A Most Novel Revenge (33 page)

“No,” Reggie Lyons said, stepping forward. “It … it wasn't Beatrice. It was me.”

 

30

INSPECTOR LASZLO'S HANDSOME
face registered a brief expression of surprise. “Is that so, Mr. Lyons?”

“Yes,” Reggie said. His face was flushed and his hands were trembling. “I … I stabbed Isobel. I didn't want her to write another book. She did enough to ruin our lives already.”

“How did you do it?” the inspector asked.

“I … I stabbed her,” he said again.

“You can't bear the sight of blood,” Laurel said, and there was a hint of anxiety in her voice. She didn't want to believe it, and she was grasping at straws.

He looked at her, the sweat beading on his forehead. “I … I did it in a fit of rage. I didn't have time to think about what I was doing. I'm sorry, Laurel,” he said gruffly.

“And how did the knife get into Mrs. Kline's car?” Inspector Laszlo asked, supremely unmoved by the scene between Reggie and Laurel. If anything, I thought he seemed a bit annoyed at the gentle way they had spoken to each other.

“I … I meant to hide it,” Reggie said. “I thought if I put it in my car, I could get rid of it later. In my haste, I must have put it in the wrong car.”

“And you drove Mr. and Mrs. Ames off the road on their way back from the village?”

“I … yes.”

“Why?”

Reggie swallowed, licked his lips. “I was in a hurry. I didn't mean to.”

Inspector Laszlo did not appear to be convinced. “I think perhaps both you and Mrs. Kline had better come with me.”

Beatrice nodded almost regally, the queen on her way to the scaffold. Reggie took a jolting step toward the door.

“Wait,” I said suddenly. I had been watching the surprising scene unfold as if in a daze, but it was time to act on what I knew before things went too far. “It wasn't Reggie. Or Mrs. Kline.”

Everyone seemed a bit surprised that I had spoken, for they all turned to stare at me. I was a bit surprised myself, but I knew that I must go on now that I had started. I had discovered the final pieces of the puzzle in the summerhouse, and it was time for the truth to be revealed. “Reggie Lyons didn't kill Isobel Van Allen,” I repeated. “And neither did Mrs. Kline. I'm afraid that it was someone else.”

Inspector Laszlo looked extremely annoyed, but he didn't interrupt me. I had to give him credit for that.

“You see, it seemed strange from the beginning that Isobel Van Allen had chosen to return to Lyonsgate. She was having financial difficulties, it's true, but she might have written the book from Africa or anywhere in the world. She claimed to be coming back for the truth, but I think that she was coming back to have her final revenge.”

“Revenge?” Laurel asked. “Against whom?”

I looked across the room. “Against Beatrice.”

For a moment the mask dropped, and she actually looked surprised.

“Isobel told me that morning at breakfast that people must pay for their sins. I wondered, at first, if she meant that she was paying the price for what had happened after she wrote
The Dead of Winter
, but I don't think that's what she meant. She spoke of having once hoped to find true love.” My eyes swept over everyone present, mentally checking off Reggie, Mr. Winters, and Mr. Collins. They had all been her lovers.

“She worked her way through the men in your party,” I said, “but her sights were set on Bradford Glenn. I found pieces of a romance novel she had written in the summerhouse, and the description of the hero fit him exactly. However, she never finished that novel. Mr. Glenn never looked her way, and I think it made her furious that her relentless pursuit of him was in vain. She was, after all, accustomed to getting what she wanted. Everyone said as much. But Bradford Glenn was the one thing that had eluded her, and she decided to make him pay. When Edwin Green died, she found the perfect way to ruin his life.”

“Then Bradford didn't kill Edwin?” Laurel asked.

“No. Isobel knew that he didn't. She and…” I hesitated, “another gentleman were seen coming from the summerhouse late that night. They would have come across his body on their way to the house if they had been there. I can only assume that Edwin Green was still sleeping in the summerhouse when they left and later tried to make it back to Lyonsgate, collapsing in the snow just as the coroner's jury had ruled.”

I glanced at Freida and saw her reach over to grasp her husband's hand. Mr. Collins looked momentarily startled, but he did not pull his hand away.

“She wrote the novel to revenge herself on Bradford Glenn, for having refused her,” I went on. “When he wrote in his suicide note that he was guilty of nothing but loving too much, it must have seemed like the final affront. She could never forget it, and she could not forgive Beatrice. And so, when things became too difficult in Kenya, she decided to come back and finish what she started. She decided to tell you all that she was writing another book. She had, after all, been making a small amount of money writing romance novels. But she wouldn't show the manuscript to you, Mr. Roberts.”

He looked up, the expression on his face one of misery. I knew it must be a great blow to him to know that Isobel had been consumed with a passion for vengeance so great that even after seven years all else had fallen before it. His life, the life of his brother, had meant very little to her, and the pain was clear on his handsome features.

“No,” he said softly. “She would never show it to me.”

“That's because she wasn't really writing it,” I said.

Everyone stared at me.

“No, she was,” Reggie broke in, his voice suddenly frantic. “I burned it after I stabbed her.”

“Be quiet, Mr. Lyons,” Inspector Lazslo said, not taking his eyes from me. “Go on, Mrs. Ames.”

“There was something burned in Miss Van Allen's fireplace, but I don't think it was a manuscript. I don't think she ever intended to write a book because I don't think she meant to go back to Africa alive.”

Mr. Roberts moaned, burying his face in his hands.

I turned to Mr. Winters. He was watching me with a dreamy expression, as though what I was saying had no impact on him. Perhaps it didn't. Perhaps he would never fully connect with reality. Maybe it was better that way.

“Mr. Winters, you told me that Isobel sent you a letter from Kenya, telling you that she intended to live out her days in the country that she loved.”

“Yes,” he replied. “She swore she would never live in England again.”

“But there was a tragedy in Kenya, and Isobel was forced to leave,” I said. “She knew that she could never return to her beloved adopted homeland, and so she decided to come back and have her revenge, even if she destroyed herself in the process.”

“It can't be true,” Mr. Roberts murmured. “It can't be.”

I felt a wave of pity for the young man whose life was falling apart, but I knew I could not stop now. The truth had to be revealed.

“Isobel had given Mr. Roberts a vial of poison. It was seen by one of the servants among his things.”

“Is that true, Mr. Roberts?” Inspector Laszlo asked gruffly. “Did Miss Van Allen give you the poison?”

Mr. Roberts nodded, his head still lowered. “She bought it before we left Kenya. When I found out, I made her give it to me. I was afraid she meant to use it on herself.”

“I think she did,” I said. “When the time was right and she had caused enough suffering, she intended to kill Beatrice and then herself. She had arranged already for her body to be sent back to Africa.”

Mr. Roberts groaned again. “I didn't know,” he said. “I didn't know…” his voice broke and his shoulders shook with silent sobs.

Lucinda moved to sit beside him, resting her hand gently on his arm.

“Which brings us to the question of Isobel's murder,” I said. I looked over at Milo and he nodded, encouraging me to continue.

“If Edwin Green's killer was not still on the loose, who would have motive to kill Isobel?” I asked. “It seemed that if she was not killed to keep a secret safe, she must have been killed for some other reason. Revenge seems the most obvious choice. This was not exactly illuminating. Just as she wished to have revenge, any one of you might have had reason to kill her for what she had done. She ruined all your lives, after all.”

My gaze met Laurel's. Her dark eyes were troubled and her hands were resting in her lap, clenched tightly together. I wished I had been able to confide in her before now, but I felt that much rested on the element of surprise, from Laurel and everyone else. After all, I had no proof. I could only hope that, in a moment of heightened tension, the killer would let something slip. I pressed on.

“I had thought, all along, that there might be something to be gained from knowing the story put forth in
The Dead of Winter
, and so I read it. Two scenes in particular seemed important: the scene in which the character representing Bradford Glenn attempted to strangle the character meant to be Beatrice and the scene in which the characters representing Bradford Glenn and Edwin Green came to blows.

“In the first, Mr. Glenn is so angry with Beatrice that he tries to kill her, after which he professes his love. This seemed to indicate that Beatrice had rejected him, giving him a sufficient motive to do Mr. Green harm.”

I looked at Beatrice. She was watching me, her face hard and expressionless.

“Isobel wrote that she and Mr. Lyons had rushed into the room and witnessed the scene, which seemed to lend it validity. Then you told me yourself, Mrs. Kline, that it had happened, and I had no cause to doubt it.”

“He did try to strangle Beatrice,” Reggie said. “Isobel and I came in to find Beatrice had been forced to hit him with the candlestick, just as she wrote.”

“Yes,” I agreed. “But that was not quite all of the story, was it?”

Reggie and Beatrice stared at me. There was a pleading expression in his eyes, and absolutely nothing in hers.

“The other scene that caught my attention was near the end of the book. Bradford Glenn was paying court to Beatrice, fawning over her, at which point Edwin Green confronted him. Mr. Green's words were something to the effect of ‘I know what you have been doing.' These words cause Mr. Glenn to fly into a rage and attack Edwin Green. Does that seem accurate?”

“That's how I remember it,” Laurel said softly. “Edwin seemed jealous that Bradford was flirting with Beatrice, and so he provoked him into a fight.”

I nodded. “Isobel stepped in and stopped the fight. She wanted, I think, to prove herself to Bradford by defending him, but it didn't work.”

I paused, preparing myself for what I was about to reveal. I looked again at Milo. He was smoking a cigarette by the fire, his eyes on mine. Somehow I derived assurance from the steadiness of his gaze.

I continued. “But then I went to the summerhouse tonight and found several documents and photographs in the drawer of the desk, and suddenly everything seemed to make sense. I realized who had killed Isobel and why. There was a secret, and it was one that Isobel never guessed.”

I drew in a breath and let the truth rush out with it.

“You see, it wasn't Beatrice that Bradford Glenn loved at all. It was Lucinda.”

 

31

REGGIE SWORE BENEATH
his breath and Beatrice's already expressionless face seemed to freeze in a mask of dismay, every drop of color leached from it.

Everyone stared at me.

“Mrs. Ames,” Lucinda said with a confused smile, looking up from her seat beside Mr. Roberts. “You … you must be joking, surely?”

“I wish I was,” I said softly.

“It isn't true,” Reggie said, rousing himself. “I did it. I've said as much already. Arrest me, Inspector.”

“Why don't you let Mrs. Ames finish her story, Mr. Lyons,” Inspector Laszlo said calmly.

“I didn't think anything of it at the time, of course,” I continued, “but more than one person made mention to me of how kind Mr. Glenn was to Lucinda. That, in itself, was not especially noteworthy. Lucinda is a very pretty and amiable young woman. It's only natural that men should be kind to her.”

“What you're saying is insulting, Mrs. Ames,” Reggie Lyons said, but his voice lacked conviction.

“But then all the little pieces of the story started to come together, and I saw that it was more than that. Bradford hadn't tried to strangle Beatrice because she was in love with Edwin Green. He had done it because Beatrice was trying to separate him from her sister.”

I looked at Beatrice, and she looked back at me. I could read nothing in her gaze.

“They quarreled about his relationship with Lucinda, and he had tried to strangle Beatrice in a blind rage,” I said. “He felt sorry for it afterward, of course, but his temper was quick where his secret was concerned. It was the same way with the fight in the summerhouse. Edwin must have suspected something was going on between Bradford and Lucinda. He said ‘I know what you've been doing,' and it angered Bradford. He had been doing his best to make people believe he was in love with Beatrice, you see. After all, what better way for him to secure perpetual invitations to Lyonsgate, where he could be with Lucinda?”

“This is absurd!” Reggie cried.

I glanced at Lucinda. She was staring straight ahead, her jaw clenched, her face pale.

“There was another thing that drew my attention to the secret romance,” I went on. “I spoke with a woman in the village earlier today, and she made mention of a significant age difference between a rumored pair of lovers, saying it had caused a good deal of scandal. I thought she meant that Isobel was much older than the men with whom she chose to associate. It didn't cross my mind then that it was not the relationship between an older woman and a younger man that had caused speculation. It had been a man in his mid-twenties and a child of sixteen.”