A Most Novel Revenge (11 page)

“No, it's not mine. She … she's…” I pointed to Miss Van Allen's room, my hand shaking.

His hand still gripping my arm, Milo stepped into the threshold and looked into the room. One short glance was apparently all it took.

Then he moved back to my side. “Are you hurt, darling?”

“No. I … we…” I wanted to explain what had happened. I wanted to know what he was going to do about Isobel Van Allen and to tell him that we should call for help, but I could not seem to find the words. It was as though I knew what I wanted to say, but my mind was not completely connected to my body. My thoughts were racing too quickly for me to catch hold of one enough to speak it. It was a maddening sensation.

“You're certain you're all right?”

“Yes, but…”

I drew in a deep breath, trying to calm myself. It was just so awful. But perhaps there was still hope. She hadn't been cold …

I started to step toward the room, but he slipped his hand around my waist and blocked me from the doorway.

“There's nothing you can do, darling,” he said. “Come away.”

He was right, of course. That much was perfectly obvious, though I hadn't wanted to believe it. There was nothing anyone would be able to do for Isobel Van Allen.

Half supporting me, Milo led me down the hall and back to my room.

As he ushered me into the bedroom, Winnelda turned from where she was brushing my riding jacket. She took one look at me and screamed. Very loudly. It was enough to rouse me somewhat from my stupor.

“I'm all right,” I said. “It … it isn't mine.” My voice was steady, if a bit faint.

“Winnelda, draw Mrs. Ames a bath.”

She stood staring at us.

“Winnelda, please do as I ask,” Milo said impatiently.

She gave a little sob and fairly ran into the bathroom.

Milo sat me down in a chair and knelt before me, deftly unbuttoning my bloodstained blouse. “It's going to be all right, darling. You've had a shock. We'll get you cleaned up and you'll feel much better.”

“You should send for a doctor,” I said.

He hesitated for only an instant. “There's no need for a doctor.”

I had known it from the moment I saw her, but I hadn't wanted to believe it. “She's dead,” I whispered.

“Yes.”

“There was so much blood.”

“I know, darling.” He stripped off the bloody blouse I was wearing and tossed it aside. I hugged myself against the cold of the room and the deeper cold I felt inside, but Milo swiftly removed his jacket and put it over my shoulders. Then he leaned down to pull off my riding boots. The brightly polished boots were now stained with blood.

I looked down at my trousers, the fawn-colored fabric bright red, and felt a wave of dizziness.

Milo looked up and must have noticed that I had paled, for he cupped my face in his hand, drawing my eyes from my bloodied trousers to his face. “It's all right, darling.”

I nodded. It wasn't all right, but I loved him for trying to convince me that it was.

Winnelda came out of the bathroom, wringing her hands. “Oh, madam,” she said, her voice breaking. “Oh, madam.”

“Winnelda, you must get hold of yourself,” Milo said firmly. “I need you to tend to Mrs. Ames.”

She did a very poor job of stifling another sob, and it was apparent that I was going to have to collect myself before she went into hysterics. I wished for the first time in my life that I had been inclined to carry smelling salts. Instead, I drew in a deep, steadying breath.

“It's all right,” I said calmly. “There's … there's been a … an accident, I'm afraid. Miss Van Allen is dead.”

“Oh!” Winnelda's hand went to her mouth.

Milo took both my hands in his. The warmth of his grip was reassuring. “Will you be all right if I leave for a moment?”

“Yes. Yes, I'll be fine. I'm much better now.” He studied me for a moment, as though to be sure I meant it, then rose and turned to Winnelda.

“Can I trust you to look after her?”

She nodded. “Yes, Mr. Ames. I'll look after her.”

“Good. Help her off with the rest of her clothes and get her into the bath,” Milo said. He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and, though he turned his back to me, I could see that he was wiping the blood from his hands.

He turned to me as he reached the door. “I'd better notify Lyons and ring for the police.”

I looked up at him and our eyes met. We were both thinking the same thing. Isobel Van Allen was dead and, despite what I had told Winnelda, it most definitely had not been an accident.

*   *   *

BY THE TIME
I had washed the blood away in the bath and Winnelda had helped me into a dark tweed suit, I was again fully in possession of my faculties. I felt incredibly tired, drained of energy, but my thoughts were clear. I almost wished that they weren't, for I could still remember the sensation of the blood seeping into my clothes, though I hadn't been aware of what it was at the time.

Even worse, I kept picturing Isobel's dark eyes staring blankly up at the ceiling, the brightness that had flashed in them completely gone. A chill swept through me.

“Are you all right, madam? Can I get you anything? Perhaps some tea?”

Winnelda seemed to have calmed herself, and I was glad that we had both escaped the throes of full-blown hysteria.

“Thank you, Winnelda, no. I need to go down to the drawing room. I shall have to go down and speak to the police shortly.”

In truth I would have liked nothing better than to drink a hot cup of tea and lie down for the rest of the day. My head was beginning to ache, and I did not relish spending the next hours answering pressing questions. Unfortunately, I knew from experience what would be required of me.

Milo had come back shortly after leaving me to ascertain that I was all right and then had gone away again to speak with the doctor and the local coroner, who had apparently arrived together. I supposed they were examining the body—so sad and strange to think of Isobel Van Allen in that way—but they would no doubt wish to see me soon.

“I can't believe it's happened again, madam,” Winnelda said mournfully. “Bodies turning up wherever you go.”

“Yes, it's dreadful,” I answered. As dreadful as it was, however, I could not say that I was completely surprised. It had been shocking, of course, to find Isobel dead, but I had been uneasy since I had arrived at Lyonsgate. With emotions running high and so many secrets running deep, it had almost seemed only a matter of time before something awful happened. Not that I had expected murder. But I had seen firsthand the lengths to which people would go when they were crossed, and Isobel Van Allen had crossed a great many people.

As I went out into the hallway, I glanced in the direction of Miss Van Allen's door. It was closed. I wondered if the doctor and the police were still inside.

It appeared they were, for the drawing room was empty, save for Reggie Lyons. He was pacing the room, his face white. He held a cigarette between his fingers, but he seemed to have forgotten it was there, for the ash had built up on the tip and crumbled, unnoticed, to the rug as he paced.

He stopped for a moment when he saw me. “This is a rotten business, Mrs. Ames,” he said. His voice sounded as tired as I felt.

“Yes,” I replied. I could think of nothing better to say. “Are the police upstairs?”

“Yes. Your husband was kind enough to show them to … to Isobel's room. I … I have an aversion to blood, you see.” If possible, he had grown even paler as he said this.

“Perhaps you should sit down, Mr. Lyons,” I said gently.

He seemed too weary to protest and sank into a chair by the fire, rubbing his face with his hand.

I remembered that Laurel had once spoken of the difficult time Reggie had had upon returning home from the war. He had seen some very bad things, she said. Things he vowed never to speak of, but that had apparently replayed before his eyes at odd moments as he stared off into the distance.

I was glad he had not come across me when I had stumbled from Isobel's room. Milo had been surprised and, I thought, momentarily shocked, but it was not the sort of thing that would trouble him for long. It would have had a much worse impact upon Reggie Lyons.

Hurried footsteps echoed along the entrance hall, and Laurel came running to the drawing room. “Is it true?” she asked. “Is Isobel dead?”

“Yes. I … I found her,” I said.

“Oh, no,” she whispered, coming to my side and clutching my arm. “All you all right, Amory?”

“Yes, I'm fine now.”

“But what's happened? I know she was ill. Was it a heart attack or some such thing?”

I shook my head. “No. I'm afraid she was murdered.”

Laurel's hand flew to her mouth. “No. Are you certain?”

I glanced at Reggie Lyons and lowered my voice. “There was … a great deal of blood.”

“Good heavens,” she whispered.

A log popped loudly in the fireplace just then and Reggie flinched.

“Perhaps you had better talk to him,” I told her quietly. “He's having a time of it.”

She nodded and moved to where he sat, talking to him in a low, soothing voice.

Milo came into the room then and came at once to my side. “How are you feeling, darling?” he asked in a low voice. “Holding up?”

“Yes, I'm fine.” I offered him an unsteady smile. “Thank you.”

“Let me get you a drink.”

I shook my head. “I don't need one, thank you. I'm quite well.”

He studied my face, as though trying to determine if I was telling the truth.

“You don't look well,” he said at last.

“It was certainly a shock, but I assure you I am quite composed.” I didn't, of course, feel well, but I did not intend to have him fussing over me. I was not accustomed to it.

He didn't have time to argue the point, for two more gentlemen entered the room.

I had had few dealings with policemen in my life, but my involvement in two other mysteries over the course of the last year had given me a good idea of what to expect, and I might have picked these men out as policemen if I had passed them on Regent Street. The first gentleman was tall and thin with dark hair and even darker eyes. He was obviously the superior officer, for the second man stood a bit behind him.

Reggie stood wordlessly, as though waiting for them to pass sentence.

“Who found the body?” the first man asked.

“I did,” I said, stepping forward.

His dark eyes came to rest on my face, and I felt that he was taking my measure in the space of a moment.

“You are Mrs. Ames,” he said.

“Yes.”

“Detective Inspector Laszlo,” he said. “This is Sergeant Hanes. I would like to speak with you privately for a few moments.”

“Certainly.” I was not surprised by this request. In fact, I had suspected as much. Well, the sooner we began the sooner it would be over.

The inspector glanced first at Reggie and Laurel and then at Milo, as though waiting for them to leave so we could begin our conversation.

Milo's gaze caught mine, and I nodded reassuringly.

“If you will all come with me for a moment,” Sergeant Hanes said, and they followed him from the room. Laurel looked back over her shoulder at me on her way out the door, and I could feel her silent encouragement.

“Have a seat, Mrs. Ames.” The inspector indicated a chair and I sat. He did the same.

“Now, tell me what happened. In as much detail as possible, if you please.” He spoke in a low voice, curiously devoid of any emotion. There was no solicitousness in it, and certainly no sympathy. I wondered if it was his way of inducing calm in witnesses, or perhaps fear in the guilty.

I recounted the morning leading up to the incident in what I hoped was a calm, clear manner. However, I found myself hesitating a bit when I came to describing the scene I had quite literally stumbled upon in Isobel's room. It was so ghastly, I hated to even think of it, let alone speak about it. He continued to watch me with those piercing eyes, however, and I did not intend to retreat.

“… I realized that she must be dead, but some part of me hoped that there might be something left that we could do.” I stopped, feeling a bit ill.

“And then what?” he asked, completely unmoved by my tale.

“I went back out into the hall. I was somewhat in shock. Mr. Ames had just come looking for me, and he took me back to my room to … change from my bloody clothes, and then he went at once to notify you.”

“Where are those clothes now?”

I refused to show any hint of alarm at this question. He was trying to set me on edge, to make me feel as though I had something to hide, but I did not and it wasn't going to work.

“Still in my room, I suppose,” I answered without hesitation. “My maid can fetch them for you if you'd like.”

“How was she killed, do you think?” he asked suddenly.

I wondered if this was meant to be a trick question. If so, it was a clumsy attempt on his part, and he would be disappointed in my answer. I did not intend to make guesses that might lead him to conclude that I had some sort of firsthand knowledge of the cause of death.

“I expect the coroner could give you a better answer to that than I,” I told him.

His brows rose ever so slightly and he continued to watch me expectantly; I interpreted this to mean my answer would not suffice.

I could not blame him for attempting to trip me up, if that was indeed what he was attempting to do. After all, I had found the body and had emerged from the room doused in the victim's blood. I would be the first to admit that, to an outside observer, it would seem that I could very potentially be the murderer. I did not let this worry me, however. I was guiltless and therefore impervious to his veiled accusations.

I sighed. “I don't know how she was killed, Inspector. I only know that she was covered in blood. As soon as I found her, I went back out into the hallway to find help.” I had told him as much already, but I was aware that policemen liked to repeat questions to see if the answers would be the same.