by Marlowe Benn
“You chose England?”
“I visited London, made a few friends, and decided to settle. Terribly desultory, I’m afraid.” Her narrative, such as it was, faded away.
“And now you’re here. For a good long time, I hope?”
“It depends.” It was the best she could offer. How could she possibly mention the crisis with Philip and her vanishing income? It changed everything—her household with Christophine, her understanding with David, Capriole’s fine start—and she didn’t have the heart to describe what would soon falter and likely collapse. The future and the past conspired against happiness, she knew that; one must find it in present moments, however fleeting.
Russell fingered Julia’s earring and then her jaw. Did he feel her pulse leap? Was he too slipping into that uncomplicated language of skin to skin? At the moment hers would happily follow his down that path, but her mind balked. If things were to proceed, which seemed both likely and desirable, she needed to speak now, before lines were crossed.
“I should tell you,” she said into his temple, “Glennis still has doubts about Naomi’s suicide. She’s enlisted my help in asking some questions, and it looks as if her fears may prove justified.”
Russell pulled back. “What do you mean?”
“She may not have killed herself. Something else may have caused her death.” Julia hated how this must pain him. She feared he might be angry, resentful that an outsider knew more than he did about Naomi’s last hours. She wouldn’t blame him for cursing her and Glennis for their meddlesome curiosity.
He only lowered his head and shook it. “Oh, Julia.” He gazed out toward the smoky lounge where a woman had begun to sing. “Here’s a warning for you in return. Naomi’s private life is no treasure hunt to go barreling through.”
Before Julia could speak, he covered her mouth with his fingers. “Tread very, very carefully.”
CHAPTER 16
The brush of knuckles against her door woke Julia on the morning of her twenty-fifth birthday. Anticipated for years, the occasion now soured her throat even before she opened her eyes. She sat up, sending Mr. Arlen’s impossible novel to the floor for the absolute last time. Mrs. Cheadle knocked again and cracked open the door. At Julia’s mumble she placed a pot of coffee on the dressing table and returned a moment later with a dozen Claudius Pernet roses in a cut-crystal vase. The note relayed Philip’s good wishes and an invitation to meet him for champagne in the library at seven. Perfectly civil. As if his needless questions hadn’t already smashed her future to bits.
Julia had managed to avoid him since she’d confronted him on the terrace almost a week ago. That evening she’d found a note balanced on her bedroom doorknob. Philip was a benevolent conqueror. He promised Julia’s financial arrangements would remain unchanged until the lawyers drew up permanent papers. (How could that take more than ten seconds? Zero was simplicity itself.) He also reiterated his intention to take her to dinner and the theater on her birthday, a plan brokered last summer when it was clear Julia would have to celebrate the event in New York. The thought of such an outing now, when any celebrating would be his alone, was noxious, but he’d pressed the matter so relentlessly she’d finally agreed.
She spent the afternoon in a handsome but arctic library at the offices of the Pynson Printers on West Forty-Third Street. David had arranged a private showing of recent fine editions from the Californian private presses. The work of the Grabhorn brothers and John Henry Nash was stirring a buzz in London’s printerly circles, especially after Morison’s authoritative disdain, which had piqued Julia’s curiosity. The shop’s proprietor, Elmer Adler, met her with a correct but clipped welcome—clearly taking her for a tiresome female dilettante—and entrusted her to a solemn Miss Greenberg, who brought the volumes one at a time in silent progression. Miss Greenberg sat at a nearby table, ostensibly tending to catalog cards but in fact watching Julia’s every move for breaches of bibliophilic decorum. It took no more than five or six books, each unwrapped from glassine wrappers by this hovering high priestess, to convince Julia that Morison was right: there was something overreaching and tasteless (terrifying, Morison had said) in those heavily deckled pages strutting the printer’s initials. The color-besotted confections of neomedieval, or neorenaissance, or neorococo marzipan seemed more suited to a candy carnival than a library. After a second florid version of The Sermon on the Mount, she began to pray that Californian would not become synonymous with American in the realm of fine printing, or she would have to endure much teasing among her book friends at home. Surely there were printers in New York doing more interesting work, with their heads and hands in the twentieth century. Maybe Russell would know. She barely glanced at the last selection, Nash’s slim and sanctimonious Life of Dante, before thanking Miss Greenberg and hurrying outside in search of warming sunlight.
What she found was wan at best, so she sheltered alone in a nearby hotel tearoom for as long as she dared before arousing suspicion or, worse, pity. First one hour, then a second crawled by until it was time to return to Philip’s apartment to prepare for their dreaded evening. There was only one incident of interest. She had been quietly tracing the pattern of her table’s wood grain when a handsome couple entered the lobby and approached the desk. It was Edward Winterjay and a young woman in navy linen and a matching cloche pulled low to shade her face. Winterjay’s resemblance to David struck her again, the easy confidence of his smile and low timbre of his voice. He spoke briefly to the clerk and signed the register, and the couple disappeared into the elevator without looking around. The woman carried a small portmanteau; Winterjay had only his hat and coat slung over one arm. There might be a perfectly innocent explanation, Julia told herself in the worldly tone of one who knows otherwise. How commonplace. It happened every day, everywhere. Did Vivian know of her husband’s afternoon inclinations? It was an idle question—not Julia’s business—and she dismissed what she had witnessed as yet more knowledge not to share with Glennis.
With the help of a hot bath, her new Vionnet evening frock, and her favorite pearl and peridot earrings, she was determined to salvage the day. At seven she found Philip in his wing chair by the fire, deep in conversation with Jack. Both men rose to their feet, scattering cats.
Julia begrudged Philip a small measure of gratitude for inviting his friend along. Two weeks ago she had viewed Jack with wary alarm—rightly so, it turned out, given his firm’s shocking decision—yet now she was glad for the kindhearted buffer of his company. He quickly assured her he’d played no role in last Monday’s judgment and was as surprised as anyone by it. She acknowledged this with a fractional nod.
Philip had the good sense not to apologize. He busily opened the champagne, the 1920 Dom Pérignon cuvée Julia had seen the bootlegger’s courier deliver earlier. He raised a glass and let the champagne’s chatter spill over his carpet. “To Julia Kydd, sans peur et sans reproche.”
“Happy birthday,” Jack said.
“Compliment excessive but accepted.” She bathed her throat in the fine vintage and met Philip’s gaze square on. Was he smirking or merely burgeoning with good fortune? All right, enough pretense.
“You should know I haven’t been idle this past week, Philip. I fully intend to secure my inheritance by whatever means available. I won’t let you gouge me with legal trickery.”
“Excellent news,” he replied. “Much better to prevail by one’s own wits.”
Jack was aghast. “Don’t start that nonsense again. It’s done, over. There’s no point in starting another battle. Can’t you two have at least one evening’s peace together?”
Before either could answer, Mrs. Cheadle wheeled in a trolley of fragrant canapés. Julia’s stomach made a rude noise, which brought on a cough. Philip handed her a plate with three circles of lobster paste on toast. “I take it you’re on the trail of a villain?”
“It’s nothing to joke about,” Jack insisted. “If Julia found any sign of murder, the police would have to be involved. You bo
th show an appalling sangfroid—”
“Bilgewater. We all know perfectly well that clever murders go unnoticed every day. The police bumble onto only the most maladroit cases. If she’s right, this is not one of them. But then nothing was said of convincing the police, only me, and I’m a much more formidable judge. Julia, please. Enlighten us.”
Jack stuffed an entire canapé in his mouth and wheeled toward the fire.
“It’s early days yet,” Julia said, settling onto the sofa. Pestilence curled against her thigh, purring. She guided the cat’s sheathed claws away from her dress.
Philip dragged his chair around to face her, pitching Pudd’nhead to the floor. “Go on.” Jack poked furiously at the grate.
She hadn’t intended to confide her inchoate ideas to anyone, not even, not entirely, to Glennis. Least of all to Philip. But she was tempted. His observations might help her think more clearly, and better to hear his doubts and challenges sooner than later. His dark eyes waited, for once neither mocking nor superior. It seemed safe enough, if she were careful to draw out his thoughts while shielding her own. She set down her glass.
“You’re still bound to silence.” Both men nodded. “All right. In a nutshell, the family accepts Chester’s claim that Naomi simply despaired of her life and chose to end it. He contends she took a fatal overdose of morphine tablets, if not on purpose, then by accident. It doesn’t matter to him, as long as the newspapers don’t know about it.”
“The logical conclusion,” Philip said. “You cling to more intriguing scenarios?”
“It’s too logical, too tidy and conclusive. Conflicting details suggest she may have been murdered, by one of two possible means. Perhaps she swallowed the tablets but not of her own free will. Perhaps someone took advantage of her agony and administered them without her cooperation.”
Philip lit a cigarette. “Or?”
“Or she took the tablets but died before they took effect. Meaning her death was caused by something else, likely the illness she suffered that afternoon, which there’s reason to suspect was induced.”
“Poison? How ghoulish.”
“Maybe,” Julia said. “She was in unusual distress that day, with fever and abdominal pain, and she was dead before nightfall. An unknown malady both sudden and acute points reasonably, I believe, to poison.”
“Or to suicide. How do you explain the tablets?”
“A red herring, provided by the murderer.”
“Do you hear that, Jack? She’s been reading Mrs. Christie. I still think suicide’s more likely, but my sister’s ideas are more entertaining. Kessler’s been asking the wrong Kydd for help. Julia’s made more progress on her mystery than he has with that Dorothy Caine business.”
A series of wavery Os rose from Philip’s mouth. “All right, let’s think. Criminal possibility one is chilling enough, but two is positively bloodcurdling. It suggests the overdose was a ruse, staged for others’ benefit. Very curious. Why would someone disguise her death as suicide when scandal was more worrisome than the death itself?”
“Exactly.” Julia took up her champagne. “Unless the truth was even more damaging. To the Rankins, with their great fear of family scandal, what could be worse than a sensational suicide?”
Philip chuckled, his chin bobbing at the ceiling.
She said it anyway. “Murder.”
“Brava! Taking notes, Jack? This might make a pretty story for your friend Wright. If only Miss Rankin had waited, her final blaze of glory could have been bright indeed. Murder garners so much more publicity.”
Julia finished the last swallow of champagne.
“And too bad for you as well, Julia. Do poke around, though I doubt you’ll find anything to prove either hypothesis.”
“She was planning a run for Senator Wadsworth’s seat in ’26.”
Philip’s eyebrows rose. “You don’t say? The story gets richer and richer. Imagine the Rankins squirming through that. They’d flee en masse for the duration.”
“It’s a powerful motive for silencing her.”
“Yes, though the prosaic obvious usually proves true. Old Chester may have outwitted Naomi in the end by hushing up the splash she hoped to make, but that makes not a whit of difference. Older brothers have a pesky way of prevailing, you know. But it would be in deplorable taste for me to mention it. More champagne?”
After saluting her disdain with the raised bottle, he replenished their glasses and insisted they finish the canapés. Mrs. Cheadle had fussed for days over recipes, he said, and had subjected him to three inferior practice batches since Saturday, with variations in the amounts of cayenne, mustard, and Worcestershire. Julia made a mental note to thank her tomorrow. It seemed time to move on, and she said so, rising carefully from under the cat.
“Unfortunately, there’s been a change of plan.”
Julia held her breath. Philip’s surprises were rarely good. Jack studied his shoelaces.
“Aunt Lillian’s nurse telephoned. Apparently the old girl sneezed twice and insists I come hold her hanky. I really must go see to her, but Jack here is on orders to squire you about town with all the manly charm he can muster. I apologize for the frightful timing—but you’ve seen what the old girl is like. I couldn’t refuse. She’ll be a bear, having to wait at all.”
Jack’s role became clear. He had been invited not as a kindness to Julia, to ease her awkwardness, but to solve Philip’s dilemma. She swept her shawl from the back of the sofa and reached for Jack’s arm, extended with alacrity. “Apologies for delaying you. We’ll be off, then.”
“Sorry it turned out like this,” Jack said, more to Philip than to Julia. She wished he wouldn’t sound so miserable. Had he negotiated a reward for the chore?
“Cheer up,” she said. “I won’t make you dance.”
It was barely past one when they returned to the apartment. Laying her handbag aside, Julia drew Jack close enough to invite a tepid kiss on her right cheek. He delivered it without even a brushing embrace. At that she dispatched the poor fellow, vowing to erase the evening from her memory. It burned like acid in her throat that a modern woman of reasonable health, wits, and appearance should be reduced on her birthday to a reluctant buss from a brotherly acquaintance.
She smelled it before she saw it. It would be excessive, of course, in proportion to its lateness. David was like that. Julia turned into the hallway to her bedroom and stopped short, alarmed at the sheer size of the floral delivery blocking her door. It dwarfed Dr. Perry’s arrangement. White roses, perhaps three dozen of them, massed above a froth of baby’s breath, ivy, and lady ferns. Tall blue flags and yellow gladiolas—she smiled at the Swedish touch—sprang from it like quills from a porcupine. It was beautiful, fragrant, and quite preposterous.
She had to crouch on hands and knees to drag the vase to one side to get to the door. Philip had it placed there deliberately, of course, and she half expected him to appear in the hallway to witness her groveling. Nose prickled in foliage, she found the card and sat back on her haunches to read it.
Inside the florist’s envelope was a folded telegram. As David never wrote social letters, Julia had expected no correspondence from him. To be honest, she admitted rather guiltily, she hadn’t much missed him. There had been a few occasions, of course, but fewer than one might have expected. But that was the beauty of their understanding, the freedom they both enjoyed and granted each other. With a fond tremor she unfolded the telegram. He didn’t know of the disaster that could put the kibosh on their understanding, but for now she’d relish that ignorance. He was a charming man, a charming lover. She could—must—enjoy him while she could.
She read it three times before she was certain she’d provided the correct missing punctuation. No other construction was possible. Darling, he wrote. Blissful birthday surprise Helen has better offer divorce imminent joy supreme return at once and marry your perishing David
Julia’s ankles wobbled. Her evening shoes were not meant for such a peasant’s posture. She
stood and leaned against the wall to read again the thunderclap in her hands. What madness was this? The second thought to race across her mind was, absurdly, the squeal Glennis would make on hearing it. Only third came a more reasoned, if cynical, reaction: Was this her salvation, the answer to her financial problems?
David’s wife. For as long as Julia had known him, that was Helen Adair. They’d met once, when she and David ran into Helen and her companion, an Austrian named Rudolph or Rupert or Ruthven, at a supper club in Mayfair. They had a drink together. Helen was close to David’s age, approaching forty, but she remained handsome in an athletic sort of way, with the strong shoulders and muscular calves of a tennis player. They’d married young and separated in mutual boredom a few years later. At first, David told Julia, they simply didn’t bother with a divorce, but then they both found the arrangement oddly freeing. As long as Helen behaved sensibly and discreetly, he supported her in lavish style. Each enjoyed easy love affairs, unencumbered by expectations of marriage. That freedom was exactly what Julia relished too, and why David’s proposal—no, his decision—that they now marry was so stunning.
Should she be glad? David was one of the few men who rarely bored or dismayed her. He was amusing, reasonably wealthy, well connected, even tempered, and a fine lover. But love in the marrying sense? They’d never spoken of it, and she was sure neither felt it, not honestly. Even so, a voice repeated her first coldly practical thought: marriage would certainly solve her looming financial crisis. David had plenty of money for them both, especially once Helen no longer had claim to his income.
Julia stared at the telegram. She knew well that sparkling glib tone (“perishing” indeed), but never before had it been addressed to her. She had always been in on the amusement, sharing the wink, not receiving it. This apparent offer of supreme intimacy instead opened a sly, calculated new distance between them. She felt whisked onto a dangerous dance floor, expected to match his complicated new steps, to parry romantic strategy with counterstrategy.