A Most Novel Revenge by Ashley Weaver Page A

drinking a cup of coffee near the fire, a tray of half-eaten breakfast on the table beside her.
    â€œI couldn’t bear to come down,” she said when I had seated myself across from her. “Not after what happened last night. I hadn’t the stomach for it this morning. Was it as awful as one might suppose?”
    â€œApparently, nearly everyone felt the same as you did. It was only Miss Van Allen and me at breakfast.”
    â€œPoor Amory. It was cruel of us to leave you alone with her. I’ll attend lunch, I promise. Was she unbearable?”
    â€œNot at all. She’s a very interesting woman,” I said thoughtfully. “Laurel, will you tell me what happened that night?”
    She didn’t ask what night I meant. She was quiet for a moment, and then she set down her cup and saucer and pulled her robe more tightly around herself.
    â€œI don’t really know,” she said at last. “That’s the dreadful thing. Not really knowing what happened, how things might have been different if we had behaved differently.”
    Her voice trailed off for a moment, and I waited, giving her time to gather her recollections.
    â€œIt was after one of the long weekend parties. Almost everyone had gone back to London, and there was only the small group of us remaining. It was after dinner, quite late, but we were all in high spirits and in the mood for a bit of adventure. Someone—I don’t remember who—had the idea that we might go out on the lake in the boats and we all seemed to think this was a grand idea. But we found the water was too frozen along the shore, and so we went into the summerhouse. Someone started a fire and there was a phonograph. It was Isobel’s, I believe. There was a little desk in the summerhouse, and she would go there to write, even then. We were dancing, laughing. There had been a great deal of drinking, and other things.”
    â€œDrugs.”
    â€œYes. You know I’ve never been interested in that sort of thing. In truth, the weekend was rather more excessive than I had expected. I’d had only a glass or two of wine at dinner, and I decided after a while to go back to the house. I went to my room and fell asleep. It wasn’t until morning that I knew anything was amiss. I had just come down for breakfast when I heard Freida outside, running up from the summerhouse. She was screaming. Sometimes I still have nightmares about her screams.”
    So it had been Freida Collins, the final guest who would arrive tomorrow with her husband, Phillip, who had discovered the body. Freida was the only one of the group, aside from Laurel, with whom I was acquainted. We had been at school together, but I had not spoken to her since before the tragedy. I wondered absently what she had been doing walking outside early on a cold morning after a wild night.
    â€œWe all ran outside to see what had happened,” Laurel continued, “all of us from different parts of the house, as if her shrieking was some sort of siren’s song. Freida was hysterical, pointing in the direction of the summerhouse. We all ran down there and…”
    She stopped, and I waited for her to collect her thoughts.
    â€œAnd then we found him dead in the snow,” she said softly. “It was dreadful, Amory. He was so very white. And his eyes were open, staring. Such a ghastly expression on his face.”
    She shuddered. She was clearly still deeply affected by what had happened.
    â€œI’m sorry, dear. If you don’t want to say anything more…”
    She shook her head. “It’s been a long time. Perhaps I should have talked about it before now.”
    â€œWhat happened then?” I asked.
    â€œIt was Gareth who called the doctor. He called the police as well, I think. He was the only one of us who seemed to have any sense.”
    I thought it surprising that the dreamy-eyed Mr. Winters should have been the one with enough presence of