Crossing The Lion Part 17

"Someone in 'ere?" Gwennie asked. She was back to speaking in her loud, high-pitched voice, the one that came complete with the c.o.c.kney accent that did, indeed, make it sound as if she should be dressed like a chimney sweep.

I pretended to snap awake, then glanced around the room, looking confused. "What--what time is it?" I asked in my best disoriented-from-having-just-been-unconscious voice.

"Sorry to wake you, mum," Gwennie replied shrilly. "It's about half past the hour."

I glanced at my watch, still acting surprised. Of course, the fact that she hadn't specified which hour gave me a good excuse.

"My goodness!" I cried. "I didn't realize it was that late!" Smiling sheepishly, I added, "Boy, I was really fast asleep."

I only hoped my acting abilities were as good as Gwennie's--even if I'd never played Hedda Gabler.

Don't you dare turn me in, I thought, glowering at Corky. Even though I've wished on more occasions than I can name that the canine segment of the population could talk, this was one time I was very glad they couldn't.

"How were the funeral and the memorial service?" I asked, still feigning grogginess.

A sudden movement in the hallway caught my eye. Peering out the doorway, I saw a long, narrow shadow that I suspected belonged to Jives. From the looks of things, he was doing some eavesdropping of his own.

"Cor, what a sad occasion," Gwennie replied, shaking her head and tsk-tsking. "There wasn't a droi oi in the place. Everybody loved Mr. M."

Not quite everybody, I thought, wondering if I happened to be talking to one of the exceptions at that very moment.

With the second exception hovering in the hallway, listening to every word we said to each other.

"I'm sure it was very emotional," I commented. "But at least everyone had a chance to say good-bye."

I heard the front door slam again, then a few seconds later saw Charlotte pa.s.s by the doorway. She seemed lost in her own world, not the least bit surprising given the fact that she'd just attended her beloved husband's funeral.

While Corky wasn't about to abandon my world-cla.s.s ear-scratching, Admiral pulled himself up and trotted out into the hallway after her. Between the click of his toenails on the floor and Charlotte's loving mutterings as she greeted the dejected ba.s.set, I could tell she was heading upstairs. I figured she was probably retreating to the privacy of her bedroom.

"I think I'll go upstairs and say hi to Nick," I said, trying to sound casual as I got up out of my chair. The last thing I wanted was to let on that I couldn't wait to tell him about this new development. "The poor guy is holed up in the bedroom, studying. He could probably use some company by now."

With that, I eased out of the room, taking care not to make eye contact with Gwennie. Or Corky.

As I dashed toward the stairs, my new discovery about the Merrywoods' duplicitous servants was making my heart pound and my mind race.

I wonder if Linus caught on to Gwennie and Jives, I mused. Maybe he figured out their true ident.i.ties, which were something they were clearly determined to hide. For all I know, the two of them topped Scotland Yard's Most Wanted list!

Still agonizing over how to find out more information about the two imposters without the benefit of the Internet, cell phones, or any other form of technology, I trudged up the staircase. I thought Nick might have some ideas about what to do with my newfound knowledge.

But instead of heading toward our bedroom, I found myself making my way toward Charlotte's room. I noticed that the door was ajar and a light glowed from inside.

While I was anxious to talk to Nick, I couldn't help feeling that I'd just been handed a valuable opportunity to talk to Charlotte without anyone else around. Part of me was anxious to offer her some company at this very difficult time. But a more calculating part was curious about whether anything had happened at the funeral that might provide me with some new information.

I tiptoed over and peered through the doorway. Charlotte was sitting in a rocking chair with a book open in her lap. From the way she was staring off and the faraway look in her eyes, I got the feeling she wasn't actually reading.

"Charlotte?" I said in a soft voice as I knocked on the door frame gently.

She glanced in my direction and blinked. "Jessica!" she cried. Her mouth softened into a smile as she added, "Goodness, you do have a way of sneaking up on people."

"Sorry," I replied, returning her smile as I stepped into the bedroom. "I saw your light on and thought I'd ask how the memorial service went."

Charlotte let out a deep sigh. "As well as could be expected, I suppose. I must say, it was wonderful to see so many of Linus's friends and business a.s.sociates there. He was so successful and so well respected. I suppose I should be pleased that he had such a long, full life."

"It's nice that the children could all be there with you, too," I commented. "And Townie, of course."

"I don't know what I'd do without them." Once again, her gaze traveled off into the distance. "Especially my daughter. She's been such a tremendous source of support through all this."

"Will Missy be able to stay on a little longer?" I asked. "After Brock and Tag have gone back to their regular lives, I mean?"

"I'm sure she'll stay as long as I need her," Charlotte said.

"I guess at some point there'll be a lot of paperwork to deal with," I noted, trying to steer the conversation toward the topic I really wanted to talk to her about. "She'd probably be helpful in that area, too."

I perched on the small round stool with a needlepoint cover that was near Charlotte's feet. Doing my best to sound casual, I added, "I noticed that Scarlett has already started sorting through Linus's records and that Missy's been helping her."

Charlotte nodded. "Scarlett was always so good at keeping track of the day-to-day workings of the company." With a wan smile, she added, "I have a feeling she's the only person in the world who ever figured out Linus's system of record-keeping."

I chuckled. "I'd think someone who'd reached his level of success would have to be pretty organized, but it doesn't look that way."

"He was a very hands-on type of person," Charlotte said. "Isn't that the expression they use these days? What I mean is that he was someone who insisted upon knowing everything that was going on in his company. Not that he was controlling, at least not in a negative sense. It was more that he liked to be in control."

It was possible that he liked to be in control of his time as much as his money, I mused. Which would be consistent with keeping a journal.

I decided to leave Aunt Alvira out of this discussion. It was partly because I didn't want to implicate her in any family business without her permission. But I also didn't want Charlotte or any of the other Merrywoods to know I'd been prowling around the house, sneaking up hidden staircases to ferret out reclusive relatives.

"Charlotte," I asked, "by any chance did Linus keep any diaries or daily records or anything like that?"

Charlotte looked startled by my question. "Diaries?" she repeated. "Not that I know of."

It took all the self-control I possessed to keep from looking over at the wooden curio cabinet less than ten feet away--the one in which the diaries Linus had kept for nearly two decades were stored. We were practically staring right at them.

How could Charlotte not know about them? I wondered.

Unless she was hiding something.

"You're sure he never kept journals or notes about his day-to-day activities?" I asked again.

She shook her head. "As I said, I don't know a thing about any diaries." Fixing her steely blue eyes on me, she added, "Why do you ask?"

"Only because something like that might turn out to be helpful to the police," I said with a little shrug.

The muscles around her mouth tightened. "You're talking about this terrible murder investigation, aren't you?"

Before I had a chance to reply, she continued, "Frankly, I wish the police would just go away and leave us alone. Linus is dead, and nothing is going to change that. The only thing that could make it worse would be dragging my children's names into something as horrible as a murder investigation."

Her expression darkened. "I think we all know what the press would do with a story like that. They're already lined up across the bay, waiting to pounce. They'd like nothing better than to accuse one of my children of killing their father for ... for money or revenge or who knows what."

"As difficult as all this is," I said quietly, "it's important that the police get to the bottom of any foul play that went on."

"Personally, I believe his death was accidental," Charlotte insisted. "I don't know what happened, but somehow a food containing eggs got onto this island. And for some reason, when Linus began to experience symptoms, he was unable to use one of those EpiPens that are all over the house. If you ask me, his death was the result of some terrible chain of events that was completely outside anyone's control. Having the police turn this family tragedy into a circus isn't going to help any of us!"

I was surprised by Charlotte's outburst. The strength of her reaction made me wonder if perhaps she knew more than she was willing to tell. And not only about the existence of any diaries.

"Charlotte, I can't imagine what you and the rest of your family must be going through," I said. "But you're all doing an amazing job of coping with it. And I know you'll be there to support one another no matter what happens."

With that, I rose from the stool. "Now I'll leave you in peace and go see what Nick is up to. If you'd like, first I'll see if I can find Betty. I'm sure she'd be happy to keep you company."

"Thank you, Jessica," Charlotte replied. Apologetically, she added, "I'm sorry for my little outburst. I think I'll look for Betty myself. On the ferry ride over, she and I were talking about having a cup of tea. I have a feeling she's already in the kitchen, putting together a snack with Cook."

I was still thinking about our conversation as I retreated to my bedroom. It was possible that Charlotte really did believe that her husband's death was accidental. Or maybe she suspected--or even knew--that someone in the household had plotted to kill him.

As a mother hen, maybe she was determined to protect someone she cared about--perhaps one of her very own chicks.

Chapter 11.

"The lion and the calf will lay down together, but the calf won't get much sleep."

--Woody Allen Despite honesty's reputation for being the best policy, it's not usually my first choice when I'm investigating a murder. However, this was one of those rare occasions when I decided to use the direct approach.

I did a quick survey of the rooms on the first floor and found Gwennie in the conservatory, straightening up. At least, that was the impression she was clearly trying to give. As I stood in the doorway for a minute or two, watching her, I saw that she was merely drifting around the room, humming and distractedly fluffing up the occasional pillow. Now that I knew she saw herself as an actress rather than a housecleaner, I finally understood why everything in this house was so dusty. I also decided that the only reason she hadn't been tossed out on her b.u.m, as they say in England, was that Charlotte and Linus were so kind.

I cleared my throat. Predictably, she turned around, wearing a surprised expression.

"Cor, Miss," she cried. "Y'scared the living dayloights outta me, lurkin' about loike that!"

I stepped into the room. "Gwennie," I said, "you don't have to lie anymore--or use that ridiculous c.o.c.kney accent. I know all about you."

She must have been a really good actress, because she managed to stay in character. "Sorry, mum," she said, her voice only a little more high-pitched than usual. "Oy 'ave no idea--"

"Gwennie, or whatever your real name is," I interrupted, "I overheard you and Jives talking in the front hallway when you came home from the funeral."

Narrowing her eyes, she asked, "What did you hear exactly?"

"That you've been speaking in a phony accent--and that you're both actors who've been pretending to be the hired help when you're actually two very accomplished individuals." I hesitated before adding, "In other words, I know you're fakes."

"We 'aven't done anything wrong!" she cried shrilly, still speaking in her phony accent.

"Please stop talking like that," I said, letting my impatience show. "Frankly, I'm as tired of hearing it as you seem to be of speaking that way. I feel like I'm in Oliver. I keep waiting for the Artful Dodger to pick my pocket while he's singing and dancing."

She didn't laugh. I didn't know if it was because I wasn't as funny as I thought I was or because she'd been caught in a lie--a lie she and Jives had apparently been living for some time.

"I also know the reason you did it wasn't something as innocent as practicing for a role," I continued.

"Why would you think that?" she asked. At least she was finally talking in her own voice.

As for her question, I suspected she was trying to find out how much I knew. I decided to go for broke.

"I heard you say something about how you and Jives would find out soon enough just how good you were at acting." With a little shrug, I said, "Sounds to me like you were both up to no good."

Gwennie stared at me. I could practically hear the wheels turning in her head.

"It seemed like such a good idea at the time," she finally said, sounding defeated. But then she brightened, as if a lightbulb had just gone on inside her head. "It was all Jonathan's idea, actually."

"Jonathan?" I asked. "Do you mean Jives?"

"That's right," she replied. "Jonathan is his real name. Anyway, he thought the whole thing up, then talked me into it. From the very start, I was against it, but he can be a very persuasive man."

As she spoke, she kept her eyes glued to my face, as if she was monitoring my reaction. I guess she wasn't seeing much sympathy there, so she decided to try another tack.

"He threatened me," she said. She now spoke in a hoa.r.s.e whisper, meanwhile twisting her fingers together as if she were trying to knit with them. "When he told me his crazy idea and I said I wanted no part of it, he told me I had to go along with it. He said now that he'd told me, he was afraid I'd go to the police, and--"

"The police!" I exclaimed without thinking.

"I told him he was being silly!" she cried. "That the police wouldn't give a hoot about what we were doing! After all, it's not actually illegal."

"And what exactly were you doing?" I asked calmly.

Gwennie bit her lip. For a few seconds, she looked like a scared young woman barely out of her twenties rather than an uneducated maid who'd seen too many episodes of EastEnders--or a calculating actress with dollar signs where her pupils should have been. I had a feeling that, for the very first time, I was getting a glimpse of the real Gwennie.

"A couple of years ago, things started to dry up for us in London," she said wistfully. "Acting-wise, I mean. Both Jonathan and I were suddenly having a really hard time finding work. I may not be old by the real world's standards, but I'm not twenty-one anymore. I was starting to lose that blush of youth that directors love. I was drifting into that period of being too old to play the ingenue and too young to play the mother--not to mention being too youthful for any interesting character-acting roles."

"And Jonathan?" I asked, sincerely interested. "Does that happen with men, too?"

She shook her head. "That's one more area where they've got all the luck. But Jonathan had some other ... problems. He can be kind of temperamental. When it comes to his acting, I mean. He sees himself as a true artist. In other words, he always thinks he's right, even when his take on the way things ought to be done is different from the director's. He had a few run-ins along the way, and he ended up with a reputation for being difficult to work with.

"That was when he came up with his big idea." With a sad little laugh, she said, "I told him from the start that it sounded like the plot from an Agatha Christie play. You've heard of her, haven't you?"

With a wan smile, I said, "I think I've heard the name once or twice."

"Anyway, his idea was that he and I should come to America, where no one knew us. Besides, most Yanks aren't very good at telling the difference between one British accent and another. He decided we should get jobs as servants for some rich family, one where the person who controlled the purse strings was really, really ancient. Then we'd do everything we could to ingratiate ourselves, with the idea that once the old man kicked the bucket, he'd include us in his will."

"So that's how Gwennie and Jives were born," I observed. I had to admit, their plan was clever. Hateful, but clever.

"That's right," she said. "Jonathan and I did some research and we came up with the name of a posh employment agency in New York City that places maids and butlers in the homes of very wealthy families. The agency was supposed to be top of the line, which it was."

Except when it comes to doing background checks, I thought wryly.

"Jonathan and I presented ourselves as two people who'd worked together before but weren't romantically involved," Gwennie went on. "They wouldn't have liked the idea of us being a couple, because they'd be worried that if we split up one of us would quit. Either that or we'd be sneaking off into the broom closet together all the time.

"Anyway, having worked together in the past seemed to make us pretty attractive candidates--that and the fact that we both spoke with British accents. Jonathan decided to mold himself after the butler Anthony Hopkins played in The Remains of the Day. You know, polished, dignified, and ready to do anything to please his boss."