He was in the nursery when I came into my room. His door was open and he was sitting on his small cot, his chin resting on his hands as he stared off across the dark room, though he jumped up upon seeing me.
“I didn't mean to offend you,” he said. “I was only –”
“It was a letter opener that killed him.”
“What?”
I leaned against the threshold between our rooms and crossed my arms, realizing that he had taken my abrupt departure as a sign that he had upset me. I was surprised to find the fact that he would care meant something to me.
“That's why I left. I remembered where I saw the pattern before.”
“A letter opener?” he repeated, looking both confused and relieved. “Are you sure?”
“I found the sheath in the Study,” I said, taking it out of my pocket and tossing it over for him to see. “Does it mean anything to you?”
“No, not at all,” Lennox murmured, turning it over in his hands. “Well – except that it would have been much more difficult to kill someone with such a short blade.”
“So they must've known what they were doing.”
“Or gotten very lucky,” he agreed, standing and bringing it back to me.
“Do you have any ideas why someone would use a letter opener when there's a gun in the Parlor?”
“Well, a gun would've made too much noise. They didn't want to wake the whole house, did they?”
“So why not use a kitchen knife?”
Lennox hummed to himself.
“Well, I don't know,” he said. “Maybe the killer didn't think anyone would notice if a letter opener was missing and was hoping the body wouldn't be discovered with the snowfall.”
Mrs. Tilly's words flashed through my mind. Why didn't you just let him disappear? It would have been better that way.
“And everyone would think he wandered off?” I asked.
“Perhaps. The ferry was gone, after all: they might have assumed he had taken it back to the mainland.”
“They could've done a better job hiding the body, then. Half the island's woods: why didn't they kill him in there?”
“Maybe they couldn't lure him that far out. And it would be difficult to drag him all the way once he was dead, at least undetected. Especially for the women.”
“How did they lure him outside, then? It's not like he smoked.”
“Maybe he was with someone who did.”
“Marjorie?”
“She's the only one who smokes, as far as I know. Apart from us.”
I thought of how quickly Marjorie had grabbed for her knife upon hearing the clatter of the serving tray when I had dropped it to the floor, as well as her evident distaste for her brother's inheritance when she had spoken about it the night of the wake.
“So she invited him out for a smoke, walked halfway around the house with him, then took out a letter opener and stabbed him?” I asked. “But why the letter opener?”
“It could have been spur of the moment. Maybe their conversation escalated into an argument.”
“After she was what? Checking the mail?”
“Perhaps it has some sort of significance to her or the family,” he suggested.
“And how do you propose we find out?”
He gave me a look, understanding what my question was suggesting.
“I'm not going to ask them if any of them had a special connection to it over morning coffee,” he said.
“I don't know how else we're going to get the answer.”
“You think the killer is going to do what, exactly? Jump up and tell me?”
“No, I think that someone else is going to jump up and tell you. If it's Marjorie who had a reason for choosing the letter opener, then I'm sure Bernadette will gladly tell you – especially if she's had a couple of cocktails.”
Lennox raised his eyebrows, clearly not impressed with my line of thinking.
“Are you forgetting that only an hour ago you said you'd work on being more subtle?” he asked.
“I'll be plenty subtle. It's you who won't be.”
As he gave me another stern look, I attempted to come up with a different plan, but I didn't think he would be pleased with any alternatives that I thought up. In a way he was rather like them: wanting to go on as though everything was normal and never let anyone know he was up to anything indecorous. And that was fine, I knew, because I could certainly be indecorous enough for the both of us.
“Well, if you don't want to, you don't have to,” I said, pushing away from the door-frame as I resolved to think something up in the morning after my mind had had a chance to rest. “I'll try to think of something less conspicuous. No promises, of course.”
“I would appreciate that,” he said with a smile. As I turned to go back to my room, he added, “Goodnight, Alexandra.”
I gave him a wave in return, then shut the door between us and followed the light that pooled beneath it across the floor to my bed. Taking four pills from my nightstand to swallow dry, I changed into my nightclothes and crawled into bed.
I laid my head on the pillow and stared down at where the soft yellow light gathered at my side. As my eyes began to shut, though, it was interrupted by a shadow: Lennox must have been standing on the other side of the door. I waited a moment, thinking that he might knock so that he could tell me another thought he had had about the murder, but then his shadow retreated and the light in his room flicked off. I let my arm hang over the side of my bed, touching the spot that it had left. And for a moment before I closed my eyes and fell into a sleep filled with notions of what else he might have come in and said to me, I didn't feel alone.
***
The sun was just a blur of murky reds and purples over the horizon when I went out for a smoke the next morning. I watched as it hit the ocean and sent diamonds of light over the surface, sparkling in innocence or apathy, and was just considering take a quick walk down to the dock while I finalized the plan I had come up with when the front door opened. Marjorie had come out for her morning cigarette.
She took out her lighter, which was a heavy, solid gold, and flicked it open to light her cigarette. It made a ching sound that rattled through the air. Her eyes trailed over to me as she took a deep drag, and from the way she was looking at me, it seemed as though she was formulating a plan of her own as to how best to get back at me for disrupting her dinner the night before.
“You look familiar,” she accused. “Where have I seen you before?”
I blinked, wondering if she was so hungover from the previous night that she had forgotten who I was.
“Just around here, Mrs. Pickering.”
“No, there's somewhere else. I know you.”
She narrowed her eyes, but I only shrugged.
“I'm really not sure what you mean, Mrs. Pickering. My apologies.”
She took a step closer to me, pulling her fur coat around her as a gust of wind skated across the porch.
“You're pretty,” she said, though not in a complimentary way. She looked from my face to the cap covering my hair. “What are you doing working as a maid?”
“I … just needed some money, Mrs. Pickering.”
“What were you doing before?”
“Studying. In college.”
She eyed me suspiciously.
“How old are you?”
“Twenty-nine.”
“Twenty-nine is too old to be a college student.”
“I'm in graduate school.”
“Oh, graduate school? So why aren't you there now?”
“I'm … taking some time off. To write my dissertation.”
“While also working as a maid?”
“Yes,” I said, my tone turning rigid. “Because I need the money.”
It didn't appear that she liked the response. She flicked her cigarette impatiently to rid it of ash.
“You know what I think?” she asked, but didn't bother to wait for an answer. “I think you're here because you had your eye on John
.”
“Excuse me?”
“Why else would you take this job? You could get medial work almost anywhere, and yet you chose this one. Maybe you were hoping my brother would take an interest in you, is that it? Maybe that he would leave his wife for you? You'd be set for life.”
“I'll be set for life once I complete my degree –” I began angrily, but Marjorie cut me off.
“So what happened? Did he reject you? Toss you out of his bed? So you got your revenge by stabbing him in the dead of the night, then pretending you'd just found him out there –”
Something sharp hit my hand and I started. A large piece of ash had fallen from my cigarette and struck my finger. I dropped it and stomped it out, trying to calm myself.
“I was told I would be working for your mother, Mrs. Pickering – so I in no way took this job because of Professor Marlowe.”
Marjorie came closer to me. She leaned forward until her face was right in mine.
“Let me tell you something,” she whispered, blowing smoke into my face as she went, and it took all of my willpower to resist the compulsion to smack her. “I don't believe you. Not one bit.”
She tossed her cigarette over the porch railing and returned inside. It took me a moment to follow her, for her accusation seemed to press against my lungs and halt my breathing. Her tone was so careless that I hardly believed she seriously thought I had killed her brother, and yet I didn't wholly believe she had said it just to get a rise out of me, either. Lennox's words flashed back across my mind: you can bet that the Marlowes – including whichever one of them is responsible for killing John – are going to protect themselves, and the only way to protect themselves individually is to protect the family as a whole. My chest tightened uncomfortably, but not out of fear. For if she been the one to kill John and was working out a way to weasel her way out of it by putting the blame on me, then perhaps I would need to be more careful. Or maybe, I realized as I returned inside, I would have to be more forceful in my actions to expose whomever had caused the mess we were all in.
The family behaved as though the disagreement from the night before – along with the murder – had never happened, though Amalia, at least, was at the other end of the table with Lennox and didn't speak to anyone. It appeared that, despite her dislike for the doctor, he was less offensive to her at the moment than her in-laws. The normalcy of them taking their seats and unfolding their napkins to drape over their laps before helping themselves to the sugared berries and diced apples was rather jarring, and even though I sensed that it was largely feigned to cover their true reactions to John's death, I couldn't help but think that it would be nice to put it to an end. I narrowed my eyes at Marjorie as she took a sip of juice. I wanted to see how she reacted to what I was about to say most of all.
Just as I opened my mouth to speak, though, the bell jingled to alert me that the next course was ready to be collected. I set down the coffee pot and went to the kitchen.
I was barely over the threshold when a finger jabbed me in the chest, halting me in place. Mrs. Tilly glared at me. The kitchen was still a right mess, though she had had to clean it a bit in order to cook.
“Did you forget something?” she asked.
“No.”
“It took me an hour to scrub the stove this morning. You were supposed to do it last night.”
“Was I?” I replied, wiping off the spot of flour she had left on my dress. “My mistake. I thought the kitchen was your job.”
Her face turned to a sneer.
“If you ever ruin one of my meals again, I'll make sure you regret it.”
She turned away from me and went back to the counter. Without her form blocking the table, I could now see that she had laid out a dozen or so platters, each one carrying a singular scone, in attempt to prevent me from dropping more than one serving in the future. I had half a mind to inform her that I was going to ruin the meal in a completely different way, but decided against it. Instead, I swept all of the scones onto one tray and left the room.
As I crossed through the East Room, I took in the sight of the portraits with greater attention than I had before, as though doing so might give me some insight into who the family members really were. In the first frame was a striking man with dark hair and a matching beard. He had a wide smile and clear green eyes that were the same shade as mine. It must have been John's father, though it was difficult to imagine that that could have been the man who had raised such bitter, unhappy children. In the next frame was Mrs. Marlowe with her narrowed brown eyes, pursed mouth, and dark red hair, though her birthmark hadn't been painted on her face; then Bernadette, only eighteen or so when the portrait had been done, with her fluffy hair sticking out in a triangular shape around her chubby cheeks; Rachel and John, who shared a frame – her smile withering and his an unctuous smirk; Marjorie, her bright orange hair down past her shoulders in a thousand ringlets; and Edie, with rosy cheeks and a timid smile that I had never seen her wear before. The last portrait must have been of Cassandra. She had dark hair like her father, despite her telling me that it had been copper like her mother's, and wore a wide, almost infectious smile, though it seemed misplaced on her face as though it was part of a mask. There was a hook on the wall and a square of dust that was the same size as the other portraits: it must have been where the portrait of Mary had hung, yet the fact that it was missing suggested it was the same one that Lennox sought. Could I have been mistaken to think that he had been Mrs. Marlowe's psychiatrist? Had he really been Mary's – and she had died under his care?
I hurried onward to the Breakfast Room.
“… really no need to bring it up again.” Lennox's voice was saying as I entered.
“It just must be so lonely for you,” Bernadette said unsympathetically, “being in there with the ghosts of the past –”
Edie flinched and dropped her cup. It broke against the table, spilling coffee everywhere. I put my tray down and moved forward to collect the pieces, putting them on the still-intact saucer and carrying them away, then began to serve.
“That room –” she muttered, her voice nearly inaudible as she jumbled the words. “It should have been – closed off. Years ago.”
“Well, yes, but then poor Lennox would have nowhere to sleep,” Marjorie said. “Besides, I wouldn't be so sure he's so lonely …”
I stooped to let Bernadette take her food. She selected three scones and doused them in clotted cream and jam. As she finished arranging them on her plate and licked her fingers, I took my chance to speak.
“I realized something last night,” I began, keeping my view on the entire table to watch everyone's expressions. “About –”
“Alexandra.” Lennox cut me off. His eyes were fixed on me from his spot across the table. He slowly raised his cup. “Would you mind refilling my coffee?”
“I –”
“Would you mind serving me my breakfast first?” Marjorie said, sending a glare in his direction. “Since I believe you work for me, not Lennox.”
I shifted my jaw and brought the tray over to her, irritated that he had stopped me from speaking. It was clear that he didn't need more coffee: his cup was still three-quarters full. He evidently knew that I had been about to tell them about the letter opener and, just as I had presumed, didn't agree with it.
“What was that you were saying, Alexa?” Rachel asked kindly as I brought the tray over for her to select a scone. I threw Lennox a glance, my stubbornness telling me to take the chance to go through with my plan, but I stopped myself. He knew the family better than I did, I reminded myself, that was why I had asked for his help. If I found his reasoning as to why he didn't want me to tell them too faulty for my liking, then I could still inform the family about the letter opener later.
“I just realized,” I said carefully, feeling his gaze on me as strong as ever, “that everyone has been calling me by the wrong name. It's not 'Alexa.' It's 'Alexandra.'”
“You told me your name is Alexa,” Bernadette s
aid exasperatedly from the head of the table.
“I can't imagine why you think it's appropriate to correct us now,” Marjorie agreed. “There are much more important things going on in this household than your name.”
“My apologies, Mrs. Pickering,” I said tonelessly.
“Well, I think Alexandra is a lovely name,” Rachel said, nodding to me that she was finished getting food for her and Mr. Langston. “I'll make sure I call you that from now on.”
“I think I prefer Alexa,” Bernadette said. “Alexandra is far too many syllables. No one should have a name that's such a mouthful.”
She concluded her statement by taking a large bite of scone and jam. I brought the tray to Lennox.
“Did you still want more coffee, Dr. Lennox?” I asked in a would-be polite voice, trying to see if he was satisfied with what I had said.
“Oh, no,” he replied. “I think I'm just fine now.”
“Well, I'm not fine,” Amalia said angrily. “Because – in case you've all forgotten – my husband is dead!”
“Yes, dear, we're well aware,” Bernadette said. “Though I'm not sure what you'd have us do about it.”
“I'd have whichever of you did it admit to it!”
“That's a marvelous idea,” Marjorie drawled. “Why don't you do it now? We're all listening.”
“I didn't kill my husband!”
“I don't know who else would've,” Marjorie said, but her eyes moved over to me, seeming to silently confirm my suspicions that she planned to accuse me of being the murderer as soon as her other accusations fell through.
The Marlowe Murders Page 15
