The Murders at Clarion Castle, page 22
“So.” Paul wore dark trousers and a leather driving coat, belted around the waist. His gaze focused on the revolver in Evie’s hand. “Courtesy of your friend Brewster, I assume?” He took a step towards her, his expression hardening. “I wondered whether your starry-eyed belief in me was quite sincere.”
“That’s far enough.” Evie aimed the gun at him. “And no— you didn’t wonder. You were perfectly ready to believe that I was still your adoring wife. That’s always been your downfall, Paul. You’ve far too high an opinion of yourself, and therefore you assume that others must share that opinion.”
“You—” Rage shivered in Paul’s face, but was instantly quelled. Evie saw his hands flex, but when he spoke his voice was grating but calm. “Be reasonable, Evie. You’re not going to be able to shoot your way out of here. You might take a shot at me, but the instant you pull the trigger, either Hans or Gerda will fill you with bullet holes.”
Unfortunately that was all too true. Evie had already seen both Gerda and Hans reach for the weapons on the table. Now Hans was aiming a snub-nosed pistol at her while Gerda held a Colt 45.
“What’s the alternative?” Evie demanded. She let her voice rise. “Do you really think I’m just going to wait quietly upstairs until Hans comes up to introduce me to the afterlife? If you think that, Paul, you don’t know me at all. But then, you always were really rather stupid. Nigel is far more intelligent. He didn’t have any trouble at all in finding me here.”
Paul’s face radiated such angry colour and twisted fury that Evie hardly recognised him. He looked not like himself, not even like a man anymore, but like some raging wild beast. “Hans!” He barked. He put out his hand in clear demand for the German man to toss the pistol over to him.
“No!” Evie shouted. She didn’t entirely have to fabricate the edge of hysteria in her voice. Her heart was pounding hard enough that her vision shivered, and her palms were clammy. “I’m not going to give you the satisfaction of killing me, either, Paul. If I’m going to die tonight, it will be by my own hand!”
She turned the revolver around, pressing the barrel against her own breast. Then she shut her eyes for a brief instant and pulled the trigger.
Chapter forty-eight
Evie
Through a throbbing haze of pain, Evie lay where she’d fallen at the foot of the stairs. The deafening sound of the gunshot still rang in her ears, and she could feel the hot ooze of blood down her side. At the last second, she’d shifted the barrel of the revolver so that she shot through the upper part of her arm rather than her chest, but even in the dim lamplight, Paul would have to see actual blood to be convinced.
Her eyes were closed, but she heard him cursing fluently. Evie held her breath. Even worse than the gnawing, fiery pain was the fear that Paul might come closer to examine her and see whether she really was dead. If he’d been thinking clearly and had been in full control of himself, he certainly would have done, but she’d deliberately goaded him, provoking and enraging him. Still, that might not be enough—
The night stillness was broken by the noise of a car engine. Evie couldn’t tell from which direction it came, but it wasn’t too far off.
Paul swore again. “Move— now!” he barked at Gerda and Hans. “We must be gone from here.”
Evie forced herself to lie perfectly still, forced herself not to grit her teeth as the pain chewed through her every nerve. She heard a scuffle of movement as they picked up weapons and satchels, then footsteps, followed by the slam of a door. More slamming of car doors, and then the roar of another engine coming to life. When at last the growl of the car had died away and faded into the distance, Evie opened her eyes and sat up, looking down at herself. Her head swam and there was a far more sizable pool of blood under her than she’d been expecting.
No wonder Paul and the others had been convinced.
Holding onto the newel post at the foot of the stairs, she managed to stand upright, though the effort left her with stars dancing across her field of vision. Evie shut her eyes, fighting a wave of nausea from the pain. This was one part of her plan that she hadn’t fully accounted for: if this was how awful it felt to simply stand up, how would she manage to walk out of here— and potentially for miles further on?
Go on, stop feeling sorry for yourself, it’s not as though you have any other choice. Evie locked her jaw, ordering herself to take a step. She swayed, almost fell, and then caught her balance and kept moving.
One step at a time.
Chapter forty-nine
Katherine
Katherine woke before dawn, her mind restless with the German translations she and Blake had completed for Harry. The decoded messages from "Nightingale" had troubled her deeply—evidence of a spy at Clarion Castle with intimate knowledge of Churchill's impending visit.
Despite this worrisome discovery, however, she found herself oddly comforted by how easily the German language had returned to her. Perhaps her other memories weren't completely lost, just hidden behind some mental curtain she couldn't yet draw aside.
Rather than lying in bed watching the ceiling gradually brighten, she decided to get up. Fresh air might help her organise her thoughts. She dressed quickly in a simple skirt and blouse, then slipped quietly from her room in the east wing.
The corridors of Clarion Castle were silent at this hour, save for the occasional creak of floorboards under her feet. A grandfather clock in the main hall chimed five as she passed—heavy, sonorous notes that seemed to reverberate through the empty spaces. Katherine paused at a side door that led out to the gardens, drawing in a deep breath before stepping outside.
The morning air was cool and sweet with dew. Tendrils of mist hovered above the lawn, giving the formal gardens an otherworldly quality in the pearl-grey light that preceded sunrise. Birds were already active, their morning songs creating a cheerful counterpoint to the stillness. A robin hopped boldly along the gravel path ahead of her, pausing to cock its head as if considering whether she might be a source of breakfast.
As she walked, Katherine found her thoughts drifting to Blake. Their work on the translations had brought them closer, reminding her of something she couldn't quite grasp—a sense of partnership and intimacy that felt both new and achingly familiar. The way he'd looked at her when she successfully read the German text, pride mingling with tenderness in his eyes, had stirred emotions she was still learning to interpret.
Was it always like this before? she wondered. The uncertainty was maddening. Sometimes she felt as though she was acting a role in a play where everyone else knew the script while she improvised, hoping to strike the right note. Yet with Blake, the performance fell away. There was something solid and true in their connection that transcended her fractured memory.
Katherine followed the path that wound between neatly trimmed boxwood hedges and past stone urns overflowing with summer flowers. The groundskeepers at Clarion Castle clearly took pride in maintaining the gardens to their pre-war standards despite the shortages of labour. Off to her right, she could see the rose garden—its entrance marked by an ivy-covered trellis arch that framed the path.
The perfume of roses grew stronger as she approached, a heady mixture of scents from dozens of varieties. Morning light was beginning to touch the tops of the castle towers, painting them in pale gold, though the gardens still lay in soft shadow. Katherine remembered reading once that roses released their strongest fragrance at dawn, when the essential oils were most concentrated in the cool air.
She paused, hand lightly touching the trellis. This was a memory she could trust—a fragment of botanical knowledge not tied to her personal history. These small certainties had become precious to her, islands of confidence in the sea of uncertainty that was her past.
As she passed beneath the trellis, she noted how the gardeners had arranged the beds to create a peaceful sanctuary. Stone benches were positioned at strategic intervals along the gravel paths, inviting contemplation among the blooms. Katherine found herself drawn to a particularly lovely display of pale pink roses near the centre of the garden. Their delicate colour reminded her of ballet slippers.
She was about to turn away when something caught her eye—a splash of darker pink among the pale blooms that seemed out of place. At first she thought perhaps it was another variety of rose intermingled with the pale ones, but something about the shape wasn't right. Katherine moved closer, her footsteps crunching on the gravel.
A gardening basket lay tipped on its side. Pruning shears and twine spilled onto the path. Odd that someone would leave their tools out overnight, especially when the groundskeepers seemed so meticulous.
She took another step forward and felt her heart stutter in her chest.
A hand. A human hand, pale against the dark earth, partially concealed by the rose bushes.
"Hello?" Katherine called, her voice sounding unnaturally high. "Are you all right?"
No response came save the continued chorus of birdsong.
Katherine forced herself to move around the rose bed for a clearer view, though every instinct screamed at her to turn and run back to the castle. What she saw made her press her own hand against her mouth to stifle a cry.
Lillian, the young and pretty housemaid, lay on her side among the roses, her blonde hair spread out like a fan across the dark soil. Her blue eyes were open, staring at nothing, and her face held an expression of mild surprise. She was still wearing her uniform, though the starched collar was askew, revealing a single dark mark across her throat.
For a terrible moment, Katherine simply stood frozen, unable to process what she was seeing. Then her experiences volunteering at St Thomas's Hospital took over. She'd seen enough during the London air raids to recognise death, even if she couldn't recall all the details of those chaotic nights. She knelt beside the body, automatically reaching to check for a pulse at Lillian's wrist, though she already knew what she would find. The skin was cool to the touch, with none of the pliancy of life.
"Oh, Lillian," she whispered.
The girl looked as though she'd been carefully arranged, almost posed—her hands folded over a single rose placed on her chest, her skirts smoothed neatly around her legs. It gave Katherine a chill that ran deeper than the morning air could account for. This wasn't a spontaneous act of violence but something calculated and deliberate.
Katherine's mind raced. What had Lillian told her just yesterday about Foster, the Signal Corps man she was so obviously sweet on?
The words came back: "Jim says Mr Vernon was always hanging around the Tower Wing, making up excuses to try and get a look."
Lillian had seemed curious about what Mr Vernon had been doing at the Tower Wing. Had she been too curious?
A twig snapped somewhere in the garden beyond, and Katherine's head jerked up. Was someone watching her? The murderer could still be nearby.
She rose quickly, backing away from Lillian's body. She needed to tell someone—Blake first, then Harry and Nigel. The translations she'd completed took on an even more ominous significance now.
As Katherine hurried back toward the castle, the sun finally crested the horizon, casting long shadows across the lawn. The dew on the grass sparkled like scattered diamonds, a beauty that now seemed heartless in contrast to what lay in the rose garden. She tried not to run, not wanting to draw attention if anyone hostile was watching, but her pace was brisk enough that she was slightly out of breath by the time she reached the side door.
The castle was beginning to stir. She could hear distant sounds from the kitchen—the clatter of pots and pans as the day's meals were prepared. A maid passed at the end of the corridor carrying fresh linens, glancing curiously at Katherine's flushed appearance but continuing on her way without comment.
Katherine climbed the main staircase two steps at a time, her heart still pounding. Blake's room was on the second floor in the west wing—the farthest possible location from her own quarters. As she hurried along the portrait gallery that connected the wings, she felt the painted eyes of generations of previous inhabitants following her progress.
The irony wasn't lost on her—here she was, in need of Blake at the most basic, human level, just as she'd needed him to give her confidence for the translations. Her missing memories hadn't prevented her from doing important work yesterday, and they wouldn't prevent her from handling this crisis either. Perhaps that was the key—focusing on what she could do rather than what she had lost.
She slowed as she approached Blake's door, suddenly aware of how she must look—dishevelled, agitated, possibly with garden soil on her skirt from kneeling beside Lillian. Taking a moment to smooth her hair and collect herself, Katherine drew a deep breath.
Then she knocked firmly on Blake's door, three sharp raps that seemed to echo down the hushed corridor.
Chapter fifty
Harry
Squinting at the direct rays of the early morning sun, Harry nearly stumbled on the path to the rose garden. He was following Nigel. They'd both dressed hastily, after Blake had pounded on their doors with news of Katherine's grim discovery. Harry hadn't even bothered with his tie, and Nigel's hair was still mussed from sleep.
Long shadows streamed across the dewy grass that lay before them.
"How long has she been there?" Harry asked, his mind already shifting into the familiar routines of an investigation, despite the unusual setting.
"Katherine found her just before dawn," Blake replied, walking a few paces ahead. "She came straight to me, and we thought it best to wake you both immediately. Her name’s Lillian. One of the housemaids.”
The sweet scent of roses grew stronger as they approached the trellis arch. In any other circumstance, Harry might have appreciated the beauty of the morning—the golden light filtering through the mist, the birdsong that continued its cheery chorus, oblivious to human tragedy. But not today. Not with a dead girl waiting for them.
Katherine stood at the entrance to the rose garden, her arms wrapped around herself as though warding off a chill despite the mild morning air. She looked pale but composed, and Harry felt a surge of respect for her steadiness. Not every civilian could discover a body and maintain such self-possession.
"This way," she said quietly, leading them along the gravel path to the centre of the garden.
Harry saw the girl immediately—a splash of darkness amid the pale pink roses. Lillian lay on her side, blonde hair fanned out across the soil, blue eyes open and unseeing. Someone had placed a single rose on her chest, and folded her hands neatly over it. The sight sparked a rush of indignation within him. He'd seen many deaths during his years with Scotland Yard, but the staged quality of this one struck him as particularly cruel.
"The rose," he said, kneeling beside the body but careful not to disturb anything. "It seems like mockery."
"It looks almost... ceremonial," Nigel observed, his voice tight. "As though the killer was performing a ritual rather than covering up a crime."
Harry glanced at the overturned gardening basket nearby, pruning shears and twine scattered across the path. The arrangement seemed deliberate, too perfect in its disarray. "This looks false," he said, gesturing toward the tools. "She wouldn't have been gardening here at night, and surely she would have been reported missing if she hadn't returned to her quarters."
"Which means she was either killed elsewhere and brought here, or..." Blake didn't finish the thought.
"Or she sneaked out to meet someone," Harry concluded. "Did she have a boyfriend? Someone she might have arranged to meet in secret?"
Katherine cleared her throat. "She had aspirations above her station.” She glanced at the castle, lit up by the sunrise as if by golden floodlights. “The very pinnacle of stations around here, if you catch my meaning.”
"What?" Harry looked up sharply. "Mr Walker?"
"Yes," Katherine nodded. “She was Mrs Walker’s housemaid, but since Mrs Walker’s away, she’s been quite attentive to Mr Walker.”
“How attentive?”
“I don’t really know. That’s just gossip I’ve picked up. Also, I saw her with one of the Signal Corps men yesterday. She referred to him as Jim. She said Jim thought Mr Vernon had been killed because he'd got mixed up with German spies."
Harry sighed, running a hand through his hair. "The naïve young girl.” What had she seen—the same thing Vernon had seen? Or something different?
He forced himself to study the body more carefully. The mark on her throat was consistent with strangulation, or with a direct blow to the girl’s exposed throat, perhaps. The medical examiner would clarify that. Her uniform was relatively undisturbed, which suggested the primary motive hadn't been assault. Her expression was one of surprise rather than terror, and that might indicate she'd known her killer. Or at least that she hadn't perceived an immediate threat until it was too late.
"Nigel," he said, standing up, “can you go back to the lodge and telephone the police mortuary? And the photographer? We need to document everything."
Nigel nodded. "What about footprints? Should I ask them to bring someone who can make casts?"
"Yes, good thinking." Harry gazed around the garden. The gravel paths would make footprints difficult to distinguish, but the soft earth of the flower beds might hold some evidence. "We need to determine if she was killed here or elsewhere. Tell Glenwood to have the area roped off. Nothing is to be touched until the photographer is finished."
"I'll stay here until you've done that," he added. "Then I'm going to call Mr Thompson. He needs to be told. Maybe they'll want to postpone the visit."
As Nigel hurried back toward the castle, Harry turned to Blake and Katherine. "I'll need statements from both of you later. Every detail you can remember about Lillian—her behaviour recently, anyone she might have been afraid of, anything unusual she mentioned."
