Murder on Skiathos Read online

  ‘I’m not regretting my choice.’

  ‘Aren’t you? It sounded to me as if you were. I wonder if the old codger would welcome the return of his prodigal wife.’

  The duchess visibly started at the insult directed towards her husband, but she made no move to curtail the young man’s vicious tongue.

  Instead, she clenched her fists until her knuckles became white. ‘I love you,’ she said, returning to the curtained window. ‘There isn’t anything I wouldn’t do for you.’

  ‘Good,’ said Oberon, returning to his perusal of the newspaper in the mistaken belief that all was well.

  Chapter Five

  The Earl and Countess of Belvedere emerged on to the terrace leaving the music and chatter behind them. The pale glow cast by the chandeliers from the dining room lit up areas of the promenade, leaving other parts in darkness. As if by agreement, they kept to the shadows and continued walking in silence, past the formal lawns with their sunken urns, and the seldom-used tennis courts which bordered the gardens, out on towards the cliff edge. They hardly glanced at their surroundings, for each was deep in their own thoughts; the only sound was their footsteps partly muffled by the undergrowth as they negotiated their way to the edge of the cliff.

  When they had reached their destination, they stopped and stared out at the black sea, as if transfixed by the way it shimmered faintly in the sparse moonlight. It was still warm, though the blackness seemed to disguise the heat and Rose shivered, pulling her silk shawl more tightly around her shoulders, as if there was indeed a chill in the air. It was a moment or two before either of them dared speak, and then when they did, emboldened by the darkness, their words came tumbling out abruptly, all in a rush, speaking over each other.

  ‘Darling, I –’

  ‘It’s no use –’

  There was a moment of awkward silence, and then Cedric said hoarsely:

  ‘What is no use?’

  Despite the dim light, Rose could feel her husband’s eyes on her, searching her face for a clue to her ominous words. She withdrew a step or two, wringing her hands as she went, trying to summon up the necessary courage to give voice to the thoughts that had haunted her. After a while, conscious of her husband’s growing impatience, she said simply: ‘I can’t go on like this.’

  ‘Like what?’ demanded Cedric.

  Rose wondered idly if he was being deliberately obtuse.

  ‘Like this.’ She threw out her hands in something of a dramatic gesture that seemed to encompass the cliff on which they stood, the air above and the dark sea below. ‘This not talking to one other. Oh,’ she cried hurriedly, sensing that Cedric was about to argue, ‘you will say we do talk, and we do, but just about silly, trivial things. We’re frightfully polite to each other, but it’s all wrong. I daresay even our servants must sense something … We … we might very well be strangers!’

  Now that she had spoken, Rose found to her dismay that it was very difficult to stop. What was more, with each passing second, she felt the bitterness that she had kept so closely bottled up inside her, creep out and taint her words. She turned to face her husband, barely making out his features in the darkness.

  ‘What I am trying to say is that we don’t really talk, do we? That’s to say, not like we used to. We were so happy, and now…’ She allowed her sentence to falter, afraid to finish it.

  Cedric did not appear to share her reservations, however, for he said sharply: ‘And now we’re not. Is that what you were going to say?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said quietly. She waited for what seemed an age to see how he would respond to such an assertion. As the seconds passed, she felt a lump forming uncomfortably in her throat. When it appeared that he was unwilling to say anything further, she added miserably, if only to break the awful silence that engulfed them: ‘I’m not happy.’

  ‘No, I can see that,’ Cedric said, a note of bitterness in his own voice. He turned his gaze from her face to look out at the sea below. ‘Of course, what you really mean is that I don’t make you happy.’

  The finality of his words caught her, and she was aware of her own sharp intake of breath. She said hurriedly: ‘You did make me happy once; very happy. I would be happy again if I thought you still cared for me.’

  ‘Well, of course I still care for you,’ exclaimed Cedric, turning towards his wife and taking her by the shoulders. There was a touch of anger in his voice now, as well as an odd sense of bewilderment. Rather unexpectedly, Rose felt her heart surge. She had feared apathy, had dreaded indifference even. Certainly, she had not expected this display of emotion. She had little time to reflect on what it might mean, however, for she was conscious that, having spoken, she must continue to voice her thoughts before she lost her nerve. Aloud, she said:

  ‘If you do care for me as you claim to do, why are you never at Sedgwick? I hardly see you; you spend all your days in London and all your evenings at … at your club.’

  ‘I thought you preferred it that way.’

  Rose started: ‘What … what do you mean by that?’

  ‘Simply that I thought you wished to be alone,’ said Cedric slowly, a touch of weariness in his voice. To avoid any ambiguity, he added: ‘By that, I mean, I was under the impression that my presence at Sedgwick distressed you.’

  Put starkly like that, the effect of his words on his listener was pronounced. In the immediate silence that followed, both heard the shocked gasp that escaped unbidden from Rose’s lips. For the words had struck her as forcibly as if she had been slapped. She put a hand up to her cheek, feeling the colour drain from it despite the heat. She might have stumbled, had her husband not put out a hand to steady her. As it was, she took a few moments to collect herself and regain her composure, all the while unable to rid her mind of how dreadful it all was. Her husband thought she disliked him, despised him even! How had they reached this impasse? How had they sunk to these awful depths? Even as she put the questions to herself, she knew the answer. It assailed her like a wave. Aloud, she said:

  ‘I thought you had tired of me. I was under the impression,’ she continued, adopting his words, ‘that …’ Here she hesitated for a moment before continuing, knowing that what she said now, once uttered, could not be unsaid. ‘I thought … I was awfully afraid you were in love with someone else.’

  ‘Someone else?’ In the dark, Cedric sounded perplexed, and not a little surprised; then enlightenment apparently dawned on him, for he said: ‘I suppose by someone else you mean Miriam Belmore?’

  ‘Yes.’ Now she had given voice to her fears, Rose was sorely tempted to turn tail and disappear into the darkness though, conversely, she also felt an odd sense of relief.

  ‘After barely a year of marriage you thought I had tired of you and fallen for someone else?’ Cedric sounded both angry and incredulous.

  ‘Yes,’ reiterated Rose dully, vaguely conscious that her husband’s reaction might suggest otherwise. Indeed, put into words, the notion that her husband had been unfaithful sounded ludicrous, even to her own ears. Had she not remembered the way in which Cedric had staunchly proclaimed Miriam’s innocence regarding the murder in the folly or, more particularly, his seemingly furtive telephone conversations with Miriam, both of which had contributed to the awful gulf between them, she might have been tempted to mumble an apology. Instead, she held firm, doggedly pursuing the path she had chosen. Holding her head up high, she said:

  ‘Men of your class often do have mistresses, don’t they? I daresay you would like me to turn a blind eye, but I’m afraid …’ She suddenly felt herself close to tears and added rather pathetically: ‘I’m not made that way.’

  ‘I’m jolly glad to hear it, for I should hate it like poison if you were,’ retorted Cedric. ‘It would mean that you didn’t really love me, and I couldn’t bear that.’

  His words slowly penetrated her consciousness, and her mood lightened, as if a veil had been lifted. She said:

  ‘Are you saying you aren’t having an affair with Miriam?’


  ‘Well, of course I’m not. What a ridiculous idea. Miriam is not, nor ever has been, my mistress. I can’t for the life of me think what put the notion in your head that she was.’

  ‘Lavinia said –’

  ‘Oh, I shouldn’t believe a word of what my sister tells you, if I were you,’ said Cedric dismissively, unable to suppress a chuckle despite the tension that hung in the air between them. ‘She has always had the most ridiculous notion that every eligible girl in the land must be in love with me, and that they only have to flutter their eyelids for me to return the favour!’

  This statement fitted so well with Rose’s image of Lavinia’s character, and the siblings’ relationship, that fleetingly it even brought a smile to her own lips. Her mood soon darkened, however, and she said:

  ‘That is all very well, but you defended her like anything when she was suspected of murder.’ She held up her hand as Cedric made to protest. ‘It’s not just that, of course. By itself, it wouldn’t mean anything, but then there were the telephone calls too. Surely you won’t deny that you have been in the habit of telephoning her.’

  Even in the dark, she sensed her husband start; she could almost hear his mind working frantically.

  ‘I do not deny that,’ said Cedric eventually, speaking slowly, and rather formally, she thought.

  ‘And you are so very secretive about it,’ continued Rose, her fears fast returning. ‘If you had nothing to hide, why –’

  ‘I did not say I had nothing to hide.’

  Cedric’s statement cut her to the quick, and yet her brain seemed strangely dull and unresponsive as she played over his words in her mind. An awkward silence threatened to ensue; it was Cedric who finally broke it.

  ‘By that, I mean that I do have something to hide,’ he said slowly, choosing his words with care. ‘But it is not what it seems. That’s to say, it is not what you think I am hiding.’

  ‘What exactly do you mean by that?’ demanded Rose, regaining both her voice and her feeling of righteous indignation. ‘What you are saying does not make any sense. You are talking in riddles. Are you, or are you not, in love with Miriam Belmore?’

  ‘I have already told you I am not.’

  ‘But what you are hiding, this secret it –’

  ‘It has something to do with Miss Belmore; yes.’

  ‘I see!’ cried Rose, turning away from him.

  ‘No, you do not see at all! I daresay I am putting it very badly, but it has nothing to do with me and you.’

  In one swift movement, Cedric had turned her to face him, gripping her firmly by the shoulders so that she almost winced with the pain. In the darkness she could not make out his features, though she felt his breath on her face.

  ‘It does not mean what you think it means,’ he repeated. ‘I suppose one might say it is a secret of sorts, but,’ here he paused and held her very tenderly, ‘it is not my secret.’

  ‘It’s Miriam Belmore’s?’ enquired Rose sharply.

  ‘I can’t say any more,’ replied Cedric despondently. ‘As it is, I’ve probably said far too much.’ It is possible that he sensed her frustration, for he added hurriedly: ‘The thing is, I was told something in confidence. You would think very little of me if I were the sort of chap who betrayed a confidence.’

  ‘Would I?’ queried Rose, though, even as she uttered the words, she thought she might.

  ‘Yes. You wouldn’t consider it very honourable of me, and you would be quite right.’ He took her in his arms, and she sensed that he was regarding her keenly. ‘Will you trust me? You must know how much I adore you. There has never been any other girl for me, but you.’

  Rose felt her heart soar, yet the existence of a secret, to which her husband and Miriam Belmore were a party and from which she was excluded, still troubled her. ‘It is an awful lot to ask of me,’ she replied.

  ‘Yes, but if it has nothing to do with our marriage, or our relationship?’ implored Cedric.

  ‘Why would Miss Belmore seek to confide in you?’ countered Rose. ‘May I not know what your business is with her?’

  ‘There is a reason why she should choose to confide in me,’ admitted her husband. ‘I am, however,’ he continued, rather cryptically, ‘not at liberty to disclose it.’

  Rose stared at him open mouthed, her mind working furiously. A vague idea as to what he might refer had formed in her mind, yet it seemed so ludicrous and far-fetched that she was almost tempted to dismiss it immediately. But what else, she wondered, would explain both her husband’s natural reticence to discuss the matter, and the connection that evidently existed between himself and Miriam? It was useless, she knew, to probe any further into the nature of the secret that lay beyond her reach. Instead, she said simply, feeling much depended on her husband’s answer:

  ‘Will you ever be able to tell me what this secret is?’

  There was a momentary silence, while Cedric considered his answer. To Rose’s heightened senses everything seemed unbearably quiet and still; even the breeze had subsided, and there was no sound from the cicadas.

  ‘Yes,’ he said finally, ‘though goodness knows when that will be.’

  Rose turned and stared out to sea. She supposed it was an answer of sorts. Had her husband said no, she knew she would have left him standing on the cliff top, their marriage in tatters. Now she was at a loss what to do.

  ‘I daresay I have no right,’ said Cedric, ‘but I ask that you trust me.’

  The words seemed to spring up out of the darkness and she started. There was something about the manner in which they had been uttered that suggested sincerity. She swayed slightly, conscious of the cliff edge and the sheer drop beneath. It occurred to her suddenly that it mirrored her marriage. She was teetering on the brink of a precipice; one false move and all would be lost.

  She put out a hand to steady herself. Before she could stop him, Cedric grabbed her arm and pulled her towards him. She did not resist for already she felt a rise in her spirits, coupled with a sudden strange urge to laugh.

  ‘All right,’ she said, staring up at his face, which was masked by the darkness, ‘I will.’

  As they retraced their steps back to the hotel, though the secret still existed between them, she felt an odd sense of relief. It was almost as if a weight had been lifted from her shoulders, though she remained in ignorance concerning her husband’s connection with Miriam Belmore. She was conscious that she had faced a crossroads of sorts; the way ahead had been obscured and unclear, but she felt, rightly or wrongly, that she had emerged intact. For, whether rational or not, she felt certain that she had chosen the right path. That evening she had been reminded of her husband’s true character. He was what she knew him to be, a man of integrity. He had also shown that his feelings for her had not diminished; they were as deep and robust as ever. With a contented sigh, she rested her head on her husband’s shoulder, breathing in his scent, conscious only of his arms wrapped tightly around her.

  Chapter Six

  ‘Well, Peony, dear, this is all most exciting,’ declared Miss Hyacinth to her sister, as soon as they had retired to their room for the night.

  She did not wait for, nor apparently expect, her observation to elicit a comment from her sibling. Instead, she busied herself with the task of folding their Chinese silk-embroidered shawls and stacking them neatly on a shelf in the wardrobe. She then turned her attention to brushing their velvet evening shoes, dabbing at the toe of one with a damp cloth to remove a particularly stubborn mark. It would have been quite futile for anyone to have suggested to her that the hotel maid, assigned to them for the duration of their stay, was quite capable of undertaking such chores. For Hyacinth Trimble had always kept house for her father and sister, and the thought of some strange servant undertaking such intimate tasks, or rummaging among their things, would have been quite abhorrent to her. Indeed, as far as she was concerned, the duties of servants were confined to cooking and heavy work. She was more than capable of a bit of light dusting and, as she was wont
to tell those of her acquaintance who would listen, a little housework never did anyone any harm.

  However, if any of those same acquaintances were to enquire if Miss Peony was similarly employed, they were met with a frown and a look of reproach. ‘Miss Peony,’ Miss Hyacinth would whisper, careful that her words should not reach her sister’s ears, ‘is not very strong. She is something of an invalid, don’t you know.’ If those same observers then took it upon themselves to glance at the elder Miss Trimble, it is possible that they might have questioned the validity of this statement. For Miss Peony, a little larger in build than her sister, and quietly confident in the sanctuary of her own rooms, looked remarkably robust.

  That evening, however, there was no one present to observe the sisters. Only Miss Peony, seated in a high-backed chair, was there to regard her sister’s activities. She watched as her sibling fussed and fretted over the state of their evening clothes, once or twice stopping to remark that the dust had played havoc with the velvet, and was it a wonder the silk had been ruined by the heat?

  The minutes ticked on while Miss Hyacinth prattled on to herself, content in her employment and her sister’s presence, but requiring no more from Miss Peony than that she be there to observe her efforts. For Miss Hyacinth was quite accustomed to talking to herself. Her sister’s deafness and their lack of society in the village of Clyst Birch had rather made this inevitable, similarly the habit she had adopted of asking questions and answering them herself.

  ‘The Dewhursts … it reminds one of the morning or the spring, doesn’t it? Such a nice name. Of course, we are very honoured to have Lord and Lady Belvedere among our fellow guests, and dear Lady Lavinia, too. Who would have thought we should be staying in the same hotel as members of the aristocracy? But they are all rather young, though still quite charming … Mr Thurlow too, though of course he’s not gentry. But as I was saying to you only yesterday, dear, he has very charming manners … But Miss Dewhurst. She’s nearer our own age, and rather delicate. Such an elegant creature from what little one could see of her. Rather shy too, hiding her face in all that fur. I suppose she must feel the cold to be muffled up like that. I wonder if I should pay her a visit tomorrow? What do you think, dear? I feel it would be our Christian duty, don’t you? She looked rather timid to me, as if she could do with a friend. She reminded me awfully of the squire’s wife, didn’t she you, dear? But, of course, Mrs Clement suffered with her nerves, poor thing. Really, the more I think it over, the more I really think it would be rather remiss of us if I didn’t pay her a call.’