Black Moonlight (10 page)

While Nettles went to
the drawing room to retrieve Cassandra, Marjorie flopped onto the overstuffed settee. Jackson sat down beside her.

“What are you thinking?” he asked.

“That for every question answered, another three pop up in its place,” Marjorie sighed.

“What do you mean?”

“Well, for starters, there was the timing of this trip. Why was my father-in-law here now, when he typically came to Black Island only in the spring? Answer: he had a business appointment in Hamilton. But that answer opens up a whole series of other questions. Why didn’t Morrison make that meeting? And, more importantly, why did he confirm an appointment he couldn’t possibly keep?”

“Maybe like Edward said, Morrison became ill or suffered some family tragedy,” Jackson suggested.

“That explains why Morrison didn’t show, but it doesn’t account for the telegram.” Marjorie reasoned. “It’s several day’s passage from England to Bermuda. Morrison would have known he wasn’t traveling to Bermuda well before Edward or my father-in-law even left New York City.”

“Meaning that the telegram should have been a cancelation, not a confirmation,” Jackson finished the thought. “Do you think that’s significant?”

“It leads me to believe that someone wanted to make sure that the Ashcrofts were in Bermuda this week.”

“Yet out of the house on the day of the appointment,” Jackson added.

“Mmm,” Marjorie grunted in agreement. “Second, there’s Prudence. We discovered the reason for her emotional behavior—”

“Oy,” Jackson remarked. “I have to give that one to you, Miss. I don’t know how you knew it was Benzedrine. I certainly didn’t.”

“But now we’re left to wonder what she heard last night,” Marjorie continued.

“Probably Griselda Ashcroft coming home,” Jackson theorized. “If, in fact, Prudence heard anything at all. Given she can’t recall how many Seconal she’s taken, I have my doubts.”

“True, Prudence couldn’t remember how many pills she had taken, could she?”

“Meaning she must have taken enough to knock out an elephant,” Jackson quipped.

“Or …”

“Or what?” Jackson urged.

“Nothing. Just thinking aloud.” Marjorie snapped from her reverie. “Then there’s the note and the key. Both items were tucked into my father-in-law’s jacket pocket and now both of them are missing. Why?”

“The note doesn’t offer a handwriting sample,” Jackson stated. “There’s no signature.”

“No, it’s very formal. Very impersonal. It’s odd.”

“How so?”

“Well, it reads, ‘
The
day of reckoning.’ If I were sending someone a message, I would have used the word ‘your.’ ‘
Your
day of reckoning.’ However, I’m a writer, so perhaps it’s just me.”

“No, it’s a valid point.” Jackson allowed. “But what about the key? It’s of no use here. Why would someone take it?”

“I confess, that one has me completely baffled,” Marjorie stated.

“Well, perhaps we’ll learn something when we question Cassandra.”

“I wouldn’t get my hopes up—not with that one. No, the people I’m really looking forward to questioning are Selina and George.”

“You’re right, we still don’t know where Selina went after dinner. But we have some insight into George’s movements.”

“That’s precisely it. We have ‘some’ insight,” Marjorie pointed out. “But if George left the drawing room to look for his mother, where did he go? Edward says he saw George take the path to the cottage. But if George had, indeed, taken that path I would have seen him on my way back to the house. And, if he had met her in the kitchen, they would still have been there when I returned. So, where was Selina?”

An agitated Nettles suddenly appeared in the doorway. “Sergeant, she’s gone!”

“Who? Selina?” Jackson asked obtusely.

“No, Cassandra.” Nettles’ brow furrowed. “Why would Selina … ?”

“Never mind, Nettles.” Jackson said crabbily. “What do you mean Cassandra’s gone?”

“Well, she’s not in the drawing room, sir. And no one else has seen her since we took Prudence Ashcroft to the hospital. I think Cassandra used the commotion as her opportunity to escape.”

“It’s an island, Nettles! Even if the woman used FDR himself to divert our attention, she still can’t get very far! Search the house and the island. And check with our man at the pier to make sure she didn’t take off in that speed boat contraption.”

“Yes, sir!”

Before Nettles could take action, Creighton appeared in the doorway of the study. “That won’t be necessary. I found her,” he announced solemnly.

Marjorie, Jackson, and Nettles lined up, single file, behind Creighton and followed him out the back door and down the white gravel path to the stables. There, in one of the empty stalls, lay the twisted body of the spiritualist. Splatters of deep crimson stained her stark white dress and matted the black hair of her chignon. A few feet from her body, in a small mound of hay, rested a steel horseshoe hammer, the head of which was covered in blood.

Jackson kicked the stall divider. “Two people bludgeoned to death, and one of them right under our bloody noses! How did this happen? And how, Mr. Ashcroft, were you able to locate her so quickly?”

“I had seen Cassandra outside when I went to check on Selina. She was wandering along the path behind the house; when I passed her, she mumbled something about needing fresh air in order to get in touch with her spirit guide, or something to that effect. When I came back to the house, I overheard Nettles asking Miller and George if they knew where Cassandra was. I assumed she was still outdoors communicating with the great beyond, so I looked in the most obvious places … and found her.”

“When did you leave for Selina’s cottage?” Jackson asked.

“Immediately after Nettles took Pru in for questioning. Why?”

“Shortly after Nettles brought Pru to the study, she was taken to the hospital,” Marjorie explained.

“Good lord,” Creighton exclaimed. “Is she ill?”

“She may have accidentally overdosed on Seconal and Benzedrine.”

“Seconal? That’s a sleeping pill isn’t it?”

“She’s been on it for two years now, courtesy of your father and brother,” Marjorie replied.

“Sounds just like them: if you can’t beat ’em, drug ’em into submission,” Creighton smirked. “And the Benzedrine?”

“Meant to treat respiratory problems, but some women have been known to take them for their slenderizing effects.”

“She got them from Griselda,” Creighton inferred.

Marjorie nodded.

“I hope she’s going to be all right.”

“I suspect she’ll be fine,” Jackson opined.

“Why do you say it like that?” Marjorie inquired.

“Prudence Ashcroft’s departure to the hospital provided the killer with just the distraction he or she needed to strike again. The only evidence we have of the alleged overdose are a couple of pill bottles in her dress pocket.”

“Are you implying Prudence faked the scene?”

“I’m saying that Mrs. Ashcroft is a very impressionable young woman. It is not outside the realm of possibility for our killer to have planted the idea in her mind.”

“But why kill Cassandra?” Nettles asked.

“It’s apparent she knew something about the murder. The killer didn’t want her to talk.”

“Given her background,” Creighton added, “I wouldn’t be surprised if she were using the information for blackmail.”

“That would have required Cassandra to have been alone with the killer,” Jackson pointed out. “Tell me, how is Selina feeling?”

“I don’t know,” Creighton answered. “That sedative your doctor gave her knocked her out cold. She was sound asleep the entire time I was there. Well, at least I think she was, I—”

“Sound asleep, eh? Then Selina wouldn’t have noticed if you happened to sneak out and visit the stables,” Jackson posed.

Marjorie’ eyes grew wide. This was the moment she had been dreading since the discovery of her father-in-law’s body.

“Wait one minute, you think that I—?” Creighton couldn’t bring himself to say the words.

“What I think is that you and I should go to headquarters,” Jackson stated firmly. “There’s a rumor that you stood to inherit your father’s estate.”

Creighton looked away.

“Ah, you knew about that? Well, I’m going to make a few phone calls to confirm the rumor and then afterwards, we’re going to have a long conversation regarding your actions last night and this morning.”

“But you haven’t finished questioning everyone,” Marjorie pointed out. “There’s still George. And … and Selina when she wakes up.”

“Nettles can handle those two on his own as well as keeping an eye on you, Miss,” Jackson responded. With a firm grip on Creighton’s arm, he escorted him out of the stable and along the white gravel path.

Marjorie watched in dismay
as Jackson led Creighton past the house and onto the stairs that led to the cove and the pier. Never before had she felt such an overwhelming need to solve a case.

She knew that, given the terms of the new will and his whereabouts during the murders, Jackson would feel little need to look beyond Creighton as the culprit behind both crimes. She also knew that Creighton’s eminent arrest had already limited her access to vital evidence, thus reducing her chances of finding the real killer. There was no way around it; she had to find a way to stay involved in the investigation.

Marjorie needn’t have worried, for the single tear that had worked its way down her cheek was soon joined by others. And she found a sympathetic ally in Inspector Philip Nettles.

“I’m sorry.” He removed the handkerchief from his jacket pocket and handed it to her. “Once Sergeant Jackson gets an idea in his head, it’s difficult to dissuade him.”

“Thank you,” Marjorie said softly as she took the handkerchief and dabbed at her cheek. “I can’t pass judgment on Sergeant Jackson. I’ve been guilty of a bit of stubbornness on more than one occasion.”

“He’s a good policeman,” Nettles assured. “And a good man. He’s simply accustomed to doing things a certain way. He was a Detective with Scotland Yard, you know.”

“Really? Why did he come here?”

“His wife was tired of the English winters. Jackson and the Missus never had children; it’s just the two of them. So, if she’s unhappy, you can bet Jackson does his best to make things right.”

“Smart man,” Marjorie remarked between sniffles.

“So is your husband,” Nettles responded. “That’s why I don’t think he murdered his father or Cassandra.”

“You mean, you don’t think he did it?” she asked hopefully.

“Of course I don’t. Like I said, your husband is a smart man. If he had murdered his father, he wouldn’t have drawn our attention to the murder weapon by bringing it downstairs this morning. It’s nonsensical. Nor would he have stuffed the body into the trunk his father gave to you as a wedding gift. It’s too theatrical.” Nettles bit his lip meditatively. “I won’t even touch upon the absurdity of him doing all of this on his honeymoon. Feelings for his father aside, I find it hard to believe he’d ruin your time together.”

“Too bad Jackson doesn’t share your point of view.”

“He will eventually. Like I said, he’s a good detective,” Nettles smiled. “But, enough discussion. We’d best go inside. There’s work to be done.”

“‘We?’” Marjorie repeated.

“Of course. Why not?”

“Well, I thought with Creighton …”

“That you’d no longer be considered ‘trustworthy’? I’ll take the risk, if only to have access to your keen intuition,” he teased. “Come on.”

She followed him into the house, where they were instantly met with a red-faced young constable.

“Sir,” the constable tipped his hat at Nettles. “Mr. Pooley is in the study and the others are gathered in the drawing room.”

“Thank you, Constable,” Nettles replied.

“Oh, and, um, sir,” the constable added, “I’m sorry about the second murder. I was so busy making sure that no one left the island, I had no idea that …”

“That’s all right, Constable,” Nettles assured. “None of us have much experience with murder cases. In future, keep a closer eye on things or Jackson will have both our badges.” Nettles warned turned into the drawing room with Marjorie trailing close behind.

Upon their entrance, Edward leapt to his feet. “Is it true? Is it true Cassandra is dead?”

“Yes,” Nettles replied. “Murdered.”

“Murdered. And the whole island crawling with police,” Edward scoffed.

“It won’t happen again, sir,” Nettles assured him.

“How do you know it won’t happen again?” Miller challenged. “I don’t mean to get on the wrong side of the Bermuda Police Service, but this doesn’t seem the sort of thing they’re accustomed to handling. How do we know we’re safe?”

Griselda who, since their last meeting, had accessorized her swimsuit with oversized red-framed sunglasses and a wide-brimmed hat, stepped forward. “The men are right. You keep us prisoner on this island so that the murderer can’t escape, but in the meantime we’re dropping like flies.”

“First my father,” Edward counted, “now Cassandra, and even Prudence. How can you be certain that my wife’s alleged overdose wasn’t an attempt on her life? Someone could have drugged her drink last night or,” he slid his eyes toward Marjorie, “her coffee this morning.”

“Me?” Marjorie drew her hand to her throat. “Why me?”

“My father told me about your background,” Edward stated with a glare. “What is this, the fourth murder investigation you’ve been involved in? Strange how death always seems to follow you, don’t you think?”

Marjorie pulled a face. “Well … yes it is,” she admitted. “But that doesn’t make me a killer.”

“You may not have committed the previous murders, but I’m sure you had your hand in these.”

“Yeah,” Griselda chimed in. “I saw Creighton leaving with Sergeant Jackson. It’s only a matter of time until they catch on to you, too!”

“This coming from the woman who’s spent the day of her husband’s murder sunbathing and reading Hollywood magazines,” Marjorie commented.

“Look where we are!” Griselda cried. “What else am I supposed to do?”

“True,” Marjorie agreed. “If he had been murdered in New York City, you’d be better able to demonstrate your grief—with Benny in a booth at the Stork Club.”

“Why, yooooou!” Griselda shrieked as she sprang forward and grasped for the other woman’s throat. In a flash, Inspector Nettles grabbed her arms and yanked her back.

“Stop it!” he shouted. “Stop or I’m bringing the whole lot of you to the station.”

The room fell silent.

“Good,” Nettles declared. “We’re going to take turns and find out where each of you were when Cassandra was killed. Now,” he reviewed, “we know that Cassandra was alive when Creighton went to the cottage to check on Selina.”

“Right,” Miller agreed. “They met each other on the path behind the house. I saw them through the window.”

“Were you here the whole time?” Marjorie asked.

“No, I went into the kitchen to make myself a sandwich. I was going to eat it outside, on the patio, but then I heard the commotion in the hallway and thought I should stay put. So I ate the sandwich at the kitchen table.” He pushed his glasses farther up his nose with a neatly manicured finger. “Then I came back here to the drawing room.”

“Did anyone see you in the kitchen?” Nettles followed up.

“No, but George saw me come from there, so he can vouch for where I was.”

“He was in the hall?”

“Yes. Looked like he had come in from outside,” Miller stated.

“Hmmm … and you, Mrs. Ashcroft?” Nettles addressed Griselda. “Where were you?”

“You know where I was,” Griselda replied flippantly.

“Refresh my memory.”

“Sunbathing and reading Hollywood magazines.” She shot Marjorie a dirty look.

“Where were you doing this sunbathing and reading?” Nettles quizzed.

“In the closet,” she taunted. “Outside. Where else?”

“He meant where outside,” Marjorie simplified.

“I’m not talking to you,” Griselda replied. She then repeated the sentiment directly to Nettles, “I’m not talking to her.”

“Answer the question,” Nettles ordered.

Griselda sighed noisily. “Okay, I was out front. That’s how I was able to see Creighton leaving with the Sergeant.”

Nettles turned his attention to Edward. “And you?”

“Upstairs. I realized that, in the chaos of this morning, I had forgotten to shave, so I went upstairs to take care of it. I had just finished shaving when I heard Prudence downstairs, in the study, crying. That’s when I came down to see what was happening. You can both finish the story from there.”

“Thank you, everyone. Now, if you’ll be so kind as to stay here in the drawing room until further notice, I would appreciate it.”

“What? But the sun is outside,” Griselda spoke up. “What am I supposed to do in here?”

“Read some Hollywood magazines,” Nettles quipped before leaving the room.

Marjorie made a face in Griselda’s direction and then followed the inspector down the hallway and into the study, where a sullen George Pooley stood, staring out an open window.

Nettles approached the boy and shook his hand. “Hullo, George. Sit down, will you?” He motioned to one of the wing-back chairs before selecting one for himself.

George obediently took a seat while Marjorie positioned herself in the middle of the settee.

“How are you, George?” Nettles asked warmly.

George shrugged.

“Would you tell us a bit about your part in last night’s events?” the Inspector urged.

“You mean the man who’d been keeping us as servants all these years was my father?” George sneered.

“Yes,” Nettles replied. “I’m very sorry. That news must have been tremendously difficult for you to receive.”

“I—I had always believed that my father left my mother when he found out that she was having a baby. And I have always hated him for it. Without even knowing him, I hated him for leaving a woman as good as my mother. But to find out that your father has been keeping you and your mother as glorified slaves …” His hands gripped the arms of the wing chair as he choked back his tears.

Nettles gave him a chance to compose himself before presenting the next question: “Where did you go after dinner last night?”

“The drawing room. Mr. Edward was there. He and I spoke about our father; he was very sympathetic.”

“And then?”

“I went outside to speak to my mother.”

“At what time was this?”

“About eight-forty-five.”

“Are you certain?” Nettles pressed.

“Yes. I remember looking at the drawing room clock before I left.”

“Really?” Marjorie challenged. “Because at eight-forty-five, I was on the path that leads from the house to the outbuildings. If you had been on it, I would have seen you.”

“I—I m-must have been wrong about the time, then,” George stammered.

“You seemed positive about it a few moments ago,” Nettles interjected.

“I … don’t want to answer any more questions.”

“What are you trying to tell us, George?” Nettles pressed.

“Nothing. I’m not telling you anything. I promised my mother that I wouldn’t.”

“Not talking to us makes you and your mother appear guilty,” Marjorie pointed out. “Don’t do it, George. Just tell us what happened.”

The young man rose from his chair with a final “No!” and stormed from the room.