The Marlowe Murders Read online

  Copyright © 2020 by Laura Giebfried & Stan Wells

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to the author, email address below.

  [email protected]

  Printed in the United States of America

  The Marlowe Murders

  by Laura Giebfried & Stanley R. Wells

  Also by Laura Giebfried

  Damnatio Memoriae Series

  None Shall Sleep (book 1)

  Song to the Moon (book 2)

  When I am Laid in Earth (book 3)

  Beating Heart Cadavers

  The Victim's Game

  For Andrea –

  nous vous remercions pour tout ce que vous faites.

  December, 1955

  Exeter Island, Maine

  I remember everything.

  And not because I was born with a gift, or one of those eidetic memories that people claim to have because they can seemingly recall a random moment in their life perfectly. No, I trained my memory. I peeled it open and found out how it worked, and then I tightened every screw and oiled each gear to make it better and faster and more capable. I spent eleven years of my life making it faultless, to the point that I can tell you word for word every conversation I've had or overheard, and name every punctuation mark in any book I've read, and recount the pattern on a man's socks that peeked out from the hems of his trousers as he tapped his loafer next to me in a lecture hall. I can do it all. But I can't, it seems, alter my demeanor enough to be likable – and so there I was, dismissed from my doctorate program, stripped of my accomplishments, and being ferried off to an island off the coast of Maine to pay for the person I had become.

  A gust of wind leaped up onto the ferry boat to pierce me with its chill, shocking me out of my moment of self pity. I yanked my swing coat tighter around me. The ferryman hadn't told me it would be this cold.

  “Is it much farther?” I called to the him, my voice straining to be heard over the howling air.

  The silk scarf tied around my head was threatening to come loose, and my hands were raw despite my leather gloves. I clutched my arms against my chest, wishing that I would just go numb.

  Without turning around, he raised his hand and pointed up ahead at the fog. It parted a moment later to allow the slowing ferry boat through, gliding past us before sealing itself up again as though it was a gate closing on the world we had left behind, and finally Exeter Island came into view.

  It was blanketed in white snow with thick black, jagged trees sticking out from it all over, and the rocks on the shore were slick with ice. The sight of it flattened as it hit my mind, sliding down to file itself away. It wasn't a very inviting image, and yet it didn't really matter: I had already told John Marlowe that I would take the job.

  The ferry pulled up alongside the dock a few minutes later. I had barely stepped off of it when the ferryman unceremoniously tossed my suitcase down beside me. It clattered against the ice-covered wood and slid away from me.

  I turned to look at him, my eyebrows raised in disapproval, though his attention was already back on the wheel.

  “Aren't you going to walk me up to the house?” I asked him. My voice sounded unusually timid from the chattering of my teeth, and I fixed my scarf tighter around my head and chin.

  “Nope.” His form was mostly hidden beneath layers of thick clothing, though his hollow face and skeletal cheekbones poked out as he spoke. I wondered if the cold had all but eaten the flesh from his bones, just as it was threatening to do to mine. “I've got to pick up the groceries before closing. But it's a big place: you'll find it.”

  “Yes, I'm sure I will,” I replied, turning away from him. “Thank you.”

  “You're welcome.”

  “I was thanking the path, actually, since it's the only thing helping me find my way.”

  He responded by turning the key in the ignition. The roar of the motor filled the air and the ferry shot back across the water and disappeared into the fog. I retrieved my suitcase and made my way off the dock, throwing him an annoyed look over my shoulder despite knowing he wouldn't see it.

  I trekked through ankle-deep snow, following the partially covered path that wound around clusters of dormant trees. I caught glimpses of silvery-blue shingles and turrets that rose up in cones to pierce the low hanging clouds, but it wasn't until I stepped out into the clearing of the front yard that I saw the Marlowe house in its entirety.

  The facade spanned nearly a hundred and fifty feet, with ornate reliefs carved above the windows, heavy wooden shutters with chipped paint, and red gingerbread trim that dripped from the roof like blood. It was a motley assortment of styles, as though the house's enormity was due to the fact that several houses had been shoved together to form one, and I felt as though I had been shrunken to the size of a doll as I stood beneath it.

  “Jesus,” I muttered, wondering what I had gotten myself into. Professor Marlowe hadn't said anything about the house being so large, though perhaps I ought to have assumed as much when he had informed me that it was on a private island. My mouth twitched as I looked at it, imagining myself teetering on a chair as I dusted the tops of paintings. Six months shy of finishing my doctorate degree and I was working as a maid. If it wasn't so utterly disheartening, I might have laughed at the sheer absurdity of it all.

  I heaved my suitcase up the front steps to the covered porch and rang the bell. Crudely carved columns greeted me from either side. To my left, the torso of a woman with her arms raised high stared at me with wooden eyes. She looked like a mermaid who was trying desperately to escape the sea. Or perhaps, I backtracked, crossing my shivering arms as I waited, she was just trying to escape the bitter cold.

  As I turned to see if the column on the right mirrored the first, the front door swung open and an old woman in a flour-covered apron answered. With her curly white hair and round face, she looked a bit like Mrs. Claus, though her narrowed eyes were dark and burned like coal.

  “Hello,” I began, “I'm Alexandra Durant –”

  “Servants use the side door.”

  She had a thick, gruff Irish accent and a withering glare. I blinked.

  “Alright,” I said. “I'll make sure I use it next time.”

  I gave her the polite smile I had practiced in my residence hall mirror before I had left and waited for her to step aside to let me in. She didn't move.

  “It's in the back,” she said, pointing a stubby finger for me. “I left it open.”

  She made to close the door on me, but I stuck my foot out to stop it. If she expected me to trudge through any more snow in my stocking-covered legs, then she was sorely mistaken.

  “I'll use it next time,” I repeated, pushing my way into the house and dropping my suitcase onto the black-and-white tiled floors. A large chandelier covered in cobwebs hung two stories above us. It sent a crisscrossing pattern of shadows over the older woman's surly face.

  “You'll do as you're told next time – and don't yell: the Foyer echoes,” she chided, though my voice had been nowhere near loud. “What did you say your name was?”

  “Alexandra Durant,” I said, irritated that I needed to repeat myself. “And yours?”

  I knew she wasn't Mrs. Marlowe, for John had a photograph of his parents on his desk at the university.

  “To you I'm Mrs. Tilly,” she said. She looked me up and down with suspicion in her eye
s. “So: you're the new girl.”

  “Yes.”

  “How old are you?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “How old are you?”

  “I'm twenty-nine,” I said, though I didn't see what it had to do with anything. Mrs. Tilly raised her eyebrows.

  “Are you married?” she asked.

  “No.”

  “Have you ever been married?”

  “No,” I repeated, my voice more rigid than I had intended it to be.

  She gave me a look of utmost disapproval.

  “Well, why not?” she said. “You're a bit old to be single, aren't you?”

  I opened my mouth and then shut it again to keep myself from saying something impolite.

  “I've been in school,” I said, “getting my doctorate.”

  “Oh, school,” she said, dragging out the word as she went. “You must have studied quite hard to end up working as a servant.”

  “Well, I –” I started, nearly delving into the details of what had brought me there, but then deciding better of it. “I haven't finished yet.”

  “No? Then why aren't you there now? December seems like an odd time to start a new chapter in one's life …” She waved her hand in the direction of my boots, off of which melting snow was pooling onto the floor. “You'll need to take care of that before someone slips. And go change into something proper, for goodness sake – preferably before you're seen. You'll be in the nanny's room on the third floor.”

  “I'm not a nanny,” I said, wondering if she had been expecting someone else and that was where the confusion was coming from. “I'm the new maid – Professor Marlowe hired me.”

  “Of course he did,” she snapped. “And you'll be in the nanny's room. That's what he told me.”

  She pointed at one of the staircases, dispelling any reprieve I had been about to grant her. I lifted my suitcase to go upstairs, leaving her and my expectations of a proper greeting behind. I could feel her eyes boring into the back of my head as I walked, and an uneasiness came over my skin as I imagined what type of woman Mrs. Marlowe would be. One who cared about her servant's age and marital status, evidently. Not that it mattered, though, I reminded myself as I reached the second floor landing and headed to the next set of stairs: I was going to do the job no matter what.

  The emptiness of the house was unsettling, and the third floor – with its low ceilings and peeling wallpaper – made it more so. I wasn't sure how Mrs. Tilly expected me to find the nanny's room: the house, if possible, seemed even bigger on the inside. I weaved in and out of dusty, forgotten rooms filled with broken furniture and poorly taped boxes, twisted the knobs of locked doors, then finally found the one intended for me. A single bed was made up with white sheets and a scratchy wool blanket, and on top of it laid a black dress, white apron, and frilly mob cap. There was a door on the far wall that I assumed led to a bathroom, but upon opening it I found a dusty old metal crib with an infant's white Christening gown laying within it. The only window was boarded up from the outside, and the room was blanketed in darkness. It seemed far too forlorn to be a nursery.

  Going back to my room, I lifted the maid's uniform with a scrunched nose, then put it back on the bed. I would introduce myself to Mrs. Marlowe in my traveling clothes, I resolved, taking off my coat, gloves, and scarf and tossing them down beside the uniform. She needed to understand that I was bound for a separate career, and that being her maid was just a small stop that her son had provided me with on the way to achieving it.

  I returned downstairs, wandering through a labyrinth of hallways that took me past a Billiard Room, Ballroom, Study and Portrait Room. The house almost seemed as if it hadn't been lived in for a long time, though John had told me that his mother hadn't left the island in over twenty years.

  I found the kitchen at the very back of the house. Mrs. Tilly was holding an envelope when I entered, but upon seeing me tossed it down to the table.

  “Mr. Marlowe sent that for you,” she said. “Quite a starting pay for a maid, isn't it?”

  I picked it up. It had been torn open despite being addressed to me, and several crisp fifty-dollar bills were sticking out. I leafed through them to count them.

  “There's only three hundred dollars here,” I said.

  “And?” she asked.

  “And he said he'd give me five hundred.”

  “Did he? That's an extremely large sum of money for four weeks of work. Perhaps you're mistaken.”

  “I don't make mistakes with my memory. He said he'd give me five hundred.”

  “Well then, I suppose you'll have to take that up with him,” she said with a note of smugness in her voice that suggested she had been the one to open – and redistribute – my wages. “Though I'd advise against it: you wouldn't want him to think you're greedy, after all.”

  She pulled out a large cleaver from the knife block even though she was only chopping onions. It made a thwacking sound as it hit the chopping board.

  “Somehow I doubt that's what he'd think,” I returned, pocketing the envelope with narrowed eyes, though I knew that by the time I was back at the university and had the chance to talk to John Marlowe, there would be no way to prove that she had taken the money. “But I think I'll take it up with Mrs. Marlowe. Where is she?”

  The cook paused and looked up, the cleaver still clutched in her hands. She looked me up and down with uncertainty.

  “What?”

  “Where's Mrs. Marlowe?” I repeated. Mrs. Tilly only stared at me blankly, seemingly more confused than frightened by my threat. “My employer.”

  “Your employer is Mr. Marlowe.”

  “No,” I corrected automatically, “he said I'd be working for his mother, so she's my employer.”

  The hand holding the cleaver dropped down to Mrs. Tilly's side as she surveyed me, scraping the edge of her apron.

  “Oh, he did, did he?” she said. Her face twitched, but I couldn't read her expression. She seemed to be fighting a smile. Between the horrid journey I had taken to get here and her attitude, I was beginning to lose my patience with her.

  “Can you tell me where she is?” I asked. “Or should I wander the house loudly calling for her?”

  The cook raised her eyebrows and returned to her vegetables, and even though I was staring at the back of her head, I could hear the chuckle escape her lips. Her voice was a bit too high when she answered.

  “No, you shouldn't do that,” she said. “You'll find her in the Augustus Suite on the second floor.”

  “Thank you.” I turned to leave, but then another question came to my mind. “Where's the telephone?”

  “Why would you need to know that? Making social calls already?”

  “I just want to tell my mother that I've arrived. So she doesn't worry.”

  “You're still living with your mother? Well, you really are a spinster, aren't you?”

  I didn't respond. Mrs. Tilly smiled unkindly at me.

  “It's in the Study,” she said. “But don't go talking too long. I'll be sure to tell your employer to take it out of your wages if you do.”

  I left the kitchen without another word. If the heat in the house hadn't melted some of her frostiness by now, then I doubted anything ever would.

  I followed the hallway back the way that I had come, stopping when I reached the Study. A candlestick telephone sat on top of the mahogany desk. I took a seat in the leather chair and dialed the number for my aunt's apartment.

  “Hello?”

  “Hi, Aunt Janice. Could you put my mother on?”

  There was a sigh. Not of annoyance, but perhaps pity.

  “I don't think I should, Alexandra. It's not one of her good days …”

  “I'll be quick.”

  Static came over the line as she fumbled with the handset, and I could hear her calling for her sister. A moment later, my mother's voice sounded. It was anxious and confused.

  “Hello?”

  “Hi, Mom,” I said. “I just wanted to tell you I mad
e it to Maine. I'm on the –”

  “Who is this?”

  “It's Alexandra,” I said, dropping my voice lower even though surely no one was around to overhear me. “Your – your daughter.”

  “Janice!” my mother called. “Janice – who is this?”

  “I just wanted you to know that I got here safely,” I carried on, though I knew she wasn't listening. “So you don't have to worry. And I'll – I'll come see you again as soon as I get back.”

  “Janice, I think they've got the wrong number …”

  There was a loud thud on her end. She must have dropped the phone. A moment later, my aunt came back on.

  “I'm sorry, Alexandra. But you know how difficult it is for her, especially if she doesn't see you.”

  “Will you tell her where I am? When she asks?”

  “If she asks.”

  She sounded bitter. I couldn't tell if it was with the situation or with me, though.

  “It'll only be a few weeks,” I told her. “And I'm getting paid a lot of money. We could take her to another psychologist. A specialist.”

  There was a long silence. For a moment I thought the line had gone dead.

  “You can use the money for whatever you want, Alexandra.”

  “But?” I asked, because I knew there was one.

  “But I think we both know it won't do her any good.”

  “It'll do us even less good to stop trying,” I said a bit too harshly. My aunt gave another sigh.

  “I just don't want you to waste your life trying to fix something that can't be fixed.”

  She waited for my response, but I didn't have one – though I tried to find one even so long after she hung up the phone. I stood and left the room, suddenly wishing that I was back on the ferry in the numbing cold rather than the open, defenselessness of Mrs, Marlowe's house. But everything could be fixed, and everything could be righted. I just had to discover how.

  I weaved my way back to the Foyer, then slid my hand up the banister of the closest staircase, letting it guide me to the second floor to circle around the landing. None of the wall sconces were on, and the only light came from the Foyer below, which barely raised the hallway from pitch darkness. I squinted to read the golden nameplates on the doors that I passed. Baxter, Prudence, Mabel, Fletcher, Eleanora, Lillet …