Black Moonlight (15 page)

The trio, accompanied by the meowing black cat, assisted Marjorie up the cedar staircase and into her room. As Marjorie perched on the edge of the bed and unbuckled the ankle straps of her shoes, the cat leapt beside her and immediately began kneading the bedspread.

“She looks a bit pale. Perhaps you should stay with her,” Miller suggested to Griselda.

“I’ll change into my nightgown and be right back, “ Griselda took off down the hallway at breakneck speed.

Edward, meanwhile, had gone into the bathroom and retrieved a glass of water. “Here, drink this,” he directed as he handed the glass to Marjorie.

“What is it?” Marjorie asked.

“It’s water,” Edward answered. “What did you think it was?”

“Nothing,” Marjorie replied evasively.

“If I were trying to drug you, I wouldn’t be so stupid as to do it with a glass of water or a snifter of brandy, with everyone watching,” he insisted. “I’m sure this is just the day’s events catching up with you.”

“You’re probably right,” she admitted.

“I know I am,” Edward replied. “Now get some sleep. If you or Griselda need anything, I’m right next door.”

“Thank you, Edward,” Marjorie answered as her brother-in-law disappeared into the hallway.

“I’d best be turning in as well,” Miller announced. “If you need anything, I’m also next door—just on the other side.”

“Thank you, Mr. Miller. Sleep well.”

“You too,” Miller said. He stepped out into the darkness of the hallway and closed the door behind him.

Marjorie staggered toward the dresser to find her nightgown, but the stagnant, moist air of the bedroom gave her pause. Determining that this was no night to be wearing silk, she slid out of her dress, discretely removed her brassiere from beneath her full slip, and lay on top of the covers listening to the sound of approaching footsteps.

The door opened to reveal Griselda, once again dressed to stun in a pink peignoir set trimmed with white feathers. “I’m so glad I’m bunking with you tonight. I feel a lot safer. Don’t you?”

“Mmm,” Marjorie grunted. At the moment, she felt little else but exhaustion—that is, until she heard a loud click emanating from the entrance. “Did you just lock the door?”

“Yes. You don’t want the murderer to come in and kill us in our sleep do you?”

Marjorie motioned to the floor-to-ceiling windows, all of which were open. “The verandah wraps around the house, Griselda. And all the upstairs bedrooms have windows.”

Griselda’s face registered panic. “Oh, I didn’t think of that! Should I close and bolt the windows?”

“Only if you want to know what the last moments of a clam’s life feel like,” Marjorie said groggily.

“Huh?”

“It’s already over eighty degrees in here. If you shut the windows, we’ll steam to death.”

“But …” Griselda started.

“But what?” Marjorie asked.

“What about the murderer?”

“I’ll take my chances,” Marjorie replied as she clutched the police whistle tied loosely around her neck.

Griselda unlocked the door and removed the dressing gown portion of her peignoir before climbing into bed beside Marjorie. “This reminds me,” she reminisced as she turned off the beside lamp, “of when I was a kid.”

Marjorie sighed in annoyance.

“My sister and I shared a bed growing up. I got so used to it that I thought I’d never be able to sleep alone.”

Despite her sleepiness, Griselda’s statement elicited, in Marjorie’s mind, at least one hundred different witty comebacks. She refrained from uttering any of them.

“It’s only been the past couple of months that I’ve started to get used to it,” Griselda went on. “I still didn’t like it, mind you.”

Marjorie sighed again in hopes that Griselda would take the hint.

“But Richie explained that he was working on something very important and that nighttime was the best time …”

It was becoming increasingly obvious that audience participation was not an essential element in Griselda’s stories. However, it was becoming even more apparent that Marjorie’s tired brain had no problem whatsoever in treating Griselda’s nasal cadence as background noise. So adept were her gray cells at filtering out the nonsense proliferating Griselda’s narrative that by the end of the story, Marjorie could remember only a few choice phrases before surrendering completely to the oblivion of slumber:

“Airplane plans . . . fewer interruptions . . . privacy . . . other hands . . .”

Marjorie awoke the next
day to find her bedroom both brighter and warmer than usual.

“Thank goodness you’re awake,” came a voice from the other side of the room.

Marjorie looked up to find, not Griselda, but Selina Pooley, seated on the stool that accompanied the nearby vanity table. Marjorie endeavored to pull herself up on one elbow, but the pounding pain in her temple forced her head back onto the pillow. “Selina?” she said questioningly. “What are you … ? What happened?”

The housekeeper moved to the edge of the bed and sat down. “Shh, settle down now, Miss Marjorie. You’ve just been sleeping, that’s all.”

“What time is it?”

“It’s four o’clock.”

“I’ve slept all day? Oh no! Creighton’s hearing!” Marjorie bolted upright.

“Now don’t you worry about that, Mrs. Marjorie,” Selina assured. “Mr. Edward went in your place.”

“He did?”

Selina poured a glass of water from the pitcher on Marjorie’s bedside table and passed it to her. “It’s a miracle, I know.”

“Then Creighton’s home?”

“No, child, not yet. Mr. Edward said he had to move some accounts around first. He’s in Hamilton right now, trying to get it done.”

“That’s very kind of him,” Marjorie noted. “If I can prove that Creighton isn’t the murderer, he’ll get his money back.”

“You’re not doing any of that detective work now, Miss Marjorie. Not until you’re feeling better,” Selina warned. “You were in an awful way this morning.”

“Yes, I remember it started last night in the study. It came on so suddenly … Edward and Mr. Miller helped me upstairs, and Griselda stayed here, in my room.”

Selina nodded. “You gave Mrs. Griselda quite a scare this morning. When she first tried to wake you, you didn’t move. She came running downstairs in a panic. She thought you were dead.”

“I must have been out cold,” Marjorie remarked.

“You were,” Selina answered. “She was beside herself, crying. Mr. Edward had gone with one of the constables to the hearing, so Mr. Miller went back upstairs with her to check on you. That’s when you started talking gibberish. They couldn’t make sense of anything you were saying.”

“Almost like I had a fever …” Marjorie thought aloud.

“That’s right. It was like what I had after finding Mr. Ashcroft in that trunk. I know the doctor gave me something to calm my nerves, but even before that, all I wanted to do was sleep. George blamed it on the brandy Mr. Creighton gave me but—”

“The brandy!” Marjorie exclaimed. She sprung from the bed and rummaged through the closet for something to throw on over her full slip. “Is Sergeant Jackson or Inspector Nettles here?”

“They were when I came up to sit with you. I don’t know if they’re still around; they had said they were going to make it an early day.”

Marjorie pulled a green, flutter-sleeved day dress from its hanger, stepped into it, and pulled it up over her shoulders. Once Selina zipped the back of the dress, a barefoot Marjorie sprinted into the hallway and down the cedar staircase. Through the windows that flanked either side of the heavy front door, she could see the figures of Jackson and Nettles walking down the white gravel path to the cove beyond.

Marjorie flung the front door open. “Wait!” she called.

The men continued on their way.

Realizing they hadn’t heard her, she reached around her neck for the police whistle, but it wasn’t there.
It must have fallen off while I was sleeping,
Marjorie thought to herself. “Wait!” she shouted again before taking off down the gravel path after the policemen.

“Ah, look, Nettles,” Jackson teased once Marjorie was within earshot. “If it isn’t Sleeping Beauty.”

“I suppose that whistle worked,” Nettles joked.

“Hmm?” Marjorie replied, her face a question.

“I gave you the whistle to help you rest easier,” Nettles explained.

“Yes, you did, didn’t you?” Marjorie answered distractedly. “That’s actually the reason I followed you out here. You need to test the brandy.”

“I’d love to,” Jackson rejoined, “but we’re on duty.”

“No, not
taste
it,
test
it. Take it back to Hamilton with you, because that’s what put me to sleep last night and kept me asleep all this morning and afternoon.”

“And what are we supposed to test the brandy for?”

“Seconal,” she responded drily.

“Ah yes, the ‘missing’ Seconal tablets,” Jackson said. “I was wondering where they might turn up. I had no idea you’d claim they were put into your glass of brandy.”

“They weren’t put in my glass, they were added to the decanter. And they didn’t just turn up; they’ve been there all along. That’s why it took so long for Selina to wake up yesterday and why Creighton was sound asleep in the cottage yesterday afternoon: they both drank the brandy.”

“Mrs. Ashcroft,” Jackson argued, “the past couple of days have been difficult for everyone. If Selina and your husband were tired, it’s most likely due to the strain of the situation.”

“And what about me?” she challenged. “I know what I experienced and it wasn’t emotional strain. I felt like I had been drugged.”

“Mmm. Did you drink anything else last night? Eat anything?”

“I had fish chowder with Selina and George.”

“With rum in it?”

“Well, yes,” she reluctantly replied.

“Well, there you go,” Jackson declared. “You can’t go mixing different types of spirits like that, Mrs. Ashcroft.”

“Mixing spirits? I had a tablespoon of rum and a snifter of brandy.”

“You never know. That rum can sneak up on you.”

“If what I suffered were the effects of a tablespoon of rum, then I don’t know why hospitals waste their time with ether! It was the brandy, I tell you.” She suddenly recalled the previous night’s events. “Look, if you don’t believe me, ask Edward. He opened the decanter. He’ll tell you it had an usually strong aroma.”

Jackson’s eyes narrowed. “All right, let’s assume for a moment that your theory is correct. What’s the motive?”

“Motive?”

“Yes. Why would someone put Seconal in the brandy?”

Marjorie shook her head slowly, until an idea suddenly burst forth. “Wait one minute! Griselda said that Mr. Ashcroft drank brandy—two glasses—after dinner every night.”

“So?” Jackson prodded.

“So, that’s a habit anyone in the house would have noticed. It makes me wonder if the killer didn’t try to take advantage of it.”

“By putting Seconal in the brandy?” Nettles guessed.

“Yes,” Marjorie stated. “It would have been easier to slip the Seconal into the decanter without being seen than to drug Ashcroft’s glass.”

“If drugged brandy was meant for Ashcroft, why is it still there?” Nettles asked.

“The killer didn’t have the opportunity to get rid of it. We were in the study all day yesterday,” Marjorie explained. “Besides, you never know when that sort of thing might come in handy. Especially since the source of the Seconal is in Hamilton Hospital.”

“You’re forgetting something, aren’t you? The murderer put your father-in-law to sleep permanently,” Jackson pointed out. “There was little need to use barbiturates.”

“The Sergeant’s right,” Nettles agreed. “A bronze statue over the head is much more effective than sleeping pills.”

“Granted, but what if murder wasn’t the killer’s original intent? What if the plan was to drug Ashcroft with the Seconal?” Marjorie hypothesized. “And what if somehow, somewhere along the line, something went wrong with that plan? Inspector Nettles, you and I were both of the opinion that Cassandra’s death was an act of desperation.”

Nettles nodded. “Broad daylight with scads of policemen around? I’d say so.”

“Sounds about right to me,” Jackson weighed in.

“Well, what if murdering Ashcroft was also a last resort?”

Jackson chuckled. “Of course it was a last resort. This was a crime of passion, wasn’t it? Whoever murdered Ashcroft did so because Ashcroft was, for lack of a better description, a louse and a bully. The killer had had his fill of Ashcroft’s behavior and clocked him one on the back of the head. It certainly wasn’t premeditated.”

“That’s right!” Marjorie said excitedly. “The murder
wasn’t
premeditated, but something else
was
. Think about it: the elaborate scheme to get Ashcroft here, the confirmation telegram, and the threatening note. Something else had to be going on.”

“I think you’re reaching,” Jackson judged.

“And I think you’re not reaching enough,” Marjorie countered. “You’ve had my husband in custody for twenty-four hours now and you’re still completely unwilling to admit that you’ve made a mistake.”

“Because I have no reason, apart from your theories, to even consider the possibility that someone else committed the murders. Your husband had the most to gain from Mr. Ashcroft’s death. In fact, he was the only person with anything to gain financially. Case closed.”

“But no one—not even Creighton—knew who was named in that will. Sure, Edward assumed that it was Creighton, but it was anyone’s guess as to whether or not that assumption was correct. It was anyone’s guess, for that matter, as to whether the Old Man had even changed his will. He might have been bluffing.”

“But he wasn’t bluffing, was he?”

“No one knew that at the time,” Marjorie shouted. “Ashcroft was murdered because something he did that night threw a wrench into someone’s plans—and I don’t mean financial plans. To murder someone on the off chance that you’ve been written into, or out of, their will, simply doesn’t wash.”

“And what about you, Mrs. Ashcroft?” Jackson said smugly. “Have you washed?”

“What? What in heaven’s name are you talking about?”

“I’m talking about you, Mrs. Ashcroft, and the fact that you only just woke up a short time ago and immediately came out here firing off all sorts of crazy ideas. Here’s what I suggest: Nettles and I return to Hamilton; I meet my wife for supper as I promised; and you, Mrs. Ashcroft, have a long bath and something to eat and give serious thought to all you’ve suggested today.”

“You needn’t be condescending,” Marjorie chided.

“I’m not being condescending, Mrs. Ashcroft. If you come up with anything new, don’t hesitate to call me. Oh, wait,” Jackson feigned ignorance, “you don’t have a phone here, do you? I guess anything else will have to wait until I see you in the morning.”

“Funny,” Marjorie remarked. “Very funny.”

“Yes, I am. That’s why Mrs. Jackson has requested that I be home in time for supper,” the Sergeant smiled and tipped his hat. “And cheer up. Maybe you’ll be lucky and your brother-in-law will bail him out this evening.” He took off down the path, whistling happily.

“Do you have the decanter?” Nettles asked quietly.

Marjorie nodded and then bolted into the house. She returned a few seconds later, the decanter tucked under one arm. “Oh, I forgot to ask. Did Detective Jameson call today?”

“No, but we haven’t been at the station since this morning. If he left a message, I’ll send it over with Constable Smith. He’s on duty again tonight; he’ll be here by six.”

“I’ll keep an eye out for him.”

Nettles looked around suspiciously. “Keep an eye out for yourself while you’re at it. If this brandy has been tampered with, the perpetrator is going to notice when it goes missing. You still have your whistle?”

“Yes, it’s, uh, upstairs,” Marjorie replied.

“Good girl. Use it if you need it.” Nettles took the decanter from her hand and, with a smile and a wink, followed the Sergeant to the cove.

Marjorie turned on one heel and went back into the house. Despite the patronizing manner in which it was suggested, she had to admit that the idea of relaxing in a tub was an extremely appealing one.

As Marjorie made her way toward the staircase, she was startled by the sound of a voice resonating through the high-ceilinged entryway. “Mrs. Ashcroft,” Miller greeted. “Good to see you up and about.”

“Thank you, Mr. Miller. It’s good to be back … umm … amongst the living.”

“We were all very worried about you. Griselda had you as murdered in your sleep. I don’t think she realized that it wouldn’t have looked very good for her if you had been,” Miller laughed.