This Side of Murder Read online

  Sam was more difficult to decipher. But then, having served alongside Sidney in the trenches, it was only natural that his loyalty should be to him. Especially since Sidney was also trying to avenge his brother’s death. I pondered how he would feel if he knew Sidney had not shared everything he’d learned about Ben’s death with him, or that he’d been the one to use his brother’s memory in such a shocking manner on that Field Service Postcard he’d sent Jimmy.

  “The telephones are still not working,” Max told me before I had to ask. His expression turned grim. “And there have been some interesting developments.”

  I sat taller. “What do you mean?”

  He nodded at Sam and Tom. “There was a short lull in the weather earlier this morning, so the three of us along with Walter tried to take the boat across the harbor to the mainland. But the motor wouldn’t start, and the winds were much too ferocious for us to attempt to use the sails, even had Walter’s normal crew remained on the island instead of returning to their homes in Poole yesterday afternoon. It would be suicide.”

  I stiffened in alarm, my tea cup poised before my lips. “Then the servants haven’t returned?”

  He shook his head. “Only those who live here on the island— a skeleton crew here at the castle and some of the farm workers and gardeners.”

  Knowing that Sidney was one of those gardeners, it took a great deal of effort not to look at Sam and Mabel.

  I set down my cup and sat forward. “But there must be other boats? Surely Walter’s yacht isn’t the only vessel on the island.”

  “Yes. But according to Walter, they’re all stored on the other end of the quay or the opposite side of the island. And once the storm kicked up again, it was too late to try to take them out even if we could reach them. The seas are just too choppy.”

  I nodded my understanding. It would not do us any good if the boat that set out to summon help then capsized and killed its crew.

  “Then I guess we’ll have to wait for better weather.” I glanced toward the windows, out across the lawn to where the boughs of the elm trees were nearly bent sideways by the force of the wind. But how long would that be?

  “I suppose that means none of us will be leaving today, as we originally intended,” I added, feeling a prickle of unease run down my spine. For all intents and purposes, we were trapped here, and I didn’t like it. I didn’t like it at all.

  Not that the killer could have predicted such a thing, or caused it to happen. But he, or she, could be taking advantage of it all the same.

  Tom looked across the table at me for the first time since I’d sat down, almost as if rousing himself from a stupor. I could see that he was deeply troubled. “Nellie isn’t going to be happy. In fact, I think she’s going to be downright impossible.” He leaned forward, lowering his voice. “She’s desperate to get off this island.”

  The almost frantic light in his eyes startled me. “I think a lot of us are,” I replied calmly.

  He shook his head even as his eyes strayed toward the door. “Yes, but she said the cards told her something terrible was going to happen. Something none of us would ever be able to forget.”

  I frowned. The cards? Was he saying that Nellie, of all people, consulted tarot cards? I couldn’t believe it. It didn’t seem possible.

  “Did you tell her about Jimmy and Charlie?” Sam wanted to know, echoing my own curiosity.

  “No!” he gasped. “And she can’t ever know, or else I will hang myself from listening to her drone on about it.”

  I stared after Tom as he rose from his seat and limped from the room, startled by his last statement. He knew how Jimmy had died, and yet he’d made that comment without a hint of irony. As for the rest, I couldn’t make heads or tails of his comments. They seemed far too dire and morbid for the Tom I knew, or even Nellie. Perhaps Tom had been more primed from the spirits he’d consumed the night before than he’d first seemed.

  Or maybe he was under the influence of something far stronger. He wouldn’t have been the first soldier to use morphia to dull the pain of his injuries and his memories.

  I glanced at Mabel, curious what she thought of his wild pronouncements, and then at Sam and Max, who as former soldiers must also be battling recollections from the war the murders had dredged up that they would rather not revisit. I could read the strain in all of their features, just as I suspected they could see the tension in mine.

  Sam and Mabel soon excused themselves from the room, but Max remained behind, sipping his coffee while I nibbled at my toast. It was difficult to summon much of an appetite under the circumstances, and my awareness of Max’s proximity and our being alone only made it worse.

  “There’s something else you should know,” he said, staring straight ahead of him at the painting on the far wall. “Walter told me that a second boat should have been anchored at his pier.” His gaze shifted to meet mine. “But this morning it was nowhere to be found.”

  “You mean it’s missing?”

  He nodded. “We decided it was best not to tell the others. Not yet anyway. In case Walter was mistaken and had forgotten what his crew’s captain had told him he was going to do with it. But I thought you should know.”

  I studied his taut features, working through the implications of what he’d just told me. “Do . . . do you think someone is trying to prevent us from getting off the island? From getting help?”

  His mouth pursed in consideration before he answered. “I think it’s too early to say for sure. But let’s just say, my suspicions are aroused.”

  I picked up my teacup, hoping to hide my agitation behind the fine china. For I couldn’t help but wonder whether Sidney might have had anything to do with the missing boat and the stalled motor. After all, he seemed to have the most to lose from us all leaving the island.

  Unless the killer wasn’t finished. Unless there were more guests to be silenced or punished, depending on his motives.

  I wished I could be more certain of my husband, of anything on this forsaken island.

  * * *

  Unsurprisingly, the mood of the gathering could only be described as going precipitously downhill. Everyone was tense, and more than half of the party was also suffering from hangovers. So even though we all tried to occupy ourselves with playing cards, reading, and even a bit of light dancing, it was obvious no one’s hearts were in it. All of the joviality of the past few days—false though it may have been—had fled in the face of the storm, and tempers flared as more than a few sharp words were exchanged between guests.

  Gladys and Elsie, who had always seemed to be bosom friends, persisted to snipe at each other about the littlest of things—from the volume of the gramophone to whether or not Elsie had borrowed Gladys’s favorite pair of shoes and scuffed the leather. While Sam and Mabel, who had seemed in perfect accord at breakfast, proceeded to sit on opposite sides of the parlor and shoot daggers at each other from time to time. Sometime just before midday, Nellie deemed to join us, sitting herself in the corner to whine and bemoan the weather and her being trapped on the island away from her beloved son. Even Helen seemed on edge, flitting in and out of the room, refusing to coddle Nellie or either of her friends in their ridiculous complaining. I suspected her patience had simply run out.

  But Walter and Felix seemed to be the most cutting toward one another. In fact, I was surprised neither of them had actually drawn blood with their barbed comments, many of which I didn’t always understand. However, I couldn’t help but note the brief glances exchanged by Max and Sam, making me suspect it had something to do with the war.

  The most unusual exchange occurred during the men’s discussion about how to fix the motor on Walter’s yacht. Apparently, his farm laborer who’d also had quite a knack for mechanical things—tractors, threshing machines, motorcars, motorboats—had left his employ not a week earlier. With his yacht crew on the mainland, that left only the men present to try to repair the engine.

  “Do you think you’ll be able to fix it?” Ma
x asked our host, phrasing in the politest terms possible the dubious confidence I suspected many of us felt in Walter’s mechanical competence. Even Helen, who after fluttering here and there had finally settled on the opposite end of the Weston sofa from me, had peered up at him through her lashes with a look that could only be described as doubtful.

  “I suspect I’ll be able to manage just fine,” Walter replied, seeming oblivious to our misgivings.

  Felix scoffed. “Yes, because you’ve always managed just fine in the past.”

  Walter frowned. “I have no doubt I can make do. I’ll cobble something together, if necessary.”

  “Are you sure you wouldn’t rather leave the matter to someone else? After all, that seems your forte.” Felix’s eyes had narrowed rather nastily to glare at him across the room from where he slouched in one of the bergère chairs near the windows, puffing on a cigarette.

  For a moment, no one said anything, instead watching the air crackle between the two gentlemen.

  It was Gladys who spoke first, rousing herself from her lounged stupor before the hearth. “Is it really so urgent we leave the island today?”

  “I agree,” Nellie interjected, sitting taller in her own seat. “As anxious as you all know I am to return to my son, wouldn’t it be better to wait for the crew to return? Surely they’ll come directly here once the storm breaks.”

  I turned to Walter, who glanced wide-eyed in turn at each of us who knew about Charlie’s death. I’d wondered why he had introduced such a topic of conversation in front of the others in the first place. Wouldn’t it have been better not to inform the other women that the motor on his boat wouldn’t start?

  “Well, one can hope,” he spluttered. “But who knows how long this storm will last? And I would prefer my boat have a working engine.” He paused before adding hastily, “Just in case it’s needed, you understand.”

  “Oh, too true,” Nellie, subsided, nodded in agreement before lifting a hand to her brow. “I was so light-headed this morning, I thought I might have to be carried downstairs. At first, I wondered if I might have come down with whatever dreadful illness Charlie and Jimmy have contracted. But fortunately, I rallied. As I always do.” This was said in such a long-suffering manner that I almost rolled my eyes.

  “As does Walter,” Felix remarked.

  Walter’s scowl darkened. “As does any good Englishman.” He flicked a glance at Nellie. “Or Englishwoman.”

  “Is that what it is? Rallying for King and country.” Felix took a long drag on his cigarette before retorting under his breath, though it was loud enough for all of us to hear. “I thought it was retreat and panic.”

  Walter rose from his chair and charged from the room, or rather hobbled, as the weather seemed to have aggravated his leg wound as well.

  Nellie glowered at Felix, clearly uncertain whether she’d just been insulted. But before she could speak, Tom rose from his chair, and in a rare display of husbandly subdual, placed a hand on her shoulder to halt her words. Then he crossed to the sideboard to pour himself a drink from the selection of decanters. It was rather early to begin imbibing, but given the circumstances I could hardly blame him. Especially as I was craving something with a bit more kick than the tea myself.

  “Do you know what that was all about?” I couldn’t help but turn to Helen and ask.

  Her gaze was still on the doorway through which Walter had vanished. “The war, I suppose,” she murmured in distraction. She closed the book she held in her lap, not bothering to mark her page. Though, in truth, she’d seemed to be more lost in her own thoughts than reading, even before Walter and Felix’s tiff. “Would you excuse me?” she said, and rose to her feet to follow her fiancé.

  I didn’t bother to reply, for she didn’t seem to need one.

  Returning my attention to the scratch paper in my hands, I continued to sketch flowers along the border as I tried to focus on the first two lines of the code I’d penciled across the middle. Perhaps it was a bit reckless to set the lines I’d memorized to paper in such company, but it was easier to concentrate when the letters were before me and not just in my head. Besides, I couldn’t very well keep track of the others’ movements if I locked myself away in my room all day. Thus far no one had asked me what I was doing, though Max had fastened his inquisitive gaze on me more than once. When the butler called us all into luncheon a short time later, I folded the papers and tucked them into the pocket of my skirt before following the others from the room.

  Sometime during the midst of the meal, there was a sudden lull in the din. I’d grown so accustomed to it that I glanced around at the others in confusion until I realized it was the rain. Precipitation had ceased to be driven against the windows.

  Tom rose from his chair to peer through the drapes, before turning back to confirm what I’d suspected. “The rain has stopped. Or, at least, it’s not coming down in such a deluge. But the wind is still gusting like the devil.”

  This pronouncement lightened the mood of the gathering somewhat, though I felt a tightening around my ribcage, wondering what Sidney’s reaction would be.

  When luncheon was over, Max waylaid me outside of the dining room. “Shall we try the telephone?”

  “Yes,” I answered enthusiastically. Anything for a respite from the others, at least for a short time.

  But when we reached the study, it seemed Walter had already had a similar idea. He stood tapping the switchhook, but to no avail. Pulling the earpiece away from his head, he offered it to Max. “It’s still not working.”

  Max tried speaking into the mouthpiece and fiddling with the switchhook as well, but it only ended with him shaking his head.

  “Shall I try the telephone in the butler’s rooms?” Walter asked.

  “Yes. Yes, do,” Max replied.

  Walter nodded and limped from the room, but Max’s eyes remained narrowed in speculation on the study’s telephone. I wasn’t certain what he was thinking, but I knew it wasn’t pleasant. I watched as he lifted the telephone’s cord and traced it to its plug in the socket on the wall. Everything seemed in order, and yet I began to follow his implicit line of reasoning.

  Crossing toward the window, I lifted aside the drape to gaze out over the windswept sea. Spurts of rain periodically dashed against the glass.

  “It does seem rather odd that the telephones stopped operating so soon after the storm began.” I sensed Max’s solid presence as he moved to stand behind me. “Aren’t most telephone cables laid on the seabed, under the water?”

  “Yes,” he murmured, and I could hear the same speculation in his voice.

  “Then, how . . .”

  But before I could finish my thought, Max turned toward the door. “Come with me.”

  Perhaps dashing off alone with him should have given me greater pause, but given the fact that I had a strong suspicion where we were headed, I didn’t even hesitate. I followed him through the green baize door and down the stairs into the servants’ domain. A maid carrying a stack of linens stumbled to a stop at the sight of us, nearly dropping her towering stack. However, Max strode on past her without a backward glance, headed for the servants’ exterior entrance at the end of the long corridor.

  A blast of chill air hit us as he opened the door. I wrapped my arms around me and braced my head against the wind as we climbed the shallow steps up into the outer yard. In such weather, it was deserted. Max glanced right and then left, before pacing around the exterior of the building toward the left.

  A short distance along the stone wall, hidden by a shrub, he found what he was looking for. I leaned over his shoulder to watch as he knelt to examine the telephone wires where they entered the house.

  Or where they should have. For these wires had been neatly severed.

  CHAPTER 17

  The telephone wires were not frayed or tattered, but had been deliberately cut with a knife or an ax.

  A sinking feeling began in my gut and spread outward. Someone had wanted to prevent us from using t
he telephone. Someone had wanted to hinder our ability to contact the mainland. Which made sabotage of the yacht’s motor and the intentional disappearance of the second boat seem even more likely.

  Even though I could feel Max’s gaze on me, I couldn’t stop my eyes from straying toward the west, where I knew the farm and its outbuildings stood. Had Sidney done this? Could he have been so determined to keep us all here until he found the proof he sought and confronted the traitor and the man who’d attempted to kill him, whom I expected were one and the same, that he’d effectively trapped us here?

  I didn’t want to believe it. I didn’t want to think it was even possible he would do such a thing. But I had seen the look in his eyes the night before—the ruthless resolve—and it had chilled me. As the lashing wind and those severed telephone wires chilled me now.

  Max’s head turned to follow my gaze. “I don’t think we need to trace the wire to the telephone at the church to know it’s also been cut.”

  I blinked at him as he rose to his feet, at first too lost in my own worries to follow what he was saying. Then I nodded, grateful the church lay in the same direction as the farm, and that he’d misinterpreted my concern.

  “Let’s go back inside,” he prodded.

  Shivering in the wind, I didn’t need to be told twice. Max trailed me into the servants’ level and up the stairs to the main floor. But when I would have hurried toward the drawing room and its warm hearth, he took hold of my arm to halt me.

  “Our only way of getting help now is to get off this island,” he said. “Which means I think we must inform the others. Or at least Walter. Because I haven’t the slightest idea how to fix an engine.”