Black Moonlight (13 page)

“You could never lose me,” the young man promised. “I know why you kept my father’s identity a secret all this time. I know you were trying to protect me. That’s why I tried to protect you.”

“This is all very touching,” Jackson said sarcastically, though with a sniffle that conveyed that he had, perhaps, been moved by the emotional scene. “But we’re conducting a murder investigation and neither of you have been very forthcoming as to your whereabouts the night Mr. Ashcroft was murdered.”

Selina released George from her embrace and leaned back against the pillows. “As I was saying earlier, Sergeant Jackson, I am not a bold woman. A bold woman would have clawed Mr. Ashcroft to pieces that first day, when I asked him for the money. A bold woman would have, as you say, stabbed him in the heart that night at dinner. But I am not a bold woman or a brave one. I am a coward. A bold woman would have put an end to Richard’s tyranny by ending his life; I, took the coward’s path and tried to end my own.”

Selina’s startling announcement blanketed
the room in a somber silence.

“Suicide?” Marjorie whispered, for the volume of her normal speaking voice would have seemed, somehow, too intrusive.

“Off behind the house, to the left and off the path, there’s a trail through the forest. So narrow and overgrown it is, that if you didn’t know it was there, you’d never notice it.” Selina’s face softened as she recalled, “George was the one who created the trail. When he was a boy, he knew every last bit of this island: each tree, each rock, each little blade of grass. One day he came running to me saying he had found the most beautiful spot in the entire world. There was always work to do in those days—”

“But you always came when I asked,” George rejoined. “No matter how foolish.”

“I always tried,” Selina qualified. “That day I was especially glad I had. George had discovered the loveliest spot, if not in the whole world, then the whole island. It was a grassy ledge, high on a cliff, looking out at nothing but the ocean. It became ‘our spot.’ In summers, we’d take lunch or supper there. In winter, we’d go out after a heavy rain and watch the storm clouds blow out to sea. George even said he would take a bride there someday-”

“Still planning on it,” George interjected.

“—just the two of them, a minister—”

“And you, of course,” George added.

“But, most of all, it became the place we went to when things weren’t right—when we were sad or worried or angry. Last night, when Mr. Ashcroft told you the truth,” Selina looked at her son, and began to cry, “I thought you were gone. I thought you would never forgive me, that you would hate me forever.”

George patted her hand soothingly. “I was angry, but I could never hate you. It took Mr. Edward to point that out to me, but when he did, I knew I had to find you and tell you that everything was going to be fine.” He turned to Sergeant Jackson and Inspector Nettles, “When I left the drawing room, I started heading in this direction and then I thought about our spot. And it’s a good thing I did, because my mother was … was … about to jump.”

“That wasn’t my reason for going there,” Selina quickly clarified. “I went there to look for George. I wanted to explain why I had lied and to ask for his forgiveness. I ran through the forest as fast as I could, but when I arrived, and he wasn’t there, my heart sank. See, no matter what happened, no matter how bad things got, I always knew where to find him. For him to go elsewhere … well, I thought the worst. I wondered if he’d ever be able to forgive me. I wondered what I would do if he were never to speak with me again. I imagined my future without him in it: never seeing him attend university, never seeing him get married, have children. A mother gets used to the idea of her son going off into the world and making a life of his own; but to never see or speak to him again … and all because of something I had done …” She shook her head. “I couldn’t bear it. So I …”

“That’s alright, Miss Pooley,” Nettles interrupted. “You needn’t go any further.”

“Don’t speak so quickly, Inspector,” Jackson corrected. “Why didn’t you tell us all this in the first place, George?”

“Why didn’t I tell you that my mother thought of ending her life?” George repeated in disbelief. “Isn’t it bad enough that my name will be in tomorrow’s paper, listed as that man’s son? Do you know what all of Hamilton will be saying tomorrow? About my mother? About me? Would you want to hear those things said about someone you loved?”

Jackson looked beyond George, into the near distance, before answering in earnest. “No, son. I would not.”

“Then please, let us be,” George pleaded.

Jackson bit his lower lip. “I will, after one more question.”

“Go ahead,” the young man consented.

“Miller saw you come in from outdoors just after the time Cassandra was murdered. Where had you been?”

“I went outside to stretch and walk around—I had been in that stuffy drawing room all morning. When I went outside, I heard a scream; I immediately thought of mother, so I came here to check on her. Mr. Creighton was on the sofa in the living room and mother was here in bed. They were both sound asleep.”

“Yep, that sounds like Creighton’s idea of standing watch,” Marjorie deadpanned.

“When I saw they were asleep and all was well, I turned back to the house. I assumed the scream was Mrs. Prudence being led to the boat. But,” George’s jaw dropped. “But it wasn’t Mrs. Prudence, was it? It was Cassandra.”

“Given the timing, I’d have to say so,” Nettles acknowledged.

“If I’d known, I could have gone to the stables and—and—”

“And what, George?” Selina demanded. “Gotten yourself killed, too? No, I’m glad you didn’t go.”

“Your mother’s right,” Jackson affirmed. “This isn’t the sort of person you want to tangle with, if you can help it.”

“But if I had caught the person, Mr. Creighton wouldn’t be in jail right now,” George frowned.

“You have helped Creighton,” Marjorie pointed out. “By telling us everything you have, you’ve corroborated his alibi for the time of Cassandra’s murder. Hasn’t he, Sergeant Jackson?”

“He’s given your husband a few minutes of an alibi,” Jackson allowed. “We’ll see about the rest tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow?” Marjorie said in disappointment. “Can’t you arrange something for tonight?”

“I’m sorry Mrs. Ashcroft,” Jackson explained, “but that new will gives your husband the strongest motive of anyone here. I shouldn’t need to tell you that. However, your husband’s bail hearing is tomorrow morning, so if you desperately need him back in your eager arms, then you should make sure you’re present. “

“Bail,” Marjorie said to herself with a frown. “I don’t know if I’m able to. We eloped and got married on the ship. We haven’t taken care of any of the formalities, like marriage certificates and bank accounts.”

“Well, then you should have used that one phone call to contact a solicitor, instead of calling your policeman friend in the States, hadn’t you?”

“That phone call is going to solve your case,” Marjorie vowed.

“We’ll see,” Jackson commented and donned his hat. “Miss Pooley, thank you for your help. George, you take care of yourself and your mother.” He tipped his hat at Marjorie. “Mrs. Ashcroft, give that intuition of yours a rest this evening … please.”

“We’ll see,” she volleyed as Jackson disappeared out the bedroom door.

Nettles followed close behind Jackson. “Goodnight, Miss Pooley. George.” He pulled Marjorie into the living room. “We’re taking Worth and the other boys back with us, but Smith will be standing guard all night.” He handed her a small metal object strung onto a long cord. “Take this and wear it. If you see anything suspicious, use it and Smith will come running. Understand?”

Marjorie looked at the item in her hand. “A whistle?”

“A police whistle. It’s mine, so don’t lose it. But I thought it might help you to rest a bit easier tonight.”

Marjorie smiled. “It will. Thank you, Inspector.”

Nettles winked his farewell and followed Jackson and Worth out of the cottage and up the path that led to the house and, beyond it, to the cove. Watching from the doorway as the policemen disappeared from view, Marjorie was struck with a profound sense of sadness. So long as she was busy looking for clues and questioning suspects, it was easy to push Creighton’s absence from her mind. But here, in this isolated, foreign land, with nightfall slowly encroaching, Marjorie had never felt more alone.

“Mrs. Marjorie,” came Selina’s gentle voice from her kitchen. She had donned a colorful pink floral housecoat and was moving carefully to the old wood stove.

Marjorie hastened to the kitchen. “What are you doing up?”

“Oh, I’ve been in that bed all day. I need to do something useful. Besides, it’s high time we have supper.”

George came in, carrying an armful of wood. Marjorie stepped out of his way as he loaded it into the stove.

“You’re not cooking for the entire house, are you?”

“Oh no. When Mr. Edward heard I was awake, he came by to tell me not to worry about dinner. I told him I wasn’t worried at all.” Selina laughed. “But I am worried about you, Miss Marjorie. You haven’t eaten all day, have you?”

Marjorie thought back to what she had consumed throughout the day. “Umm, I had half a scone this morning. And some coffee.”

“Half a scone? That’s not a proper meal. Where are your vegetables and your meat?” Selina lit the largest of the burners with a long match and then passed the match to George, who used it to light the cottage’s gas lanterns in anticipation of the impending darkness.

“Well, I …” Marjorie wracked her brain for an excuse.

“You’re not going to be any use to your husband if you’re sick from hunger.” She summoned George, who pulled a cast-iron Dutch oven from the icebox and placed it on the lit burner. Selina opened the lid and gave the contents a stir. “Fish chowder,” she announced.

As if on cue, the small black cat appeared in the open front door of the cottage.

“Hello, puss,” Selina greeted. She removed a hunk of dense white fish from the pot, placed it in a small bowl, and presented it to the cat, who immediately began to gobble it down.

“I see you know each other,” Marjorie commented.

“Oh yes, it is bad luck to turn a black cat out of your home. Good thing this one enjoys my cooking. Hopefully you’ll enjoy it, too.”

“Well, I don’t want to put you to any trouble.”

“No trouble, child. I just have to bring it to a boil and add a few more things and we’ll be ready to eat. I did most of the simmering this morning before everything happened. Good thing George thought of putting it in the icebox to keep.”

“You know I hate to see chowder go to waste,” George explained. “Mum makes the best chowder of anyone I know,” he said to Marjorie aside.

“I thought I made the best chowder on the island,” Selina asserted.

“Did I say that?” George teased.

“You most certainly did,” his mother answered.

“Well, I’ll have to taste it again tonight and tell you if I was lying.”

Selina laughed out loud and threw a dishtowel at her son. “You rotten boy! Go get the rum and set the table for three.”

Marjorie smiled broadly. It was the first display of genuine family warmth and happiness she had witnessed since arriving on the island and she was loath to leave it. However, she didn’t want her presence to be a hardship on the Pooleys. “Oh, no. Only set a place for me if you think you have enough,” she warned, somewhat half-heartedly.

Selina saw right through her. “‘Oh, no’ Mrs. Marjorie protests,” she chuckled, “but each time she breathes in, her eyes get bigger.”

Marjorie laughed again. “It
does
smell wonderful. I just want to make sure you and George have enough to eat, too.”

George placed a shot glass and a bottle of dark Bermudian rum on the table. “We’ll have plenty. Mum makes enough to feed my entire cricket team.”

“That’s because you eat as much as the entire cricket team,” Selina quipped.

“Can I help you with anything?” Marjorie offered.

George shook his head and took three bowls from the cupboard.

“No, child,” Selina answered. “You can have a seat at the table and in a moment, when this is ready to simmer, we can have our talk.”

“That’s right,” Marjorie recalled. “You wanted to talk to me about Creighton,”

“Yes, but first, would you like something to drink? Some tea? Or some ginger beer?”

“I’ve never heard of ginger beer. Nor have I ever tasted rum,” Marjorie replied as she nodded to the bottle on the table.

“The rum is for the soup,” George piped up as he drew three spoons from a kitchen drawer. “And Mum’s tea.”

“Yes, I enjoy a cup of tea with rum every evening before bed. Now Mrs. Marjorie knows my secret,” she teased. “Right now, though I’d like a ginger beer. Would you like to try one? They’re nice and cold.”

“Sure,” Marjorie accepted. “Why not? When in Bermuda …”

“That’s right. You are about to have a true Bermudian meal. Something most visitors do not have the opportunity to experience,” Selina stated as she pulled three bottles of ginger beer from the icebox and opened them.

“All the hotels serve either English or American food,” George said. “Local specialties aren’t an option. Even Mr. Ashcroft—my father,” he added reluctantly, “never wanted anything other than roast beef and Yorkshire pudding.”