It was after midnight. The great house was quiet and dark. They walked hand in hand toward the sea, laughing softly, speaking nonsense. The sky overhead was brilliant with stars and a three-quarter moon, the scent of the flowers less overwhelming as they neared the sea. A fresh breeze ruffled their hair.
Diana said in a drawling voice, "Lyon, I am not wearing anything beneath my gown."
He groaned and tightened his hold on her hand, hurrying her forward. She laughed in delight.
"I feel like we're back on Calypso Island."
"I do hope there is no one about," Diana said. "Just think of your embarrassment!"
"What about you? I have need of only one fig leaf, whereas you, my dear wife ---"
He broke off instantly at the sound of Diana's indrawn breath.
"What is it, what's the ---" Then he saw. A body, lying sprawled beside an oleander. It was a woman, curled up on her side, unmoving.
The woman was black. Lyon dropped to his knees and turned her over. It was Moira. Quite dead, a narrow hemp rope still about her neck. Her eyes were open, her tongue bulging from her mouth. He quickly removed his shirt and covered her. He picked up her wrist. She was still warm. Her killer had done his work quite recently.
He rose and turned to his still wife. "Diana, we're going back to the house now." She didn't reply and he clasped her shoulders, shaking her slightly. "Diana!"
She said in a stiff little voice, "I am all right, Lyon." Her jaw worked spasmodically. "Moira?"
"Yes, someone stra
ngled her. There is nothing we can do for her. Come along now."
Lucien was still staring straight ahead, his expression blank. Moira's body had been taken to her family's house in the village. Right now, men were combing the area. The family were seated silently, in shock, in the drawing room.
"You heard nothing?"
Her father's voice sounded so strangely detached.
Lyon said, "No, not a thing. We were going for a swim when we came upon her."
"Nothing like this had ever happened," Lucien said, looking at the assembled faces as if searching for an answer. "We've had fights, certainly, particularly after the harvest when the rum is flowing. But thisWhat kind of man would do this?"
A man? Diana wondered. Why not a woman? Moira wasn't all that strong. A woman could have come up behind her and hooked the rope around her neck and drawn it tight, tighterShe shuddered and closed her eyes. She saw Deborah standing over Moira, that riding crop in her hand, enraged with the girl. She felt Lyon's hand on her shoulder, gently pressing, reassuring.
"What was she doing out there, alone?"
Patricia gave an odd little giggle. "Meeting someone. It's obvious, isn't it? She was meeting her lover and he killed her."
"You're overwrought," Daniel said, stroking his wife's hand. "Sir," he continued to Lucien, "there is nothing more we can do tonight. Patricia needs to rest."
"Yes," Lucien said to all of them, "we will discuss this in the morning."
How could anyone sleep? Diana wondered silently as she walked beside Lyon up the stairs. There was a murderer about. Moira, was, had been, only fifteen years old.
"Hang on," Lyon said close to her ear.
He held her that night while she shivered from reaction. "I remember when she was born, even though I was only four years old. I can remember my mother saying it was a difficult birth. Moira's mother's name is Mary. She is a fine seamstress. Oh, God who and why, Lyon?"
"We will find out, Diana," he said over and over. He was remembering starkly Diana's impression of the black girl's expression the day before. To Deborah. And Deborah hated the girl.
Sleep was difficult, even if there had been nothing but the silence of the night. They could hear the intermittent wailing coming from the slave village. On and on it went.
The following morning, after breakfast, the family adjourned to the drawing room. Grainger and Charles Swanson were there, both men looking as exhausted as the family. Lucien stood by his large mahogany desk, his long fingers drumming its surface.
"Your findings, Grainger," he said, nodding to his overseer.