A Most Novel Revenge (30 page)

“Until Edwin Green died.”

“Yes.” She clicked her tongue sympathetically. “That was a tragedy indeed. By all accounts, he was a fine young man.”

“Did you believe that he was murdered?” I was no longer making any pretenses of being anything other than curious about what had happened the night he died.

“The thought didn't occur to me at the time, of course. Accidents happen when people behave recklessly. The coroner seemed quite sure of that. However, my husband turned to me as soon as he heard of it. ‘Hildy,' he said, ‘something's not right.' And he was correct. He usually was. Despite what the coroner thought, there were rumors that began circulating shortly afterward that there might have been more to the situation than met the eye.”

“And then Bradford Glenn killed himself,” I said.

“Yes, that was unfortunate. He was a young man from a good family. He might have had a successful life, if not for all of this.”

“He claimed to be innocent in his suicide note, I understand.”

She looked thoughtful for a moment before replying. “The note, to the best of my recollection read: ‘I am guilty of nothing but loving too deeply.'”

I could not help but feel that it was a tragedy indeed that Bradford Glenn had been wrongfully accused and had felt that life was no longer worth living. I wondered what Beatrice felt about his suicide, if she harbored any reservations about turning away from him before he took his life.

“There was one other thing,” she said suddenly.

I looked up, suddenly alert. “Yes?”

“It may have all been a rumor, but it does seem that smoke indicates fire, does it not? One night not long before Edwin Green's death, the doctor was called up there to Lyonsgate.”

“Dr. Brockhurst?” I asked, recalling the name of the village physician Dr. Jarvis had mentioned to me.

She nodded. “He was the soul of discretion, Dr. Brockhurst, but you know how things get around. It was whispered that one of the women was … in a delicate condition.”

“I see.”

I was not entirely surprised that one of the women had turned up pregnant, given that exuberant behavior had been the norm. In fact, I rather suspected it must have been Freida. She told me that her son was nearly seven years old. That would have put his birth in the same year as the tragedy at Lyonsgate.

Perhaps that was why she had chosen to marry Mr. Collins. She wouldn't be the first woman who had been forced to make a marriage she regretted because of an accidental pregnancy. Was this the secret she had been hiding?

It was certainly something to think over.

We finished our tea, and I felt that I had probably taken up enough of Mrs. Fletcher's time.

I rose, thanking her for the tea. “It was very nice of you to see me on such short notice,” I said.

“Oh, I have very little to do these days. I'm always happy to have a bit of company. Although,” she said as she poured herself another cup, “I was hoping you would bring your husband.”

I looked up, a bit surprised. Of course, Milo was much more well known on the gossip circuit than was I. It was, I supposed, quite natural that Mrs. Fletcher should have heard of him.

“I thought perhaps it would be too much for two of us to appear uninvited.”

“Oh, I'm always happy to entertain a gentleman,” she said. “Tell me: is he as handsome as his photographs?” She asked it bluntly, but there was that twinkle in her eye again, as though she was jesting.

“Handsomer,” I replied with a smile.

“Then you really must bring him by next time you come, my dear.”

“I shall,” I told her. I thought Milo would be interested to meet the very unique Mrs. Fletcher. At the very least, he would enjoy being fawned over.

We parted ways, and I promised that I would drop in again for tea when time permitted.

As I left the house, I couldn't help but think that, as overwhelming as Mrs. Roland could be at times, she was certainly a valuable resource.

 

27

“DID YOU LEARN
anything of interest?” Milo asked, when I was back in the car.

“Yes, I think so,” I said distractedly. There had been a great deal that Mrs. Fletcher had told me that had been very interesting. Some of it, of course, I had already known. I felt, however, that there was something important that she had told me, some piece of information the import of which I had not yet realized.

I went over what she had said in my mind, trying to pick out the pieces that I thought were most significant. There was something …

“I encountered an interesting gentleman in the pub who had some very intriguing tales to tell,” Milo said. “Apparently, he was once an undergardener at Lyonsgate.”

This caught my attention. “Oh?”

“Yes. I told him I was staying at Lyonsgate, which appeared not to be a point in my favor. A few pints did wonders to warm him up, however.”

Milo might carry himself with the unmistakable air of a wealthy gentleman, but he was unfailing in his ability to set people of all classes at ease, be it with good looks, charm, or simple bribery.

“What did he say about the goings-on at Lyonsgate?”

“Much the same as what we have heard. Tales of bacchanalian revels. It appears there was no shortage of high spirits among the group there.”

I nodded. “Mrs. Fletcher said much the same thing. They were only rumors, of course, but she also said one of the women was pregnant. I think it must have been Freida Collins. Her son is about the right age. She has been hiding something. I wonder if that could be it.”

“It wouldn't matter now, surely,” Milo said. “She wouldn't be the first woman we've known who had to rush the wedding plans.”

“No,” I said, “and that's exactly why I wonder if there is something else…”

“There is, in fact.”

“What?”

“Interesting you should mention Mrs. Collins. It was her husband that came up in my conversation with the undergardener.”

“Really?” I asked, suddenly excited at the prospect of some revealing clue. “What did he say?”

“He said that, on the night of Edwin Green's death, he was up rather late, and he saw two figures coming up from the summerhouse. He looked away for a few moments, and when he looked back there was only one person entering the house.”

“It wasn't Bradford Glenn?”

“No, it was Phillip Collins.”

“It might have been at any time of the night. They all came up at one time or another.”

Milo shook his head. “He said that he saw the others come up much earlier and was surprised to see a final gentleman return so much later. It seems he was rather interested in their activities. I can only imagine the goings-on at Lyonsgate provided many an interesting tale to share in the pub.”

I considered this newest piece of information. Was it possible that it was Mr. Collins that Isobel Van Allen had seen that night? Had she mistaken him for Bradford Glenn and decided that he must have been responsible for Edwin Green's death?

“He never said anything?” I asked.

“Who was he going to tell? Undergardeners don't have a wide circle of influence, you know.”

“Yes, I suppose, but to think that some misunderstanding might have led to Bradford Glenn's taking his own life. It's all so terrible.”

“No one forced Bradford Glenn to commit suicide, you know,” Milo said. “It was only a rumor, after all.” Milo was not one to waste sympathy for something he viewed as a weakness. He had never cared in the least what people thought and would therefore be unable to understand the damage that public condemnation could do to a less indomitable personality.

“Yes,” I said, “but it's still so tragic.”

“In any event, the gentleman in the tavern gave me one other piece of information. Did you know Phillip Collins came here from South Africa ten years ago because he killed a man in a barroom brawl?”

My brows went up. “I certainly didn't.”

“And one guess as to how he killed him.”

“With a knife,” I said.

“Exactly.”

I sat back against the seat, as the implications of this information rushed in. “Why was he not arrested for that murder?”

“The other man had a knife as well, and witness accounts varied as to what had actually occurred. In the end, they decided not to charge him. It caused a terrific scandal, however, and that's what sent him here. I gather he took up with Isobel's lot shortly after his arrival. He entered into an investment venture with Edwin Green as the public face of it, while he wooed and won your friend Freida, forcing her to marry him when she came up pregnant. All neatly accomplished in a matter of months.”

“Reggie said Mr. Collins and Mr. Green quarreled over the investments. Do you think perhaps he killed Edwin Green and then, thinking Isobel had somehow realized his guilt, killed her to cover it up?”

Milo shrugged. “It's possible.”

It was all beginning to make sense. Freida must have known something was wrong when Edwin Green was found dead, but she had likely just found out about her pregnancy. If Mr. Collins had been arrested, it would have left her in a very bad way. I didn't know if her fate could have warranted marrying a murderer, but there was no accounting for the decisions one made in extreme circumstances.

It seemed outlandish, but it was certainly possible. Poor, sweet Freida. Was it possible that she had been married all this time to a man she feared in an attempt to protect her family?

“Milo,” I said, “I think we'd better stop and have a word with Inspector Laszlo.” With perfect timing, it began to rain. It summed up perfectly how I felt about the inspector.

He glanced over at me. “Are you certain? I thought you and the inspector were on less-than-friendly terms.”

“I'm going to have to try to look past his boorish manners,” I said. “This is important.”

As it turned out, I did not have to worry. The sergeant at the desk looked up at me, unimpressed with my urgency.

“He's not here, madam.”

“Oh,” I said, disappointed. This I hadn't expected. I had supposed police inspectors did a good deal of sitting behind desks waiting for crimes to be committed. “I don't suppose you know when he will be back?”

“I'm afraid not.” He looked down at a paper before him, apparently dismissing me.

“Well, do you think it would be possible to have him telephone me at Lyonsgate when he returns?” I asked.

He looked up. “Lyonsgate is where he's gone, madam.”

That was even better.

“Excellent,” I said. “Might I use your telephone?”

He allowed me to telephone, though he didn't look exceptionally pleased about it. I wondered if Inspector Laszlo had been telling tales about me. Or perhaps he merely distrusted anyone who came from the vicinity of Lyonsgate.

When Laurel came on the line she sounded breathless, as though she had rushed to the phone. “Yes, Amory, what is it? Is something wrong?”

“No. That is … I'm not sure. I think that perhaps I know who the killer is.”

“Oh, is that all?” she asked, her voice heavy with sarcasm. “Well, tell me. Who is it?”

“I … I don't want to say just now. Is Inspector Laszlo still there?”

“Yes. Do you want to speak with him?”

“No,” I said. “Not now. But will you tell him that I have some very important information if he will wait for me there?”

“Yes, certainly. Amory…”

“Yes?”

“Be careful.”

*   *   *

WE STARTED BACK
toward Lyonsgate, and, in keeping with the atmosphere of the evening, it seemed as though the bottom fell out of the clouds. The rain was coming down in torrents. I supposed we were lucky it wasn't snowing. Then again, this was worse than a blizzard would have been.

Milo drove surprisingly slowly along the muddy roads, as it was difficult to see through the blinding rain. I couldn't help but feel it was more for the car's safety than for our own.

“Perhaps we had better stop until it lets up,” I said.

“It's likely going to rain all night,” he said. “We may as well keep going. We'll be back to Lyonsgate soon enough.”

I hoped that he was right. I had a distinctly uneasy feeling that I somehow felt was not entirely to do with the rain. Perhaps it was that I felt we were very near to revealing the identity of a killer.

I thought again of poor Freida. What would she do if Phillip Collins was hanged for the murder of Isobel Van Allen? It would be another crushing blow in a life that had already been marred by tragedy. I almost couldn't bear to think of it.

Suddenly, there were lights behind us. I turned around to look. A car was coming up fairly quickly, appearing as if from nowhere out of the rain. It must have come from one of the little lanes that occasionally broke through the trees, perhaps leading to nearby houses.

The car came on quickly, as though it didn't see us, and I felt a sudden rush of apprehension. The road was very wet, and I hoped we wouldn't be hit from behind by a careless driver. Not only that, we were approaching the part of the road that was lined by the deepest of the ditches. Sliding into one at these speeds might very well prove fatal.

But no, I was being unduly alarmed. The murder had set me on edge, and now I seemed to see a threat around every corner. Still, I couldn't help but look back over my shoulder.

It seemed to me that the lights of the car behind us were growing closer.

I turned back to the road ahead of us. We were about to round the narrow curve, and the deep ditches were just on the other side.

“That car is coming up quickly,” I said.

“Yes, I noticed.” Milo increased our speed, the car shooting over the wet road, and we rounded the curve at a pace that had my heart in my throat. I clutched the edge of my seat.