Free Peril at Somner House by Joanna Challis Page B

unmistakable nuances of Kate Trevalyan.
    â€œâ€¦we can’t be sure they won’t find out. Fernald’s not clever, but he’s not stupid, either.”
    â€œBut you’ve removed the evidence, darling. And so what? You slipped a little extra laudanum in his tea that day…to calm him, yes?”
    I imagined Kate nodding.
    â€œHe went out on a wild rampage. How is that your fault?”
    â€œBut the drugs! The mix…it sent him wild. You know how he gets when he’s in that state. He’s unstoppable. Perhaps someone else had no choice but to restrain him, and when that failed…what kind of weapon would do that to a face?”
    â€œSomething long and blunt,” Sir Marcus whispered.
    â€œIt’s terrible…I can’t live with myself thinking I am in some way responsible. Yes, I wanted him dead but not like this….”
    The voices muffled.
    â€œOh, darn!” Cursing, Sir Marcus tried to rescue the frequency, to no avail.
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    We spent a good hour or two afterward painting and surmising. Sir Marcus refused to acknowledge or answer my questions about the Major. His aptitude for vexing me led him to deny me any information, promising to “illuminate me” at another time.
    Sketching my dream tower scene on canvas, I was amazed to see that Sir Marcus could in fact paint. Dabbing colorshere and there, a landscape began to emerge and I recognized the old pergola as the central focus.
    We were both immersed in our creations when Kate entered the room. Her warm smile gave no evidence of her secret lover’s assignation upstairs or of her fears regarding her husband’s death. The whisper of a shadow, however, hovered over a face too uncertain and fraught with worry. Eager to dismiss any attention on herself, she studied each of our works.
    â€œVery good!” she said to Sir Marcus, and listening to them babble on, I understood they shared a great friendship as well as a love of the arts. Wisely, Sir Marcus mentioned nothing about Mr. Fernald or the investigation, but she soon relaxed and confided a little of the matter on her mind.
    â€œI think they’ll blame Josh, but he didn’t do it!”
    â€œThey cannot charge him without evidence,” Sir Marcus assured, adopting his best aristocratic demeanor.
    A guttural, almost embittered laugh escaped her lips. “Oh, but they’ve found evidence…a leg of my painting easel. It has Max’s blood on it and Josh’s fingerprints.”
    â€œ So sayeth Fernald. I don’t mean to be rude, Katie girl, but the man is somewhat lacking in procedural intelligence. I’d truly like to see how he can prove it’s Max’s blood and Mr. Lissot’s fingerprints.”
    Kate laughed again, this time, a very nervous laugh. “Oh, the fingerprints will match b-because…”
    You and Josh had made love before it…the passionate embrace sending the easel and the couple crashing to the floor, where the easel leg rolled to the door.
    Later, the unwanted husband strides into the room. He attacks. Seizing the leg, Josh protects Kate and together, they drag the body out to the beach—
    â€œDaphne,” Sir Marcus prodded, “give our Kate your reading of the situation.”
    Entirely lost in my own world, my paintbrush crashed to the floor and rolled to the door. Watching it, I exuded an uneasy swallow to face the grieving, distressed, and perhaps murderous widow.
    â€œWhat of the gardener? Could he have attacked your husband?”
    â€œY-yes, I suppose so. He, er”—she stopped short, reluctant to betray the following—“has a daughter, Rachael. She works in the village pub but used to help out here.”
    â€œAnd she and Lord Max had an affair and produced a child,” Sir Marcus finished for her.
    Lady Kate looked bemused. “Why, yes, but I never told you—”
    â€œI deduced it.” A kindly, sympathetic hand brushed