A Masked Murderer: A Violet Carlyle Historical Mystery Read online

  “According to these, we’re here as sleuths.”

  “Sleuths?” Mr. Branwell demanded and then laughed meanly. “Why do we need sleuths for a decades old runaway? Like Helen said, Marjorie is probably breeding with whatever footman she abandoned her life for.”

  “Clearly,” Jack cut in sharply, “someone thinks otherwise.”

  “So, what? We’ll stay in this room until you and your ridiculous wife solve a case that outdates your life?” Mr. Branwell looked around the table as though the rest of them should agree with them.

  Jack’s jaw flexed again but it was Vi’s father who said, “Open the door then, Branwell.” His dare was punctuated by Denny’s nervous giggle, but Denny was ignored by everyone as Vi’s father added, “Show us your prowess. While you do that, the rest of us will start this bedeviled game.”

  Branwell started to turn away and Vi’s father silkily added, “I would suggest that you do not speak of, or to, my daughter again.”

  Branwell spun back, but Vi’s father had already turned away as though the man had the presence of a housefly. Violet followed Jack’s gesture and returned to the table with the others.

  “I think we have to assume,” Jack said, “that at least someone who was there when Marjorie disappeared has likely arranged this encounter.”

  “But why?” the man called Ness said. He dropped back into his seat. “Margie leaving was the worst. It was a blow I’ve never recovered from.”

  The one named Monty snorted darkly, but though Ness tensed he continued, “Don’t pretend it didn’t haunt you too, Monty. You loved her. I loved her. Each of us knew we might lose her ourselves, but I never thought we’d lose her entirely.”

  Monty didn’t reply, but his gaze turned to the table and Vi felt as though his pain were almost tangible.

  “Given the pain that you both feel and that James feels,” Vi offered softly, “she must have been quite lovely.”

  “She was lovely,” Mr. Branwell agreed. “Like Aphrodite.”

  “My daughter isn’t referring to her exterior beauty,” her father snapped. “By Jove, Branwell, Marjorie was never that interesting to me, but even I knew we were the less for it when she left.”

  “Do you think she left, Father?” Vi asked.

  “Why would he think anything else?” Lady Eleanor demanded. “Let’s not make up a murder here, Violet. We’ve had enough of that.”

  “Vi doesn’t make up murders, Ellie. You know that, and we’re not going to turn on each other.”

  “Tell that to everyone arguing,” Lady Eleanor replied. “This is making my heart palpate, Henry. I want to leave. I want to leave right now.”

  “Ellie, if that were possible, we’d be leaving.”

  “Surely we can break down the door?”

  “We can certainly try,” Jack told her, “and I think we should. However—”

  Gazes turned from the door towards Jack.

  “We were manipulated here,” Ham inserted. “Someone determined how to get each of us here. Who else had their houses riffled?”

  There was stark silence, but several nods happened.

  “We can’t return to our normal lives until we find out who has brought us here,” Jack said firmly. “We need to know who, why, and we need to stop them. Otherwise, we’ll be separated and weaker when the villain strikes again.”

  Chapter 7

  Jack placed the papers in order while everyone re-situated themselves at the table. While Jack stood at the head, everyone else returned to their original seats except for Rita, who took Jack’s seat while Ham joined Jack.

  “The first numbered note is the drawing of the missing Marjorie. What was her last name, Father?”

  “Tomlinson,” James answered.

  “Tell me about her.”

  James shifted and then placed his chin on his hand. He seemed to be seeing somewhere else. “She was one of two daughters of a fellow named Nathaniel. Both daughters had a little bit of money. Not enough to save an estate, but perhaps enough for a good start for a couple. Both Monty and Ambrose were pursuing her.”

  “Do you know who she favored?” Jack asked.

  Both of the supposed lovers shifted in their seats, eyeing each other as though Marjorie Tomlinson and her money were there in front of them ready to be handed over.

  “I do,” James said. “Your mother knew Marjorie quite well, and she had conveyed her thoughts on the matter. They were…conflicted.”

  “Explain,” Jack said, rubbing his brow.

  “Margie liked the romance of Ambrose. She liked the way he made her feel. She liked the poems whispered into her ear and the way that his gaze seemed to set her alight.”

  Ambrose grinned and then quoted sadly:

  “With my lost saints. I love thee with the breath,

  Smiles, tears, of all my life; and, if God choose,

  I shall but love thee better after loss.”

  Violet rolled her eyes at the change in the poem from death to loss. Did Ambrose want them to believe that Marjorie was alive? Jack’s parents were convinced that she must have died. Yet Ambrose was inferring that Marjorie had just left and run off. It didn’t make sense that he would love her better after she’d run away from him and the love and life he had been trying to offer her.

  Ham nudged Jack who ignored Ambrose Ness and continued, “The second envelope was addressed to Mr. Branwell.”

  The room felt tightly silent, almost as one holding their breath. “It reads, ‘Consent: to permit, approve, or agree; comply or yield.’”

  Vi gasped and Rita took her hand.

  Jack cleared his throat, and Vi could see that twitching jaw. His eyes were stone cold as he continued, “And then it reads, ‘Violate: to break, infringe, transgress, or molest.’”

  “Why does it say that?” the man with Miss Allen demanded. He rose and grabbed Mr. Branwell, spinning him around. “Why does it say that?”

  Mr. Branwell pushed the other fellow back. The Byronic looking hero didn’t move despite the attempt to shove him off. “I don’t know!” It felt like a lie and Vi glanced quickly around and saw that no one believed him. Least of all Jack’s father, whose gaze was fixed on Mr. Branwell with remembered hatred.

  Ham forced the two to part. They ignored Ham, but returned to their seats. Their eyes never turned from the other, and the loathing was clear. Mr. Branwell snapped, “I don’t know, of course! Of course, I don’t Monty. These are just lies and manipulations that can only be counteracted by someone who isn’t here.”

  Vi leaned into Rita’s side, wishing the rising nausea were baseless. Rita leaned back, pressing as deeply into Vi’s side, both of them needing the anchor of another person. It was better to not be alone, Vi thought, when nightmares came a-walking.

  “Read the next one, Jack,” the earl ordered. “We’ll deal with that when we deal with the rest of this.”

  The low implied threat that promised dark retribution warmed Vi’s heart far more than her father’s earlier praise.

  “The letter numbered three is addressed to my father. I am guessing that these might be quotes? Perhaps from letters?” Jack read:

  “I got another letter from him. I wish it were easy to know what to do.

  That ends the first quote and the next reads:

  My dear friend, I am sleepless with the burden of it. I cannot sleep. I cannot eat. I can do nothing but stare into the distance and wish that this were a weight someone else had to bear.

  The final quote reads:

  Perhaps it would be better if I were to go, but how can I leave you and those I love?”

  There was so much weighty pain that could be attributed to those lines. Especially, Vi thought, given the previous numbered letter. That was deliberate, she knew, but she was too wound up in the imagining of poor Marjorie and what she had been bearing that Violet couldn’t quite focus on the larger machinations.

  “How horrible,” Vi murmured low, but her cousin must have heard her. He reached out and took Vi’s hand, squeezing it for her.

  “It’s like hearing ghosts,” Algie whispered back. “I feel as though I will see a spirit following me home after this.”

  His father’s gaze moved to Algie with a bit of disgust, to Vi with a bit of mockery, and then back to Jack with impatience.

  “Father, what can you tell us about those?”

  Jack’s father cleared his throat. “If those are what I think they are, they were at the country house, in the attic. I suppose if someone knew they existed it wouldn’t have been so hard to find them, assuming they could get access to the house. Your mother’s things were all together in the attic. I believe, however, those must have come from the letters that Marjorie wrote to her. She saved them all.”

  Jack nodded, glancing back down, and then shifted to the next letter. “Fourth was addressed to Mr. Montague Garber. It seems to be another quote:

  ‘I don’t know what is driving you from me, my love. Turn back to me. Trust me. I would spend all my days loving you if only you would let me.’"

  Mr. Garber was pale and it took him a moment to clear his throat. “It’s an excerpt from a letter I was writing her. Towards the end, I could never get a moment with her. She was…skittish. So, I wrote that to her. I never had the chance to give it to her. I never had the chance to beg her to marry me. She was gone, and I suppose star-crossed love made me keep the letter. I hadn’t realized it was gone, but it would have been in my desk that had been broken into.”

  Jack nodded and those who had known him seemed unsurprised. Their romance and Mr. Garber’s desire for Marjorie must have been common knowledge among the group of friends.

  “The fifth note was addressed to Mr. Ambrose Ness. It reads: ‘Sonnet 43. Perhaps a truth.’”

  “What does that mean
?” Lady Eleanor asked. “Shakespeare?”

  Mr. Ness shook his head and sniffed. When he spoke, his voice cracked at first. It was another quoted poem.

  “How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.

  I love thee to the depth and breadth and height

  My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight

  For the ends of being and ideal grace.

  I love thee to the level of every day’s

  Most quiet need, by sun and candle-light.

  I love thee freely, as men strive for right.

  I love thee purely, as they turn from praise.

  I love thee with the passion put to use

  In my old griefs, and with my childhood’s faith.

  I love thee with a love I seemed to lose

  With my lost saints. I love thee with the breath,

  Smiles, tears, of all my life; and, if God choose,

  I shall but love thee better after death.”

  Mr. Ness sniffed again and unashamedly blew his nose, swallowing the rising emotion. He added, “I used to quote it to her. I would adjust it sometimes. Tell her the things I loved about her, but as a clod. I might be a poet, but I could never approach Mrs. Browning.”

  Violet was still leaning into Rita as they listened, but a part of her was demanding to rise and pace, to fiddle with her wedding ring. To take notes and write out her thoughts. She did think so much better through a pen or typewriter than she did in the privacy of her own mind. It was as though she needed to see her thoughts in front of her to fully appreciate them.

  Given the setup of this situation, she thought the author of these notes might have the same need. They did lean into each other, didn’t they? The picture to identify the subject. The accusation of probably rape given the definitions in the note address to John Branwell. The quotes from Marjorie herself. Two who loved her. Were they suspects?

  Of course they were. How many women were hurt by those who claimed to love them? The vast majority of women who were murdered. In fact, Vi thought, given what they knew so far and assuming Marjorie Tomlinson had been murdered, the most likely killers were either Ambrose Ness or Montague Garber. And, of course, that monster John Branwell.

  The man who had already hurt her. The two who supposedly loved her. The most likely to have killed her. The nausea intensified as Violet felt the portrait their puppet master was forcing them to see.

  “The sixth note was addressed to Mr. Kingsley Allyn. I am guessing,” Jack said, sighing, “that what I am reading is the quote from something written by an investigator into Marjorie’s disappearance. Did you speak to the detective?”

  Vi’s uncle blustered for a moment, and then her father cut in. “We all did.”

  “What does it say?” Algie demanded. Vi could feel her cousin’s hand shaking. He was worried, she thought, to find out his father was more of a villain than he was prepared to accept.

  “Subject reports he saw Miss Tomlinson through the window around midnight. She was fully dressed, in a cloak, and walking towards the orchard.”

  “That’s it?” Algie asked, so clearly relieved that his father shot him a disgusted look.

  “That’s it,” Uncle Allyn snapped. “I didn’t have much to do with Marjorie. Married myself. Wasn’t interested in joining the chase with Agatha looking on.”

  “You were there to insinuate yourself into Agatha’s good graces,” Vi guessed.

  “Read books I never wanted to read and spent time with a bunch of fellows who didn’t appreciate much that I enjoyed. As though I wanted to stumble through speaking French just to drink champagne, gag down escargot, and take a tour on the Seine.” The apparent disgust was enough to move her uncle to the bottom of Violet’s suspect list. Though, of course, if he were the one who had violated Miss Tomlinson then Aunt Agatha would have disowned him and probably Algie too.

  “The seventh note was addressed to Mrs. Branwell. It asks, What did you know?”

  Mrs. Branwell’s gaze was fixed on the table and she merely shook her head. Everything about her faded into the shadows and Vi guessed that the woman didn’t do anything without permission. Not even know things about her husband and his crimes. She said nothing, and after a long moment Jack cleared his throat.

  “The eighth and final note was addressed to Mrs. Petty. It seems to be another quote.

  ‘Do I think Margie ran away? Of course, I don’t. One-half of her worshipped Ambrose, the other worshipped Monty. All of her was utterly dependent on Mrs. Wakefield. Why run away alone when any of them would have rescued her? Time for our time in the club to end.”

  All eyes turned to Mrs. Petty who said, “Garth and I felt that it was unlikely that Marjorie had run away. We told the detective so. Before the search was over, we decided we were finished with the club. I believe that quote came from my diary from those days. I…hadn’t realized it had been taken.”

  “Who knew you kept one?” Vi asked.

  “Oh,” Mrs. Petty laughed mockingly, “any of those there. I fear I was a little dramatic about recording my days and my thoughts.” After another long moment she said, “I was very young when Margie disappeared. It was never the same afterwards.”

  “What was never the same?” Lila asked softly.

  “Life.”

  Too long a silence followed the comment and then James said, “But those weren’t the only notes. We all got one.”

  “The rest are roles that have been assigned to us that weren’t there when Miss Tomlinson disappeared.”

  “Roles?” James asked, echoed by Vi’s father.

  “Scribe for Miss Allen. Someone knew you were a reporter.”

  All eyes turned to Miss Allen and then James asked, “What about you, Jack?”

  “Sleuth along with the rest of our usual party. The rest are witnesses.”

  “Witnesses?” the earl asked followed by his wife who added, “What am I supposed to witness?”

  There wasn’t an easy answer and so silence fell again. Heavy, oppressive silence heightened by being locked into a room with people who quite easily included a murderer. Vi bit down on her bottom lip and then wondered if reincarnation were a reality. What terrible crime had she committed that landed her in a life rife with murders?

  Chapter 8

  There was a sound at the door and they all turned to see another envelope fly under it. Jack ran towards the door, banging on it. “Let us out!”

  He slammed the door time and again and even kicked it, but there wasn’t a sound or a reply. A moment later, Jack calmed and then picked up the letter. He broke through the wax and read aloud, “‘Freedom requires resolution.’”

  “What the devil does that mean?” the earl demanded.

  “I would guess,” Ham said, looking furious, “that we won’t be freed until we find the answer to what happened to Marjorie Tomlinson.”

  “But how?” Lady Eleanor demanded. “How could we possibly?”

  Vi answered before thinking, “Whoever set this up obviously believes that those who are here must have information that the others don’t have.”

  “Information,” Denny added, fighting his giddy excitement, “that they believe you can string together, Vi. You and Jack and Ham.” Denny didn’t add his own name in there, but it hung in the air all the same.

  “But I don’t want to,” Lady Eleanor muttered. “I didn’t want to come out at all. I don’t want to witness this or be part of it.”

  “Enough Ellie,” the earl said low. “None of us want to be here, nor do we want the roles that have been assigned to us by this madman.”

  “Why don’t we break through the windows?” she demanded.

  Jack crossed to the curtains and threw them back. He cursed then. The heavy velvet curtains that had seemed to cover windows only covered walls. Why would someone put up curtains to give the illusion of windows in a room such as this? Was it to heighten the feeling of being scared, because Vi had to admit that gooseflesh burst across her skin as she realized that they were even more trapped than she’d imagined. The only exits from the dining room were the locked doors.

  “Let’s try to break through the doors,” Ham said. “They’re too thick to kick down, but we can break the lock or use one of these chairs as a makeshift battering ram. I don’t like that we’re locked in here. I don't like that the girls are here.”