Who's Sorry Now?

by Maggie Robinson

  “Didn’t you hear it go off? It was loud enough to wake the dead. Hahahaha.”

  “Very funny. What time is it?”

  “Just after nine. How did it go last night? I regret I was unable to join you. Something came up.”

  Addie had heard the “something came up” excuse for most of her marriage, and didn’t bother to quiz him. Although he was supposed to be on some sort of improvement plan, she expected he weaseled his way around in Limbo just as he always had on earth.

  Addie sat up and stretched. “I met with Kit and Greg. It’s too soon to rule them out, although I can’t see them as murderers. They didn’t even remember Penelope Hardinge’s name.”

  “They’re good actors. They have to be, considering their personal proclivities.”

  “Damn it, Rupert, do you know everything?”

  “Not everything, pet. We’ve discussed that. Come along—I’ve brewed you a pot of coffee and stand prepared to butter you a scone from your Claridge’s’ bounty.”

  “You didn’t eat the last cream puff, did you?” Addie asked accusingly.

  Rupert didn’t meet her glare. Apparently Rupert ate and drank when he wished, which led her to wonder about all sorts of physiological things. She excused herself to perform her own, slipped into her least seductive robe, and joined Rupert in her little kitchen. He’d set the enamel table with linen napkins, the jam pot, a glass jug of cream, her good china. There was even one of the prince’s red roses floating in a brandy snifter.

  “Thank you for fixing the coffee—it smells heavenly.” Rupert had never shown any domestic inclination whatsoever before he died, but she was grateful he did now. Truth be told, Addie had a hangover. She was feeling the after-effects of a very late night and too many glasses of champagne. In her current state, she probably would have scorched her fingers on the toaster.

  They sat in cozy quiet, Rupert reading The Times, crunching crumpets the only sound. It was bittersweet, Addie thought, this sudden reunion with comfort and companionship. She had just about come to terms with the fact that she wasn’t losing her mind, that her late husband was an apparition that only she could see. There really was no other explanation. She wondered how many other widows across the British Isles were being haunted right this minute—perhaps they could form a club. Produce a pamphlet of do’s and don’t’s. Support each other before they checked themselves into a grim mental hospital.

  “Huh.”

  “Anything interesting in the paper?” Addie asked.

  “That fellow Mussolini is out and about again in public making mischief. There was speculation he was ill, but I guess he’s recovered. And tuxedos for women are all the rage in Paris. Don’t buy one, I beg you. Some things are sacrosanct and should be kept in the male sphere. Cigars. Cars. Combat.”

  Addie spread a dollop of strawberry jam on half a scone. “I drive perfectly well and you know it. I never would have thought you were so old-fashioned.”

  “I know. It’s an unexpected turn. I grow more like my poor old pa every day. How is he?”

  Addie faithfully corresponded with Rupert’s elderly parents in Cornwall. So far, she had withheld his recent reappearance—and numerous past sins—from them. “Both your parents are well, I believe. I wrote to let them know I was back from the States, but I haven’t received a letter yet.”

  He folded the paper and laid it next to his plate. “What’s on the agenda today?”

  “Prince Alexei. He’s dropping by later for lunch.”

  Rupert sat up. “Here?”

  It was gratifying to hear the objection in Rupert’s voice. “Yes. And then later I’m having dinner with Lucas.”

  “Faugh. I don’t envy you.”

  “Why not? They’re both very attractive, intelligent men.” Red flag. Bull. It was almost enjoyable—if ironic—to see Rupert so proprietary in death after his own amorous lapses in life.

  He seemed to think the better of charging. “Don’t get me started. I suppose you’ll want me to scram.”

  “That would be most helpful,” Addie agreed. She was having lunch delivered from the Connaught for the Russian prince. After having dinner with Lucas tonight, she’d have to go on a diet, especially if she had to get through any more bathroom windows or other tight spots in the future. Womanly curves were to be rued lately, although Addie was damned if she’d bind her breasts to be fashionable.

  She’d simply been born in the wrong decade.

  After Rupert slipped away, Addie got out Beckett’s feather duster and swiped various surfaces with lackluster vigor, then attended to her own bath and beautification. She ensconced herself in the drawing room window seat, where she could observe the comings and goings on Mount Street between turning the pages of an old issue of Flynn’s. Agatha Christie had a short story in it, Traitor’s Hands. After last summer, Addie had sworn off fictional mysteries, but she couldn’t seem to resist the siren’s lure of Mrs. Christie.

  The service bell rang promptly at noon, and Addie ushered the young waiter into the kitchen with his boxes. He arranged everything with precision on the dining room sideboard, cheerfully received his tip, and returned to the hotel. Lunch would not be fancy—sandwiches, salads, and a very tempting coconut cake. Addie wanted to put the prince at ease with picnic food, although it was still too cold to eat outside on her handkerchief-sized backyard terrace. She poured wine for him, but none for her.

  Prince Andrei was also prompt, turning up at half past noon, a pink rosebud in his lapel and pink rosebuds in a filigree holder for her. He had a good memory, then, and was anxious to make a good impression. Would Lucas arrive tonight with more pink roses?

  The Russian kissed her hand, and Addie was immediately reminded of his other kiss Sunday night. It would not do to concentrate on that—no more kissing anyone unless it was absolutely unavoidable. Addie had considerable practice ducking and bobbing before her marriage, during, and afterward, too.

  “You are exquisite, my lady,” the prince said. Addie wouldn’t have gone that far—her pale yellow silk dress was nice enough, but not couture. But perhaps he was noticing the gold bangles at her wrists and gold rope at her neck, toting them up their worth like a jeweler.

  “Thank you, Your Highness. Won’t you come through into the dining room?”

  He followed her into the stylish black and white space. She’d replaced some of the decorator’s mirrors with framed photographs of the new American Radiator building in New York City in all its black brick and gothic gold glory, and he commented immediately. “How magnified! Did you take pictures?”

  “Magnificent,” Addie said automatically. “Alas, no. I’m a terrible photographer. Even if the object can’t move, it’s always blurry when the film is developed. Isn’t the building beautiful, though? It has the kind of elaborate detailing I missed being away from London.” She’d longed for London’s architecture more than she’d expected, even though much of New York was an imitation of the capital, even down to its social scene. Young people were untethered there too, floating away on the latest, louchest wave. She hoped they wouldn’t meet the fate of the poor Bickley boy and Penelope Hardinge.

  “Very true. Everywhere one looks here is feast for eyes. Like Moscow. I like countryside too, though. To ride. Hunt. Tell me about your house.”

  Did he plan to move in? Addie helped herself to the food, and Prince Andrei followed suit.

  “Most of Compton Chase is old. Jacobean.” She saw his frown. “That’s early 1600s to King James the First’s death in 1625.”

  “And it does not fall down on pretty head?”

  Addie smiled. “All fixed. Mostly. The house has been in my husband’s family for generations. It underwent some renovation last year.” It had been worth all the mess and expense, though parts of the house were still shut up.

  “It yours in full? No tail?”

  “You mean entail. No. I cou
ld sell it tomorrow if I wanted.” Rupert had inherited the house from his grandmother; ownership had hopscotched between members of the family. One day Addie might decide to up sticks and let another Compton move in.

  Addie wondered if she was ticking all the prince’s boxes as a rich widow to be conquered. Not fated to be his princess, she needed to steer the conversation back to the murders. “So, tell me, how long have you been in England?”

  “Three years. Was very difficult to get out of Russia. You have no idea of the indignitaries. The subsistence. But uncle was tireless. Though my mother…” He shrugged. “Too stubborn to come with me. Said she too old to learn new customs and language. Better to stay hiding in hovel with babushka.”

  “How awful for you. Can you get word to her?”

  “No. I must think of her in our old dacha garden clipping the rose. She is probably shot dead.”

  Addie inhaled at his bluntness, but she couldn’t see how his misery translated to murder of strange young English people. “You must think positively; perhaps everything is all right.” She poured him more wine. “What do you think of our fair shores? I don’t suppose they have places like the Thieves’ Den in Moscow.”

  He almost laughed. “No. No fun anywhere. But perhaps is selfish to try be happy. People starve. Die on street.”

  Addie glanced at the spread on the sideboard, which now even in its simplicity seemed altogether too lavish. “One donates to charity the best one can.” Addie’s man of business, Mr. Beddoes thought her far too generous already, but perhaps she should look into Russian fundraising organizations.

  “I am charity case. My uncle—well, not exactly uncle, he is married to my mother’s second cousin—wishes for me to find employment. If I success, he will give blessing for me to marry Nadia.” The prince did not sound at all enthusiastic. Did he object to the job or the bride? If he was smitten with his distant relative, would he go carting around and kissing widows anyway?

  “She seems like a lovely girl,” Addie said, her voice neutral.

  “She is. Pretty. Smart. Her Russian is almost good. She does not like me.”

  “Why not?”

  “She thinks I am…hoe? Shovel? A garden tool.”

  “Rake.”

  “Yes. That. But I was raised to be courtly. Is second nature.”

  “Perhaps you should spend less time being attentive to other women and pay more attention to her.” Addie knew her advice was good, but she was far from getting any useful information out of the prince.

  “I could try.” The doubt was written all over his face.

  “I’ll help you,” Addie said, wondering what she was getting herself in for. “But no more kissing.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  Even inside the shadowy club, Freddy Rinaldi sported sunglasses and a large bandage across his nose. He squeezed Addie’s gloved hand hard and brought her close. “I wanna thank you for the other day. Coming to my rescue and all. Hunter says it was you what found me.”

  Addie nodded and tugged herself free. All she needed was for Lucas to wonder what this was all about. He was checking her coat at the moment, grumbling that it was sure to be nicked. It had been all she could do to persuade him to come here after their dinner at Rules, and she imagined the least little thing could propel them both back into a taxi with him in high dudgeon.

  “I’m glad you’re feeling better, Mr. Rinaldi. Are any of my friends here tonight?”

  “Trix would know. I been hiding out in my office. Don’t want to scare the customers away.” He grinned wolfishly; indeed, he was rather frightening in a movie villain kind of way. “She’ll take you where you and your fella want to go.” He snapped his fingers in the air, and Trix hurried forward.

  “Good evening, Lady Adelaide. How are you this evening? Alone again?” There was no sting in the last question.

  “Not tonight. My friend is seeing to our coats.”

  “Do you have a seating preference? Big room or back room?”

  Addie felt she wasn’t getting anywhere whittling down the suspect list. So far, she felt rather sorry for the four people she’d spent time with. Even if Kit and Greg were race-prejudiced idiots, the road they were on was bound to be fraught with considerable peril. The prince was at very loose ends, and Lady Lucy was just plain unhappy.

  She had the list memorized, even if she hadn’t eaten it. The Dean siblings, Nadia Sanborn, and Bunny Dunford were left. She asked Trix if any of them were present.

  “The Deans are here. Miss Sanborn and Prince Andrei were here earlier, but…” Trix leaned forward and whispered loudly enough to be heard over the band…“I think they had a fight. Families. It’s always something, isn’t it?”

  Addie had to agree. Her mother and sister gave her plenty of anxiety.

  Lucas found her waiting at the podium and placed a territorial hand on her elbow. “Please say all the tables are taken.”

  “Oh, no, sir. We’ve got plenty of room for you. Did you want to sit with the Deans, Lady Adelaide?”

  “Please. Thank you, Trix.”

  They followed Trix’s swaying derriere through the labyrinth of tables. The hostess was wearing the red dress again, and more than a few male patrons noticed her as she moved among them. Females, too. Addie tried not to be jealous of the girl’s youth and figure. Her own costume should give her sufficient confidence, a deep iris silk dress with elaborate stitching, and an amethyst parure to add her own sparkle.

  “My God, you know the name of that girl. Really, Addie, you’ve changed since you came back from New York.”

  “I should hope so,” Addie said. Better to go forward than back.

  Once again Trix brought Addie to the quieter room. Pip and Roy Dean had just come off the dance floor and were slightly disheveled and glistening with perspiration.

  “Lady Adelaide! You just missed us trying to replicate the Astaires,” Roy said with a big grin.

  “Little chance of that. You stepped on my foot five times, you big baboon,” Pip said without rancor. “How is Lady Cecilia?”

  “She’s doing well. Lucas, may I introduce you to Philippa Dean and her brother Roy? This is Viscount Lucas Waring.”

  Pip’s fingers went up immediately to her bobbed auburn hair while Roy straightened up and extended a hand. “How d’you do, my lord. Your first visit to the Thieves’ Den?”

  “And my last if I’m lucky,” Lucas grumbled.

  “Oh, it’s really ever so much fun here,” Pip assured him, “especially if you like to dance. The band is excellent. They’re American.”

  “Oh, joy.”

  “Lucas,” Addie murmured. “Be nice. Pip, would you accompany me to the loo?”

  “Of course. You gentlemen behave.”

  Pip clutched Addie’s hand once they were downstairs in the pink chintz-covered lounge. Thick smoke hung here too, with crystal ashtrays on every flat surface overflowing with cigarette butts. One young flapper seated in a cushy chair was removing a torn stocking, while another young woman added a coat of scarlet to her already-crimson lips. “Your viscount friend is absolutely divine! Is he married?”

  “No. But I wouldn’t get your hopes up. He’s an awful snob. A stick-in-the-mud, too.” Lucas would never look at a girl like Pip; she was much too middle-class, even if she was so very pretty. Lucas had long forgotten that his father had never expected to inherit, and would have been middle class himself had not his distant relatives all conveniently dropped dead.

  “Why are you out with him, then?” Pip asked, fluffing her damp hair with her fingers.

  “Habit, mostly. We’ve known each other since we were children.” Addie powdered her nose, then went to use the facilities. She wouldn’t mention that Lucas had proposed.

  When she came out of the stall, they were alone. Pip lit a cigarette and stretched her shapely legs out in front of her. “Have you heard an
ything else about what happened to Lady Cecilia at the Savoy? Any one of us could have been a victim. I’ve been frightened to death.”

  Not too frightened to go out tonight, however. “You didn’t see the drinks delivered, did you?” Addie asked as she washed her hands. A crumpled pile of used linen towels on the counter was most uninviting. She felt honor-bound to report her objections to Mr. Rinaldi at her earliest convenience. A proper club would have a matron stationed down here to tidy things, but then, she reminded herself, her conversation with Pip would be limited.

  And this was, for all intents and purposes, an improper club.

  “No. I was with Millie in the loo. I wonder—this poison business—did something like that happen to Tommy Bickley? From the questions that policeman asked, I’ve been thinking things aren’t what they appear to be.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “People said he had a heart attack, but I can’t believe it. He was only twenty, for God’s sake, and didn’t seem sick at all, only a little sad. He had the judgment of a not-very-bright puppy. Imagine, falling for a girl like Penelope Hardinge. She would have eaten him for breakfast if she even noticed he was alive.”

  Addie’s comb paused in mid-air. “Excuse me?”

  “Do you know her? She’s so much worse than Elizabeth Ponsonby, if you can believe it. I haven’t seen her around lately—her parents probably shipped her off to a secret spa to dry out. Penelope’s—well, let’s just say she has bad judgment, too. Tommy simply worshipped her. There’s no accounting for taste, is there? Look at Bunny Dunford, always at Lucy Archibald’s beck and call. I need to find a man like that. You say your viscount won’t do.”

  “I’m afraid not,” Addie said with sympathy. “You didn’t tell the police about Tom Bickley and the Hardinge girl?”

  “No. Why should I? It wasn’t as if they were a couple. In Tommy’s dreams, perhaps. Penelope didn’t give him the time of day. Poor kid.”

  Addie wondered what Inspector Hunter would make of this nugget of information. Pip seemed genuinely unaware that Penelope was dead. And there was nothing whatsoever in her demeanor that indicated she was a murderess, just a young woman wanting to make a good match.