Authors: G. M. Malliet
She was the ideal observer: an inconspicuous one. Just because no one noticed Lamorna except as it was convenient for them to notice her did not make her unable to see what was going on around her quite clearly. Life with Leticia and Oscar, both demanding people in their different ways, might have created the perfect conditions for a household spy to emerge from the dun-colored personality that was Lamorna. Max could almost wonder how much was an act, and how much self-effacing camouflage had encoded itself into her DNA.
“Are you thinking blackmail?” asked Cotton. “That doesn’t jive with the religious bent.”
“Yes I am, or something very like it. Lamorna wouldn’t blackmail for money, not for her own gain. Of that I am certain. But could she have thought blackmail for a noble cause was all right? To feed the starving orphans in Third World countries? The more I think about it, the more that suits her character exactly—to punish the sinner by extracting payment. Otherwise—and I hope I’m not guilty of too much pride here—I think she would have come to me with what she knew.”
Max remembered with regret that he had not always been as patient with Lamorna as he ought. And that in part of his mind he had viewed her as a prime suspect, just given her accumulation of grievances against her adoptive family. That tendency of hers to dwell on revenge was a wide streak.
Aloud he said, “Her burning ambition, if you can call it that, was to remain where she was, fed and housed. ‘Safe.’ But of course she was anything but safe. She was in mortal danger.” He clenched his fists and compressed his lips in anger. “The whole thing is such a waste. And preventable. If only…” He stopped, shook his head. “We have to catch whoever did this.”
They stood in silence a moment, looking out over the water’s dimpled surface, their tall modern figures outlined against the medieval stone behind them. The sky was like dark glass wiped clean as the first traces of sunrise drew a neon line across the eastern horizon. With the dawn, the turbulence of the water was replaced by sighing waves. They could see their breath on the chill air, which was crisply, numbingly cold.
They were well into the season of peace on earth, goodwill toward men. So far, so not looking good on the peace front, thought Max. He turned to Cotton and said, “Tell me there’s been some sort of breakthrough by now in the researches into background.”
“Well,” said Cotton, “there is new information we don’t quite know what to
do
with. People who understand the U.S. tax code—I hear there are only three of those in the world—these experts say there is something fishy in the Joneses’ finances, a fishiness of which she may not be aware. Jocasta’s husband Simon is also her business manager, you may recall. It would appear he is embezzling from Jocasta Jones, LLP—a matter of forged checks and a forged power of attorney.”
“That’s interesting,” said Max.
“Isn’t it?” said Cotton.
“But whether that has anything to do with this…”
“Precisely again. Who knows? Anyway, whatever everyone else has told us about their pasts and their circumstances checks out. It’s the devil to check out what they
haven’t
told us, but nothing overtly suspicious has turned up.”
“Is there anything to suggest a prior relationship between Randolph and Gwynyth?” Max told Cotton what he’d seen before dinner.
“Interesting…” said Cotton. “No, nothing. I suppose a romance could have revved up since they’ve all been here.”
“I think so, too,” said Max. “In fact, that is highly likely. They’ve all been thrown together here for quite some time.”
Cotton nodded. There was a pause, then he said, “The attack on Lamorna was so frenzied, so out of control. It worries me.”
“Me as well. Never underestimate the power of a guilty and frightened conscience to make a killer act irrationally. But this was very cold-blooded, I think. Calculated. It is a tiny percentage of the population that does not know when it has behaved wrongly against a fellow human being, a fellow living creature. It is an even smaller percentage that wants to be caught and punished for it. Our killer acted, in her or his mind, quite sanely to protect their own safety and security. To not be apprehended. Overall, the risk, weighed in the balance, was worth it to the killer. After all, we have not apprehended whoever killed Lamorna. The killer has gotten away with it … so far.”
Cotton sighed. “I have to get back in there. But let’s quickly go back over when it all started.”
Max again walked through all he’d told Cotton already, concluding with: “I remember Leticia’s phone ringing, and her shopping rolling about the compartment. Her knitting—white wool. Her general high-handedness. How she first frightened away the young man who looked in the window, who was considering sharing the compartment with us. Her mention, most of all, of her uneasiness with the situation. I wish I’d pressed her on that now.”
“She never alluded to anyone she suspected? You’re sure?”
Max shook his head. “Not directly. She seemed to have issues with several of the family.”
“And you say you saw a figure wandering about the garden earlier?”
“Oh, yes, but that could have been anyone. Whoever I saw could have been wearing any dark color, mind, but it looked like black. All cats are black in the dark, as the saying goes. Cilla wears nothing but black or dark gray, for what it’s worth. Notice that it is dark as pitch out here at night, even with the stars. Without that torch you’d be in danger of falling straight off the cliff’s edge and into the sea. I just can’t be sure…”
His voice trailed off. Max was experiencing a strange uneasiness, a sense of vertigo, that had nothing to do with his nearness to a sheer drop-off into the water. As far as he could tell, it was connected for some reason with Lamorna’s mention of Jacob and Esau. Jacob and Esau, who were twins. Twins who competed even in the womb. Oscar and Leticia were twins, he thought. Amanda and Alec were twins. But … so what?
He dared a peek into the water and just then, as he was puzzling his way through the clues, something slid into place in his mind, so neatly he could almost hear the
click
as it snapped into its rightful spot. His face lit up and his mind raced ahead. What did it mean?
Cotton was saying, “We’ve added one piece to the puzzle. Milo and Gwynyth worked on the same cruise line, and at one point were on the very same cruise to the Baltics—she as a singer, he as part of the waitstaff. But they never met, or so both claim. I suppose that is just possibly true—these ships are enormous, floating hotels. But the crew is generally kept cheek-by-jowl in the hold. And I keep thinking how alike in age they are. He’s around forty. Both his wife and Gwynyth are forty-two.”
“What are you suggesting?”
“I’ve no idea. Maybe it is a coincidence, and not an impossible one. Or they could be in cahoots.”
Max fifteen years before had crossed the ocean on a private vacation, but had found himself seconded to go undercover on the trail of stolen art being used to fund an I.R.A. operation. He’d never been on a cruise before, and was surprised to learn nearly everyone on the crew did double or triple duty: the art auctioneer (who turned out to have nothing to do with the theft) turned out to be an opera singer who entertained the passengers in the Winter Garden in the afternoon; the waiter who appeared nightly at his table also did room service delivery. These people tended to crop up at all hours, working double shifts, and often wearing different attire.
He of all people was surprised to realize how disconcerting it was to have people pop out of their “assigned” roles—the roles in which he’d first encountered them.
Someone in the castle had a secret role as killer.
But who?
CHAPTER 28
At the Cavalier
It was nearly noon—well past time for elevenses. Awena decided to take a break from the Goddessspell shop for some coffee and a biscuit at the Cavalier. She and Tara having spent the morning unpacking a new shipment of medicinal plants and herbs, the shop smelled of fenugreek (for the stomach) and hawthorn (for the heart) and dandelion (for the liver). The physical work and the aroma of the herbs of course had the effect of stimulating the appetite. Leaving Tara to mind the shop, with a promise to return with one of Elka’s seed cakes, Awena walked up the High to the Cavalier.
Walking into the Cavalier these days was like walking into a steam factory, for Elka, in response to a business threat from a new shop in Nether Monkslip called the Coffee Pot, which was operated with Tuscan brio by the Grimaldis, had invested in an espresso machine. Now, in addition to the clatter of cups and saucers and the clinking of spoons, to the hiss of gossip was added the hiss of a milk steamer.
Besides plain coffee, customers now could order fancy Italian drinks—cappuccinos and lattes with shots of this and that. It seemed to Elka that some of the regulars had started to compete with each other in the “knowledge of esoteric coffee drinks” department, with fancy orders for triple shots and 130-degree temperatures and the like. Elka was in fact fed up with the whole coffee scene. The espresso machine had put her in hock for years and it was nothing but aggro.
At least, she thought, the big coffee geniuses at the Coffee Pot couldn’t compete with her steamed Christmas puddings. The ones she was offering this year were masterpieces—moist with fruits and brandy, made the traditional way with thirteen ingredients to represent Christ and his disciples. She’d spent the Sunday before Advent working on them—“Stir Up” Sunday—and even her son Clayton had taken a hand in stirring the mixture. She’d made several wishes as she added the traditional new coins for good luck and prosperity. As usual, the wishes all had to do with Clayton.
Awena opened the door into a fragrant, steamy rain forest of a room, infused with the enveloping heavenly aromas of coffee and vanilla and chocolate, overlaying the usual scent of pastries baked fresh that morning. And … was that the smell of brandy? Lovely. She was not surprised also to have found a larger-than-usual crowd sitting around the Cavalier; predictably, from what she overheard over the tinkling of the shop bell as she entered, they were immersed in talk of the murder of Oscar and the death of Leticia at the castle.
Awena, after wishing Elka a good day, asked her for a café au lait. “And I think I’ll have a slice of that almond biscotti. It looks wonderful.”
“And well it should,” said Elka. “I was up until one this morning over that biscotti. Not as simple to make as it looks.”
“I find that a high oven temperature helps,” ventured Awena.
“Do you?” said Elka. “Fancy that. Let’s hope you don’t go and open a bakery.” Smiling grimly, she put the biscotti slice on a small plate covered by a paper doily, then excused herself to answer the call of an egg timer announcing that the next batch of biscuits was ready to come out of the oven. “That’s all you want?” said Elka, returning from the kitchen, drying her hands on a linen towel covered in a pattern of cornflowers. “A simple coffee with milk?”
“Ye-e-ess,” said Awena, sensing a test of some sort.
“Try the macchiato,” said a voice from behind her. She turned to see Miss Pitchford, retired schoolmistress, sitting at a table by a window. A shopping basket rested at her feet. “It’s ambrosial.” She drank deeply of her cup by way of demonstration.
“Oh, we can do better than
that
,” said Elka, emptying a filter with a series of booming thumps against a rubbish bin. “I have far,
far
more complicated drinks on the menu than simple coffee and tea these days!” And she laughed—more a mad cackle than a laugh. Awena wondered if there weren’t even a tinge of hysteria behind the laugh. Elka was one of the hardest-working women in the village. She got sporadic help from her son in operating her bakery business and tea shop. Now that she had effectively opened a gourmet coffee shop as well, Clayton’s lack of actual help had probably become glaringly noticeable.
“For example,” chimed in Suzanna Winship, who shared a large wooden table and several newspapers with Miss Pitchford. “You can have it lungo, ristretto, bollente, tiepido—whatever you want. Why settle for a simple coffee when we have all of Italia on our doorstep lately, here at La Cavalier. Or would that be Il Cavalier?”
“And chai!” added Elka. “Don’t forget the chai drinks!”
“Do you…” And Awena hesitated, fearing this might be the very final and fatal last straw for Elka. “Would you by any chance have soy milk for my coffee? If it wouldn’t be too much bother.”
“Soy milk!” Elka was practically shrieking now. “Soy milk! Of course we have soy milk. How could I hold up my head in this village if I didn’t have sodding soy milk—organic, of course. Almond flavored, vanilla flavored, chocolate flavored. You name it. You want soy, I’ve got soy. And rice milk, don’t forget! Almond flavored, vanilla—”
“Just plain soy will be fine, Elka, and thank you so much for all you do for us.” It seemed to Awena it might be as well to pretend this was some special favor being offered, rather than Elka trying rather frantically to hold her own against the encroachments of capitalism and the free market.
“Bring your coffee over here when it’s ready,” said Suzanna, as Miss Pitchford nodded and patted the seat at her side. “We’ve been discussing the doings up at the castle.”
The village had been full of talk of the visitors when they arrived, of course. There was not so much going on in the village proper that the need to import or invent gossip didn’t occasionally arise. That one of the visitors was American, married to a “famous actress” who happened to be the daughter of the deceased, quickly got round, although when that particular rumor had started it at least resembled the truth: “A formerly near-famous actress was visiting,” the woman who ran the post office told everyone standing on line. “You know. She was in that movie where she was tied up and nearly pushed off a cliff. Only that dark handsome actor with the nose saved her. Now what was his name?” And so on. By the time the story reached those at the back of the line, the actress had starred in an Indiana Jones movie with (for reasons unknown) Tom Cruise.