Peril at Somner House (10 page)

The room was vacant when I returned.

I suspected Angela had gone to check on Kate. I also suspected she'd taken opium or laudanum, as a tonic for Kate.

A modest review of character suggested Kate may have dabbled occasionally in the usage of such dependents, but thinking back to the fear reflected in her eyes whilst enduring the horrors of her husband's addiction, perhaps she rejected
all
forms, indignantly righteous and hating what it'd done to the man she once loved. I still believed she had loved Max when she married him. How soon afterward that changed, who could say?

The shades of love,
I scribbled down in my journal, chewing on the edge of my pencil. I felt enormously inspired by the events at Somner and the reappearance of the Major, along with the jealousies he provoked in me.

I penned a short story about friends meeting at a party: suspicion, old feelings, and a romantic resolution. I thought of the general populace and how most readers preferred happy endings. But all endings weren't happy, were they?

“Kate is beside herself.” Sweeping into the room, Angela threw herself into a chair. “I don't know what to do. I tried to give her something to calm her, but she flatly refuses.”

“The package in your handbag?” I queried. “What is it?”

She looked away. “Oh, don't go preachy on me. It's relatively harmless…a friend passed it to me.”

“What news of Josh Lissot?”

Angela shook her head. “She's upset over Josh. She wants to see him but Roderick said it wouldn't be wise.”

I thought this was interesting, for if Roderick wanted to neatly involve Kate in the murder of her husband, he'd have encouraged, even
taken,
her to see the man suspected of killing her husband.

Angela chattered on about Josh, rolling her eyes at Kate's anguish for the man she dubbed “as good as dead.” I dared to reply I believed Kate's attachment to Mr. Lissot greater than the average
affair d'amour
, but my sister talked off this assessment and I had to accept her truth. She
did
care for Kate Trevalyan, passionately. Whether or not Kate returned her affections remained to be seen.

To divert my mind from the possibility of a romance between my sister and Kate, I raised the subject of the funeral. We discussed the attendance and I received sisterly advice once again regarding the Major.

“Oh, but I forgot to tell you about Bella.” Wrinkling her nose, a tiny smirk appeared at her lips. “I spoke to her at great length and, well, emotions are always unveiled at funerals and she positively
hates
Kate. Not that she said it, but I saw it in her dark little eyes, watching Rod fix up Kate's shawl and that kind of thing. And she
loathes
that Eastley woman. Not that she said anything particular on that score either, but it appears
Jackson's been blackmailing Max for some time about the child and now that Max is dead, poor Rod's been hampered with the burden.”

I thought of Roderick: the good man, keeper of his brother's commitments. Of course, he'd honor any existing arrangement between Jackson and his daughter. “What does Mrs. Eastley do for work?”

“She works at the local tavern, I believe,” Angela said in a caustic tone.

I pictured Rachael Eastley catching Max's eye and becoming pregnant, forced to confess the news to Max and her father. Kate, the wife who'd wanted a baby, must have been devastated to learn the truth and the possibility of a scandal, thus leaving the door open to blackmail. It was a story in and of itself.

“Oh,” Angela said offhandedly, “I thought you'd want to know. Rod has invited the Major and his officers to dinner tomorrow night. Apparently, Kate wished it.”

Despite my resolve, I felt an excitable apprehension upon hearing this news. The Major…
here
at Somner. It reminded me of the first time I met him, when he pretended to be a common fisherman for days before appearing at Ewe Sinclaire's door, shining and respectable. Our spars then were no different from now. In fact, I think they'd worsened. I could not deny my attraction to the charismatic Major, yet I did not admit it at the time. And I never would, I vowed silently.

I knew why Kate had invited him and so did Angela. She wanted to enlist the Major's support in helping her jailed lover. But did the Major carry any influence here, on the remote Isles of Scilly?

I doubted it.

I also doubted the respectableness of Mr. Fernald. He was
too young to be investigating a murder. Did anybody know anything about him? His family? Background? Connections? Friends?

Oh, for an Ewe Sinclaire! I missed her frank aptness for village gossip, always reliable and for the most part, accurate in her colorful reportage. What does one do without essential village gossip?

I posed this sad dilemma to Sir Marcus when next we met.

“We could try the hunchback…yes, I'm in for a spot of culinary endeavors. To the kitchen and Hugo we fare.”

It was the hour before dinner.

“I don't think Hugo will like us interfering in his domain,” I tried to warn, but Sir Marcus marched on ahead.

Everything appeared orderly when we arrived. A simple meal, roasted chicken, lay warm in its oven and we found Hugo crouched over stirring some kind of sauce mixed with tomatoes, potatoes, and carrots.

His daunting, lopsided brow struck up at our noisy interruption. Wiping his hands across his apron, he grunted. “What d'you want? Sir? Miss?”

No pleasantries there. Recognizing his fault, he colored a little and repeated the question with the appropriate softening tones, his watchful eyes intent on Sir Marcus jovially inspecting the kitchen.

Embarrassed, I shrugged my shoulders while Sir Marcus blithely dithered around, proclaiming the excellence of several archaic utensils, saying, “Yes, yes, we can use that.”

“Use what, milord?” Abandoning his sauce, the hunchback followed Sir Marcus about the room.

“I am certain Lord Trevalyan would have said we have special guests tomorrow night? Well, Hugo, this is your lucky
day. Miss Daphne and I are here to help. We'll provide three of the dishes.”

Hugo looked dumbfounded. “Three?”

“Yes, three.”

“Did, er, his lordship—”

“Indeed, he has,” Sir Marcus affirmed, shepherding me around the kitchen to share his vision for our three dishes.

I lifted an incredulous brow. He
hadn't
asked Roderick at all. It was a complete falsehood that Sir Marcus made up for during dinner later that day.

“You wish to cook for us?” Rod was astounded.

“Why, yes. I like to dally about in the kitchen…unless anybody has any objections?”

Nobody dared to object and the plan was set. Unfortunately, the laboriously quiet meal that eve left a bitter taste in my mouth. In truth, I began to look forward to the Major's arrival the next day. A pleasant diversion was needed and I trusted he and his three companions would break the monotonous sobriety of the silent Rod, the withdrawn Kate, and the petulant, tight-lipped Bella.

Due to their recent tête-à-tête at the funeral, Angela managed to implore the latter to talk of her home in Devon where she cared for a tyrannical aunt and what sounded like a jungle of a garden. Listening along, I pitied Arabella and understood why she fancied coming to the island, to Somner. I pictured her in her little cottage, her aunt badgering her, and Bella, hoping,
waiting
for that letter, that invitation to return to Somner House once again. Somner became her salvation.

“His murder was unduly cruel,” Bella said the next morning at the breakfast table to Angela and me, since the others had not yet made their appearance.

“I agree with you.” Angela nodded, liberally buttering her toast. “But Mr. Lissot will soon be charged.”

“But they haven't charged him yet. They still delay, when it is obvious.
Why?
”

Angela gave a nonchalant shrug. “These things take time. How is dear Rod coping? You know your cousin best, Bella. He'll need your help now…living all alone on the island.”

Bella's face brightened.

“You should marry him,” Angela advised with a tinge of sarcasm in her voice, causing the color to deepen on Bella's face. “
Together,
you could rescue Somner out of deep peril and preserve the legacy.”

I could see the thought had already occurred to Bella.

After breakfast, I went for a walk. Trudging along the beach path, the path where they'd found the body, I envisaged Max lying there, his head encased by a pool of blood, his face bludgeoned and unrecognizable. I shivered. It was horrible. What manner of person would do such a thing? Jackson? I had observed a shrewdness in the gardener's face. He would push the Trevalyans for benefits, for his daughter and grandson, but the question remained, how far would he, or
had
he, pushed? I could see him hiding in the bushes, waiting for Max, a sickle in his hand.

I glanced up. My feet had carried me along the beach toward the tower. Cursing my lack of thoughtfulness in not bringing a shawl or my woolen fedora, I climbed up the beach path, my teeth chattering in the face of the icy wind.

The lure of the tower beckoned. How sad and lonely it looked, emblazoned against the wintry sky.

“You there!” Suddenly an old man appeared jabbing a pitch
fork at me. “Who are ye? Didn't yer read the sign? It says no tresspassin'.”

Gasping for my breath, I raised a friendly hand. “Sorry, sir. I'm not trying to break in. I'm a houseguest at Somner House. Lord Roderick's guest, in actual fact,” I added in all haste.

“Eck?”

The pitchfork lowered a fraction.

“Yes,” I confirmed, keeping my voice calm as I related how I'd come to the island and how my sister knew Lady Kate Trevalyan.

“Ah.”

Lowering the pitchfork to the ground, he wiped his mouth on his grimy sleeve. “Ye lost then?”

“Not really.” I blushed. “I know Lord Roderick is not at home, but I do so love to explore this island. Have you always lived here? Do you work for the Trevalyans?”

The man frowned at me. Too many questions, I realized, and employing Sir Marcus's tactic, I resumed the cheery conversational mode. “I
adore
the ocean and boats. I watch them from my home at Ferryside in Fowey. I love the way they glide across the water. One can never be freer than in a boat, don't you agree, Mr….?”

My elaborate friendliness worked. Setting aside his pitchfork, the man gestured to the boatshed. “Pencheff's the name, and if ye like boats, Missy…”

“Oh, I do,” I assured him.

“Then I'll let ye have a look round. I don't think Mr. Rod'll mind, seein' ye his guest and all.”

I didn't know what I expected to find or if there existed a logical point to my current endeavor, but I had not lied. I did
live in Fowey and I did admire boats. I could sit and watch them all day, tapping my fingers on the windowsill, except, of course, when there were chores to do. My mother did not like idleness and I often received a stern reprimand for my frequent daydreaming.

Having visited a few boatsheds, this one intrigued me with its rusty tin exterior and cobwebs trailing down from the corners of the haphazard workshop, where tools, machines, and nature collided. “This is the newest boat you're building for Lord Trevalyan?” I asked, caressing the side of the simple schooner. “Where does he keep them or do you sell them?”

“We sell 'em.”

Nodding, I continued my quiet tour of appreciation, gaining his respect by mentioning one or two things a woman didn't usually know about boats.

“Er, Missy,” Mr. Pencheff grimaced, “not many boats for fancy folk. These are small and built for fishin'. Ye like these ones, do ye?”

“Yes. They are more of a challenge.”

He wanted to show me the latest rudder, explaining how “Mr. Rod” designed it and how they'd tested the invention out together.

“Everybody likes Lord Roderick,” I said. “But they don't seem to have liked his brother.”

“O-ei!
Bad
blood, that one. Good he's dead. Would've happened sooner or later.”

“They say it's murder,” I murmured, wide-eyed. “The wife's lover did it, they also say. What do you think?”

I received no response, but following my inquiry regarding the painting of the sanded-down boat, Mr. Pencheff gave out a whoop of righteous indignation.

“Poor lady. Don't know how she's put up with Mr. Max all these years. Can't blame her. Pity they've got to lock her friend away.”

“She's worried they will lock
her
away,” I said, and my companion's eyes rounded, an unknown seafaring curse escaping his lips.

“Mr. Rod won't have it. She should've married him after all.”

I agreed, treading upon the subject with a modest degree of caution. “Did Lady Kate ever come to the tower?”

The boat builder neither confirmed nor denied it.

“It would be a nice end if she married Lord Roderick,” I said, “but this man in jail was special to her and then there's the cousin—”

Mr. Pencheff spluttered his disgust. “Oh, heard
she's
here again. Funny girl, that one.”

“Yes,” I said, waiting for him to give me a history of Bella's association with the island and its folk. When none came and the quaint inference hung about unfulfilled, I pressed him on the subject.

“It ain't me ye should be talkin' to but me Mrs.”

“Mrs. Pencheff?”

He nodded and I asked for directions to see Mrs. Pencheff.

“It's the first cottage on the hill.”

He pointed up to the ridge and I thanked him, walking briskly in case he should change his mind. Salt air assailed my face as I climbed the winding little beach track, only a few yards from the tower.