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- Herausgeber: Allison & Busby
- Kategorie: Krimi
- Serie: Amory Ames
- Sprache: Englisch
A mysterious summons from her cousin Laurel causes Amory Ames and her playboy husband Milo to set off post-haste for the Lyonsgate estate in the English countryside. The pair are surprised to discover an eccentric and distinguished group of guests have been invited, echoing a party from seven years ago of wild young things which ended in tragedy. At the centre of the group stands the notorious socialite Isobel Van Allen. But someone wants the past to stay buried and they are desperate enough to turn to murder. It's up to Amory and Milo to sort through a web of scandal and lies to uncover the truth, and the identity of a killer.
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Seitenzahl: 432
Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2016
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A MOST NOVEL REVENGE
ASHLEY WEAVER
For Allison Dodson, my cousin, best friend, and reader from the beginning
CONTENTS
CHAPTER ONE
England February 1933
‘Well, darling, who do you suppose will turn up dead this time?’
This sudden and wildly inappropriate question had come from my husband, who didn’t bother to take his eyes from the winding, snow-lined road as we drove along, the bright afternoon sunlight glinting off the drifts that lined it on either side.
‘Milo! What a dreadful thing to say.’
He was, as usual, unapologetic. ‘You must admit that people have had a habit of turning up dead in your company this past year.’
He had a point, though I didn’t like to admit it. Over the course of the last several months, I had been involved in two murder investigations, both of which had ended with my confronting killers at gunpoint.
What was more, I was not altogether certain that our current jaunt to the country would prove entirely without incident. The way this trip had begun, I was worried there might indeed be more trouble.
The entire thing had started two days ago upon receipt of the morning post. I had recognised the violet envelope and scrawling penmanship at once. A letter from my cousin Laurel.
I sliced open the envelope to find a hastily penned note, the contents of which had been overtly mysterious.
I didn’t want to send a wire, as that might call unwanted attention, but consider this just as urgent a summons. You must come to Lyonsgate at once. I won’t tell you why. Perhaps that will entice you.
Below this she had scribbled in a more hasty hand:
Don’t let my flippancy persuade you that I am not in earnest. You must come immediately.
Laurel
P.S. Bring Milo if you must.
The letter, in and of itself, was not especially unusual. Laurel had a flair for the dramatic, a trait which often manifested itself in her correspondence. This time, however, it was what the letter didn’t say that intrigued me. I could think of no conceivable reason why she should have chosen to set foot at Lyonsgate again. Not after what had happened there.
Seven years before, while Laurel was staying as a guest, the manor had been the scene of a tragic accident, the result of a weekend of revelry gone awry. It had caused a scandal that had reverberated throughout the country and had affected my cousin deeply.
Suffice it to say, the letter had served its purpose. And that was how we had come to be driving towards Shropshire at reckless speeds in Milo’s new Aston Martin Le Mans. The sleek, black automobile had been his Christmas gift to himself, and he had insisted on driving us to the country. Markham, our driver, had been, I think, a bit put out by this development, as he was anxiously awaiting his time at the wheel. Markham needn’t have worried, however, for I was quite sure that the novelty of Milo driving himself would quickly wear off.
Luckily, he was still enamoured enough of his vehicle that the allure of long stretches of open road had enticed him into agreeing to the journey. He, initially, had not been at all keen on going to Lyonsgate. His idea had been to winter in Italy, and I was certain this weekend would prove a poor substitute, on several levels.
‘I really haven’t the faintest idea why I agreed to come along,’ Milo said, as though following my train of thought. ‘I’ve no desire to spend the week at a draughty house in the middle of nowhere with a lot of tiresome people.’
My husband was not much of one to spend a quiet weekend in the country. He was, in fact, rather known for his extensive social forays, a trait which had contributed to the near ruin of our marriage only last year. We had come to terms, however, and I had waited with bated breath to see if his reformation would take. Thus far I had not been disappointed.
‘I’m sure we shall be back in London before the week is out,’ I assured him. ‘There’s no reason to suppose that there is actually anything amiss. You know how Laurel is.’
‘Yes,’ he said flatly. ‘What I don’t know is why you insist on indulging her.’
Laurel’s less than enthusiastic invitation to Milo in her letter’s postscript was, on the whole, indicative of the relationship between my cousin and my husband. Milo and Laurel had never been exceptionally fond of one another, though they normally did their best to be civil with varying results.
‘You must admit it is curious,’ I said. ‘What on earth could have induced her to go back to Lyonsgate?’
‘It’s been, what, six years now? I’m certain the horror has worn off.’
‘Seven years. From the way she spoke about it at the time, I was sure she’d never even set foot in Shropshire again.’
‘If she doesn’t want to be there, I’m not sure why we should. Do you even know Reginald Lyons?’
‘No.’ While I didn’t know the man who would be our host, I certainly knew of him. In fact, most of the country knew the name of Lyons, mainly because of what had taken place at their country home, Lyonsgate, during that fateful weekend in 1925.
It was only by happenstance that Laurel had been there. She had never run with a wild set, but she had been friends with Reggie Lyons and his sister Beatrice since they were quite young. Their father and his young wife had both succumbed to influenza while he was still in France, and Reggie had inherited the estate and the care of his sisters upon his return. I think it had been something of an adventure for my cousin to be invited to attend a weekend at Lyonsgate, which had become the unofficial headquarters of one of England’s premier young social groups after Reggie had fallen in with a woman called Isobel Van Allen.
The undisputed leader of her clique, Isobel Van Allen had been something of a legend in her own time. Of humble and mysterious beginnings, she had propelled herself into fashionable society with a winning combination of startling beauty, sharp wit, and a will of iron. By the time she had come into Reggie Lyons’ life she had been several years older than the others in their set, with a worldly allure none of them could resist.
She had a great many wild friends, and when Reggie Lyons had become her lover, she had introduced him to them. His estate, Lyonsgate, had begun to host fabulous parties, the details of which made their way into the gossip columns. There had been photographs of outlandish-themed revels, and rumours of drugs and other illicit conduct had surfaced. They were not, of course, the only group of well-off young people drawn into a spiral of reckless hedonism in the years following the Great War, but the tragedy at Lyonsgate had made them one of the more infamous.
The days leading up to that particular event had no doubt seemed to indicate it would be a weekend like any other, but by the time the weekend was over, a young man was dead and the lives of the others had never been the same.
Milo took the next turn entirely too quickly, bringing my attention back to the present.
‘I’d rather not end up in the ditch, if it’s all the same to you,’ I said lightly.
‘Of course not. I wouldn’t put the car in jeopardy.’
‘That’s comforting.’
He shot a smile at me. ‘Or you either, darling.’
‘There must be some reason why Laurel has asked me to come so urgently,’ I said, still preoccupied. ‘I think it might have something to do with Edwin Green’s death.’
Accounts varied of what had actually occurred that night at Lyonsgate. What was never contested was the fact that on a cold, dark morning after an evening of drunken revels, Edwin Green’s body had been found, nearly naked, on the frozen ground halfway between the summer house and the manor.
The inquest had declared it heart failure brought on by hypothermia and a combination of extreme inebriation and a deadly cocktail of drugs, the remnants of which had been found scattered about the summer house.
It might always have been seen as an unfortunate accident, the tragic consequences of a life lived too recklessly, had it not been for Isobel Van Allen. While the others had done their best to keep things quiet, she had spoken frequently with the press, alluding to the fact that there was more to the tragedy than met the eye.
She had always had an affinity for sensationalism and a gift for words, and she used them to her advantage. Six months after Edwin Green’s death, she had released a novel called The Dead of Winter. It had been touted as nothing more than fiction, but everyone knew the truth, that it was the account of what had happened at Lyonsgate.
Everyone who had been there had been drawn quite clearly, with different names, of course, all their vices and secrets brought to life in colourful prose.
It wasn’t so much the way the book had been done that caused the fuss. What had caused the scandal was that she had insinuated that Edwin Green’s death had not been an accidental overdose and hypothermia as the coroner’s inquest had ruled. Instead, she claimed it had been murder on the part of a young man called Bradford Glenn, who had been Edwin Green’s rival for the affections of Beatrice Lyons. Bradford had, the book alleged, taken advantage of Edwin Green’s condition and purposefully dragged him into the cold to die.
No legal measures had ever been taken, of course. There was no proof. But Mr Glenn had been ruined, nonetheless, and had disappeared from society.
As for Isobel Van Allen, her book had had the opposite effect to what she had intended. Though she had made a great deal of money, she had been ostracised and snubbed at every turn by those who enjoyed the book in private but shunned it publicly as nothing more than vulgar exploitation. Eventually she had gone off to Kenya. That was the last I had heard of her.
Reggie Lyons had shut up Lyonsgate and had gone to live abroad, Beatrice Lyons had married shortly afterwards, and the youngest Lyons sister had been sent off to boarding school.
Laurel had been greatly troubled by it all, but eventually the matter had gone to the back of all our minds. It was not something one much cared to remember.
So what was it that had brought the Lyonses back to Lyonsgate? And why had Laurel gone there? Why the urgent summons? I wanted to believe that it was nothing more than my cousin’s overactive imagination, but my instincts told me there was something more to it than that.
‘It will certainly be interesting to view the scene of such a scandal,’ I remarked.
‘I thought we disliked scandals,’ he said.
Milo and I had had more than our share of scandals in the past. Though he had been behaving beautifully as of late, more than a few indiscretions had been linked to his name since our marriage.
‘We dislike personal scandals,’ I corrected. ‘But the death of Edwin Green has no direct bearing on us.’
‘As of yet.’
He was, as it turns out, correct. I dislike it intensely when he is right.
It was early afternoon when we reached Lyonsgate. The entrance to the estate came almost without warning, a gate appearing suddenly to break up the wall of trees that lined the road. Milo screeched nearly to a stop and pulled into the drive. I breathed a sigh of relief that we had reached our destination in one piece. This car moved entirely too quickly for my comfort.
Before us the wrought-iron gate was guarded by two huge stone lions on massive pillars, their mouths open, teeth bared, in what might have been either half-hearted roars or aggressive yawns.
‘A bit obvious, perhaps, but I suppose impressive enough,’ Milo noted.
I had to agree with him. At least, it must have been impressive one time. Now, with dead vines creeping up the rails as though to strangle the weary-looking beasts, it seemed a bit sad somehow. I knew that the Lyons family had not been in residence for many years, but it looked as though upkeep of the estate had not been a priority in their absence.
The gates were open wide to reveal a long drive. We pulled through and, once out of the little copse of trees, we had the first glimpse of the house. The afternoon sun shone brightly on walls of pale stone. It was impressive, beautiful in a sombre way, yet there was something haunting about it as well. Perhaps it was my imagination, knowing what I did about the history of the house, but it seemed to me that there was something forlorn in its appearance.
To the east, in the direction of the village, I could make out the lake and a distant building that was no doubt the summer house where Edwin Green had spent his last night. It looked quiet and peaceful in the light of a bright winter afternoon.
We pulled up before the house, and Milo came around to open my door. I stepped out of the car onto the gravel drive, looking up at the imposing stone facade. It was not what one would call a welcoming building. It was in the Tudor style and, if I remembered my history of English manors correctly, the main part of the house dated back to that period, with additional wings having been added by subsequent generations.
The house had clearly been neglected, and, though work had recently been done to refurbish it, an air of desertion still hung about the place. The stones were stained and scarred, at least what was visible of them beneath the tangled profusion of dried ivy. The oriel windows on the lower floors had been cleaned and gleamed brightly in the sunlight, but the higher windows were streaked with dirt and grime.
A cold gust of wind blew just then, and I felt what might be termed a foreboding chill.
I heard the sound of approaching steps behind us, and we turned to see a woman coming around the house, leading a horse. She was a pretty girl with honey-coloured hair glinting in the afternoon sunlight. She was young, perhaps twenty-two or -three, and I guessed that she must be the younger Lyons sister.
The sun was in her eyes for a moment, but when she stepped into the shadow of the building she caught sight of us and walked in our direction.
‘I thought I heard a car,’ she said. As her eyes adjusted from the glare she caught sight of Milo and stopped, a flush spreading over her cheeks. ‘Oh. Hello.’
She looked up at him, dazzled. I had to admit that I sometimes forgot how very handsome Milo was until I observed other women’s reactions to meeting him. With his black hair, bright blue eyes, and striking good looks, he always managed to create quite a favourable first impression. All this was supplemented with a winning manner and excessive charm, which made my husband exceptionally popular with the ladies.
‘Hello,’ Milo replied. I was gratified that he seemed more interested in the horse than the pretty young woman leading it.
‘I’m Lucinda Lyons,’ the young woman said. ‘Lindy, to my friends.’ She smiled as she said it and, if I was not mistaken, batted her lashes.
‘How do you do, Miss Lyons. I’m Milo Ames, and this is my wife, Amory.’
She looked at me for almost the first time, as though she had only just noticed that I was there.
‘How do you do,’ I said, amused. It was not the first time Milo had absorbed all the female attention in the general vicinity.
‘You’re Laurel’s cousin, aren’t you?’ she said, recovering nicely. ‘I’ve heard so much about you. I’m very pleased to meet you at last.’
‘And I you. It was kind of your brother to invite us. The house is lovely,’ I said, looking behind me.
‘I don’t like it at all,’ she said without any particular emotion.
Her horse shifted its feet impatiently and she turned to speak soothingly to him. ‘There, there, Romeo. You mustn’t misbehave in front of our guests.’
‘It’s a beautiful animal,’ Milo said, stepping forward to touch the shining chestnut coat. Milo loved horses. I suspected that part of the reason he had agreed to come, other than the opportunity to frighten me to death with hairpin turns, was that he had thought Reginald Lyons would have begun building up the stables at Lyonsgate now that he had returned. Milo liked to be sure that his horses were better than everyone else’s.
‘Oh, here’s Henson,’ Miss Lyons said as the door opened and the butler stepped out onto the portico. ‘Mr and Mrs Ames have arrived, Henson,’ she called.
‘Very good, Miss Lucinda.’
She turned back to us. ‘He’ll see to you. I’ll just bring Romeo back to the stables. Lovely meeting both of you.’
Her eyes were still on Milo as she said this, and it seemed that she had to tear them from his face to begin leading her horse away.
‘A charming young woman,’ Milo observed as we walked towards the house.
‘I expect you say so because she was properly dazzled by you.’
‘She’s practically a child.’
‘“Practically a child” and “a child” are two very different things,’ I replied dryly.
Henson led us into the house, and a moment later Reginald Lyons came into the entrance hall to greet us. He was not quite what I had expected, not how I remembered Laurel describing him. He had a handsome, ruddy face and was quite tall and a bit heavyset. He looked the part of a country squire in his tweeds and hunting boots.
I didn’t see much resemblance to his sister, and I judged him to be perhaps ten or twelve years older than she was. If I remembered correctly, Lucinda had a different mother than Reggie and Beatrice. Reggie had the same honey-coloured hair as his half-sister, but his eyes were dark brown rather than blue, and there was something troubled about them, a weariness that belied his robust facade.
‘Mr and Mrs Ames. Welcome to Lyonsgate,’ he said in a hearty tone.
‘Thank you for having us, Mr Lyons. The house is lovely.’
‘Thank you, thank you. I expect you’ll be looking for Laurel, but she’s out riding at the moment. Should be back soon enough.’
‘Your sister Lucinda just came back from her ride,’ I told him. ‘She’s a charming young woman.’
‘I was admiring her horse,’ Milo said. ‘It’s an excellent animal.’
Something flickered across Mr Lyons’ face, and then he nodded. ‘Thank you. I do enjoy horses. I’ll give you a tour of the stables later, if you like.’
‘I should like it very much indeed.’
‘I suppose first you’d like to be shown to your rooms …’
Before he could finish his sentence, there was movement on the staircase behind him.
A tall, dark, and very beautiful woman descended them to meet us in the entrance hall. I had never met her before, but I recognised her well enough.
It was Isobel Van Allen.
CHAPTER TWO
I was very surprised to see her standing there, especially after the events we had been discussing only this morning. What she was doing here rather than in the wilds of Kenya, I couldn’t imagine.
She didn’t look any older than I remembered her being in all the society photographs, except for perhaps a bit of tightness around her eyes. She was still a stunningly beautiful woman, poised and almost regal, her flawless skin apparently untouched by the scorching rays of the African sun. She was nearly as tall as Milo in her heeled shoes, and her slim figure looked as though it had been designed for the French fashions she wore. The scent of her expensive perfume hovered in the air around her as she came towards us.
‘Mrs Ames, isn’t it? How good of you to come.’
It was, I thought, something of an odd thing for a woman who was not our hostess to say, but perhaps she was acting as hostess. After all, she and Reggie Lyons had been lovers at one time. It had been my understanding that things had ended badly between them after the incident, but it would not be the first time a shattered romance had been rekindled. I didn’t have much time to process this thought, however, before she moved to stand before my husband.
Her gaze moved over Milo in an appraising way. ‘Hello, Milo,’ she said with a slow smile. ‘I would say you haven’t changed a bit, but that would be untrue. You’re even more handsome than I remembered. Your age suits you. I find very few men more handsome at thirty than they were at twenty.’
She held out her hand and Milo took it, her fingers, tipped with blood-red nails, curling around his.
‘Hello, Isobel. It’s been a long time.’
Milo showed no sign of uneasiness, but he never did. I had been unaware that they had known one another. My husband was full of delightful surprises.
She smiled. ‘Yes. Nine or ten years, at least. Funny how life brings people back around to you again, isn’t it? I shall look forward to getting reacquainted.’
I wondered what exactly their past relationship had been. Both of them being exceptionally good-looking people, I had a fair idea. Milo would have been in his early twenties when they knew each other and Miss Van Allen perhaps thirty-five, but the rumour was that she had always preferred younger men. Reggie Lyons was, himself, at least ten years younger than she.
‘And I’m delighted to get to know your charming wife.’ She turned her attention to me then, her dark eyes sweeping over me in an assessing, yet not unfriendly manner.
‘I’m so pleased to meet you, Mrs Ames,’ she said.
‘And I you,’ I replied, not really meaning a word of it.
‘You’ve married a beauty,’ she said to Milo, her eyes still on me. ‘Of course, it was only natural that you would.’
‘Perhaps Mr and Mrs Ames would like to see their rooms,’ Reginald Lyons said stiffly.
There was something odd about his interactions with Miss Van Allen, some strange sort of tension between them. It wasn’t just that he seemed uncomfortable with her rather forward remarks. Nor was it jealousy. In fact, it seemed clear to me in that moment that there had not been any rekindling of their romance. It was fairly obvious that he disliked her intensely but was doing his best to hide it. Why, then, had he invited her to Lyonsgate? It was very curious indeed.
Milo and I were shown to our adjoining rooms by a maid, and we did not have a private moment to speak about the encounter with Isobel Van Allen.
I walked into my bedroom, and my maid, Winnelda, who had gone ahead early that morning with the luggage, turned from where she was hanging my dresses in the wardrobe. She smiled brightly when she saw me and came to help me off with my coat.
‘Oh, hello, madam. I’m ever so glad you’ve arrived. This house is a bit frightening, isn’t it? I feel as though I might be trapped in some sort of fairy castle, with ogres and things lurking about. I didn’t much like to be alone here, without anyone I know.’
It would have been a fitting setting for Winnelda, as she reminded me of a fairy, pale and petite, with wide eyes and platinum hair. In truth, her actions reminded me a bit of a woodland sprite, the way she flittered from one thing to another. She had become my de facto lady’s maid, and I had grown quite fond of her, in spite of her flightiness.
‘It’s a charming house, though, isn’t it?’ I said.
‘It’s old,’ she replied disparagingly, wrinkling her nose. That was one way of describing the grand Tudor architecture, I supposed. Winnelda had become accustomed to the modern conveniences of our London flat, and I very much feared she was becoming a snob.
I took off my hat and gloves and looked around. The room was large and very cold, despite the fire burning in the fireplace. I thought I could even detect the whistle of the wind through the casements. The tapestries on the panelled wall were intricate and lovely, but they were not keeping much warmth in the bedroom. However, it was not the first draughty country house I had stayed in, and it would probably not be the last.
The furnishings were high-quality antiques that had seen better days. The bed was an enormous thing with intricately carved posts the size of tree trunks. It looked as though it might have dated back to the Tudors as well. The bedding, however, was modern, as was the thick rug on the floor. It seemed the Lyonses had done whatever they could to add a bit of warmth to the room.
Nevertheless, there remained something of the impression that the dust covers had been whisked away moments before our arrival. I wondered again what had brought them back to Lyonsgate. If the family had only returned here recently, I thought it strange that they should have wanted guests before the house had been properly prepared. In fact, I somehow felt that Mr Lyons did not want company at all. He had been cordial in the way of a man who is accustomed to behaving properly, but his enthusiasm had been artificial. This certainly wasn’t an ordinary country weekend.
Laurel had wanted me to come for reasons that remained to be seen, and Mr Lyons had no doubt politely acquiesced to her suggestion. If we were not exactly welcome here, I wondered even more why Isobel Van Allen had been invited. After all that had happened, I thought it somewhat strange that she should be welcomed back with open arms to the scene of a tragedy she had attempted to exploit for her own personal gain.
‘… ghosts creeping down the halls in long, trailing gowns. But I don’t know if they wore trailing gowns, did they?’
I came back to the present to find Winnelda watching me expectantly.
‘I’m not certain about the trains, Winnelda, but I don’t think you need worry much about ghosts.’
‘No, I suppose there are a good many strange people here already. I think it would be a shame to have ghosts as well.’
I was about to respond to this curious comment when there was a perfunctory tap on the door and Milo entered from the adjoining room. ‘Rather a draughty old place, isn’t it?’ he said, casting his eyes about my room. ‘Your room or mine, darling? I don’t intend to sleep in a cold bed alone. I shall need you for warmth.’
‘I’ll just go and see to … something, shall I, madam?’ Winnelda said, hurrying from the room.
‘You shouldn’t say such things in front of Winnelda,’ I told Milo with a smile. ‘You know she is easily shocked.’
‘I don’t see why she should be.’ He came to me and pulled me against him. ‘I should think she’d be accustomed to my wanton behaviour at this point.’
I looked up at him, taking the opportunity to address what was really on my mind. ‘While we’re on the subject of wanton behaviour, I wasn’t aware you knew Isobel Van Allen.’
‘Oh, didn’t I mention it?’ His face was the picture of perfect ease, and his arms around my waist didn’t loosen in the slightest.
‘No,’ I said. ‘You didn’t.’
‘Well, I didn’t know her very well.’
‘How well?’ I questioned pointedly, looking up at him. I might as well know the worst of it.
He met my gaze without reservation. ‘I was not among her coterie of young lovers, if that’s what you mean.’
Well, that was direct enough. ‘She seemed to harbour quite fond memories of you,’ I said.
‘She is, perhaps, remembering things differently from the way they were.’
I felt certain he was telling the truth. After all, we had not known one another at the time. There would be no reason for him to conceal it; I was perfectly aware that there had been women before me.
‘She’s very beautiful,’ I said.
‘I suppose, though her type has never appealed to me. Beneath her affected elegance, I found her a bit gauche.’
‘You surprise me. Whatever else she may be, I think she’s a very elegant woman.’
He shrugged. ‘It’s a very well-maintained façade, I’ll grant you. But veneers wear thin. In any event, you needn’t be concerned. I’m too old for her.’
I laughed. ‘I’m not concerned.’
He dropped a kiss on my lips, and then I stepped back from his embrace.
‘It’s very odd, though, isn’t it?’ I said. ‘Her being here, I mean. After what happened, I should have thought she would be the last person that Reginald Lyons would have invited to Lyonsgate.’
‘They’re not fond of one another,’ Milo said. So he had noticed it, too.
‘No,’ I said vaguely. ‘I wonder if anyone else has been invited.’
There was a sharp rapping on the door, and a moment later it was flung open and my cousin Laurel came into the room.
She wore her riding clothes, her face still flushed from the cold, her golden hair windblown. ‘Amory, darling! I knew you’d come!’ She brushed a kiss across my cheek and spared a glance at my husband. ‘Hello, Milo.’
‘Laurel,’ he acknowledged, with an equal lack of enthusiasm.
‘How was your trip?’ she asked me. ‘Did you take the train?’
‘No, Milo drove us in his new car.’
Her brows rose, a hint of mockery glinting in her brown eyes. ‘Did he? How very bourgeois of him.’
‘I’ll just give the two of you time to catch up, shall I?’ Milo said. ‘Lyons said he’d show me the stables.’
‘Yes, of course.’ I knew Milo would much prefer to spend his afternoon with the horses than with Laurel and me.
He left, and I turned to my cousin. There was so much I wanted to ask her, I was not even sure where to start. She spared me the trouble by bursting at once into a somewhat confusing speech.
‘The rooms are a bit draughty, aren’t they? Mine is just down the hall. All the guest rooms are in this wing, I think. Oh, Amory, I’m so glad you’ve come. I should have hated to come back here without you.’
‘But how did you come to be here, Laurel?’ I asked. ‘You said you were going to visit your parents.’
‘Oh, I did,’ she said. ‘Mother sends her love and says you are to come and see her. In any event, Reggie had happened to send me a letter. It was quite a coincidence that I happened to be at home when he sent it. He didn’t have my address, of course, and sent it to Pearmont.’
Pearmont was the home of Laurel’s parents, and I had spent many happy summers there as a child. Laurel’s mother was the sister of my father. We had grown up very much like sisters, neither of us having any siblings.
‘What did the letter say?’ I asked.
‘That’s just it. It didn’t say much of anything. Reggie asked me to come to Lyonsgate as soon as possible. I haven’t seen or heard from him in years, but there was something about the letter that gave me pause.’ She hesitated, a worried expression crossing her normally cheerful face. ‘There’s something wrong in all of this, but I don’t know what.’
‘Perhaps you had better start from the beginning,’ I said patiently. My cousin was my closest friend and confidante, but she did enjoy making an event out of the ordinary. I might have been inclined to believe all of this was a figment of her imagination, had I not sensed for myself that something was amiss at Lyonsgate. There was just too much that did not seem right.
She dropped down on the bed. ‘It’s all so strange. I knew at once that you must come and untangle it all.’
‘Your confidence in me is flattering,’ I said wryly. ‘But I really don’t know what business I have coming here. I don’t even know Mr Lyons, and, after all these years away from Lyonsgate, I don’t see why he should want strangers crowding up the place. I should think he would like some time to set the house in order.’
‘I doubt he will remain here long,’ she said. ‘He’s anxious and uneasy. He goes for long, solitary walks in the morning and always comes back with a troubled expression. I don’t think coming back to Lyonsgate was his idea.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I think it all has something to do with Isobel. I didn’t like to ask him, but I’ve rather had the feeling that she somehow convinced him to come back.’
That explained the impression I had had that Isobel was our hostess. This weekend was, in essence, her event.
‘But why should he do as she asked, after what happened?’ I mused.
‘That’s just it,’ she said solemnly. ‘It doesn’t make sense, and that’s what worries me.’
‘I didn’t detect any romantic feeling between them today,’ I said.
She shook her head. ‘No, all that ended long ago. He was mad about her at one time, of course. It seemed that all the men were. We used to say she must be a witch, the way she could put any man under her spell. That was what happened to Reggie. He was always the sweetest thing. I never would have imagined … Well, never mind that. Suffice it to say, he was very much in love with her. I think he would have done anything she asked.’
I couldn’t help but wonder what my cousin’s feelings for Reginald Lyons had been at the time. We had always confided in one another, and she had claimed that she had only viewed Mr Lyons as a friend, but it had often seemed to me that there was something more than friendship in her voice when she spoke about him.
‘But something happened between them,’ she went on, ‘even before the incident. They were cold towards one another that weekend, and we all wondered if things were coming to an end. I thought perhaps Isobel had found someone else. She was very fickle in her affections.
‘Then, when it all happened and she wrote that dreadful book, I think he might have killed her if he wasn’t so broken up about all of it. And after what happened to poor Brad …’
‘Bradford Glenn?’ I asked, remembering the young man Isobel Van Allen had accused of murder through her fictional account of the incident. ‘What happened to him?’
Laurel looked surprised. ‘You don’t know?’
‘No.’
‘Of course,’ she said. ‘I’d forgotten. It was during your wedding trip. Shortly after the book was published, insinuating those dreadful things about him … he killed himself.’
‘How dreadful,’ I whispered, truly horrified. It was clear to me now why Isobel Van Allen had been forced to leave the country in the wake of such a scandal. A life had been tragically lost at Lyonsgate, but many more had been torn apart by her exploitation of the incident.
‘It was awful,’ Laurel agreed. ‘I almost declined to come when I received his letter, but I felt that I couldn’t deny him, not if he needed me. Imagine my horror upon arriving to find that he had invited her. And that’s not all. He’s invited all of them.’
‘All of whom?’
‘All of the people who were there that cursed night.’
I felt something like a chill at the words. It was the same sense of foreboding I had had standing outside, looking up at the grey walls of Lyonsgate. I was not at all superstitious, but I did wish that the uneasiness I felt would dissipate.
‘Why on earth would he do that?’ Already my brain was turning over the possibilities, none of them pleasant.
‘I don’t know, and that’s why I wanted you to come at once. When I found out she was here … that they would all be here … I don’t know how to explain it, but I had a feeling. Something ghastly is going to happen, Amory.’
As much as I wanted to discount my cousin’s presentiment, I could not. I felt the same way myself.
CHAPTER THREE
I had done my best to quiet my cousin’s fears, but I could not shake my own unease. I tried to put my dismal thoughts aside as Laurel went along to her room to bathe and dress before dinner.
I needed to freshen up, but first I went to the wardrobe to begin choosing something to wear to dinner. I hoped Winnelda had packed an evening gown that would provide at least a modicum of warmth in what was sure to be a draughty dining room. I was engrossed in the task and barely took notice of the tap at my door.
‘Hello,’ said a voice behind me.
I turned to see a gentleman standing in the doorway. It was a bit startling, having been talking about ghosts, to see the pale face looking at me from the dimness of the hallway. Apparently, Laurel had not closed the door tightly and it had drifted open.
The gentleman in question, however, did not look much like a ghost. In fact, he rather reminded me of a statue of Apollo with his classical features and golden curls. Curiously intent eyes, so pale a blue as to seem almost colourless, were looking me over in a matter-of-fact way. It was quite a thorough examination, but somehow I didn’t feel as though he were being rude, even if it was unusual for this strange gentleman to introduce himself to me on the threshold of my bedroom.
‘Hello,’ I replied, more to break the silence than for any real desire to start up a conversation. There was something vaguely familiar about the man, but I couldn’t place him. I was quite certain we had never met before, but I felt that I had definitely seen that face. It was the sort of face that one remembered.
‘I’m Gareth Winters,’ he said.
Of course. The artist. I had seen his paintings in the homes of some of my friends. I remembered now, too, that he had been a part of that group that had been here the night that Edwin Green had died.
There had been a period before the death of Mr Green when Mr Winters’ paintings had been very much in vogue, and he was generally considered to possess a good deal of talent. His portraits had been especially sought after, and I knew women who had sat for him, all of them commenting on his golden good looks. But there had not been much art since the tragedy. Occasionally a piece had come up for auction, but his name was not often mentioned in artistic circles these days. I remembered one of my friends telling me that his paintings had lost much of their fire since the Lyonsgate scandal.
‘How do you do, Mr Winters,’ I said. ‘I’m Amory Ames.’
‘Amory Ames,’ he said it slowly and quietly, almost to himself, as though contemplating it. I wondered if he was trying to recall if we had ever met. ‘You’re a guest of Reggie’s, I suppose.’
We were all guests of Reggie’s, but I didn’t like to point this out.
‘Yes, my husband and I came at his invitation.’
‘It’s going to be a very unpleasant stay, I should think,’ he said, his tone giving no indication of what he meant by that remark.
I didn’t quite know how to respond to this. Though I had felt very much the same way, it was interesting to hear this opinion from a stranger. ‘Do you think so?’ I asked lightly. ‘Lyonsgate is quite prettily situated.’
‘No one wants to be here, of course. But there is no telling what that woman has in store for all of us.’
I knew at once that he meant Isobel Van Allen. I was about to ask him just what he meant, but he said suddenly, ‘I must be off. I trust I’ll see you at dinner, Mrs Ames.’
He wandered away, and I stared for a moment at the empty doorway, thinking of what he had said. None of them wanted to return to Lyonsgate, yet they had all come. I wondered what it was that had drawn them back.
One thing was certain: if all of Reggie’s guests were as interesting as Gareth Winters, this was going to be an eventful dinner party indeed.
I was glad when it was finally time to go down for dinner. It seemed the entire afternoon had been building to a climax, and I would be glad to see for myself just how things stood. Perhaps nothing would happen tonight at all, but I felt somehow that observing the others together would give me some hint as to how to proceed.
Milo came into my bedroom from his just as Winnelda finished doing up my gown. I turned to him, struck, as I always was, by how handsome he looked in his evening clothes.
‘How did you find the Lyonsgate stables?’ I asked.
‘They’ve only a few horses here, but they’re fine animals. Not as fine as mine, of course.’
I smiled. ‘Of course.’
His eyes ran the length of me. ‘You look lovely, as always.’
‘Thank you.’ The garnet-coloured velvet gown was one of the heaviest of the gowns I had brought with me, though I suspected the usefulness of the thick fabric and long sleeves would be offset by the low-cut back.
‘Are you ready to go down?’ he asked.
‘Yes, nearly.’ I picked up my bracelet of rubies, diamonds, and onyx, and looked over my shoulder to see that Winnelda had disappeared from the room. I wrapped the bracelet around my wrist and attempted to fasten it with my free hand.
‘Shall I?’ he asked.
‘Yes, thank you.’ I extended my wrist and looked up at him as he bent over it to fasten the clasp. ‘Milo, Laurel says Mr Lyons has invited all the guests who were here on the night that Edwin Green died.’
‘Has he?’ he asked, straightening.
‘Yes, and we believe it has something to do with Isobel’s return from Africa.’
‘Quite possibly,’ he agreed. ‘It does not have the makings of a particularly happy reunion.’
‘I’m afraid something dreadful is going to occur at dinner.’
‘There’s only one way to find out.’ He smiled and offered me his arm. ‘Shall we?’
I took his arm and we went out into the hallway. There were electric lights, but it seemed that not all of them were working, for the hallway was rather dark, save for the occasional pool of dim yellow light cast by one of the properly functioning bulbs in sconces. There was also a chill breeze coming from somewhere. I shivered and pressed closer to my husband.
‘It’s quite a pile of a house, isn’t it?’ he said. ‘You’d think Lyons would have had it cared for in his absence.’
Such a critical sentiment was uncommon coming from my husband, yet not exactly surprising. Milo made sure that Thornecrest, our country house, was kept in beautiful form. He had inherited it from his father, and I sometimes thought it was the one thing in life that he really took seriously.
‘Laurel said she didn’t think he meant to come back at all. She thinks his return has something to do with Isobel.’
We made our way down the staircase, arm in arm. It was, perhaps, not fashionable for a woman to cling to her husband, but it was so very cold that I wanted to be as near him as possible. I did relax my hold on him as we reached the drawing room.
Lucinda Lyons rose from her chair and walked towards us at once.
‘Good evening, Mr and Mrs Ames,’ she said, looking only at Mr Ames. He had certainly gained himself an admirer.
‘Good evening, Miss Lyons,’ he replied. ‘You’re looking very lovely this evening.’
She flushed. ‘Thank you.’
Reginald Lyons came towards us, the same air of unsettled distraction hovering over him. He was not, I thought, very adept at hiding his feelings, though he was clearly making a valiant effort to try.
‘Good evening, Mr and Mrs Ames,’ he said, a bit too enthusiastically. ‘Let me introduce you to my sister, Beatrice Kline. Her husband is out of the country on business, so he was unable to join us.’
Beatrice Lyons Kline was a pretty woman, with the same smooth features as her brother. Her hair, in contrast to Reggie’s and Lucinda’s, was dark brown, and she wore it very short. Like her brother, she appeared a bit uneasy, but she concealed it better than he did.
‘How do you do,’ she said, politely but without enthusiasm. Her gaze was cool and watchful. She appeared completely at ease, but I noticed the way her gaze moved continually to the drawing-room door.
I thought the same thing must be on all our minds. We were all wondering just what it was that Isobel Van Allen had in store for us this evening.
Reggie Lyons next introduced us to Gareth Winters, who made no mention of having introduced himself to me in my bedroom that afternoon. He, too, seemed distracted, but not at all uneasy. He gave the impression that his mind was otherwise engaged by more important things than a room full of mere mortals.
A few moments later, the curtain came up on the evening’s entertainment.
‘I do hope I’m not late,’ came the voice from the doorway. It was Isobel Van Allen. She stood for a moment outlined against the shadowy darkness of the hall behind her, until she had all of our attention. Then she made her entrance into the room, wearing an evening gown of black satin with a dangerously plunging neckline.
‘Not at all,’ Reggie said with a tight smile. ‘I’ve been introducing Mr and Mrs Ames to everyone.’
‘Charming group, isn’t it,’ she said, walking slowly towards us. I couldn’t help but think she looked rather like a cat on the prowl. ‘But, of course, not everyone’s here yet.’
‘Oh, will there be others joining us?’ I questioned casually.
‘One more couple,’ Reginald Lyons said. ‘Phillip and Freida Collins. They meant to arrive today, but their child was taken ill and Mrs Collins didn’t want to leave her. They’ll arrive sometime tomorrow.’
‘Splendid. Then our little party will be complete,’ Isobel said with a slow smile, her eyes on Reggie. He refused to meet her gaze, his jaw set.
There was another movement in the doorway, and we all turned to look.
‘Ah, there you are, Desmond,’ Isobel said. She stretched out her hand to him, and he came towards it, as if by unspoken command.
He, I was quite certain, had not been at the scene of the original tragedy. He was much too young. Strikingly handsome, with black hair and eyes the colour of warm honey, he was deeply tanned, despite the fact that it was the middle of winter. I wondered if he had come from Kenya with Miss Van Allen. Of course, Milo somehow managed to maintain his glowing complexion all year round, so this theory was not necessarily a sound one.
It turned out, however, that my guess had been correct.
‘This is Desmond Roberts. My secretary,’ she said with a smile that plainly announced he was much more than that. Whatever else she might be, there was no subtleness about Isobel Van Allen. ‘He’s been with me for over a year now.’
‘How do you do,’ he said, his smile revealing very white teeth.
Up close he was even younger than I had supposed. I should have been very much surprised to find that he was older than twenty-three or twenty-four, at least two decades younger than Miss Van Allen. It seemed that she was consistent in her preferences. I wondered idly if he actually did any secretarial work. I found it hard to picture him sitting at a typewriter as she dictated.
‘I write romance novels under an assumed name, and Desmond has been invaluable to me in my work,’ she went on, running a hand along his arm. ‘He’s found innumerable ways to inspire me.’
Milo’s gaze caught mine, and his brows rose ever so slightly.
Dinner was announced just then, which spared us any additional awkwardness.
The dining room looked as though it had not much changed in the last five hundred years. It was a long, dark room with high wood-beamed ceilings, and a wooden table ran almost the length of the room. An enormous stone fireplace, carved with the Lyons crest and complete with a stag’s head and battleaxes hanging above it, dominated one wall. I was glad to see there was a fire roaring in it and even gladder to find that my seat put my back towards the heat, for my evening gown was indeed proving it had not been designed with warmth as its primary objective.
The food was very good, and our conversation, though superficial, was pleasant enough. For all our politeness, however, I could sense something much less civilised beneath the surface. The tension was high, and nearly everyone looked vaguely ill at ease, everyone excepting Isobel Van Allen.
She looked pale and lovely in dim light. She sat beside Reggie Lyons, but I had not seen them speak a word to each other all evening. Nevertheless, I felt that, despite the fact that she was a guest here, she seemed to be holding court. There was the look in her eye, the self-satisfied countenance of a woman who was pleased to know something that no one else knew. I wondered when she would choose to let the rest of us know her secret.
As it turned out, she waited until dessert. A lovely trifle had just been set before us, but she did not give us time to enjoy it.
‘I did hope to wait until we were all together,’ she said suddenly, taking advantage of a momentary lull in conversation to make herself heard. ‘But since Freida and Phillip have been delayed, I suppose I shall tell you without them. I have some news.’
Her words had a startling effect. Though there was nothing inherently worrisome in her statement, I saw a shadow cross Reggie Lyons’ face, and it felt as if everyone had gone completely still.
She paused for a moment, perhaps to revel in the atmosphere of palpable dismay, before she continued. ‘We needn’t hide the fact that there was a lot of unpleasantness when I published The Dead of Winter.’
‘Unpleasantness,’ Beatrice Kline said in a cold voice. ‘Is that what you call our ruin – and Bradford’s death?’
