It just doesn't seem like a proper meal,” she went on, ignoring me.
I had half a mind to bring her into the kitchen and show her my lunch, but I gave a stiff nod instead.
“That's all that Mrs. Tilly made,” I said in a would-be apologetic voice.
“You really can't blame her, Birdie,” Rachel said. “It's quite a shock for her, too, I'm sure …”
“Why should it be a shock for her?” Amalia snapped. “She's just a cook! It's a shock for me!”
“Speaking of which,” I hurriedly cut in, “I wanted to tell you that I noticed something about Professor Marlowe's death that I –”
“Servants are to be spoken to and not from, Alexa,” Bernadette chided. “You evidently need more practice in the latter.”
I bit my tongue and attempted to silently count to ten, but only made it halfway before trying again.
“It's just that I noticed something concerning Professor Marlowe –”
“I don't want to talk about John right now,” Edie said. “Not while we're eating.”
“And drinking,” Marjorie said, lifting her flute glass and shaking it to inform me that she needed a refill.
I grabbed the bottle and poured her another generous serving, then turned back to Bernadette.
“It's just that I realized when I went out this morning –” I started, but Bernadette waved her hand at me to stop.
“I told you to be quiet, Alexa,” she said angrily. “How many times must I tell you before you understand?”
I clamped my mouth shut. If the family had no interest in their brother's death, then I would simply tell the police when they arrived. Just as I stepped back to take my place by the wall, though, Lennox spoke from the far end of the table.
“I'm interested to hear what you have to say,” he said, ignoring the Marlowes and looking at me. “You noticed something when you went out, you said?”
“Just because we're letting you eat with us doesn't mean you're allowed to speak, Lennox –” Marjorie began, but Rachel cut her off.
“I'd like to hear what the maid has to say, too,” she said, then nodded for me to go on.
I folded my hands behind my back, readying to snap the rubber band around my wrist if I needed to.
“When I went out this morni
ng,” I said, almost in awe that I finally had their attention, “I unlocked both the servants' door and the front door.”
It didn't garner the reaction I had been intending. Edie and Bernadette glanced at one another while Marjorie and Rachel simply blinked. Only Lennox seemed perturbed by the statement: he shifted in his seat, sitting up a little straighter as he looked at me.
“What does that have to do with my husband?” Amalia snapped.
“Both doors have deadbolts on them,” I said, hurrying to explain myself. “If Professor Marlowe went outside and – you know – never came back in, then shouldn't one of the doors have been unlocked?”
The family glanced around the table, each seemingly looking to the others for an explanation as to how it could be possible. From my left, I saw Bill throw an intent look at Lennox as though trying to convey something, but the other man avoided his eyes. I frowned.
“Well, that doesn't mean anything,” Marjorie said.
“Yes it does,” Amalia said slowly, setting her silverware down. “It means that someone murdered my husband!”
“What?” Edie said, frantically looking around. “Why does it mean that? It's just a locked door –”
“She's saying that if the doors were locked, it means that someone else locked John out there,” Marjorie said. Her voice was clipped. “Though I seriously doubt –”
“Why would the door need to be locked at all?” Amalia said. “We're on an island: it's not as though a passerby might come in!”
“My mother always insisted upon it,” Bernadette said. “It made her feel safe.”
“And I'm sure she feels very safe now,” Marjorie said wryly.
“This is proof!” Amalia screeched. “Someone killed my husband!”
“It proves nothing,” Bernadette returned. She threw me an irritated look. “The maid's just confused.”
“I'm not confused,” I said rigidly, but Bernadette paid me no mind.
“I remember seeing Alexa unlock the front door,” Bill said. “So she's telling the truth about that.”
“Then she must be confused about the servants' door,” Bernadette argued.
“John wouldn't go out the servants' door!” Amalia said, looking horrified.
“It's closer to where he was found,” Marjorie said.
“He wouldn't go out the servants' door!”
“How do we even know Alexa's telling the truth?” Edie asked. “Maybe she locked the doors before we came down –”
“Why would she lock the doors?” Marjorie asked witheringly. “To make us think that John was murdered?”
“Maybe,” Edie said. “Maybe she thinks it would be – be funny –”
“Oh, for Christ's sake – it wasn't the maid!” Marjorie said, inadvertently coming to my defense. “It wasn't anybody, probably! John was just drunk!”
“Then why were the doors locked?” Amalia challenged.
Bernadette made an impatient sound and turned to me.
“This is ridiculous,” she said. “Alexa's obviously mistaken.”
I looked at her steadily. I didn't make mistakes with my memory.
“I'm positive,” I said. “The doors were locked.”
“Meaning that someone purposefully locked him out there to kill him –!” Amalia said.
“John must have gone out without any of us realizing it,” Rachel said, cutting in to moderate the argument in her kind voice, “and then someone locked the door, not realizing he was out there.”
There was a halfhearted murmur of agreement.
“So,” Rachel persisted, “who locked the door last night?”
No one spoke. Marjorie looked around haughtily, waiting for someone to speak up. Bill was wringing his napkin between his hands, unsure of what to do. Edie still looked terrified. The silence stretched on for several minutes, with everyone appearing to not want to be the first to speak, until –
“If John was locked out,” Lennox said quietly, “why didn't he just ring the bell?”
Amalia opened her mouth to shoot off a scathing response, but then seemed to realize she didn't have one and shut it again. Marjorie threw her hands in the air.
“Because he was drunk!” she said. “How many times do I need to say it?”
“Then why were the doors locked?” Amalia and Edie asked in unison.
Before anyone could answer, the Dining Room doors opened and Mr. Kneller popped in. He pulled his hat off as he entered.
“Paths are all done, Mrs. Carlton,” he said.
Bernadette's head snapped up, looking startled that Kneller would dare walk inside, let alone without taking his boots off. Her eyes narrowed at the snow dripping on to the floor.
“What about the back patio?” she said. “You're sure it's clear? I want to be able to see the stones.”
“Completely,” he replied. “Just let me know if you'll be needing anything else today.”
“We'll need you to check on the phone – for some reason it's not working. And – ” she added as Kneller turned to leave, “ – and I think it would be best if you dig John out.”
Everyone stared at her.
“Dig him out?” Kneller repeated. He seemed to be suppressing the urge to make a joke. “And put him …?”
“With Mother in the Augustus Suite,” Bernadette said.
“You can't dig him out!” Amalia said. “If he was murdered, then we should keep him where he is until the police come!”
“At the rate the snow's falling, the police won't be able to find him until May if we leave him be,” Bernadette replied. “And if they can't get here before nightfall, then the animals will have him before morning.”
Rachel made an odd sound as though she was choking. She stared at her sister.
“Maybe we ought to discuss this first, Birdie,” she said. “I don't think it's wise to do anything rash.”
“What do you propose? We take a vote?” She rolled her eyes. “All in favor of leaving him be, say 'aye' … ”
No one responded, though I wasn't sure if it was because they disagreed or were too shocked to speak.
“Moving him inside could be problematic,” Lennox said. “His body's frozen right now, and if it's not restored to temperature at a proper rate, it could seriously affect the autopsy results.”
“The Augustus Suite is plenty cold enough: Mother's body has been keeping well.”
“Not for long, though,” Marjorie said. “She was supposed to be buried this afternoon.”
“Is that not happening?” Edie asked, looking wildly around.
“Of course it's not happening!” Marjorie barked. “Are you completely daft?”
“Thawing a body is a very delicate operation,” Lennox said, cutting into their spat. “If he begins to warm up, his outer body will begin to decompose while his organs remain frozen –”
“Well,” Marjorie cut in, “if Lennox thinks we should keep the body outside, then I'm in favor of bringing him in.”
“I think Isidore has a good point,” Rachel said.
“And what about my point?” Bernadette asked. “An autopsy won't do any good if the body's been ripped apart by rodents –”
Kneller gave a slight bow and took a step back toward the door.
“I'll let you discuss this a bit more,” he said. “Just let me know –”
“No.”
Bernadette's voice stopped him before he could make his escape. She looked around at her siblings.
“We'll take a vote,” she said, raising her hand. “Who's in favor of bringing John inside?”
Marjorie's hand shot up. Amalia hesitated momentarily, then raised hers as well. Rachel, Edie, Bill and Lennox kept their arms at their sides.
“Three to four,” Rachel said. “We leave him be –”
“Lennox doesn't get a vote,” Marjorie snapped, “so it's three to three.”
“Then we're tied,” Rachel said. “Unless you want to go ask Cassandra.”
“No,” came Edie's timid voice, and she shaki
ly raised her hand. “I agree: we should bring him inside.” She leaned forward so that she could look at Rachel. “Mother wouldn't want to leave him out there.”
Marjorie clapped her hands together.
“Good, then that's settled,” she said. “Dig him out, Kneller. Alexa will show you where the body is.”
I glanced up as she volunteered me, not happy to have to return to the dead body, but donned my outerwear and led Kneller outside to the uncovered face and red bow tie even so.
“This isn't exactly how I expected my day to go,” he said conversationally as he began to shovel around the body.
I murmured in agreement, unsure if I should retreat back into the house to leave him alone at his task or stay and watch the uncomfortable progression of events. John's face was such an unnatural shade of gray now that he no longer looked human. I wished that they had left his expression buried in the blanket of snow.
Kneller began to speak in a sing-song voice.
“And the afternoon, the evening, sleeps so peacefully!” he proclaimed merrily as though it was a routine thing to dig up his employers. “Smoothed by long fingers, asleep … tired … or it malingers, stretched on the floor, here beside you and me …”
I kept my eyes on the blade of the shovel, watching as it scooped snow and moved it to the side, slowly uncovering more and more of the dead man.
“Should I, after tea and cakes and ices, have the strength to force the moment to its crisis?” Kneller went on, tossing snow to the side as though keeping the meter with the sound, “But though I have wept and fasted, wept and prayed, though I have seen my head (grown slightly bald) brought in upon a platter, I am no prophet – and here’s no great matter –”
He uncovered the body and knelt down to brush the topmost layer off with his hands.
“I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker, and I have seen the eternal Footman hold my coat and snicker – and in short, I was afraid!” he finished, wiping his gloves off on his pants. “That's more of Eliot, by the way.”
“I know,” I said dispassionately, wondering how he could think it was the proper time to be reciting poetry.
“I thought you didn't read poetry?”
“I don't. I just recognized the imagery from the parts you recited this morning – and the meter.” I stopped myself before adding that you so wonderfully kept with your shovel, and instead said, “It's an interesting choice of eulogy for an established man like Professor Marlowe. I don't suppose Eliot talks more about murder in the rest of the poem?”
The Marlowe Murders Page 7
