Rupert had been an excellent dancer. He’d been excellent at most everything, except being a faithful husband.
With Rupert’s death, now she’d never have the last word. Make the last point in an argument. Receive the last kiss.
Well, perhaps she had on New Year’s Eve.
Addie shut her eyes against the glittering room and allowed herself to relax in Prince Andrei’s embrace. She didn’t wish him to be anyone he was not—the past was best shut up behind a thick locked door. She’d been luckier than most, and knew it. And if she sometimes allowed herself to think of a tall Anglo-Indian police detective, there was no real harm in that.
She turned as a commotion at the table caught her attention. Now that the music had slowed, her sister and her friends had returned to cool off. There seemed to be some sort of friendly argument between Gregory and Kit, with Cee smack in the middle, laughing as they pretended to slap at each other. The drink she was holding tipped and spilled onto the tablecloth, and Kit replaced it with his own.
Cee took a long sip and made a face, then clutched her throat. To Addie’s horror, her sister pitched forward on the table.
“Cee!” Addie slipped out of Andropov’s hold and ran toward the table. The young men seemed frozen in shock. She heard an almost-forgotten familiar voice in the crowd and stumbled over a chair leg.
“It might be poison, love. Get a doctor quick.”
Rupert! Addie couldn’t see him on the dance floor, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t here bedeviling her with his well-meaning interference.
“I need a doctor! My sister’s been poisoned!” Her scream was loud enough to penetrate the music, and the Orpheans wound down their notes. The entire room fell silent as Addie reached the table and stuck her finger down Cee’s throat, hoping it wouldn’t be nipped off.
Poison. At the Savoy. It didn’t make any sense, but then nothing did if Rupert was in the vicinity. She prayed Cee would be all right, and was relieved as the first trickle of vomit poured forth. Cee opened her eyes and sputtered, then retched in earnest. Kit and Gregory jumped away, and the rest of the party looked on in mingled alarm and disgust.
“I’m a doctor. What happened?”
Addie looked up. The man appeared too young to be employed at anything, but then everyone looked too young to her lately. He was accompanied by the maître d’ and two waiters, who hovered solicitously behind him. “I think—I know it sounds ridiculous—that there was poison in the drink.”
“Poison? Are you sure she’s not had too much of a good time?” The doctor discarded his dinner jacket and took Cee’s pulse. “Erratic. Could be from dancing.” He checked her pupils. “Hm. Somebody call an ambulance,” he said to a hovering waiter. “You’ve done well to make her purge, but she’ll need her stomach pumped. Tests. I’ll go with her. I expect you’ll want to come too.”
“Th-thank you.” A flash went off and Addie blinked. The Bright Young People often found themselves in the newspapers, but she doubted Cee would appreciate being immortalized covered in sick.
The doctor gave orders to the Savoy staff to leave the table as it was, but remove it from the scene. In his opinion, additional glasses might have been tampered with and Scotland Yard should be called. Addie was reminded of last night’s conversation about the Bickley boy, but he’d had some sort of attack. There had been no mention of poison.
Cee groaned. “Ugh. I feel awful. What was in that horrible drink?”
“It was a Hanky Panky,” Kit said, “a new Savoy specialty. Fernet Branca, gin, sweet vermouth. Thought I’d give it a try.”
“It’s revolting.” That explained the intense herbal smell. Perhaps Cee was allergic to one of the herbs in the concoction. Addie wished she could wash the inside of her nose out, but she was not in such dire straits as Cee, whose Patou dress was probably a lost cause no matter how adept Beckett was with stains.
Their companions were shuttled to a private room to wait for the police, and the entire table they had been sitting at was carried out of the ballroom to await police inspection. Much subdued, the orchestra started up again, and the Savoy’s guests reclaimed their evening in a quietly tasteful way. Fun must be had at all costs. It was 1925, after all.
The ambulance crew arrived and poor Cee was carted out on a stretcher, with Addie and the doctor, Paul Kempton, in attendance. It was a little crowded in the vehicle, but Addie was grateful to be able to keep Cee under her watchful eye.
Perhaps she’d overreacted—she was hearing things again, if not actually seeing Rupert. It was extremely unlikely that one of Cee’s friends would be the victim of poisoning at the Savoy, or anywhere else, for that matter. They were a harmless bunch, idly rich but with no real malice. Even tart-tongued Lady Lucy could be forgiven for her grumpiness, considering her family’s string of bad luck.
Addie wouldn’t borrow trouble. Until she knew the cause of Cee’s sudden illness, she would hope for the best.
But Rupert had said he’d see her again.
Damn it all.
Chapter Five
The Savoy this time. A steep step up from the Thieves’ Den. And a stunning surprise—the victim was someone Dev knew.
She wasn’t here, though, but having her stomach pumped as a precautionary measure. Most unpleasant. The nine shaken young people who had been present during the incident had been sequestered in a private room by the Savoy management, with free drinks and food. However, no one had been eager to partake of the artfully arranged spread.
Five of the group were familiar faces from just the other day, and none seemed happy to encounter representatives of the Metropolitan Police Force again. All had claimed ignorance under Dev’s and Bob’s previous questioning about Thomas Bickley; they remained ignorant of this event as well.
Four were fresh interviewees. A new potential victim, Christopher Wheeler, whose cocktail Lady Cecilia Merrill had sampled, swore he knew no one who’d wish him harm. His drink, as well as some others, had arrived while he was dancing, and no one noticed anything unusual. The whole of the table had been on and off the dance floor for several sets, save for Philippa Dean, who’d gone to the ladies’ lounge to repair her make-up, and Millicent Avery who’d accompanied her. Dev had always found it odd that women needed a friend for moral support to “powder their nose.”
For the last song, Roy Dean had been paired with Nadia Sanborn, Bernard Dunford with Lady Lucy Archibald, Lady Cecilia with Gregory Trenton-Douglass, and—Dev could not quite believe it—Lady Adelaide Compton was part of the group as well and had danced with an actual Russian prince.
Her period of mourning was definitely over if she was whirling about on a dance floor, and soon he’d have the opportunity to see her. Dev would have to take special care that he keep up a professional barrier.
Poison was supposedly a woman’s method of murder, but he wouldn’t jump to conclusions. So far, the victims did not have much in common besides their age; Dev wasn’t even sure if they had known each other. It was obvious to him that Lady Cecilia’s involvement in this had been unintended—he’d have to look into Christopher Wheeler’s background more thoroughly to see why someone might try to poison him.
Penelope Hardinge was a good-time girl, vying with famous deb Elizabeth Ponsonby for wicked notoriety. Her numerous exploits made all the papers with gushing glee. She’d never refused a party invitation or a drink or drug in her short life. Thomas Bickley, by comparison, was so young and innocent he’d barely begun to shave. Where did Christopher Wheeler fit in?
Dev required the group to turn up tomorrow to be finger-printed, not that he expected any proof of guilt would be found on the cocktail glasses. The young women were all wearing gloves anyhow. This request was greeted with mulish compliance, and he heard a few mutterings along the lines of “my father’s solicitor will have something to say about that.”
He ignored the objections, gave them all a warn
ing not to leave London without notifying him, and sent Bob home to his wife and baby daughter. The forensics team arrived in short order, and Dev left them to bag up glassware and cigarette butts.
The hotel was anxious to duck any negative publicity and had promised Dev full cooperation. After he interviewed the barman and the waiter, one of the Savoy limousines delivered him in unaccustomed style to Charing Cross Hospital in Agar Street.
He admitted to himself he was nervous. Had he known he would encounter the Merrill sisters tonight, he might have chosen another suit. Shaved again. Polished his boots. Too late to spruce himself up—it was more important he find the person who was responsible for almost killing Lady Cecilia.
After a quick word and the flash of his warrant card at reception, he was directed to a private suite off the regular ward. The hospital bed was empty, but Lady Adelaide Compton was sitting upright on a gray metal chair, her tortoise shell spectacles on her lap. Her eyes were closed, and there was a glistening sheen across her lids that matched the seafoam green of her evening gown. She’d bitten off her lip rouge and was perilously pale.
Dev thought she looked…well, there were those ellipses again.
He didn’t want to alarm her, although he didn’t think she was asleep—her body was too rigid. Feeling somewhat like a voyeur, he stayed in the doorway, waiting for her to open her extraordinary hazel eyes.
She must have sensed his presence. With a start and a flutter, she caught her glasses before they fell to the floor and put them on.
“Inspector Hunter!”
Her voice was as alluring as he remembered, a soft alto. With the influence of some wine, he knew she could sing, too, although there was not much to sing about at present.
“Forgive the intrusion, Lady Adelaide. How is your sister?”
“The doctor came in a little while ago. She should make a full recovery—thank God she only swallowed a small amount of that drink. Is that why you’re here?”
Dev stepped into the room. “Yes. What happened tonight is not the first time poison has been used to make a point. If it’s any consolation, I don’t believe Lady Cecilia was the intended victim.”
“No. It was Kit. Kit Wheeler. His drink was tampered with. He seems a harmless enough young man. Why would anyone want to kill him?”
“That’s what I need to find out. Do you know him?”
Lady Adelaide shook her head. “I only met him to talk to tonight. I did see him at the Thieves’ Den yesterday, but we were not introduced. Cee knows him, but not well. We’ve been abroad, you know.”
The Thieves’ Den again. It was almost impossible to picture Lady Adelaide Compton there; it didn’t seem like her kind of place at all. The dark. The smell. The noise. But what did Dev truly know of her character? He’d only spent about two weeks in her company during a murder investigation, which was bound to alter one’s conceptions.
“Yes. I trust your stay in New York was pleasant?”
“More pleasant than this homecoming, that’s for sure. Does what happened tonight have anything to do with the Bickley boy?”
Dev looked at her sharply. There had been nothing in the newspapers—between the Deputy Commissioner and Sir Barry Bickley, they’d hushed it up. “How do you know about Thomas Bickley?”
“I don’t, really. Just that something was said about him having a heart attack.”
“It was no heart attack.”
She waited, but Dev was not inclined to elaborate. The fewer people aware of the trajectory of the investigation, the better. Once the press got hold of the fact that someone was targeting Bright Young People for certain death, all hell would break loose. If society’s junior set was already pushing boundaries, imagine how they’d delight in testing the Grim Reaper himself.
“They’re going to keep Cee in here overnight to be on the safe side. Do you know Paul Kempton? Thank heavens he was at the Savoy. He knew at once something was terribly wrong.”
“He’s a doctor?”
“Yes. Just qualified, actually. He seems very young to me, but then everyone does.”
Dev sympathized. When he met with fresh-faced young patrolmen, it was impossible for him to believe he’d ever been that naïve or innocent.
“Tell me what happened. I’ll spare Lady Cecilia an interview until tomorrow.” He pulled out his notebook. It was crammed with extra papers that he meant to organize—the whole leather book was becoming too thick and unwieldly, and there were precious few blank pages left. Dev had an attachment to it; his early cases were neatly annotated. Almost his entire history as a detective inspector was within.
“I really didn’t see anything. I was on the dance floor when she took a sip of Kit Wheeler’s drink. Hers had spilled.”
“How did it spill?”
“She and Wheeler and Gregory Trenton-Douglass were having some kind of good-natured argument, or at least it appeared that way to me. Everyone was laughing. Cee went to bat one of them away and tipped her glass. Wheeler promptly handed his to her—they were all hot from dancing, you see. She—” Lady Adelaide closed her eyes. “She clutched her throat and fell over as if her strings had been cut. I rushed over and made her vomit.”
“Quick thinking.”
“I didn’t even think.”
“All the better. I’d like to have you around in case of emergency.”
Lady Adelaide blushed scarlet. Dev remembered how easy it was to gauge her emotions from her fair skin.
“It was some sort of new drink. With an herbal liqueur.”
Dev had the recipe in his notebook. The Savoy Hanky Panky. Its amusing name belied its potency and potential for harm. With its bitter flavor and secret combination of herbs, it would be easy to camouflage the taste of poison.
“The witnesses heard you say the word poison immediately. What made you think that?”
She stared off into a corner at an ugly metal cupboard. “I—I don’t really know. A hunch, I suppose. Everything happened so fast. Cee can be dramatic, but I knew at once she wasn’t faking.”
“Well, I’m glad you were there, and I imagine your sister is grateful as well.” He closed his notebook and slid it inside his suit jacket. “I want to talk to this Doctor Kempton, so I’ll leave you now. Are you staying in Town?”
“Yes. Although after this Cee might come to her senses and enjoy some quiet in the country.”
“You were away some months.”
“And I’m longing to get back. As is Beckett—you remember my maid? She has designs upon Jack Robertson and is irritated we’re here instead of there.”
“Ah. Young romance.” Dev did not know what that felt like, if he were to be honest. Despite his mother’s every effort recently, he’d avoided her choices for a daughter-in-law.
“Indeed. But if someone is poisoning young society people, I’d like to help.”
Dev’s heart tripped. “I beg your pardon?”
“Like I did before. Like we did. I might be in a better position than the police to see things. Discover clues.”
Out of the question. He’d send her back to America if he had to. “Have you forgotten what nearly happened—”
“Of course not!” she interrupted. “I’d be much more careful this time. Face it, I can go into places like the Thieves’ Den and The Embassy Club that the police cannot, except when they’re raiding them. Even 43. I presume Mrs. Meyrick is out of jail?”
Kate Meyrick’s club kept evading the law, and Kate had seen the inside of a prison several times. Dev gave her his most serious look. “Lady Adelaide, I appreciate your desire to help. But believe me,” he said, fibbing, “we have this situation completely under control.”
“Rubbish. There has been at least one murder so far, yes? And a second attempt tonight.”
“How on earth do you know this?”
“I have my sources. And we, that is, I, w
ant to stop this madman. Or madwoman, I suppose.”
There was a madwoman right here, and Dev was not sure what to do about her.
Chapter Six
“Well done, my dear. It’s just like old times. Fighting crime. Seeking justice.” Rupert bounced up and down on the iron bed and gave her a grin. He was still wearing the very same clothes she had buried him in.
She’d been lucky since January 1. Apparently her time was up.
“Inspector Hunter didn’t say yes. Stop jumping about like a grasshopper!” Addie hissed. “You’ll undo the hospital corners or something. Cee should be arriving any moment.”
Rupert sprang off the bed and sat on the other metal chair in the room. The hospital could not have provided more uncomfortable seats unless they’d studded them with nails, but Rupert probably didn’t feel discomfort anymore. He’d talked about rules and molecules—really, what on earth was she thinking? Rupert didn’t talk about anything since Rupert was dead.
Yet here he was again, in the proverbial flesh that only she could see.
“Poor thing. I once had my stomach pumped, you know, when I was barely out of leading strings. Too much cheap liquor stolen from our butler. Father was furious. So, of course, was the butler, who had stolen it from Father. One doesn’t cross one’s butler if one can help it. Between the two of them, I couldn’t sit down for days. Nobody cared that I almost died.”
Addie had not heard this story before, and she didn’t want to hear it now, though it did remind her of Cee’s misadventure with the wine. “Why are you here?”
Thank God he had slipped into a cupboard—or she had shoved him there in her mind—when Devenand Hunter turned up so unexpectedly. Until then, she’d been at her wit’s end arguing with Rupert to go away, removing her spectacles and shutting her eyes so she couldn’t see him lurking. Trying to make sense to the inspector with Rupert capering in the corner would have been impossible.
Who's Sorry Now? Page 4