Lethal Legend (22 page)

In many ways, Diana’s grandfather was still a stranger, but short as their acquaintance had been, she knew he had a genuine affection for her. She was his only son’s only child. She was, as he had told her many times, more precious to him than gold.

Diana’s aunt seemed equally fond of her. As Maggie and Elmira drifted off towards the parlor, Aunt Janette drew Diana aside. “Good news,” she announced. “I found those papers I told you about.”

For a moment Diana could not remember what papers she meant. Then she recalled that on the third visit she’d paid to her grandfather’s house, just before returning to Maine, Aunt Janette had promised to look for a family history one of their relatives had compiled. Diana had been—and still was—interested in the subject. Only a matter of weeks ago, she’d believed she had no living kin at all, save for her mother, and no hope of ever learning anything more about her ancestry than the few stories her father had told her when she was a child.

“I’d forgotten how interesting our family history is.” Her angular face alight, Aunt Janette led the way upstairs to the guest room Maggie had selected for her. It was right next door to the one Diana had formerly occupied.

“You mentioned that your father told you we were descended from a famous female herbalist,” Aunt Janette said when they were settled in a pair of chairs upholstered with a pattern of elaborate rococo scrolls and sprawling flowers. “That isn’t quite the case.”

Diana felt a twinge of disappointment. “Never tell me she wasn’t real?”

“Oh, she existed. And she did write a book about herbs. But she wasn’t our ancestor. We are descended from her stepdaughter, Rosamond. Or perhaps Rosamond was her adopted daughter. The records are a bit unclear on that point. At any rate, this Rosamond was her heir.”

“Do the papers you’ve found say any more about the herbalist herself?” Diana asked. “I have been toying with the idea of writing a book about forgotten women of the past. Ordinary women, for the most part, though I suppose those who led truly uneventful lives will not have been remembered at all. Have you noticed that when men write history books, they give short shrift to the role women played in our past? Surely there must have been a few females who made significant contributions to history.”

“Undoubtedly,” Aunt Janette agreed. She had opened a case and taken out a sheaf of yellowed paper.

Warming to her topic, Diana leaned forward in the chair. “It is a pity we are not really descended from the herbalist, but that doesn’t mean I can’t tell her story. If I can find sufficient information about her, that is.”

“If you are short of facts, why not invent them?” Aunt Janette asked. “Write a novel rather than a biography.”

Diana winced. Ben’s mother had already made that suggestion. “I am more comfortable dealing with what is real, although I must admit that until recently I did not pay much attention to history.” The hint of a personal connection to past events was what had piqued her interest. That curiosity, which had first flared to life when she’d met Aunt Janette, was now rekindled.

“I think,” she said cautiously, “that this is what I have been looking for.” This project—unlike the idea of interviewing the rich and famous—
felt
right.

“I’ll be happy to help,” Aunt Janette offered. “When there did not seem likely to be any more Torrences after Father and I departed this world, collecting stories about our ancestors seemed a foolish waste of time. But now that you are here to carry on the heritage ... well, I talked with the town historian before I left home and he was most helpful. Did you know that the country’s oldest and most prestigious genealogical organization is right here in New England? In Boston. The New England Historic Genealogical Society library has a huge collection of manuscripts and books. That’s where I’d start the search for our Rosamond’s stepmother.”

“Memories and family legends are as important as dry facts. Perhaps more so.” Diana extracted her little cloth-covered notebook from the deep pocket of her skirt and appropriated the pencil with which Aunt Janette had been sketching a rough family “tree” onto the back of one of the yellowed pages. “In the meantime, tell me everything you know about this ancestress of ours and the herbalist who raised her.”

Chapter Ten

Ben returned home late to find Diana in his bed. He had no complaints, except that his fiancée was restless—not quite awake, but tossing and turning. When a floorboard creaked as he trod on it, she sat up with a little cry of alarm.

He leaned across the bed and kissed her, then whisked her embroidered white lawn wrapper off a chair and searched for her brocade slippers. “Come along. Too much has happened today. Neither one of us will sleep well until we’ve had a bit of physical activity. I prescribe a brisk walk in the garden.”

“That isn’t your usual remedy.”

“I can tell you’re not in the mood for lovemaking.”
Yet.
“Besides, I have a few things to tell you. For one thing, Graham and Serena are married.”

He gave her a quick summary of events as she fastened her buttons and slid her feet into the delicate little slippers. Then they crept like naughty children along the hallway, down the stairs, and out into the night.

A full moon shone down on them from a cloudless sky, making it unnecessary to carry any other form of illumination. The night air was clear and warm but without any hint of dampness. Ideal, Ben thought, for stargazing ... and for courting.

He took Diana’s arm and set off along the gravel path that circled the herb garden, moving between the raised beds of basil and chervil, dill and fennel, nep and valerian. “Walking is excellent for calming the nerves,” he said softly, “but there is something to be said for pausing to steal a kiss.”

“We could stay right here and ... kiss ... for quite some time.”

Ben had no objection. He held her close and stroked one hand over soft curves, lost in the moment until something moved in the shadows.

Ben caught sight of it only out of the corner of one eye. When he looked directly at the spot, he saw nothing untoward. Imagination?

He indulged himself with another kiss, but the sense of someone watching them did not abate. Annoyed, Ben slung one arm around Diana’s shoulders and continued walking.

A light breeze had sprung up since they’d come outside. He tried to tell himself that was the cause of the shrubbery stirring. Nothing more.

Then he saw it again. Movement where there should have been none. Ben squinted at the shadows.

“What is it?” Diana asked in a worried whisper.

“I could have sworn—” He shook his head. “Probably a cat, or some other nocturnal creature hunting for prey.”

A slight rustling sound was their only warning before a gentleman in a double-caped tweed greatcoat stepped out of the bushes and onto the path directly in front of them. Diana bit back a gasp and Ben had to work hard not to yelp.

“Good evening,” the stranger said in a deep, resonant voice.

“You!”

“Who is this, Diana?” Ben asked, although he was certain he already knew the fellow’s identity.

“Justus Palmer.” Diana confirmed Ben’s assumption.

Once Ben stopped bristling at the other man’s intrusion into what should have been an intensely private moment, he found nothing alarming or objectionable about the detective. Palmer was shorter than he was, with a stocky build and ordinary features. His steady gaze, however, especially when combined with his failure to speak after his first greeting, soon proved unnerving.

“How did you get through the gate?” Ben let his irritation show. “It should have been locked at this hour.”

“Locks rarely pose a problem for me.” Palmer’s voice was smooth and soothing, intended to mollify.

Ben shook off the compulsion to apologize for his rudeness. “Perhaps you should consider waiting for an invitation, Mr. Palmer.”

“But I have that already,” the other man replied, “the one dear Magda issued. A charming woman.”

“She goes by Maggie.” Irrationally irritated by Palmer’s presumption, Ben could not prevent annoyance from seeping into his words. He snapped them out, cutting as a whiplash, and took a threatening step towards the other man.

“Not always.”

“Gentlemen, please.” Diana placed herself between them, one hand on each man’s chest, and literally pushed them apart. “Gracious! This is like trying to shove aside two blocks of granite!”

Ben had not realized he’d leaned in, or that his gaze had locked with Palmer’s. He had the disorienting sensation that he’d lost a few minutes of time. His voice descended to a low rumble, the next thing to a growl. “What do you want, Palmer?”

“Why, Dr. Northcote, it was my understanding that you and Mrs. Spaulding had been looking for me.”

The wave of dislike that washed over Ben was so intense he had difficulty speaking. He fought the urge to remove the smirk from Palmer’s face with a roundhouse punch. It took several deep breaths and a shake of the head before he could clear his mind. This was absurd. He didn’t usually have so much difficulty repressing inappropriate emotions. How ironic it would be if he had to treat himself, as well as Aaron and Graham, for the inability to prevent outbursts of temper.

Diana, who did not appear at all bothered by Palmer’s presence, regarded Ben with a puzzled look. When he failed to answer the detective’s questions, she did it for him.

“In the beginning, we wanted to ask you who your client was and why he was spreading false rumors about Keep Island. We know you talked to the sheriff of Hancock County and that you turned down the chance to meet Mr. Somener yourself. We know that you were in Belfast, though not why. Did you go there from Ellsworth? Is that why we found no trace of you in Bangor?”

“Have you considered taking up detective work, Mrs. Spaulding?”

“There is no need for sarcasm, Palmer,” Ben snarled.

“But I am sincere! And as it happens, I am free now, as I was not before, to answer your questions. The case is closed. I found no evidence of smuggling or any other criminal activity on Keep Island.”

“We thought perhaps Miss Dunbar ... or Mr. Ennis ....” Diana’s voice trailed off.

“No, Mrs. Spaulding. The claims were entirely false. No one had heard the story before I talked to them. In fact, you might even say that I
started
the rumor with my questions.”

“There was murder done on Keep Island.” Ben hoped his blunt statement would rattle Palmer and was disappointed when it did not.

“We thought it might be connected to the matter you were hired to investigate,” Diana added.

“When I heard about the murder,” Palmer said, “I returned to Boston and made inquiries into the career of the murdered man. It did not take me long to connect him to my employer or to conclude that the man who hired me might have had reason to cause trouble on Keep Island.”

“You’re saying your own client lied to you?” Ben wasn’t sure he believed any of what Palmer was telling them, but it made an interesting tale. He leaned against a decorative archway, arms folded across his chest, prepared to hear the rest of the fellow’s story.

“A situation, sadly, not unheard of in my profession, although I am usually better at sensing deceit. I pride myself, in the usual way of things, on being able to spot problem cases early on and avoid them.”

“But ... who hired you?” Diana asked. “And why?”

“Can’t you guess?”

“You were in Belfast as well as Ellsworth and Bangor,” Ben said slowly. “Lucien Winthrop?”

“Very good, Doctor.” He made Ben a mocking bow.

Winthrop had hired Palmer, Ben thought. One small mystery solved. But what did that imply?

“When we talked to Winthrop,” Diana said, “he lied to us, too, pretending among other things that he didn’t already know about the excavation on Keep Island. He also claimed he was not acquainted with Miss Dunbar’s assistant, Paul Carstairs, but he sent for Carstairs some days after the murder and promised to help him find other employment.”

“Winthrop also lied about knowing Miss Dunbar” Ben said. “When her crew was ill, she spoke to me of professional rivals, one in particular. She meant Lucien Winthrop.” In a few concise sentences, he filled Palmer in on the contents of Diana’s letter from the Peabody Museum.

“A pity Professor Putnam couldn’t tell you who killed Mr. Ennis, or what Winthrop is up to now.”

“You cannot be suggesting that
Winthrop
killed Frank Ellis,” Diana protested from her perch on the low stone wall dividing the herb garden from a flowerbed. “Why should he?
How
could he? He is an old man who cannot walk without the aid of a cane.”

“Will you be seeing your employer again?” Ben eased away from the archway, suddenly restless.

“That is extremely unlikely. When I informed him that there were no irregular activities on Keep Island he paid me enough to cover my fee and expenses and provide a considerable bonus besides.”

“Why a bonus?” Diana asked.

“To keep me from investigating further, I expect.”

“And so you dropped the case?” Ben’s contempt for the other man crept into the question. It seemed to him that Palmer might have done more, and sooner, to clarify matters.

Palmer shrugged. “I had other clients who required my attention.”

“And yet you are here, in the middle of the night.”

“In your mother’s garden,” Palmer said agreeably. “A fine and private place to find monkshood, henbane, tansy, and foxglove.” He indicated each plant in turn as he named it. “Do you realize that there is poison enough here to do away with every archaeologist in New England?”

Diana’s eyes widened at his words. She started to speak but, after a wary glance at Ben, changed her mind.

“Did you discover anything to indicate that Professor Winthrop might have gone so far as to kill Frank Ennis?” Ben asked, “or that he might have hired someone else to murder him?”

“I have no proof.”

“But you must have suspicions.” Diana was on her feet, hands fluttering in agitation.

Palmer’s considering gaze lingered on her a bit too long for Ben’s comfort. Then the detective caught and held Diana’s eyes with a hard stare. “It would be wise of you to go to Keep Island, Mrs. Spaulding. Apprise Miss Dunbar of the situation. Warn her that Winthrop is up to something. Warn her, Mrs. Spaulding. Will you do that?”