Murder in Paradise Page 9

  Halfway upstairs, he leant on the banister, listening to the quiet. It seemed likely that Erland and Lena had decided that they had also had more than enough of the banquet and had retired to Erland’s room.

  He would have liked to know the outcome of Erland’s hasty departure from the dining table and that all was now well with him but could hardly intrude on them. Nevertheless, he was unable to rid himself of a growing anxiety, a feeling that something was wrong.

  Suddenly he heard his name.

  Erland was sitting alone in the shadows at the curve of the staircase overhead. Faro ran up to him. ‘Where’s Lena?’

  ‘Gone to bed.’ Erland groaned. He put his hands to his head. ‘Dear God, Jeremy – I feel awful.’

  In a wavering gesture he grasped Faro’s hand, his own cold and clammy for all the warm atmosphere. ‘I’ve never felt as bad as this before. I feel as if – as if I’m going to die,’ he whispered.

  Faro regarded him anxiously. There was little light in the ensconced candles but enough to see that Erland certainly looked ill, pale and sweating as if in the grip of a fever.

  Consolingly Faro said, ‘Too much wine, I’m afraid. That’s what’s wrong with you. I don’t feel any too good myself. There’ll be sore heads all round tomorrow.’

  ‘That’s it – the wine.’ Erland rallied with effort. ‘Don’t usually feel this bad though. Must be a bad batch. Hope Lena’s all right.’ He shuddered. ‘Feel as if – as if I’ve been poisoned.’

  At those words, so ominous to Faro, with a groan he sank his head in his hands again. ‘Thankfully I’ve managed to vomit most of it out of my system. I think my stomach must be quite empty now.’ He stood up shakily leaning for support against the banister.

  ‘Are you going to be all right?’ Faro asked.

  Straightening up with effort, Erland said, ‘I think so. I’m for bed. Lena’ll be asleep by now. I’ll try not to disturb her.’ Smiling weakly, his legs seemed shaky and Faro helped him to the bedroom door.

  Faro hovered anxiously. ‘Do you need any help?’

  Erland, shaking his head, whispered, ‘No. Thank you, old chap. Lena will tuck me in.’

  Faro remained outside the closed door, listening.

  There was no sound of voices and he walked slowly back to his own room, wishing Erland hadn’t mentioned the word poison. Knowing what he did, the scene at the dining table of Lena handing Erland her goblet returned vividly to him, his thoughts coldly reviewing it in minute detail.

  But why should Lena poison Erland, who she had agreed to marry in two days’ time? Then he knew there was one very good reason indeed.

  For Madeleine Smith and Emile L’Angelier versus William Minnoch read instead Lena and Erland versus George Wardle.

  What had Erland Flett, a crippled and impoverished artist relying on the hospitality and generous nature of the Pre-Raphaelites, to offer her compared to George Wardle? Wardle seated by her side at the table and paying her lavish attentions, which she seemed to be fully appreciating. Wardle, a rich man like Minnoch, who could elevate her to a higher position in society beyond Erland’s possibilities.

  And any woman might have been tempted, for most Faro knew relied on the prospect of a good marriage to see them comfortably through life. From the moment they were born, that was dinned into them by their parents and so it had been since time began.

  A rich husband was life’s goal. There was no other way, for that was what society demanded. And, in the case of many sad marriages, once wed a woman lost all independence. She and all her possessions became the sole property of her husband.

  As he headed towards his door, his somewhat unsteady progress warned Faro of an approaching headache of mammoth proportions.

  Suddenly a figure moved out of the shadows. A drift of perfume, which he did not immediately recognise, a woman’s hand soft and gentle on his arm. Too dark to see her distinctly.

  Remembering his promise. ‘Poppy,’ he whispered.

  Opening his bedroom door, she led the way inside and closed the door. In the thin moonlight from the high windows, she helped him out of the Viking costume and they lay down on the bed together. He took her in his arms, her kisses deeper, even more passionate than those of the afternoon picnic, which seemed worlds away. There was no doubt in Faro’s wine-muddled mind of the rapture of fulfilment that lay ahead—

  It was not to be.

  A tap on the door.

  He heard it, cursing that there were no locks on the doors.

  Again.

  He couldn’t ignore it. What if it was Erland needing help?

  Springing out of bed he opened the door.

  A smiling girl, holding a candle, stretching out her hand to him.

  ‘You promised – so here I am,’ she whispered.

  ‘Poppy!’

  Then who—

  He glanced over his shoulder. The woman in his bed—

  Dear God—

  The woman he was making love to—

  She was Madeleine Smith.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  One clear thought sobered him. Somehow he had to get rid of Poppy without her seeing Lena. How had he made that appalling mistake? True, the two were alike enough and wearing almost identical costumes. It was Poppy he was expecting in his room, a pale moon its only illumination; he had been too drunk, too eager. Now he would pay dearly for that mistake.

  Apologising, he told Poppy he was very tired, aware of her bewilderment, her hurt expression as she whispered that was all right, she just wanted to stay with him.

  Her meaning was clear, all too clear. He shook his head and said, ‘Sorry – tomorrow.’

  Still not understanding, she stood on tiptoe, kissed his cheek, said bravely, ‘Well then, sleep well. Goodnight – what’s left of it.’

  He nodded, closed the door. Leant against it weakly. There was dawn light in the sky now, the moon had gone. Somewhere nature stirred, and a cock crowed.

  How appropriate, he thought grimly. That ancient sound of betrayal. How well it fitted this situation.

  Lena was sitting on the bed half-dressed, unperturbed, smiling. As if this was a great joke, something to laugh about.

  He looked down at her, said, ‘Please go.’

  Again she smiled. ‘Very well. What a shame—’

  ‘A shame indeed,’ he said angrily, longing at that moment to strike her, to take away that look of amused satisfaction. ‘Erland is my friend – and, in case you have forgotten, about to be your husband.’ He paused, said heavily, ‘You tricked me.’

  ‘I did not. You were eager enough.’

  ‘You tricked me,’ he repeated. ‘You pretended to be Poppy.’

  She laughed unconcerned, unashamed. ‘I never did.’

  ‘You did.’ He was coldly sober now.

  She shrugged. ‘You don’t want me to stay.’

  ‘I certainly do not.’ He wanted to add, even if you were not Erland’s woman you would be the last one in the world, knowing what I know about you, that I’d want to make love to. But remembering those kisses, that brief interlude he would never be able to forget, he knew that wasn’t true.

  Suddenly words were inadequate. He said again, ‘Please go. Erland is ill. He needs you.’ She rose from the bed, shrugged and, gathering her costume, walked out of the room without another word.

  Faro also walked out, out of the house into the cool misty dawn of another day and into the woodland that skirted the Brettle’s property. Birds sang a muted chorus above his head, a robin added its plaintive sweet melancholy notes and with a fallen branch he struck the hedgerows, working off his rage, scared animals scuttled into their protective depths, their alarm no doubt increased by a rifle shot nearby.

  The shot was so close that Faro also turned, alarmed, shouted a warning ‘Hello!’

  There was no reply. No doubt a farmer out shooting rabbits, although that single shot puzzled him.

  Instant success, perhaps, or a poacher in the shape of Jim Boone discreetly remaining unseen.
He walked on.

  The enormity of last night’s events was already unreal, a nightmare from which he knew there was no happy awakening. Erland must never know what happened, that he had been betrayed by his best friend, his proudly called cousin and his beloved bride-to-be.

  The question remained unanswered. Why had Lena tricked him? Was it only devilment, realising that Poppy, her so-called best friend, was falling in love with him? That had to be the reason. He could not believe that in those few short days, involved entirely with preparations for her marriage to Erland, she had any affection for him. It would have made more sense if she had tried to seduce the very willing Wardle.

  How long or where he walked he had little idea but somehow he walked off his anger. At last, marshalling his fears and mistakes into some sort of order as his profession had taught him, he found his true self again.

  Hungry and certainly sober now, sober as perhaps he had never been before in the light of what had driven him from the house, he knew that unless Lena was a gossip, and considering her background she had doubtless learnt discretion, he guessed he would be safe enough.

  The truth must be kept from Erland. As for Poppy, he was certain he could deal with that situation. At this delicate stage of their relationship, she would not jeopardise its future by asking any probing questions. He was sure that she would accept his rather lame explanation about being tired, certain that she did not know of Lena’s presence in his bedroom, unless she could have seen beyond him into the room, the rumpled bed with its occupant.

  As for Erland, Faro doubted that he would have felt fit enough to go in search of Lena. Hopefully he must have tumbled into bed and fallen asleep immediately, regardless of her absence.

  All that remained was for him to forget everything that had happened with Lena and return to normality, or what existed as normality in Red House, rising like a fairy-tale fantasy from the morning mist.

  The short-cut back led, by a back gate, through the orchard. One of the gardeners was there, a branch breaking, the glimpse of a hooded cape. Odd, since this was their day off and considering last night’s activities most would be glad not to get up at the crack of dawn. Presumably this one, anxious not to be seen, had an ulterior purpose and was out gathering a few illicit apples. He could not imagine why, for surely no one in Red House would deny him that.

  Voices, a door opened and some of the dogs tumbled out for their morning walk. Janey and Georgie emerged and as he approached he thought they were also looking the worse for wear although they greeted him cheerfully enough.

  ‘You’re about early,’ said Georgie and, calling her spaniels to heel as they bounded towards him, she laughed. ‘Come, dogs, Mr Faro’s too frail for your attentions at this hour.’

  ‘The men are still at breakfast,’ said Janey, paler than usual.

  ‘We might feel more like it after a brisk walk,’ said Georgie, ‘although I feel bed would be a better bet.’

  As they disappeared in the direction of the orchard gate, Faro went indoors. The dining room, its temporary trestles removed, the round table restored, still looked considerably dishevelled, its sole occupants Morris and Ned Burne-Jones.

  The smell of fried sausages and bacon did nothing for Faro’s well-being and he hurried upstairs to see if Erland had recovered. Tapping on the door he heard his voice and going in saw that he was still abed, Lena seated at the window.

  ‘How are you – I see you’ve missed breakfast.’

  Erland groaned and said faintly, ‘At this moment I don’t feel I ever want to eat anything ever again.’

  As Faro went closer he realised that Erland looked far from well, his face yellow and jaundiced.

  ‘I still feel awful, Jeremy. Really awful.’

  ‘I think you should stay in bed today.’ This from Lena.

  Faro avoided any eye contact with her and realised that he was going to have to practise this as well as avoiding her as much as he could.

  ‘Would you like something to drink, some coffee, perhaps?’ he asked.

  ‘No, thanks. Lena brought me some cocoa.’

  Cocoa – Madeleine Smith. The connection riveted Faro as Erland said, ‘Too sweet. It’s left me very thirsty though – could I have some water?’

  Lena stood up.

  ‘No,’ said Faro without looking at her. ‘You stay here. I’ll get it.’ And seizing the cocoa cup as he went downstairs staring into its depths, one of the maids appeared from the kitchen with a tray and, giving him a curious look, said: ‘Finished with that, sir? I’ll take it.’

  In answer he clutched the cup firmly, shook his head. Holding it up to the light, wondering desperately how he was to find some method of analysing the dregs, a voice behind him said a very shaky, ‘Good morning.’

  It was Elizabeth Siddal, carrying a tray. She looked even worse than the two women out walking their dogs.

  He murmured a good morning in reply and, as she made to walk past him, she noticed the cup he was clutching and put out her hand.

  ‘I’m going to the kitchen.’

  He could hardly refuse; there was no reasonable excuse he could offer for retaining an empty cup of cocoa.

  Following her downstairs, cursing to himself that this was the only evidence he might ever have, he went into the dining room and helped himself to coffee, no longer hungry and revolted by the sight of Morris gobbling down an enormous platter of poached eggs, his usual breakfast. Invited to have some, Faro declined with a shudder.

  ‘Good for you. Hair of the dog and that sort of thing.’

  Faro thought that referred to the wine only as Morris asked: ‘Talking of which, how is poor old Erland this morning?’

  ‘He’s not at all well. In fact he looks bad and I really think you should call a doctor to have a look at him.’

  ‘A doctor?’ Morris exclaimed as if Faro had asked for the man in the moon. ‘What on earth would a doctor do?’ And flourishing his fork at the empty table: ‘Look around you, Jeremy. Where are they all this morning? Well, I’ll give you a hint. Practically everyone else is suffering the same symptoms, but soldiering on very bravely,’ he added piously, resuming his onslaught on the eggs.

  Faro said slowly, ‘I believe Erland may have been poisoned…’

  Morris nodded. ‘Yes, I believe you. It was those damned mussels to blame. Janey was very poorly during the night and so was Ned. How about you?’ he asked anxiously. ‘Were you all right?’

  ‘I avoid mussels, always have done.’ He had been very ill after eating some in his childhood Orkney days and had never been tempted to repeat the experience.

  ‘Wise man. They must have been a bit off and that’s what upset Erland. But poisoned – I say, that’s a bit of an exaggeration, isn’t it?’’ he added with a hearty guffaw.

  ‘We can hardly call the doctor,’ said Ned, reaching for the coffee pot.

  ‘And it’s Sunday, don’t forget. All the good folk, and that includes the doctor, off to church,’ Morris reminded him.

  ‘Don’t people ever get sick on Sunday?’ said Faro somewhat impatiently.

  They both looked at him in astonishment. Obviously they thought he was making a great fuss about nothing and there was no way he could explain his anxiety. That Lena Hamilton was Madeleine Smith who had poisoned her lover in Glasgow three years ago and for reasons yet unknown but, he suspected, might have something to do with the attentions being paid her by Morris’s new business manager, George Wardle, had decided to get rid of Erland Flett.

  Morris was frowning at him, clearly mystified. ‘We don’t have much faith in doctors, Jeremy,’ he said sternly. ‘We find we can treat most things with natural means, like herbs. Besides we’re all very healthy. Isn’t that so, Ned?’

  Ned thus appealed to, coughed apologetically. ‘We men are pretty sturdy, y’know. Can’t afford the luxury of being ill. The ladies have someone in town and we can summon him down in an emergency’

  And Faro decided those grim words might describe the situation exactly as
Morris said:

  ‘Don’t worry about your cousin. A day’s rest and he’ll be fine. Has to be fit. Have to get him up and carry him to the altar if necessary, tomorrow – plans all made and that sort of thing,’ he added with a hearty chuckle. ‘More coffee?’

  Faro declined and taking a carafe of water went upstairs to Erland again.

  Lena was still there, sitting by his bedside, a damp cloth dabbing at his forehead.

  ‘Some water,’ said Faro pushing her aside.

  Erland sat up, drank greedily.

  ‘Are you feeling any better?’

  Erland did not need to shake his head to deny that. He did not look at all well. In fact he looked a lot worse.

  ‘I don’t think I’ll get up today, if you don’t mind, darling,’ This to Lena and seizing her hand, ‘Have to get better – be fit – for tomorrow.’

  Lena smiled. ‘You just stay in bed. I’ll look after you.’

  Erland nodded wearily. ‘I’m so tired. I just want to sleep.’

  And so Faro left them. Returning to his own room he met Morris and George Wardle emerging from the studio in earnest conversation. Two men with strong stomachs he decided, remembering with a shudder that enormous dish of poached eggs that, judging by his non-appearance at the breakfast table, had also been beyond the digestion of the business manager.

  Closing his bedroom door, Faro had made up his mind. He had come to a decision – if Erland was no better by evening then whatever the whims and practices of the inhabitants of Red House, he was going in search of a doctor.

  Constable Muir or Mrs Lunn at Brettle Manor would surely know a doctor and where to find him.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  To make matters worse, the morning mist turned into rain, a steady downpour with low skies, heavy and grey; it looked set in for the day. It fitted the mood within the house, echoing emptily as the occupants kept to their rooms to recover in their various ways from the effects of the banquet and the dubious shellfish.

  Faro was not convinced about the mussels, however, but decided to opt out of any chance meeting with Poppy. He was not a good liar. Could she or anyone else for that matter be credited with accepting the truth – that he had been tricked into making love to her best friend Lena, who was also his best friend’s bride-to-be, on the eve of their wedding.