“Are your principles the most important thing to you right now?”
“No, I just –” I began, “I just – I just think you're doing this to be – to be nice. And I'm not …”
“Comfortable with that?” he finished, but it wasn't the correct guess.
“No. I just think – you have to be doing this because you want to solve John's murder, and nothing else, or else you'll just be – disappointed.”
“I'll be disappointed if you come out of this unharmed?”
“You'll be disappointed that you wasted your energy on me,” I said, trying to put into words what he ought to have figured out by now. “I'm not – I'm – I'm difficult.”
“I think 'strong-willed' might be a better word,” he said with the hint of smile.
It was easy for him to say, with his perfectly poised lines that streamed into faultless answers for whatever question was thrown his way. He was the picture of compassion and thoughtfulness: a man who always knew what to say in stark contrast to the habitual bluntness and presumptuousness that my professors had advised me to break from. And standing so close to him, I realized that I was looking at an image of who I was supposed to be and yet whom I would never be able to mirror despite all of my efforts and trials.
“No, I'm difficult,” I corrected. “I'm too critical, too outspoken, and too unfeeling.”
Lennox stared at me. For a moment I thought he might provide some sort of antidote for the way I acted, or even suggest a diagnosis that he assumed would explain the way I was, but then he cocked his head slightly to the side, his mouth a frown, and simply said, “I'm not sure that's a good enough reason not to help you, Alexandra.”
“Well –”
I was cut off by the sound of thundering footsteps heading in our direction. Lennox quickly stepped aside, hiding behind the shadows of the staircase, and I followed. A streak of bright red hair flew past us and went upstairs, indicating that Marjorie had decided to go to bed. As the door to her room slammed from above, Lennox turned back to me.
“Let's get something straight, Alexandra: I do want to know what happened here. I also don't want to get into trouble – nor do I want you to. The most logical way forward, then, appears to be us working together to figure this out as discretely as possible. Does that work for you?”
“Well, I – I guess that would be fine,” I said.
More footsteps sounded from down the hall. We retreated into the shadows once more. Amalia hurried up the stairs after her sister-in-law, but barely halfway up she dropped something, sending it back down with a thump, thump, thump to the black-and-white tiled floors. As she staggered back down the stairs to retrieve it, I knew that she would spot us, and so I stepped out from my hiding spot and picked it up for her.
“Give me that!” she snapped upon reaching the bottom step, snatching the heavy bottle of scotch from my hands. “It's my husband's!”
She clutched it to her chest as though frightened. I blinked.
“I was only trying to help you, Mrs. Marlowe,” I replied.
“I don't need your help,” she seethed, though she teetered dangerously in place as though she might pitch down the stairs in a drunken stupor at any moment. She leaned her face into mine. “And if I find out that you had anything to do with my husband's death, I won't put your hands on the burner – I'll put your face on it.”
She grasped the banister and pulled herself up the stairs, swearing at me under her breath as she went. Lennox stepped out from the shadows, sending a worried frown at her back as she went before turning his attention to me.
“I know, I know,” I said, not nearly as bothered by Amalia's threat as he appeared to be. “I'll work on being more discreet.”
“I would settle for you being even slightly wary,” he returned, though there was the hint of a twinkle in his eyes. I held his gaze for longer than I had intended to, staring at him as I filed his words away for later. I imagined myself returning to the sentence and ruminating over the playfulness in his tone, knowing that I would wonder and deliberate over why he seemed fascinated by me rather than frustrated; and for a moment, before I realized what I was doing, I hoped that he was thinking of me with as much adoration as I found myself feeling for him.
“I think you'll find that I'm very wary, Dr. Lennox,” I said, breaking eye contact as I reminded myself that there was no place for such thoughts. “I'm just not as diplomatic about it as you.”
“That's alright. I don't think I'd like you as much if you were.”
I felt a sudden heat rise to my face, and despite telling myself that he had meant it in another way, my stomach churned uncomfortably.
“I'm hungry,” I said abruptly, sidestepping him to force myself to break eye contact with him. “Should we see if there's anything for dinner?”
“That's a good idea,” he said, but then his mouth turned to a sly grin. “Assuming you haven't dropped it all, that is.”
Chapter 7
We both stopped short upon entering the kitchen. Though Mrs. Tilly had retired for the night, she had chosen to take her anger with me out on the room. The over-spiced soup had been dumped over, its contents filling every crack in the coils on the stove and dripping down onto the floor, the carving utensils were sticking out dangerously from various drawers as though she was hoping I might brush past them and slice open my arms, and broken dishes filled the sink to create a mosaic on the cast iron. I surveyed the damage with a raised eyebrow, imagining that she expected me to spend the night scrubbing up the mess in penance for my wrongdoing. I shook my head and opened the refrigerator. I had more important things to do than appease her, though I might consent to help her with the floors if she handed me my money back.
“Cheese, bread, olives,” I listed, looking through the contents, “or I could go get one of the Cornish hens from the Dining Room, though I haven't cleaned the floor in there in a few days.”
“What about that?” Lennox said, nodding to the souffle that was sitting on a tray, beautifully dusted in powdered sugar and waiting to be brought to the Dining Room. I glanced at him. He didn't strike me as a man who ate dessert in place of dinner.
“I'm saving that for later,” I deadpanned. “In case another argument breaks out.”
“Ah. Well, then, I promise to be on my best behavior.” He scooped up the souffle and moved it to the table. “But I simply can't resist.”
He retrieved plates and spoons from the cupboards to serve it. It had already deflated, but I couldn't deny that it smelled wonderful – especially considering that Mrs. Tilly usually left me burnt or otherwise undesirable food to eat.
“So I take it I missed an exciting dinner,” he said, handing me a plate.
“And an informative one. Should I fill you in, or could you hear it from the third floor?”
“Only pieces, and those were mostly expletives.”
I took a bite of the souffle. It was still warm and decadently rich: I ought to have been raiding the kitchen for food since my arrival.
“Let's see …” I began, “Bernadette accused Marjorie of murdering her children, Marjorie accused Bernadette of murdering her husband, Cassandra apparently believes she's the Grand Duchess Anastasia, Amalia's upset that no one cares that her husband was murdered, though she's not bothered that he apparently gave James brain damage …”
“You make it sound rather blasé,” Lennox said, his troubled frown reappearing to pull at his brow.
I shrugged.
“I'm just telling you what was said,” I replied. “Apparently there have been questionable deaths in this family before – or did you know that already?”
“I'd heard about Marjorie's children, though not the bit about her being responsible. And I knew that Bernadette's husband passed away unexpectedly, but not that there was any reason for concern.”
“So you knew nothing, then,” I confirmed, albeit a bit ungraciously.
“Well, I –” Lennox began, but then he stopped and offered me a smile. “Is this
the part where we begin to argue?”
“Not necessarily. I just don't want to waste time pulling teeth to get answers out of you.”
He didn't look offended. If anything, he looked rather amused.
“I'll try to be more direct, then,” he said. “I didn't know about any mysterious deaths in the family.”
“Do you think what Bernadette said was true? Amalia might not get any of John's money?”
“It's possible. The Marlowes have always been very careful about keeping their money in their bloodline.”
“So one of the siblings must have killed him, then – to get the estate.”
“Not necessarily. They didn't seem certain about Sylvia's will. She may have very well said that the money has to go to a male descendant.”
“But they said there were no more male heirs.”
“Not in the immediate family, but I'm sure that they have distant cousins who are twice-removed who would fit the bill. It's an old family: they'll find someone.”
“What about the Marlowes' children?”
“Well, there are no males. Not anymore.”
“So Marjorie had sons?”
“A son and daughter.”
“And they were beaten to death?”
Lennox sat back. Perhaps my tone had once again been too conversational, or perhaps it was becoming difficult for him to remain a confidant with the questions I was asking.
“Yes,” he said.
“Possibly by her?”
“Her husband went to jail for it.”
“So possibly by her,” I affirmed in the same tone I had before telling him I didn't want to pull teeth.
“I suppose it's possible, yes,” he said diplomatically. “Marjorie's always had … outbursts. But even so …”
“You don't think a mother could kill her children,” I finished for him.
Lennox lowered his spoon and stared at me from across the table. His eyes had gone darker, and not even the orangey kitchen light would reflect in them.
“It's very difficult thing to consider,” he said. His voice had dropped very low. The sound of it made me uncomfortable.
“What about the rest of them?” I asked.
“Amalia and John have daughters, Bernadette, too. Rachel and James never got the chance to have children because of the accident.”
“Was it really an accident?”
Lennox sighed.
“I don't think any of us knows what John truly intended,” he said. “But from what I've been told, John, James, and Rachel were on a trip together – this was before he married Amalia – and at some point they were up on a cliff overlooking the water. John tried to convince James to jump in, and James – being a cautious man for starters, and undoubtedly knowing that it wasn't a good idea – refused. So John gave him a push.” Lennox grimaced. “Anyhow, James went down head first and cracked his head against the rocks, and … well, you know the rest.”
“Doesn't sound like an accident.”
“John always maintained that the water looked deeper than it was, and he couldn't possibly have known there were rocks under the water: they weren't visible from where they were standing.”
I raised my eyebrows in skepticism, but had no desire to discuss it further.
“So if Mrs. Marlowe had granddaughters, why aren't they here?”
“I doubt she ever met them more than once, if at all, or had any sort of close bond with them. She never left the island, and it's not like any of them made any effort to come visit her.”
He almost sounded bitter. I got the odd sense that he might have cared for the dead woman, though I couldn't imagine why. Occupational hazard, I decided.
“And the Burtons?”
Lennox set his spoon down. He had barely eaten, though he no longer seemed to have an appetite.
“They tried,” he said. “Many times. Edie had a dozen pregnancies, at least.”
“Miscarriages?”
“And stillbirths.”
“That's …” I began, but I didn't know what word I was trying to find. Terrible? Awful? Nothing seemed to convey what I actually thought, and searching for feelings was far too difficult a task for me anymore.
“Unbearable,” Lennox finished for me.
I swallowed.
“Do you have children, Dr. Lennox?”
“No. And you can call me Isidore, Alexandra.”
“Right,” I said, though I doubted that I would. It was easier to hide behind formality than it was to be exposed through friendliness. I ran my eyes over his face. I was probably mistaken, but I got the feeling he wasn't being truthful about the children, though I didn't know why he would lie about such a thing. Perhaps he was just being overly careful about what he said to avoid breaking doctor-patient privilege. I tried to picture him in a room with Mrs. Marlowe, listening as she told him whether or not she thought her daughter had killed her children, or if her other daughter had poisoned her husband and so on, and I wondered if the Marlowes' reason for hating him was because they knew he was privy to all of their secrets.
“Who do you think did it, if you had to guess?” I asked.
“It would be easier to say who I don't think did it. Not Rachel, obviously not James. Not Edie or Bill. I wouldn't think Cassandra, either.”
“I'm not so sure,” I said. “She's …”
“A character,” Lennox agreed, though it wasn't the word I would have chosen.
“She said something to me earlier about wanting us to be together once the rest of them are gone.”
Lennox startled.
“Wanting us to be together?” he repeated.
“No – her and me.”
“Ah – of course.” He cleared his throat. “Well, I certainly don't know what the explanation would be for that.”
“What about Mary?”
Lennox's eyes snapped up to meet mine.
“Excuse me?”
“Mary,” I repeated. “Bernadette said something about her being murdered. Who is she?”
“Was,” he corrected unnecessarily. He pushed his spoon around his plate, the frown returning with more prominence to his brow. “She was their sister.”
“And she was murdered?”
“No.”
“Well, are you sure? Because they seemed to think –”
“No.” He looked back up at me. “No, she wasn't murdered. Can we move on?”
I paused. It wasn't lost on me that I had struck a nerve with him, though I wasn't certain how I felt about doing so.
“I'm just trying to get a clear picture, here,” I said. “Bernadette specifically said, We break all the odds, don't we? Three murders in one family … Four if you count Mary.”
“And you asked me to give you direct answers, so I am. Mary was not murdered. She did, however, die in a very horrible and tragic way that I'm afraid I have no interest in discussing.”
I surveyed him carefully. His voice was sharp, but not out of anger. As I ran my eyes over his face, noting how his skin had paled, I got the impression that the subject was too personal for him, though I couldn't pinpoint why.
He stood and carried his plate to the trashcan, sliding the rest of his dinner into the bin with the serving knife.
“Listen,” he said without facing me, though his voice had softened back to its usual tone. “I want to answer your questions – I do. But I just can't talk about that. I hope you understand.”
I shifted my jaw, debating whether or not to push the subject.
“You're certain she wasn't murdered?” I asked.
“Yes.”
“And there's no chance it has anything to do with what happened to John?”
“None,” he said, turning back to me with a hint of exasperation in his voice. He brandished the serving knife as he tried to convince me. “She died sixteen years ago, and there was nothing mysterious about it. She wasn't beaten to death. She wasn't poisoned. She wasn't stabbed with a knife –”
Stabbed with a knife, I repeated to myself
, fixing my eyes on the knife in his hand. It was nothing like the gold knife that had killed John, and yet the remains of the chocolate that clung to its blade were eerily reminiscent of dried blood and the way Lennox was gripping the handle so firmly jogged something in my memory.
I stood up and left the kitchen, not bothering to tell him why as I rushed through the house to get to the Study. Reaching the door, I yanked it open and hurried to the desk, rummaging through the contents until I produced what my memory had already found: a golden sheath with an ornate pattern that matched the handle of the knife in John's chest perfectly. Only it wasn't a knife, I knew now: it was a letter opener.
“What are you doing?”
I jumped and hurriedly shoved the sheath into my apron pocket as Bernadette's voice rang out from the hallway. I squinted my eyes through the dark room, wondering how she could see me when I hadn't even turned the light on, when I realized she wasn't speaking to me.
“I was just on my way to bed,” came Lennox's reply.
“The Foyer is in the opposite direction,” Bernadette said. “So let me repeat: what are you doing?”
“I'm heading to bed. I just got a bit lost.”
“A likely story: you were here long enough to know which corridor leads where.”
“And I've spent a great deal of time away, in which I've understandably put this house out of my mind.”
Bernadette huffed.
“Well, carry on then,” she said unhappily. “And if you see the maid, tell her the Dining Room is a right mess.”
The sound of Lennox's oxfords retreating down the hallway had faded to silence before Bernadette moved away from the door. I peeked out in time to see her heading in the direction of the kitchen, then hurriedly made my way in the opposite direction to follow Lennox, not in the mood to hear her shouting that someone had taken a bite of her souffle without permission. I climbed the stairs up to the third floor, trying to make sense of what I had just learned.
Why had John been killed with a letter opener when there was an array of knives – not to mention a gun – in the house? It didn't make sense, and I didn't like it when things didn't make sense. The mind was a sensitive thing when it ought not to have been: too easily manipulated and changed, rewired or broken. And I knew how it worked – at least the medial temporal lobe, with its hippocampus, amygdala, cingulate gyrus, thalamus and hypothalamus, epithalamus, and mammillary body. I knew how to remember when others forgot, and store thoughts away like files in a cabinet that could be sorted through and produced later; but I didn't know people, and I didn't know how to read them, or what to think of them, or how to be around them, and I didn't know what they were capable of. And so for all of my knowledge, I didn't know what to do with the information I had found. My only hope was that Lennox could make sense of it.
The Marlowe Murders Page 14
