A Most Novel Revenge (22 page)

Beatrice was watching me as these thoughts crossed my face.

“I don't know if anyone's told you, Mrs. Ames, but you have a way of making people feel comfortable talking to you.” I felt, somehow, that it was not entirely meant as a compliment.

In any event, I had not, in fact, realized this. Charming people was Milo's domain. I always felt a bit awkward when emotions became transparent.

“I've heard, of course, of your involvement in other such matters,” Beatrice said.

So that was it. She had heard about the Brightwell and what had happened at the Viscount Dunmore's masquerade ball. I wondered if she resented my presence here.

“Word travels,” she went on. “I wondered that first night why it was that you had been invited here. Perhaps Reggie suspected there would be trouble. I see his instincts were correct.”

“Laurel told him to ask me,” I admitted. “She thought things might go amiss. I had hoped that she was wrong.”

“Yes, well, I hope you will be careful, Mrs. Ames,” she said, rising from her seat. “There is a killer among us, and being a stranger here does not guarantee your safety.”

 

19

IT WAS NOT
a very subtle warning, yet I did not think I detected a threat in it. I felt that Beatrice only meant I should be careful, and I agreed with her. After all, there had already been too many calamities at Lyonsgate to grow complacent.

Speaking of calamities, I wondered how Mr. Roberts was faring and thought that perhaps I should check in on him. However, I encountered one of the maids in the hallway and was informed that he was still asleep. Not wanting to disturb him, I went back downstairs.

There was still information to be gleaned, but I thought perhaps I had done enough interrogating for one morning. Beatrice Kline had seen quite clearly what I was about, and I didn't mean to make a nuisance of myself, peppering people with questions.

I sighed. I didn't feel at all as though things were coming together clearly in my mind. I had anticipated that I would be able to get information from
The Dead of Winter
and from the other guests, but things were not going exactly as I had hoped. For one thing, everyone was so frightfully reticent. Not that I blamed them, of course. After all, I was perfectly aware of how difficult it was to find oneself repeatedly at the scene of a murder. Innocent or not, it could prove dreadfully awkward.

It didn't help matters that the inspector was in no way forthcoming. Of course, I couldn't blame him. He didn't know me and had no reason to trust me. I was aware that my rather cooperative relationships with police in past situations could not be considered to be the norm. I found myself wishing for the comforting presence of my old ally, Detective Inspector Jones. Not that I would ever admit to him that his presence was comforting. It was just so much more comfortable working with someone with whom one had worked before.

That gave me an idea.

“I wonder if I might use your telephone,” I asked Reggie casually when I had located him in the sitting room. “I had an engagement with a friend, and I'm afraid I need to ring her up and reschedule.”

“Certainly. There is a telephone in the entry hall near the stairs, or one in the library, if you'd prefer.”

I went to the library, as the call I had to make would be better made in privacy. I had stretched the truth a bit to Reggie. The “engagement” in question had not been scheduled for a precise date, but was more a perpetual invitation to tea with an old friend, a very well informed old friend.

Mrs. Yvonne Roland, a society widow with whom I had been entangled on more than one occasion in the past, always seemed to have an abundance of information at her disposal. I could think of no outsider that would be more well-versed on the events of that Fatal Party.

Perhaps she might even know something about Isobel Van Allen's life in Kenya. I wondered if her web of societal intrigue extended as far as Happy Valley, but somehow I didn't doubt it.

“Oh, Mrs. Ames! How delightful to hear from you!” she said when she came on the line. “You're well, I hope? And Mr. Ames? I do hope he is recovering from that sordid bullet wound.”

“Yes, Mrs. Roland, thank you. We're both doing quite well.”

“Good, good. Glad to hear it. Are you in London, then?”

I hesitated for only a fraction of a second, knowing that any slip on my part could prove disastrous. I did not think, as of yet, that my name had been connected with Isobel Van Allen's death, and I hoped to keep it that way for as long as possible.

“No, I'm with friends in the country at the moment, but I had a question on a point of society history, and I knew at once that you were the authority on the matter.”

I could almost hear her preening over the telephone. “Well, of course, I'd be only too happy to do anything that I can.”

“You've heard, of course, of the book
The Dead of Winter
.”

“Oh, certainly! Quite a sensation it caused, I can tell you that. All my friends were simply wild with curiosity about it.” She stopped suddenly, and I could almost feel her trying to read information in my voice. “You're away from London, did you say? Did you hear about what happened to the author, Isobel Van Allen?”

She had intuited that I was staying at Lyonsgate. I was almost certain of it.

“Yes,” I said without hesitation. “I heard about her death, and that is what has made my friends and I so interested in the matter. I knew at once that you would be the right person to ask for information.”

“Yes,” she said, and I could tell that she was still suspicious. “You know I am only too happy to share what I know. It's only too bad that you are not at Lyonsgate.”

She paused, as though expecting me to make some sort of confession. I was not to be so easily tricked.

“I should not relish being involved in another murder investigation,” I said truthfully. I didn't relish it at all.

“Yes, dear. It would be very unfortunate if you were subjected to such a thing.”

I was not entirely sure she believed me, but it appeared that she was no longer going to press the matter, at least for the time being. “I understand Isobel accused a young man named Bradford Glenn, and he killed himself not long after the book's publication.”

“Yes. That was all very unfortunate. I knew a friend of the family, and it was a very difficult time for all of them.”

“There was no doubt that it was a suicide?” I asked, an idea coming to me suddenly.

“Oh, no, I don't think so. He left a note, you see. His family verified that it was in his hand.” That seemed to settle that.

“They also said that he had been very depressed ever since the goings-on at Lyonsgate,” she went on. “I don't wonder that they believed that he had had some part in Edwin Green's death. In fact, I think everyone accepted it as fact. One doesn't kill oneself if one has nothing to hide, does one?”

She seemed to expect a response, so I said vaguely, “Perhaps not. But perhaps the guilt was placed upon him falsely.”

“Yes, I suppose you're right. It may be that he could not live with people believing he had done it. One never can tell who might be a sensitive soul, can one? Although, if I recall, the note left some ambiguity in the matter.”

“I don't suppose you remember anything of what was in the note?”

“Something about how he was guilty of one thing, but not another. A very troubled soul, it seems.”

“And Isobel Van Allen went off to Africa, untouched by it all,” I said, almost to myself. I wondered if she had had any idea of the devastation she would leave in her wake when she had set pen to paper. Would it have made any difference to her? Somehow I suspected she would not have changed anything.

“You've heard about the things that happened in Kenya, of course,” said Mrs. Roland expectantly.

“Yes, I've heard the rumors,” I said, drawn back to our conversation. I could recall no rumors about Isobel Van Allen in particular, but a great many tales of the wanton lives of the British colonists in Kenya had trickled back to our shores. It was, I thought, exactly the sort of place in which Isobel Van Allen would have thrived.

“Oh, yes, my dear. It was all rather hushed up, I believe. But my third husband's niece was at school with a girl whose mother ran off with a man to Kenya. The mother wrote extensively of the sordid goings-on.” She lowered her voice slightly, in deference to the scandalous information she was about to impart. “Illicit parties. Sharing spouses with one another and things of that nature. Not the sort of thing I would write to a daughter, if I had one. But the modern generation is so much less reserved than we were in my day.”

“Yes,” I said, realizing that I had might as well roll along with the gossip train rather than be run over by it. “I understand she had taken up with a young man called Desmond Roberts.”

I had almost spoken this as fact, but remembered in time that I should demonstrate no firsthand knowledge of Isobel Van Allen's life.

“Roberts,” she said quickly, “Roberts, Roberts.” It was as though she was trying to summon up any information that might come with the name. “There was a young man named Roberts who died tragically, I believe. About a year ago. He was shot, if I recall.”

“Shot?” I repeated. That was certainly something new. I wondered if there was any connection to Desmond Roberts.

“I think that's what it was. Oh, dear me. One hears so many things that it's sometimes difficult to remember. I could find out, but it might take me a few hours to do so.”

“Oh, would you, Mrs. Roland? Perhaps if I ring you back tomorrow?”

“Certainly, my dear. I should be only too happy to investigate the matter.” She sounded positively thrilled at the prospect.

I thanked her and rang off. As I had suspected, Mrs. Roland was a font of telltale knowledge. I wished that she had been able to be a bit more specific, but it was certainly something to think about.

“Perhaps you shouldn't be in dark rooms alone with a killer on the loose.”

I started at the voice. Turning, I saw Mr. Collins standing just inside the door. I hadn't heard the steps behind me, and yet somehow he had approached within a few feet of me. It was a bit unnerving. I wondered how long he had been standing there.

“Mr. Collins,” I said. “I didn't hear you coming. Yes, I was just using the telephone. It's a bit more private here than it is in the entrance hall.”

“Yes, it is, isn't it?” he replied dryly.

“Have you come for a book?” I asked him pointedly. We were, after all, in the library. What other reason could he have had for following me here?

“Yes,” he said. “I very much enjoy reading.” Somehow I didn't picture him as the type of gentleman to sit placidly reading a novel, but I supposed one could never really judge.

“There's quite a selection here,” I said, casting my eyes around the shelves. I was still uncertain of his motives and had thus reverted to my training from childhood, polite conversation based on stating the obvious.

“Of course, I've never much cared for novels myself,” he said, his dark eyes meeting mine. “They seemed to me a waste of time.”

“Perhaps,” I said lightly. “Then again, they are an entertaining way to pass the time. And one can often learn things from fiction without realizing it.”

He didn't step closer, but he had not moved out of the doorway and I found myself a bit on edge. There was, after all, a good possibility that he was a killer. And being alone with a killer was an experience I would rather not repeat.

It seemed to me that he sensed my unease and enjoyed it. This annoyed me into behaving rashly.

“Perhaps you prefer books on mining. I understand that you and Edwin Green were involved in a mining venture together.”

Some unnamed emotion flickered momentarily across his face, but he covered it so quickly I could not be sure.

“That's true,” he said. “Edwin was a terrible businessman. It was no great loss to me financially when he died, I can assure you.”

“I see.”

I wondered what was behind this sudden bravado. It seemed as though he was purposefully casting suspicion on himself. Perhaps it was meant to throw me off guard?

“Then you weren't close friends?”

“No. There was something about him that I didn't like. He was too quiet by a half, as though he was always plotting something. Even when he drank, he just sat there moodily, staring at people as though he knew exactly what was going on inside their minds. It made one uneasy.”

“I suppose it was still a shock to you when he died,” I said, giving him some opportunity to show at least a hint of human emotion.

“Not entirely,” he answered, thwarting my efforts. “It was bound to happen to one of us, as reckless as we were.”

“It seems it had a profound effect upon Freida,” I said.

Unaccountably, it seemed as though his face softened. “Freida has not had an easy life. I've tried to take her away from all of this, to help her forget. I didn't want to come back to Lyonsgate at all.” And yet he had. What hold had Isobel Van Allen had over him?

“Well, perhaps this will all be over soon, and we shall be able to forget it.”

He smiled an unpleasant smile. “I don't think we'll ever be able to forget it.”

“No, I suppose you're right. I shall always remember finding Miss Van Allen's body,” I said truthfully. “Some things one will always remember. As, I suppose, you remember where you were when Edwin Green's body was discovered.”

“I was not there when Freida found the body. I had just gone back to my bedroom a bit earlier when I heard her screams from outside.” He was implying, then, that he and Freida had spent the night together.

“I see. Well, if you'll excuse me, Mr. Collins, I suppose I had better go and find my husband.”