Murder Takes the High Road(77)

“This was her idea from the beginning. Mother would never have thought of this on her own. They hadn’t contacted each other for years, but then Daya wrote her and told her about the tour. Told her they should go together, confront Vanessa together.” His face flushed with anger. “And then look what happens. Daya tries to back out of it. Says she can’t go through with it. Left Mother to confront Vanessa on her own.”

I felt sick. “What happened?”

He shook his head and kept shaking it. “I think Vanessa recognized her in the hall that day. I don’t know how she could have. Mother...just stared at her. Didn’t say any of the things she’d planned to say. They just stared at each other.”

He raised his dark anguished eyes to mine.

“Ben...”

“It was strange. Silent. Then Elizabeth came down to show us to our rooms.”

That was why Vanessa had been so different that evening. She had recognized Yvonne. But if that was the case, why hadn’t she thrown Yvonne out then and there? Why had she—or so it seemed—let her in her room that night?

Ben was still talking. He had been close to tears, but now he sounded cold and clear. “Whatever she did, it all comes back to Vanessa. In the end, everything that happened is Vanessa’s doing. She sowed this. You can’t blame the victim for fighting back.”

I didn’t say what I thought. That Vanessa had been a fifteen-year-old child when she had committed her crime. That she had served her time, paid her debt to society. That she had not initiated this encounter, and even after recognizing Yvonne, had not thrown her out of her home—or even revealed who she was. Yvonne was clearly not in her right mind, but blaming it all on Vanessa was too much for me.

“Look, Ben, I’m sorry. I really am. I’m not judging Yvonne. It’s obvious after your dad got sick, she wasn’t herself. But if I can put these pieces together, the police sure as hell will. There’s no way Vanessa’s death will be written off as a natural or even accidental death. Everybody on the tour thinks she was murdered.”

I rested my hand on his. Ben’s skin was ice cold. His features hardened as he met my eyes, but he didn’t speak.

“Also, it sounds to me like Daya isn’t going to hold up under any kind of questioning. She might spin her version of events to make it sound like this was all Yvonne’s doing. That she just got dragged into it. The best thing your mother can do now is go to the authorities and give her side of the story first.”

He jerked his hand from mine, and rose, towering over me.

I rose too, glad of the table between us.

Ben said, “Give me a goddamned break! Like anyone is going to take Mother’s side? She killed a Dame of the Realm—or whatever they call it. A famous, rich writer that people who should know better—people like you—fawn over. How much of a fair deal will my mother get over here?”

I still thought talking to Ben was the way to go. If I made the wrong move, showed aggression or tried to run from him, I was liable to trigger the very thing I desperately wanted to avoid. The thing I had to believe Ben wanted to avoid too. But I was considering Plan B too. Judging the distance from where I sat to the doors, trying to decide if I had a chance in hell of getting out before he could grab me. Ben was taller and heavier than me, but not particularly athletic.

“Okay,” I said evenly. “What’s your plan?” I looked automatically to the clock in the corner. Just a little before five in the morning. The servants would be up now. People would soon be stirring. That was good. More people upped the chances of peaceful resolution.

“Don’t say anything. Whatever you think you found out, keep it to yourself.”

“All right.” I gestured to the books stacked beside us. “Say I do keep quiet about this. It’s all speculation anyway. Not proof.” I couldn’t help reiterating, “I don’t have any proof. I’m not the one you have to worry about.”

Ben’s eyes flickered. He said nothing.

“Then what?” I asked.

“What do you mean?”

I nodded at the window and the blue haze beyond. “The storm is over. The police will be here first thing this morning. They’re going to fingerprint us—all of us—and start looking into our backgrounds, and they’re going to have their answers by dinnertime. At the latest. Right? We’re not talking about waiting for expensive lab test results. We’re talking about running fingerprints through a couple of databases.”

He shrugged. “By then it’ll be too late.”

“It’ll be too late? What does that mean?”

I didn’t like the way Ben glanced past me and then seemed to consider the display of antique pistols on the opposite wall. He was no longer listening to me. He was figuring out what to do with me.

“Ben,” I said, heart thumping hard. “Why will it be too late?”

Eyes still on me, as though trying to hold me in place with his gaze, he strolled toward the pistols. He said, “By then they’ll be far away from here.”

Those pistols would not be operational, right? And even if by some chance one of them was still in working order, it would not be loaded. And even if one was still loaded—

Ben reached the display and wrapped his hand around the heart-shaped butt of a flintlock. I sprinted for the double doors at the far end of the room.