Lethal Intention

By Irene Bond

Isla Redding (Isla is pronounced ai lah), an American, travels to England, her mothers birthplace, and the scene of her mothers suicide. There, Islas investigation is assisted by her uncle, who is her only ally, until Rory Sunderson from Scotland Yard reveals a plot that explains the mysterious end to her mothers life. A forbidden attraction ignites between them, even as Isla becomes the killers next target. This is a gripping tale of love, murder, intrigue, and revenge.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Mar 12, 2013
• ISBN: 9781481713962

Irene Bond

Irene Bond’s careers include registered nurse, real estate broker, time management consultant, and fifteen years of creative writing. She is also published in newspapers, anthologies, and magazines, including a Guideposts cover story. Her British parents, natural storytellers, give Lethal Intention’s fictional characters an authenticity drawn from real life.

Book preview

Chapter One

AT THE TIME IT seemed like a small thing, but remembering it later, I shivered .

The four of us—myself, Uncle John, cousin Evalyn, and her husband, Clive—were seated around the dark mahogany table that almost filled the bay window at my cousin’s flat in Northumberland, England. We were exchanging family stories and passing around pictures of long-dead relatives, when suddenly and as if on cue, Evalyn and Clive rose and began to clear the table.

I held my breath. Had anyone guessed the real reason for my return to England so soon after my mother’s sudden death here?

Uncle John glanced at their retreating backs and puffed on his ever-present pipe. They’re acting a little daft. He gave me a knowing look. Something’s afoot, he said, and it will soon come out.

Uncle John’s husky voice cut into my drifting thoughts. It’s grand to have you here. He leaned back to watch gray tobacco smoke curl upward. Afternoon sunlight edging through the leaded glass window, lay pale fingers across the dark photographs. So much history here, he muttered. The half smile on his weathered face faded. Mind, I miss your mother dreadfully. Her untimely death, he said, voice catching, was devastating to us all. He paused. And I’ll miss you when you leave for America, but we’ll have a good run.

A good run was a remnant of his seafaring jargon. Like most of the males in our family, he’d spent his working life plowing the seas and was a retired ship captain.

I felt the afternoon sun warm my back, and though I was comforted by the familiar aroma of his pipe, I was guarded, knowing the real reason for my being here. I had come to investigate my mother’s sudden death.

After her funeral in England and my return to America, I was disoriented by grief and devastated by her desperate act of suicide. Then, while closing up her house and going through the attic, I discovered one of her old journals.

As I read the words, blinking back tears, my feelings of anguish and loss overwhelmed me. I had to put them aside before continuing to read the awful truth about what I’d once perceived as my mother’s idyllic early life in England. The coroner’s verdict was suicide, but scenes described in her writings made me suspect murder.

Uncle John’s voice rose and fell over the sound of running water and clinking dishes from the kitchen. Then he stopped and gazed into the distance. He’d pulled the box of pictures to him. Rapping the wooden box with a shaking finger, he said, Now that they’re all dead, I can tell you the truth.

I held my breath and stared at him. As I leaned closer to hear the truth, Evalyn’s voice startled us. Uncle John sat back and put a finger to his lips.

From the doorway, Evalyn flashed her toothy grin. Clive and I have just finished the washing up. We thought you might like to go and see the old family home. It might be sold before you return for another visit.

She came closer, drying her hands on a towel. What is it, Isla? You’re white as a ghost. John, have you been telling her some of your ghastly sea stories?

He carefully tamped out his pipe and slid it into his shirt pocket before answering. Not a bit of it, he said. His good-natured smile held no hint of what had passed between us.

While we waited for Clive to bring the car around, Uncle John’s jocular manner made me wonder. We drove the familiar road, my mind working feverishly on his last words: Now that they’re all dead, I can tell you the truth. I stared out the car window, my senses reeling from suspicion to dread. But as the house came into view, one last look at the place I’d grown to love put everything else out of my mind.

The stately four-storied home stood on a promontory overlooking the North Sea. Wide panes of glass fronted the top story and delivered a view so expansive that my late Aunt Sarah would declare, You can see Norway on a clear day!

We drove up the curving road past the caretaker’s cottage and through the gardens and sloping green lawns to the car park in front.

I fidgeted as Evalyn inserted the key in the massive door. Helped by a mighty shove from Clive, it swung open and we entered another world. I looked up the red-carpeted staircase, half-expecting to see Aunt Sarah smiling a welcome.

The last time I had seen her, she’d presided over a low table set in front of the fire in the cozy sitting room, passing around ham-and-tomato sandwiches with the crusts cut off and endless cups of hot tea. It was early October then, and the weather outside was bitter cold. Evalyn had driven us north from the train station in Newcastle that night, and we arrived chilled to the bone.

Never mind, Aunt Sarah had said, encouraging us closer to the fire. You’ll soon be warmed by all the love here.

Love was not what I was feeling now.

Evalyn’s voice jerked me back to the present. I turned as she said, Isla, are you hearing me? Do you want to go up to the fourth story and see all the way to Norway?

Of course, I want to see everything, I said, even the scullery.

Uncle John, who had been quiet on the drive over, frowned. I shrugged off his strange reaction, not wanting anything to spoil my last look at a place I held so dear.

In days to come, I would wish I’d paid more attention.

Chapter Two

TRAILING BEHIND THE OTHERS, caught up in the moment, I was struck by a pang of haunting emptiness as I sensed my mother’s presence.

Rooted to the spot, I glanced through the doorway of the great hall into the cozy sitting room where we’d had tea and sandwiches at an earlier, happier time. My eyes stopped at the stone fireplace. Where was the lovely Venetian mirror? A massive hook marked the spot where the sparkling treasure had been. And the flowered carpet that had once glowed in the firelight had been taken up. Now bits of straw packing lay strewn about like debris left after a grand event.

Cousin Evalyn’s voice broke the spell. Would you like to go up the back stairs and come down the front, or the other way round?

Either way, I said, concealing my dismay. The once sumptuous rooms, stripped of their furnishings, looked as abandoned and forlorn as I felt.

Evalyn seemed to read my thoughts. The auction, she said, her fingers fluttering to the pearls at her neck. After that came the dustmen—buyers of estate remains. There was nothing for it. The terms of the will had to be satisfied. John selected what he wanted first. Clive and I took what would fit in our flat. With a dismissive wave, she said, Fortunately, our apartment is a four-hundred-year-old former carriage house and has large, well-proportioned rooms.

She paused and drew a breath at the stair landing. Besides furniture and linens and silver and bric-a-brac, you can’t imagine the stuff we had to get rid of.

Mourning the passing of an era, I felt a dull ache at losing this last tangible evidence of the past, in addition to the terrible loss of my mother. And Uncle John’s remark at lunch about her death had fueled my suspicion.

Evalyn turned at the doorway of the second-floor drawing room. The sale came up suddenly, she said. It was impossible to notify you. A lot of things went with the house as part of the sale of the estate. The wardrobes and—

I saw Clive tug on her sweater.

She patted my shoulder. "I am sorry. Maybe I shouldn’t have suggested this, especially with your mother …"

Clive rubbed his palms briskly, Why don’t we carry on upstairs and turn our gaze toward Norway?

Capital idea! Evalyn quickly led the way. The incredible view, she said, something that never changes.

Whist, lass, I heard Uncle John whisper. I told you. It’s all ‘forget the past and let’s get on with it.’ It’s a wonder they didn’t auction me off as well. We need to sort all this out, he said. I’ll come to your hotel later for tea, at four.

Are you two coming? Evalyn called down the stairwell. The view up here is spectacular this time of day.

Tell them I’ll be up in a few minutes, Uncle John. I want to look around in the library and the bedrooms. He positioned his cane, and mounted the steps.

When I entered the library, I saw that the books had been boxed. No lively fire danced in the grate, and the mahogany library table that had stood in front of the stained-glass window was gone. I longed to sink into one of the red leather chairs and put my feet up on the fireplace fender, but they too had disappeared into the past.

Yoo-hoo. Come along, Isla, Clive called out. This is too good to miss. We’ll bring you back another day to finish your inspection.

Rejoining the others, I followed their gaze out across the water—the view was superb. The July sun sparkled on the waves and glistened off the wake of a passing sailboat.

There’s a show for you, Clive said, clapping me on the shoulder. Just enough breeze to give a snap to those sails.

Aye, Uncle John said, whets my appetite for the sea.

Evalyn looking surprised, said. After all these years?

Aye, you never forget your first love.

Clive pulled a wry face at the unexpected sentimentality from the old salt and extended an arm out of his tweed jacket to check his watch. We must be off, Evalyn. Our engagement is a must.

Yes. Sorry, Isla. Will you be all right on your own? Cook will have something for you to eat at our flat, and you can have that lovely walk back to your hotel.

When I declined, they took Uncle John home first and then let me out at the hotel entrance. I climbed the worn stone steps of the Victorian hotel that had originally been built as a seaside home for a duchess. It stood majestic on a cliff top, giving stunning views of a natural, unspoiled coastline.

Entering the lobby was like entering the past. While I waited for the elevator, I glanced up the handsome curved staircase to the tall stained-glass windows at the landing, their vivid colors backlit by the late afternoon sun.

My modest room under the eaves had no seaside vista, only a comfy chair next to the window with a view of a flower garden and courtyard down below. Exhausted by my stressful afternoon, I kicked off my shoes and promptly fell asleep.

The jangling telephone jerked me awake, and I fumbled for the receiver. The desk clerk said, Madam, your guest is here. I glanced at my watch. Uncle John, a punctual soul, was early.

I’ll be right down.

Uncle John wasn’t at the desk. I strolled past the bar into the comfortable lounge with tables set for tea and glanced around the room. Sunlight brightened the plaids on the furniture, touched snowy white tablecloths, and gave an extra polish to the silver and crystal.

I waited fifteen minutes, perched on the edge of a wing chair near the fireplace. Twenty-five minutes later, I went to consult the concierge at the desk.

You rang my room announcing a guest. I’m Isla Redding, expecting my Uncle John.

Madam, your guest was female.

Did she leave a name or a card?

"No, madam, she said she was expected."

Are you sure you rang the right room?

He regarded me gravely over half-moon glasses. I have been in service here for twenty years, he said, straightening, and I can assure you—

Isla? I’ve been looking for you. Am I early?

Uncle John, you’re just in time. Something strange happened.

I slipped my arm through his. The rough texture of his tweed jacket felt reassuring. As we walked through to the lounge, I told him about the woman who came to the desk asking for me. And I arrived to find no one there. The visitor, according to the desk clerk, was a woman and not Evalyn.

So it’s begun, has it? he said. Let’s order tea and some food and sit here by the fire. There’s something I must tell you.

I felt a flicker of apprehension and leaned closer.

Now then … he began. On the edge of my chair, I jumped when I heard a familiar voice yoo-hoo from across the room.

Oh, there you are! Cousin Evalyn said, threading her way through the tables toward us. I thought I might find you here. She took a quick breath. Clive had to stay on, some political thing. Am I intruding?

Not at all. Uncle John’s cheery voice belied his resigned expression.

When she turned her back to signal a waiter, he whispered, To be continued later.

What was that? A shadow of irritation crossed Evalyn’s face. Did I miss something? She looked up as a waiter approached with table service. Oh, here we are, she said. This is lovely.

After pouring tea and adding sugar, she regarded me with a benign look. I do hope I’m not interrupting anything, she said. Just wanted to stop by and invite you both for lunch tomorrow. We’ve planned a trip to the village church where all the ancestral weddings and funerals have taken place. If you’re interested, of course.

Yes, I would like that. It’s very kind of you. Will you come, Uncle?

Yes, do come, John. She touched his elbow lightly. Add the historical perspective.

Ah, there is a need for relics after all. He nodded. Yes. I’ll come.

Now then, you’re not a relic. She straightened, her fingers fluttered to the pearls at her neck. You’re our link to the past, she said, eyebrows raised. Pass the shortbread biscuits, please.

Evalyn helped herself to two before turning back to my uncle. When we’re finished here, John, I’ll give you a lift if you like. Save you calling a taxi. She waved away his protest. No, Clive won’t mind. He had other business to attend to. He’ll get a ride home with someone.

Then turning to me, she cooed, I know you must be tired after your long day, Isla. And we’ll have another busy one tomorrow.

I saw Uncle’s clenched jaw and jutting chin. But he only dipped his head and replied, Thank you very much. I accept.

Disconcerted by the way the evening was ending, I began to protest. But we haven’t finished our … Uncle John caught my eye and shook his head slightly. I forced a smile, feeling my shoulders tighten with frustration.

A waiter appeared. He palmed the bills Evalyn handed him, smiling his thanks.

We all stood while Evalyn gathered her things. She took Uncle’s arm, saying to me over her shoulder, You are coming, Isla, to see us to the door?

I followed like a sleepwalker. Why had Uncle John gone along so meekly? It seemed so out of character.

We stood for a moment at the hotel entrance. Cheerio, Evalyn said, pressing her cheek to mine. There’s my car. We’re off.

Uncle John slipped an arm around me and pulled me close. Never mind, he said. There’s always tomorrow.

Evalyn called from the bottom step, Coming, John? Ta, for now, Isla.

I stood watching the red taillights on the car disappear into the misty night, realizing I hadn’t asked Evalyn if she knew the woman who’d come to the hotel looking for me.

The keen disappointment of the aborted visit with Uncle John stung. I comforted myself by echoing his words, There’s always tomorrow.

Chapter Three

THE NEXT MORNING, SOMETHING jerked me awake. I sensed a presence in the room and darted my eyes around the small space. Heart pounding and still groggy, I shuddered, feeling a chill in the warm room. The July sun sparkled off the dressing table mirror and cast dancing patterns across the pale blue walls. The unmistakable tang of sea air floated through the open window. Nothing stirred except the wispy white curtains, lifted by the breeze.

I waited, listening, then shook off the dreads and padded to the open window. Bright blue skies and warm weather greeted me, so different from the cold drizzling rain of last night. Standing there, I puzzled over the abrupt ending to Uncle John’s visit.

As I started back to bed, my eye caught a glimpse of something or someone in the mirrored door of the armoire. I heard a sound like a click and rushed to the bedroom door. Unlocking it, I leaned out and saw … no one. After a quick search turned up nothing, I decided it must have been one of the maids and set about getting ready for a day on my own. Uncle John would arrive later for tea.

Skipping the elevator, I descended the wide staircase that curved into the former drawing room, now lobby. There I caught the aroma of bacon, eggs, sausages, and kippers drifting from the spacious dining room.

Seated at the window with an ocean view, I smoothed the napkin on my lap as the server took my order. She then directed me to a massive sideboard that offered tea and coffee service, along with platters of pastries, dishes of country butter, and fruit.

I glanced at my dining companions, some in business attire. Everyone looked so trim. How did they manage, eating the full English breakfast?

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THE BEACH STRETCHED FOR miles, to the lighthouse at Whitley Bay and beyond. School was out and children ran, laughing and screaming, into the icy waters of the North Sea. Stay close to the edge, I heard. It’s too cold to come in after you.

Some rented cabanas were set about. Tea wagons plowed up and down the sands, offering hot beverages. After an hour of brisk walking to keep from freezing in the stiff breeze, I took a few stops to scan the skies for seabirds. Returning to the hotel, I began to climb the long flight of steps up to the hotel entrance. Halfway up, still bird-watching, I raised my binoculars and