LETHAL LEGEND

a Diana Spaulding Mystery

by

Kathy Lynn Emerson

 

Excerpt from

Chapter One

 

 

 

June 1888

 

          Schooners, steamboats, yachts, and fishing boats navigated the choppy waters of Penobscot Bay, but Ben Northcote was too deeply troubled by what he’d found on Keep Island to appreciate the attractive picture they made. The promontory upon which he stood was the highest point of land on the island and commanded a spectacular view of surrounding landmarks. He had a clear view of Eagle Island with its beacon light. Shifting his gaze just slightly, he could see North Haven, Vinalhaven, and the Gulf of Maine beyond. Still farther out was the Atlantic Ocean, and if one kept going, England.

          Slowly, he turned until he could see almost the entire length of Islesborough with the undulating Camden Hills beyond. Rotating further, he found himself looking across a cluster of tiny islands to Cape Rosier and Castine Head, its lighthouse prominent on a rugged cliff on the mainland. As he completed his circle, he remembered another time when he’d stood just here on a clear day and been able to pick out the top of Cadillac Mountain on Mt. Desert Island. 

          He could not see that far today. Nor could he put off making his report much longer. If he didn’t go in, Graham Somener would come looking for him. Keep Island’s seventy-five acres was comprised of meadows, cliffs, pebble beaches, rocky outcroppings, a swamp, and a cave. The latter offered the only possible hiding place, but held little appeal to Ben as an adult.

          When he’d been a young boy and stayed on Keep Island as a guest, he’d always had hopes that what they’d named “the pirate’s cave” would one day yield a buccaneer’s treasure. If such a thing had ever existed, he and Graham had never been able to find it.

          Keep Island belonged to the Somener family and had for at least three generations. Graham’s grandfather, Jedediah Somener, had made his fortune in shipping and built the house. Jedediah’s daughter, Graham’s Aunt Min, had planted imported shade trees. Grown to respectable size now—black walnut, copper beech, and chestnut—they complimented the island’s fragrant native pine and cedar. When Graham moved back to the island five years earlier, he had made numerous improvements, the addition of indoor plumbing and a gas plant the most obvious.

          Overhead a gull screamed in counterpoint to the sound of waves breaking on the rocks below. Ben breathed deeply of the salty air and squared his shoulders. Procrastination solved nothing. Resigned, he headed back down the path that led to the Somener mansion.

          He found Graham in his library, seated at the huge partners’ desk that dominated the room. He was not alone. Miss Serena Dunbar had arranged herself in a most unladylike fashion in one of the overstuffed chairs, head resting against one arm, lower limbs dangling over the other. Just as well she was present, Ben decided. She needed to hear his conclusions, too.

          “Well?” Graham was tall, only a bit shorter than Ben himself. Like Ben he had dark wavy hair, but where Ben’s eyes were dark brown, Graham’s were the color of agates.

          “All three men were poisoned.”

          Miss Dunbar did not move but her unfashionably sun-browned skin blanched, making her freckles stand out. “You’re certain? There couldn’t be any possibility of a mistake?”

          A frown knit Graham’s brow. “Food poisoning, do you mean?”

          Interesting, Ben thought. Miss Dunbar assumed and accepted the worst while Graham continued to search for a more benign explanation. He wasn’t sure if this change in his old friend’s outlook was an improvement or not.

          “Unless Miss Dunbar’s assistants are habitual opium eaters, it is unlikely they could have ingested that much morphine through error. One man might take an accidental overdose, but all three show the symptoms of narcotic poisoning—sleeplessness and dizziness alternating with bouts of unconsciousness, vomiting, a yellowish tinge to the complexion, rapid pulse, and pupils retracted to the size of pinpoints.”

          Miss Dunbar righted herself and stood, brushing absently at the wrinkles in her divided skirt. “Will they recover?”

          “If they survive another twenty-four hours without respiratory failure, the prognosis is good, but I make no promises.” 

          “Morphine?” Graham couldn’t seem to grasp the concept. “Narcotic poisoning? How can that be? Where would anyone get such a thing on my island?”

          “Morphine has come into wide use as a painkiller in the last year or so. It would not be particularly difficult to obtain, though it is hardly something one acquires on the spur of the moment.”

          “Do you mean to say that someone intended to murder my crew?” Miss Dunbar glared at Ben as if that were his fault.

          “Possibly, although if so, they made a poor choice of weapon. There are other poisons more readily available that would have done a better job of it. If I had to guess, I’d say someone wanted to make whoever ingested the morphine ill and simply didn’t care if one or more people died instead.”

          “That’s horrible!” Miss Dunbar exclaimed.

          “Yes, it is.” And it made Ben wonder who the real target had been. Paul Carstairs and Frank Ennis were new to the area. George Amity was a local man who’d been hired to do the heavy digging at the excavation site when Miss Serena Dunbar had somehow talked Graham into letting her conduct an archaeological excavation on his private island.

          Ben took the chair Miss Dunbar had vacated and stretched his legs out in front of him. It had been a long day. He’d been up at dawn—around four at this time of year—and had gone early to his surgery in Bangor. Graham’s telegram had arrived just before seven, giving Ben barely enough time to catch the 7:15 train. He’d scarcely had a moment since to draw in a deep breath.

          “You’re certain it couldn’t have been food poisoning?” Graham asked. “They weren’t particular what they ate. Meals out of tins half the time. Maybe that—”

          “Why did you send for me if you thought the answer was that simple?” Ben interrupted. He did not move, but his sharp tone belied the relaxed posture. “There are other physicians closer to Keep Island. One on Islesborough, another in—”

          “None I’d trust to keep silent about this!”

          Alert for anything that might indicate a return of the mental depression and dementia from which Graham had suffered five years earlier, Ben watched his friend intently, albeit through half-closed eyes. The unfortunate and well-publicized collapse of a building Graham had designed had culminated in claims that he had been responsible for the loss of several lives. Deeply affected by the tragedy, hounded by the press, he had retreated from the world to live on Keep Island year round.

          “Are you certain you didn’t suspect foul play?” Ben asked.

          “No! I swear to you, I was sure it was just food poisoning. But rumormongers might easily have turned that into something else.”

          “What? Plague?”

          Ben hoped the sarcastic suggestion would jar Graham back to reality before he convinced himself that another spate of half-truths and false accusations was imminent. He had a deep-seated fear of attracting attention to himself and Ben well understood why. Unfounded speculation among his former associates and in the press had driven Graham out of Boston and very nearly driven him mad.

          Miss Dunbar’s long strides took her back and forth over the diamond trellis design of leaves and flowers on the carpet. She came to an abrupt halt in front of one of the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves and turned to face Ben. “Some people think there is a curse on this island.”

          Ben’s eyes popped all the way open and he sat up a little straighter, thinking he must have misheard her.

          “Don’t look at me like that, Dr. Northcote. I did not say that I believe in such nonsense. The notion came from Mr. Somener’s housekeeper.”

          The redoubtable Mrs. Prudence Monroe. Ben remembered her well from his childhood. She was as prickly as a porcupine, but she could turn a bit of dough, a few apples, and a dash of cinnamon into ambrosia.

          “Tell me about this curse.” Ben was certain he’d never heard of it before.

          “What is there to say?” Graham’s exasperation had increased to the point where he’d raked agitated fingers through his hair, leaving clumps of it standing on end. “The locals never inhabited this island before my grandfather built here. They seem to have gotten it into their heads that it was a dangerous place. I don’t know why. The rocks off shore are no worse than anywhere else in Penobscot Bay. There have been no shipwrecks—”

          “That you know of,” Miss Dunbar interrupted.

          “No matter what happened here in the distant past, Keep Island has not been unlucky for the Someners. For me it has been a blessed refuge.”

          “I understand your desire for seclusion,” Ben said, meeting Graham’s eyes, “but this looks like a case of attempted murder. You can’t just ignore it and hope it will go away. You need to contact the sheriff.”

          “Out of the question. Besides, what good does it do to close the barn door after the horse has escaped?”

          “Whoever poisoned those men could try again.”

          Tossing aside the pen he’d been toying with, Graham huffed out an exasperated breath. “I do not see how some stranger could come to my island and tamper with supplies without anyone noticing. It defies logic.”

          “Someone already here, then.”

          At Ben’s suggestion, Graham sent a speculative look in Miss Dunbar’s direction.

          Affronted by the very idea that one of her crew would poison both himself and his associates, she swept across the room to within striking distance of Graham’s chair. Hands on hips, lower limbs braced wide apart, she fixed Ben’s friend with a fulminating stare.

          Graham slowly rose, regaining the high ground. “Perhaps we should ask—”

          “The notion is absurd. I have total confidence in my men.”

          “Well acquainted with each of them, are you?”

          “Well enough!”

          Ben interrupted before the quarrel could escalate. “My patients are too weak to be interrogated just yet, but I do have a few more questions for the two of you.”

          They turned on Ben as one, identical glares scorching him. He found that strangely reassuring. Under the circumstances, Graham’s display of temper was a normal reaction.

          “What do you want to know?” Graham asked.

          “This house is huge. Why were those three men obliged to camp out while Miss Dunbar stayed in one of the guest rooms?”

          “It was their choice,” she informed him in a lofty voice. “They preferred to be close to the excavation. I would have stayed with them had Mr. Somener not insisted I accept his hospitality.”

          “And meals? Why didn’t they join you for those, or eat in the kitchen with the servants?”

          This time Graham answered. “They chose not to.”

          “Two of them are accustomed to living rough when on an expedition,” Miss Dunbar elaborated. “Mr. Ennis spent several seasons excavating in Egypt. Mr. Carstairs is just back from studying the Casa Grande ruins in Arizona. I believe Mr. Somener’s mansion intimidated them. It certainly awed Mr. Amity. They all felt more comfortable sleeping in tents and cooking their own food.”

          “Then whoever administered the morphine expected it to be ingested by one or more of those men, but not by one of you,” Ben concluded.

          Graham and Miss Dunbar exchanged a startled look.

          “None of the victims seems likely to have provoked the wrath of anyone who would use morphine as a weapon,” Ben continued. “That makes me wonder if the motive was to close down the excavation.”

          “Deliberately poisoning three innocent men seems an extreme measure if that was his only purpose.” Miss Dunbar boosted herself up to sit on the corner of Graham’s desk while he subsided into his chair.

          “I agree, but if it doesn’t turn out to be the result of, say, a quarrel one of the victims had with someone, then you need to ask yourself if you have any enemies who’d resort to such measures.”

          “I have professional rivals,” she admitted, a thoughtful expression adding creases to her brow. “There is one archaeologist in particular who seems to delight in ridiculing my theories. But why would he try to kill my men when he’s so certain I’m never going to find anything? Besides, no one knows what I’m doing here. I’ve been careful to keep it secret.”

          “People are aware there is an archaeological excavation on Keep Island. They can see that much from a passing boat.”

          “But they don’t know what it is I’m looking for.”

          Neither did Ben, but at the moment that seemed irrelevant.

“Consider this rival carefully. Might he simply have meant to disrupt things? Someone who doesn’t understand how powerful a drug morphine is could have thought it would stop work by making your men sick.” A dangerous mistake, but possible. “Mischief like that could easily have turned into murder.”

          Ben heaved himself out of the chair. “I need to return to my patients. I’ll stay until they’re out of danger.”

          “I appreciate that, Ben.” Graham managed a bitter laugh. “I don’t need any more deaths on my conscience.”

          “Then reconsider calling in the sheriff.”

          As a parting shot, Ben doubted it was effective. Graham guarded his privacy as ferociously as a lioness did her cubs.

          Only for an old and dear friend, Ben thought, would he have offered to remain more than the one night he’d initially planned on. He had pressing obligations at home, not the least of which was his own wedding. He was to be married in just eighteen days.

          He made one detour on his way back to the former nursery that had been converted into a temporary hospital. He stopped off in his own room to pen a brief letter to his intended bride. The last thing he wanted was to have Diana worry about him . . . or become curious as to why he’d left town so suddenly and mysteriously. He reckoned the letter would go out on the afternoon delivery boat and Diana would have it in hand by the following day.

 

Three Days Later

          “Mother, please!” Exasperation laced Diana Spaulding’s voice. She willed her hands to remain folded and motionless in her lap. If she reached for her cup while she was in such an agitated state, she’d spill every drop of tea and likely put a crack the delicate china as well.

          Elmira Leeves ignored her daughter. Calmly taking another sip of the beverage in her own cup, to which she’d just added a dollop of whiskey, she aimed her piercing blue-eyed stare at the third individual in the crowded parlor of Ben Northcote’s house in Bangor, Maine.

          Diana’s future mother-in-law, Maggie Northcote, was a study in outrage as she sat enthroned on the rococo sofa. Swathed in purple fabric, from the loose gown flowing around her sturdy form to the turban that covered her graying hair, Maggie’s countenance had taken on a shade almost as vivid as her garments. It appeared to Diana that an explosion was imminent . . . or a fit of apoplexy. Although she looked younger—her complexion was smooth as that of a woman half her age—Maggie Northcote was in her fifties, just as Elmira was. Diana feared for her health.

          “How dare you suggest such a thing?” Maggie demanded in a strangled voice. “Ben is no coward. Why he—”

          “Where is he, then?” Elmira’s knowing smirk was almost enough to drive Diana to violence. “That’s all I asked.” She took another sip of her adulterated tea. “The wedding is only a fortnight from now and the bridegroom seems to have disappeared off the face of the earth. Has he changed his mind and fled? Or is he just off indulging in one last debauch?”

          “He was called away on a medical emergency,” Maggie said through gritted teeth.

          “He’s been gone for days and you haven’t heard a word from him. You don’t even know where he is,” Elmira persisted. “Do you?”

          Diana’s hands ached from clasping them so tightly together. The delicious evening meal she’d consumed not a half hour earlier, before the ladies withdrew for tea and left Elmira’s new husband to his post-prandial cigar in the library, churned in her stomach. She drew in a slow, calming breath and tried to dismiss the disloyal thought that Ben might have left town solely to avoid being witness to the inevitable clash between Maggie and Elmira. Their faint hope that two such strong-minded, independent, eccentric women would find common ground and become friends had died a quick death. Barely twenty-four hours after their first meeting, they were at each other’s throats.

          Worse, Elmira’s none-too-subtle hints had fallen on fertile ground. Diana could not help but feel abandoned. Ben hadn’t even told her in person that he was leaving town. He’d gone in to his surgery early on Tuesday morning. Diana had barely begun her own day when a note had arrived, delivered by a boy Ben had paid to carry it. The brief and unsatisfying message had contained no explanation and nary a hint of when Ben would return. Neither had it said where he’d gone. He’d left a similarly uninformative note on his surgery door, telling patients to go to Dr. Randolph in an emergency.

          Maggie rose from the sofa, compelling Diana’s attention. In spite of her stature—she was only of medium height—she had a regal air about her as she looked down her nose at Elmira. “Foolish mortal. You do not realize how great your suffering will be. The gods punish those who offend them. You’ll be squashed flat as a bug under a schoolboy’s foot.”

          Elmira’s braying laugh made the teacups clatter. “If you’re a deity, I’m the Empress of India!”

          “I am descended from Gypsies. And from the nobility of Europe. The blood of a countess runs in my veins.”

          Elmira lifted an eyebrow at this, then downed the last of the liquid in her cup. She stood slowly, brushing crumbs off her dark green skirt and squaring her shoulders. She was a stout woman, two inches taller than her daughter, and should have been able to cow Maggie Northcote by her greater size alone.

          “Mother, you are a guest in this house,” Diana hissed.

          Both women turned on her. Elmira’s gaze was acrimonious but the bemused look in Maggie’s odd, copper-colored eyes suggested she’d forgotten Diana was there. 

          With a sniffing sound Diana supposed was meant to indicate that her feelings were hurt by Diana’s criticism, Elmira stepped away from the grouping of sofa and loveseat and headed for the grand piano in one corner of the room. In no hurry, she paused in front of a mirror to check her appearance en route.

          At fifty-three, Elmira’s mahogany colored hair, which Diana had inherited, was liberally streaked with white. In contrast to Maggie, Elmira’s face was scored with deep furrows and her cheeks got their high color not from raw good health or from the application of cosmetics but from tiny broken capillaries under the skin. She’d had a hard life, Diana reminded herself, but that was no excuse for rude behavior. It wasn’t as if Elmira didn’t know any better. For years she’d hobnobbed with the cream of Denver society.

          Elmira plunked herself down on the piano stool and ran idle fingers over the keys. She winced at the sound this produced. “Don’t you ever tune this thing?”

          “Why bother?” Maggie answered. “No one in this household plays.”

          The enormous, long-haired black cat who had been asleep on top of the piano uncurled himself and stretched. With a hiss in passing at Elmira, he hopped down and crossed the room to Maggie, stropping himself enthusiastically against her skirts until she stooped to pick him up.

          “Cedric always has had good taste,” his mistress murmured, cuddling him close and shooting Elmira a superior smile.

          “Cats! Can’t abide them. They aren’t even good eating.”

          “Cedric isn’t just a cat. He’s my familiar.”

          Another bray of laughter greeted Maggie’s claim to be a witch. “Better get busy with your spells, then. Maybe you can locate your lost lamb. Diana tells me the minister insists on talking to them together before their nuptials. A nuisance, I’m sure, but there it is.” She hit a series of discordant notes before abandoning the piano to roam the parlor.

          Maggie muttered something unintelligible.

          “What’s that?” Elmira demanded.

          “I said I tried that already!” Maggie all but snarled the admission.

          “Well, then, it’s a good thing I took matters into my own hands.”

          Diana sprang to her feet in alarm, setting the china rattling. “Mother, what did you do?”

          “I searched his room, of course, and when that yielded nothing useful I sent my darling new husband to Ben’s office to search there. Ed is better than I am at getting into locked buildings.” When the cries of outrage died down, Elmira added, in a tone that set Diana’s already strained nerves on edge, “Men are always leaving their possessions lying about.”

          “Well,” Maggie demanded in the lull that followed this statement, “what did you find?”

          “A telegram, one sent very early on Tuesday, the same day Dr. Northcote so abruptly left Bangor.”

          “You’re enjoying this,” Diana said with considerable asperity, “and enjoying drawing it out.”

          Elmira shrugged. “Why not? I have so few pleasures in life.”

          Maggie’s snort of disbelief threatened to start another round of snide comments and outright insults. Diana held up a hand to silence them both. “Enough! Where is the telegram now?”

          “You never let me have any fun,” Elmira complained, producing it from a pocket in her skirt.

          Diana had to shake off the eerie conviction that, had she not been staring at her mother, she’d have had difficulty telling which woman had spoken. She’d more than once heard Maggie accuse Ben of the same thing.

          Taking the telegram, Diana unfolded the paper and read its contents aloud: “Need medical assistance. Meet noon Belfast. Tell no one. Somener.”

          “Somener,” she repeated, recognizing the name from the list of wedding guests. “Graham Somener. He’s one of Ben’s closest friends.”

          He was also a very wealthy man, one she intended to ask for an interview when they met. Was that why Ben hadn’t told her who had asked for his help? Diana bridled at the notion that tell no one had applied to her. Just because she refused to resign her position as a reporter for the Independent Intelligencer was no reason to shut her out. All Ben had to do was ask her not to write about his friend. She had no desire to pursue reluctant subjects.

          As she puzzled over the implications of the telegram, Maggie and Elmira resumed their seats. Maggie poured more tea.

          “That perfume doesn’t suit you,” Elmira remarked to her hostess. “Lily-of-the-valley is all wrong. Almost as bad a match as the gardenia scent my daughter seems to have bathed in.”

          Since the ornate crystal bottle of Eau de Gardenia had been a birthday gift from Ben, given to her only a few days before he’d left. Diana had to bite back a waspish response. Ben said her skin reminded him of gardenia petals. She’d always considered it a very pretty compliment.

          Maggie didn’t bother with restraint. “Something with nettles would suit you, I think. Or adder’s tongue.”

          Elmira chuckled. “Good one.”

          Belatedly, it occurred to Diana that the two women were enjoying the exchange of insults. That was the final straw. Out of patience with them both, she left them to their verbal sparring and went out into the garden.

 

 

© 2008 Kathy Lynn Emerson, all rights reserved

 

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