Murder on Skiathos Read online

  What struck her at first was how still and quiet it was. The noise of the cicadas made no impression on her; for they were now so familiar to her and as much a part of the Greek island as the waves that lapped the shore. Away from the music and chatter, the island loomed up before her as a calm, still sanctuary. The knowledge that it would be quieter still beyond the terrace persuaded her to venture further afield despite the darkness. Never had the island felt threatening to her, even now as she left the safety of the hotel building and moved in the semi darkness through the formal gardens towards the tennis courts. She was vaguely aware of the rustle of the wind in the leaves or the odd twig being snapped by a bird or small animal as they set out on their nocturnal journeys.

  It certainly never occurred to her that she might have been followed, that her departure from the dining room had been observed and acted upon. It was, therefore, a little while before she became aware of the sound of footsteps behind her, quiet and hurried, like some scuttling animal afraid of being detected by its prey. The idea that she was not alone crept up on her slowly, until it gathered momentum. It caused her to stop and turn around half afraid of what she might discover. Indeed, it was while she was still considering why anyone should wish to stalk her in so furtive a manner that a figure loomed up out of the darkness. It was all she could do to stifle the scream that leapt so readily to her lips, as she gathered her shawl about her as if it were a shield capable of warding off danger.

  ‘Please forgive me, your ladyship. I didn’t mean to startle you.’

  Rose had never heard the voice before, and yet, though the figure was still partially concealed by the shadows that edged the path, she knew instinctively to whom the voice belonged. The speaker’s deferential words might suggest otherwise, yet to be accosted in so direct a manner suggested a confidence prevalent in the higher ranks of society. There was no doubt in Rose’s mind, therefore, that the person who addressed her in so subservient yet self-assured a fashion was none other than the duchess. The woman was her social superior and yet it appeared, at least from her initial words, that she intended to continue the charade of being plain Miss Dewhurst.

  When considering her own behaviour afterwards, Rose justified it to herself reasoning that she had not wished to be complicit in playing the duchess’ childish game. In addition she had found the notion of being spied upon rather repugnant, incurring in her as it had done a momentary sense of fear and indignation in equal measure. Before she could stop herself, therefore, or consider the consequences, she had found herself addressing the woman by her true title and with undue abruptness.

  ‘How do you do, your grace?’

  The woman started visibly. Had Rose struck her physically, the effect of her words could not have been more shattering. For even in the darkness, Rose was aware that one of the woman’s hands flew to her mouth, while the other clutched at her heart in a gesture which Rose considered, at the time, to be overly dramatic.

  ‘Then … then you know who I am?’ the woman stuttered as soon as she could find the words to express her disbelief.

  ‘My husband recognised you the night you appeared at the window with your … companion,’ Rose replied, a trifle awkwardly, aware that she had acted rather clumsily, but also of the view that the woman was being unnecessarily theatrical. ‘You recognised him too, I think, the Earl of Belvedere?’

  ‘Yes … yes, of course,’ the woman admitted quietly, and a trifle reluctantly, as if she found the recollection of her arrival at the hotel distasteful. ‘It was only that I hoped, indeed thought … he would keep my secret. I daresay it was frightfully naïve of me, but –’

  ‘You were not wrong in supposing that he would,’ said Rose, somewhat coldly, resenting the woman’s implication that Cedric’s conduct had fallen short of her expectations. ‘He has told no one but myself.’ The woman made no comment concerning this act of chivalry and, in her indignation, Rose added, somewhat angrily: ‘In fact, my husband has been at great pains to persuade the other guests that you are not the Duchess of Grismere when it is so obvious to everyone that you are. Really, I can’t tell you what a fruitless task it has been given that your photograph has appeared in every newspaper!’

  Her anger died as quickly as it had flared up, and immediately she felt ashamed of her behaviour. She had allowed herself to be riled by the duchess’ haughty manner, which even now she felt was in evidence despite the darkness which acted as an effective camouflage. Still, her outburst had shown her in a poor light and, being naturally kind hearted and of a charitable disposition, she had no wish to cause offence. Before Rose could make amends, however, the duchess spoke in a low voice full of contrition.

  ‘You were quite right to admonish me,’ she said. ‘Oh dear. I fear that we have started off on the wrong foot. Do you think it possible that we might begin again?’

  ‘I don’t see why not,’ said Rose, though there was still something about the woman’s manner that she found irksome. Later, on reflection, she thought it was the older woman’s certainty that she would comply with her wishes. ‘Perhaps you would tell me why you were following me? Did you wish to ask me about anything in particular?’

  The directness of Rose’s question seemed to startle the woman. Instead of becoming annoyed, however, she appeared flustered, knitting her hands together in that odd gesture that was peculiar to her in times of anguish.

  ‘No … Yes … By that, I mean, I had decided to take a stroll before retiring to bed, when I happened to notice you on the path leading past the tennis courts. I thought it would be a good opportunity to speak with you without the risk of being observed.’

  ‘By your companion or by the other guests?’ asked Rose, before she could stop herself.

  ‘By the other guests, of course. Why should it matter if Oberon … Alec, sees me talking to you?’

  ‘Not at all, I should imagine,’ said Rose, interested in the duchess’ slip of the tongue, though having no desire to pursue it at that moment. For, if truth be told, she was keen to end this strange, unsettling interview as soon as possible and return to the populated dining room and to Cedric, who even now was no doubt wondering where she was. Her curiosity, however, suddenly got the better of her and she asked hurriedly, before she could change her mind:

  ‘Why did you wish to speak with me?’

  ‘I was wondering if his lordship had any news of my husband? By that, I mean, does he know if he’s … he’s well?’

  Whatever Rose had expected the duchess to say, it had not been this. Caught unawares, she spoke more bluntly than she had intended. ‘You would like to know how he is bearing up?’

  ‘Yes, I suppose I do. It sounds rather awful when one puts it like that, doesn’t it? Of course, it never occurred to me that my disappearing as I did would cause such a great scandal.’

  ‘Didn’t it?’ said Rose, not totally convinced by the woman’s words, though admittedly she sounded fairly earnest.

  ‘No,’ said the duchess firmly, perhaps sensing some of the other woman’s cynicism. ‘I thought my husband would say I was … I was just visiting friends. I can’t tell you how I wish he had.’

  ‘And yet it is your husband, rather than the scandal, that concerns you the most?’

  ‘Well, of course it is. What sort of a person do you take me for? No, don’t answer that,’ said the duchess, a flash of anger in her voice. ‘You have made up your mind what sort of a woman I am, and you will not help me.’

  ‘Why should you require me to help you?’ asked Rose, somewhat perplexed by the woman’s odd behaviour.

  ‘Can’t you see how wretched I am?’

  It seemed such an odd thing for the duchess to say that there followed an awkward silence.

  ‘If you are upset,’ said Rose at last, finding something rather repulsive in the woman’s self-pity, ‘then really you have only yourself to blame.’

  ‘Indeed?’ Again there was that odd flash of anger.

  ‘By that I mean how did you expect the society page
s to react to your vanishing like that?’ Fearing another uncomfortable silence, or worse, open hostility, she added; ‘Rather than feeling sorry for yourself, you should give a thought to your husband. From what I hear, he has aged dreadfully. Indeed, Lady Lavinia Sedgwick informs me he is little more than a recluse. Really, if anyone has a right to feel wretched, it is your husband!’

  Chapter Thirteen

  As soon as the words had left her mouth, Rose cursed herself for having been so outspoken, yet there was something in the duchess’ manner that piqued her. Still, she had not meant to speak so unkindly, and she felt it was up to her to extend the olive branch and put an end to this strange animosity that had sprung up so oddly between them. It did not make her feel any better about her handling of the situation to realise that the reason for the continuing silence was that the duchess was crying bitterly.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Rose said gently, taking a step forward.

  She fumbled in the darkness and took the other woman’s hand in hers. Their nearness meant that she could now distinguish the duchess’ features clearly. For the first time, she became a real flesh and blood person. The woman’s beauty, if there had ever been any, was extinguished by the strained expression on her face and the dark smudges underneath her eyes, which emphasised the fine lines around her eyes and lips. They seemed to age her together with the ashen pallor of her skin.

  ‘That was beastly of me,’ said Rose, conscious that she had only contributed to the duchess’ wan appearance. ‘I had no right to upset you like that. I don’t know what came over me and made me behave as I did.’

  The duchess sniffed and a tear trickled down her cheek. She said: ‘Is my husband really ill?’

  ‘I’m afraid I can’t say for certain. Though I believe he has taken your leaving him rather badly,’ admitted Rose, fearing another batch of tears. ‘Indeed, my husband hardly recognised him when he met him at his club the other day. I believe he misses you dreadfully.’ The detective in her got the upper hand and she said: ‘My husband says you left him a note.’

  ‘Yes, I did,’ said the duchess, drying her tears with the edge of a lace handkerchief. ‘But it was so difficult to know what exactly to write. By that, I mean, I could hardly tell him the truth.’

  ‘Couldn’t you?’ said Rose. ‘Wouldn’t it have been kinder to hear the truth from you instead of reading a scandalised version of it in the penny press?’

  The duchess’ eyes widened in fear. ‘There is no reason for the press to know anything about it unless …’ Her sentence trailed off, incomplete.

  ‘My husband and I refuse to keep quiet?’ supplied Rose. ‘Is that what you were about to say?’

  ‘I should not have put it as crudely as that,’ said the duchess, rallying a little of her spirit.

  ‘No,’ said Rose, ‘but it is what you meant, all the same.’

  It seemed to her that they were going around in circles and lashing out at one another in a dreadful fashion. Why did this woman infuriate her so? Was it because she seemed intent on perpetuating her own unhappiness? Rose, recognising that it was up to her to take herself in hand, took a deep breath and said:

  ‘Look here, it is most unfortunate that we have come across one another like this. Neither Lord Belvedere nor I are out to cause you any harm, but you must understand that the Duke of Grismere is by way of being an acquaintance of my husband. It places his lordship in a difficult position. He will see it as his duty to inform the duke that we encountered you during our travels.’

  ‘Will he see it as his duty to tell him about … Mr Dewhurst?’

  ‘If pressed,’ said Rose, choosing her words carefully, ‘I think he will feel obliged to tell your husband that you had a companion.’

  ‘I see.’ There was something rather pathetic in the way the duchess said these two words, as if the fight had quite gone out of her, and she was now resigned to leading a life of melancholy.

  ‘Look here,’ said Rose. ‘It is quite obvious to me that you still care for your husband. It would be much better if you told him what you have done rather than that he hear it from someone else, particularly from the scandal sheets. Why not write to him?’

  The duchess shuddered. ‘I … I should rather die than do that. My husband is a very proud man. He would never forgive me.’

  ‘Very probably,’ said Rose, losing some of her patience, ‘but it does not mean that you have to remain here with … with your companion, does it? If you feel quite wretched, as you say you do, why don’t you leave him? You needn’t return home to England if you’d rather not. You could stay on the Continent.’

  ‘Leave Alec?’ The duchess sounded horrified. Indeed, she uttered the words with such passion that Rose was rather taken aback by this raw display of emotion. That the woman truly loved Alec Dewhurst had not occurred to her, and yet why should she find it so surprising? Why else would the duchess have left a supposedly happy marriage and privileged existence to form a liaison with a rather worthless young man who seemed to lack any sense of integrity? The more she thought about it, the more bewildering it seemed. She could not imagine that Alec Dewhurst could hold any more than a fleeting attraction for the duchess. Certainly, he did not seem the type of man a woman such as the Duchess of Grismere would lose her head over. It was then that another thought occurred to her.

  ‘Are you afraid that he might stoop to blackmail?’ she asked quietly. ‘Are there … letters?’

  ‘Letters?’ For a moment the duchess appeared startled. A minute later, and she had regained some of her composure. ‘Of course there are letters,’ she said, rather angrily, Rose thought. ‘A great many of them as it happens. But Mr Dewhurst would never lower himself to that. You … you have no right to think such a thing of him.’

  It appeared to Rose that she had every right to suppose such a thing, particularly in light of the way Alec Dewhurst was carrying on with Mabel Adler under their very noses. Indeed, she was sorely tempted to say something to that effect, but on reflection thought better of it. An uneasy silence prevailed as each woman wondered in her own way how their strange, rather candid conversation would end. It was while they were deep in their own thoughts that they became aware, in the same instant, that they no longer had the darkness to themselves.

  It was the laughter that they heard first, quickly followed by words uttered in urgent whispers, and accompanied by hurried footsteps. Rose did not need to see the faces of the newcomers to know that Alec Dewhurst and Mabel Adler were approaching. She cast a worried look in the direction of the duchess, wondering how the woman would react to the situation. The growing darkness obscured the duchess’ features, but even so Rose had the impression that the woman tensed, as if all her senses were sharpened for the awful revelation that the man she loved was no more than a common cad. Indeed, Rose herself waited with almost bated breath, as if the inevitable discovery of betrayal was as much her own tragedy as it was the duchess’.

  The inevitable moment came when Alec Dewhurst took the young woman in his arms. Rose felt the duchess stiffen beside her, but she heard no cry of anguish or sharp intake of breath. Indeed, it was almost as if the duchess had become a wax effigy, so lifeless did she seem. Before Rose could think quite what to do for the best, the situation resolved itself in a way by Alec Dewhurst and Mabel Adler, oblivious to the two women’s presence, rushing past them towards the cliff.

  As the two women stood reeling, Rose wondered which one of them would be the first to speak. It now seemed to her unnecessary to describe to the duchess the sort of man she thought the woman’s lover to be. There would be no need for her to urge the duchess to leave her companion, for the woman had witnessed with her own eyes his fickle, disreputable nature. That the duchess might be in a state of acute agitation, she did not doubt. While she might well have harboured vague suspicions concerning her lover’s character, to have his flaws paraded before her in no uncertain terms was beyond the pale. It occurred to Rose then that the kindest course of action might be to squeeze the woman
’s hand sympathetically and slip away, leaving the duchess to her own contemplations. She was quite unprepared, therefore, for the words that sprung defiantly from the lips of her companion.

  ‘I shall never leave him,’ the duchess said quietly, but with such an intensity of feeling it almost took Rose’s breath away. Perhaps fearing opposition, she added, almost as an afterthought: ‘The girl does not mean anything to him. It will come to nothing.’

  ‘You may well be right,’ said Rose, regaining some of her composure but with incipient anger, ‘yet does it not bother you that Mr Dewhurst is willing to humiliate you in front of the other guests for his own ends?’

  Her words were met with a mulish silence that she found infuriating. It was almost as if the duchess had wrapped herself in a cocoon and was refusing to see the truth that was staring so blatantly at her. It occurred to Rose that if all else failed she might appeal to the woman’s pride. Yet, like Miss Hyacinth, she was reminded of the old proverb that there were none so blind as those who would not see. On reflection, therefore, she decided to change tack.

  ‘If you will not think of yourself, then at least have a care for Miss Adler.’

  ‘Miss Adler? Do you mean that girl?’

  ‘Yes. Miss Adler is under the impression that you are Mr Dewhurst’s sister. Indeed, your … your companion has made a point of introducing you to her as such. She is unworldly and does not know the type of man he is. No doubt she has some romantic notion that –’

  ‘What of it?’ said the duchess. ‘What is it to me?’

  The woman’s tone was dismissive, verging on indifference. Rose’s focus, however, was only on the duchess’ apparent selfishness. At no time during their conversation had the woman shown herself to consider anyone but herself. Even when she spoke of Alec Dewhurst, it was only in terms of her feelings for him rather than of the man himself. It seemed to Rose, regarding the woman in the darkness, that she was intent on wallowing in a pit of self-imposed disenchantment. Indeed, it was patently obvious that she intended to do nothing to aid her own plight or that of anyone else affected by the actions of Alec Dewhurst. This sudden realisation produced in Rose a feeling of righteous anger, the effect of which was that she was induced to speak more freely and harshly than she intended, all her pent-up frustration with the woman exploding in a torrent from her lips.