Calypso Magic

  "I too."

  They parted at the house, Lyon taking the horses to the stables so Diana could have the bathtub first.

  "Don't you look like a dowd!"

  "Hello, Patricia. How very nice to see you. Of course it's always a pleasure to see you. Your conversation is always so very gracious and enlightening."

  The two girls faced each other on the landing, Diana giving Patricia an amused look.

  "You think you are so much better than I am, don't you? Just look at you."

  "I will, in a few minutes, after you have finished with your compliments."

  "Deborah says your face will look like old leather if you continue in your hoyden's ways."

  Diana obligingly touched her fingers to her cheek. "I do believe I can already feel my skin cracking. Are you through now, Patricia?"

  "He won't stay with you, he won't. He is a gentleman, and a gentleman wants a lady, not some frowzy trollop."

  "This he you're talking aboutmy husband, I suppose?"

  "I would wager he didn't just visit Mendenhall when he was on Tortola."

  "This is most curious," Diana said, fisting her hand at her side. She had an overwhelming desire to slap Patricia, hard. "I do wonder at odd times, you know, why you dislike me so very much."

  "Because you've always had everything you wanted. It's not fair, you don't deserve anything."

  "At least," Diana said very softly, "I do not play my husband false."

  Patricia sucked in her breath. "You liar! Liar!" She grasped her muslin skirt and raced down the stairs, her soft brown curls slapping against her face.

  Oh, why, Diana scolded herself, why couldn't you have just kept your mouth shut?

  Because the girl is obnoxious, that's why.

  Diana decided she should find out where exactly Patricia had come from. Had she been desperately poor growing up? Was this the reason for her unwholesome behavior?

  Poor Daniel.

  Charles Swanson wasn't at the dinner table that evening. Lucien waited an extra ten minutes, but the man didn't put in an appearance.

  "Odd," said Deborah. "We will dine."

  "I haven't seen him since early this afternoon," Grainger said.

  Edward Bemis merely shrugged. "The last time I saw him, he was working in the study."

  There was tension so thick at the table that Diana fancied she could practically see it. If she could have seen it, she imagined the tension would look like thick gray swamp mud. She'd heard there were crocodiles in Jamaica in the swamps there. She shuddered, not really tasting the shrimp and coconut.

  Edward Bemis was preoccupied, and said little. Daniel, as was his wont, forked down his dinner with good appetite, merely smiling at Diana when she remarked on his giant's body needing sustenance.

  Patricia was sullen; Deborah, like Diana, seemed to sense undercurrents of something not at all pleasant.

  Lyon, in odd moments, found himself wondering what Savarol had been like before the advent of the wives. And Bemis, of course. God, he detested the man.

  Who had drugged Diana?

  Who had strangled Moira?

  She'd been buried the day he'd been on Tortola. Diana hadn't said anything about it and he supposed she'd been sleeping during the funeral. Why not test the waters? he thought.

  "I understand Moira was buried yesterday?"

  Lucien said, a frown marring his wide forehead, "Yes, the poor child. Grainger and I decided that our people shouldn't work. Unfortunately, we have no preacher here. I said the service."

  "She was just a slave," Patricia said under her breath, but Lyon heard her, as did Daniel.

  "That is quite enough," Daniel said in the firmest voice Lyon had ever heard from him. It was about time, Lyon thought, that the young man gave his wife the back of his hand.

  Dido placed another huge platter in the middle of the table.

  "That," said Diana with great pleasure, "is Lila's one-pot delight."

  "What is it?" Lyon asked.

  "Well, those little black things staring at you are raisins. The other ingredients are equally harmless."

  Lyon gamely forked down a big bite. He tasted bacon, potatoes, carrots, and other things he couldn't readily identify.

  "We will change the dining habits of the London aristocracy," he said, smiling at his wife.

  "No, my dear girl," Lucien said. "Don't even think it. Lila remains here, with me."

  "Perhaps I should have her teach me how to prepare some dishes before we leave."

  "You, in the kitchen?"

  "Why not, Patricia? After all, I've been told that you occasionally visit the kitchen yourself."

  Daniel raised his head from the one-pot delight. "Oh? When was this?"

  Lyon squeezed Diana's thigh.

  "Just something I heard, Daniel," she said, forcing lightness in her voice.

  Bemis said, "My lord, surely you and I should have a discussion."

  "Ah," said Lyon.

  "About Mendenhall," Bemis said, a definite edge to his voice. "Torrence is most concerned."

  "I think he is wise to be concerned. Perhaps we should discuss Mendenhall at that. Tomorrow, I think."

  Bemis looked as though he would say something more, but at that moment there was a yell from the grounds.

  "My God, what now?" Lucien tossed his napkin on his plate and shoved back his chair.

  They heard running steps toward the house and another yell.

  Diana thought she knew the reason for that yell. She closed her eyes a moment, not moving.

  25

  There's small choice in rotten apples.

  —SHAKESPEARE

  Charles Swanson was dead. Shot through the head. He'd been dead for some time. His body was cold. He'd been stuffed beneath some bougainvillea at the eastern edge of the front grounds.

  One of the gardeners had found him and promptly vomited up his dinner.

  They searched the area, but found no trace of Swanson's murderer. A gun was found some ten feet from the body. It belonged to Lucien. Its place was empty in the gun case.

  There was utter silence in the great house.

  "My God," Lucien said again, his eyes on his hands clasped on his lap. Diana wanted to go to him, but Lyon gently tugged at her hand and shook his head. Deborah walked softly up behind his chair and laid her hand on his shoulder.

  We are all here, Diana thought, sitting here, silent and helpless. Edward Bemis looked the worst of any of them. He appeared to have aged a decade. His hands were shaking badly. When Lyon handed him a brandy, he said nothing, but grasped the goblet and downed the contents in one gulp.

  Patricia began sobbing softly and Daniel, so very gently, took her in his arms and began rocking her as if she were a child. She seemed a child pressed against his huge body.

  Diana watched Deborah move away finally from her father and seat herself in a wing chair in the far corner of the drawing room. Her eyes stared blankly ahead and she was still as a stone. She was mumbling something under her breath, and only garbled sounds came to Diana's ears.

  Lyon said slowly to Lucien, "I believe, sir, that it is our responsibility to discover who has done this."

  Lucien had never felt so weary in his life. His body felt weighted down and his brain numb. He nodded slowly. "Go ahead, my boy."

  "Very well," Lyon said. His eyes went to each face. "I believe," he continued, "that each of us should account for his or her time since this morning. I think Mr. Savarol said that he saw Swanson this morning at ten o'clock. Is that right, sir?"

  "Yes," said Lucien. "That is correct."

  "Did anyone see him alive after that time?"

  Grainger nodded. "Yes, I saw him early this afternoon. In the study, about one o'clock I think it was."

  "No one saw him after early afternoon?"

  No one had, or rather, no one admitted to having seen Charles Swanson.

  "Then we will assume that he was killed between one o'clock and six o'clock. Did anyone hear anything that resembled a gun
shot?"

  No one had.

  "All right, then. I shall begin with my own whereabouts." Lyon spoke slowly, concisely.

  "and after swimming, Diana and I returned to the house about five o'clock. Of course, my wife and I give each other alibis. It is unfortunate, but no one saw us after we left the village. About what time was that, Diana?"

  "Three-thirty, I think."

  Lucien Savarol had no witness to account for much of his time. He'd worked alone in the study, then walked to the mango grove, to think about things, he said. What things? Diana wondered, but she remained silent.

  Everyone had seen someone during the day and early evening, but no one could account for every minute. Even Grainger, normally surrounded by slaves during the day, had been alone for several hours, writing letters in his house, he said.

  They sat and stared at one another.

  Lucien sighed deeply. "What now, Lyon?"

  It disturbed Lyon that Lucien Savarol seemed so very removed, so willing to hand the responsibility to him. Was it Deborah he was thinking about?

  "We will need to bury Charles Swanson. Bemis, does he have relatives? You and he were friends, after all."

  "No," said Bemis, "there is no family."

  "There is something I should like to know, Mr. Bemis," Diana said suddenly, her voice clear and firm. "I saw you and Charles arguing. I saw you strike Charles."

  All eyes went to Bemis, who had turned perfectly white. If looks could have killed, Diana, Lyon thought, would be dead meat.

  "Yes, Bemis. Can you please explain that?" Lucien said.

  Bemis got himself together, but Diana saw his control was hanging by a thread.

  "It waspersonal," he said finally. "It has nothing to do with his death. Nothing."

  "I think you can be more specific," Deborah said abruptly, rising from her chair. "What do you mean by personal?"

  Bemis shook his head. "It is none of your business. My God, he was my friend!" He jumped to his feet. "Do you understand me? He was my friend! Did you see him! His head was nearly blown off. My God!" He rushed from the drawing room, slamming the heavy door behind him.

  No one said anything for many moments.

  "Well," said Deborah.

  "Well, indeed," agreed Lucien.

  A lovers' quarrel? Lyon said nothing. Perhaps it had been Charles Swanson Patricia was meeting and Bemis found out about it. The jealous, castaway lover. But then again, how to account for Moira's death? Surely Bemis had no reason to strangle that poor girl. Or did he? Was it possible that there were two killers? Lyon sighed. They were no further to discovering any answers than when they'd begun.

  Before they went their respective ways to bed, Lucien said, "I don't think any of us should ever be alone. Or if any of you have to be alone, take no chances."

  Diana said to Lyon as they lay in their bed some time later, "Did you see Deborah's face?"

  "Yes. She seemed extraordinarily upset, but she had a firm hold on herself. Perhaps she knew that Patricia was seeing Charles Swanson, and out of anger for her betrayal of Daniel, she killed him."

  "But why Moira? Would a woman be strong enough to have strangled Moira?"

  "Yes, I think so, if she caught her unawares."

  "Deborah hated Moira."

  "Yes, it appears so."

  "Lyon, I'm afraid."

  "I know, Diana. God, I know." He drew her against the length of his body. "I very much want to take you away from here."

  "I can't go now. My father ---"

  "Yes, Lucien. I do believe that Deborah knows something. What it is and whether or not it has any bearing on all of this, I do not know."

  "Everything was fine until she came here. She and Patricia and Daniel."

  "Yes. There is no getting away from that, is there? God, I wish there were a magistrate here or some way of finding out about everyone's pasts. I was involved in a mystery just once, and not really all that involved. It concerned Frances and Hawk and their racehorses." He told her the story, finishing with the true, outrageous finale. "And Amalie, Hawk's former mistress, saved the day. It must have been an amazing sight to see Amalie jumping onto the villain's back, screeching at the top of her lungs."

  Diana laughed in the darkness and Lyon eased a bit. He kissed the tip of her nose, then her smiling mouth.

  He felt her smooth palm slide down his chest, and deepened his kiss. When her hand found him, he forgot all the tragedy, the fear, and their helplessness. "Ah, Diana," he said, "you please me more than any woman in my life."

  She raised her head and gave him a mock frown. "That is supposed to be some sort of compliment?"

  "It is true. And don't I please you more than any other man?"

  "Since you are the only one ---"

  "Then your answer must obviously be a resounding yes."

  He eased his body over her, stretched her arms above her head, and gently clasped her wrists with his hand. He was hard and demanding between her thighs, and she allowed herself to forget, at least for the time being.

  "I think," Lyon said some minutes later, deep satisfaction in his voice, "that I just got you with child."

  She blinked at that, still recovering. She felt him still deep inside her, felt the wetness of his seed, and wondered if perhaps he weren't right.

  "You sound very proud of yourself, husband."

  "Certainly pleased that at last I found the right vessel."

  "Vessel! You conceited, arrogant ---"

  He kissed her and to his surprise felt himself growing hard again. "Again, my love?"

  "I think so, my lord," she whispered, and drew him tightly against her.

  "I always believe that if I make a claim, I should do my best to fulfill it."

  "Yes," she said, "that is something I should agree with."

  There was pleasure, but it was a desperate pleasure, for both their minds couldn't remain oblivious of the misery that surrounded them.

  Diana, on the following morning, didn't at all feel that she was with child. Of course, she had no idea what being with child should feel like, and she smiled to herself. Her smile faded rapidly. She had things to do today and people to speak to. The uncertainty, the fear, was eroding everything.

  Usually Deborah was in the cookhouse at this time, overseeing the meals for the day and setting the slaves to their various tasks. At first Diana had felt strange, having another person assume this responsibility. When she and Lyon had returned, Lila had come to her several times, and Diana, in full goodwill, had directed her to Deborah. She thought again that Deborah was efficient, and although curt with the servants, she wasn't cruel.

  All save Moira. Who was dead. She seemed to have a running battle with Dido, but upon closer inspection, every insult Deborah hurled at the old woman's head bounced right off. Yet, Diana thought, Dido thought her father had made a mistake. She shook her head, her various and sundry thoughts too chaotic to bear.

  Deborah wasn't in the cookhouse.

  "Missis already here," said Lila, offering Diana a steaming portion of her famous chocho pudding.

  Diana made her way back upstairs toward her father's bedchamber. The door was closed. She paused a moment, her hand raised to knock. She heard soft sobbing from within.

  Deborah! Crying? Very slowly, Diana turned the knob and pushed the door open.

  Deborah was sitting in her father's chair by the French windows, her face in her hands. Her shoulders were shaking.

  Silently, Diana walked to her and gently laid her hand on her shoulder. "What is it, Deborah? Can I help?"

  Her face was tear-ravaged and her lower lip trembled. Then she got a hold of herself. "What do you want?" Her voice was harsh and raw from her crying.

  "I heard you crying. I want to help."

  "Ha! You want nothing more than to see me gone. I'll tell you something, miss, your father was miserable when I met him, couldn't forget that mother of yours. I made him happy, I tell you. I made him forget her."

  "Is that why you had my mother's
portrait removed from the drawing room? To make him happy?"

  "She haunted him. I removed it so he could be free of her, finally."

  "Why did you hate Moira?"

  Deborah sucked in her breath. "So," she said finally, very slowly, "this is why you want to help me. You want your father to believe that I strangled the girl. I will tell you something. I wanted Moira gone. She was stupid and very sly. I couldn't make her realizeOh, it is too much! I didn't want her hurt. I just wanted her gone. That's all. Just gone, from Savarol."

  Diana remembered that smug look on Moira's face that day Lyon had taken the riding crop from Deborah. Sly? Yes, smug and sly.

  "But why? Did she displease you so mightily?"

  Deborah firmly closed her mouth.

  Frustrated, Diana changed course. "You know, it is Lyon's idea that Patricia and Daniel return with us to England. Lyon wishes to provide Daniel a substantial allowance so that he may study medicine, as he wishes to."

  "No!" Deborah rose abruptly from her chair, her movements clumsy, frantic. "No," she said again, more calmly. "Daniel's place is here, on Savarol Island. With me. Do you understand? You will not interfere."

  "And Patricia? She would likely sell her soul to dance at balls in London."

  "Patricia is aShe is young. She will do as she's bid."

  "Daniel is a grown man, Deborah. I daresay he will do as he pleases."

  Deborah just shook her head, not looking at Diana. "Leave now, Diana. Just go away."

  "Very well. But, Deborah, if you wish to have someone to talk to, I am willing. I really don't hate you, you know. If you make my father happy, then I am happy for him."

  The older woman looked as if she would have said something to that, but she didn't. Diana left the bedchamber, gently closing the door behind her. Her expression was thoughtful.

  "Missis is upset."

  "Yes, Dido, she is. You are obviously the one I learned my eavesdropping from. How long have you been lurking here anyway?"

  The old woman gave her a smug look. "Long enough. So much trouble since she and de others come here."