by Ellery Adams
The two cops, both males, greeted Jane and Lachlan with stiff courtesy. After Jane told them who they were and why they’d come to Tuck’s, Lachlan explained that they’d entered the gardener’s house through the unlocked door.
“We wanted to help Mr. Tucker,” Jane added. “When we looked through the window, we could see that he wasn’t okay.”
“Next time, call for help first,” one of the cops advised. “We’re trained to handle this type of situation.”
Jane bristled. She probably had more crime-scene experience than this baby-faced cop. Lachlan shot her a warning look, and she bit back her retort.
After a few more follow-up questions, in which the policemen established that she and Lachlan were visitors and didn’t really know Tuck, the interview came to an abrupt halt.
“We have your contact information,” the younger cop said. “We’ll be in touch if we need anything.”
Jane gaped at him. “That’s it? You don’t want to ask us anything else?”
“Not right now. We’ll talk to the HR folks at Biltmore and contact the next of kin.”
This is exactly how Jane would want a death at Storyton Hall to be handled, but she wasn’t ready to be cut out of the equation. “You should know that Mr. Tucker was hale and hardy yesterday. He showed no signs of heart trouble and does strenuous physical work on a daily basis.”
The policeman spread his hands. “Ma’am, you can’t always tell that something’s wrong until it’s too late.” He touched the brim of his hat in dismissal.
Jane almost begged him to test Tuck’s blood for traces of a foreign element when she stopped herself. She had to trust in the local law. She had to believe they’d notice Tuck’s peaceful posture and the presence of the coffee cup and be savvy enough to question the cause of death. Then again, they could be too busy with other matters to pay much attention to the sudden passing of an old man.
“I didn’t think people died like that,” she added, as the policeman was walking away. His partner was already inside the house. “You’ll see. He’s sitting in his reading chair with a book on his lap. It looks like he was posed by another person.”
Without turning all the way around, the cop glanced over his shoulder and said, “Sitting in a chair with a book? That’s not a bad way to go.”
Making it clear that the conversation was over, he followed his partner into the house.
Chapter Seven
When Jane saw Edwin alight from Parrish’s dark sedan, all the emotions she’d felt during his absence boiled over. Smiling through her tears, she rushed into his open arms.
They clung to each other without speaking. They didn’t need words. The strength of their embrace said it all.
After a time, someone coughed, and the couple reluctantly separated. They held hands and stared at each other.
“You’re so thin,” Jane whispered to Edwin. “Are you okay?”
“I am now, you brave and foolish woman.”
Jane smiled again. It was just like Edwin to be relieved and angered over being rescued.
“You can scold me later,” she said and turned to Parrish. “I’d like to see William, please. We’re not leaving until I do.”
Parrish issued a mocking bow and knocked on the passenger window. William rolled it down and waved at Jane. “Hello.”
There he was. Her husband. With his friendly smile and animated eyes. Jane wondered if she’d ever be able to look at him without feeling a knife-twist of loss in the center of her chest.
“Hi,” she said with remarkable composure. “I’m glad you’re coming back to Storyton with us.”
“Me too. Mr. Parrish thinks I stand a chance of recovering some of my memories.” The light in his eyes dimmed a little. “I really hope so, because it feels like part of me is missing. I’ve felt this way for years.”
Jane nodded in understanding before focusing on Parrish once more. “Mr. Lachlan will ride with you and William. Mr. Alcott will be with me.” She quickly held up her hands. “I don’t plan on spiriting him away when we reach Storyton Hall. I just want to reconnect with him on the ride home. I’ll release him to your care as soon as we arrive.”
“That will be satisfactory,” Parrish said, undaunted as always.
Jane wished there was something she could do to wipe that arrogant grin off the man’s face, but she had to settle for the fact that he was leaving his sanctuary and heading toward hers.
In the truck, she leaned over the console and pressed her forehead to Edwin’s. They didn’t kiss, but Edwin took her hands in his and held them flat against his chest. In the rhythmic beat of his heart, Jane felt all the love and tenderness she’d been missing.
Parrish revved his engine, and Jane reluctantly pulled away from Edwin.
“I had a bag stuffed with food for you,” she said. “We have so much to talk about, but you need to eat first.”
Edwin made no move to pick up the bag. “If I hadn’t kept so many secrets from you, Parrish wouldn’t be following us back to Storyton Hall. It’s all my fault that you’re in such a vulnerable position.”
“Eat,” Jane commanded. “I put myself in this position when I fell in love with you, and we’re sitting here because this is what people who love each other do. Crazy things. Illogical things. Love means doing what it takes to be together. After that, it means doing what it takes to stay together.”
When she saw the stricken look on Edwin’s face, she knew exactly what was running through his mind.
“Did you know about William?” she asked as she merged on to the highway.
Instead of answering, Edwin took out the sandwich Jane had bought at the bakery. After leaving Tuck’s house, she’d almost tossed the entire bag in the trash, but Lachlan had pointed out that Edwin needed food.
After eating a few bites of his sandwich, Edwin replied to Jane’s question. “I just learned about him. I had no company until William was put in the next cell. I asked the man who delivered my meal for the identity of my new neighbor, but he didn’t answer. You’ve met Bruno. He’s not exactly chatty.”
At this, Jane couldn’t help but laugh. There was no humor in it, but the sound helped defuse a tiny bit of stress.
“Did Parrish tell you about William?”
“Yes. He tried to use your husband to get to me,” Edwin said. “Parrish hoped that I’d weaken after learning that the man you married was still alive. He taunted and taunted, expecting me to fall apart and tell him about Storyton Hall’s secret library. I didn’t say a word.”
Jane shot a quick glance at Edwin. “But did it upset you? Hearing about . . . William?”
“Of course,” Edwin said. “I don’t want anything coming between us, Jane. Not ever. But I wasn’t going to let Parrish know he’d gotten to me. I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction.”
They rode in silence for a minute. Jane looked in her rearview mirror and saw that the black sedan was right behind them.
“Things are about to get complicated in so many ways,” Edwin said. He searched for Parrish’s car in the side mirror, and Jane didn’t know if his frown was meant for Parrish, William, or both. “If you choose to be with William when this is over, I’ll understand. He’s your husband. You’re bound to have powerful feelings for him, even if you aren’t sure what those feelings are. Your loyalty is one of the things I admire most about you. But be careful, sweetheart. This whole scheme could be a ploy to gain access to the secret library. Or worse.”
This was such a chilling statement that Jane didn’t respond for some time. Eventually, she said, “I won’t tell William a thing. Parrish is a cunning bastard, which is why I need to know everything about him and his sect. By the time we reach Storyton, we have to come up with a plan to stop him. For good.”
Edwin finished his sandwich, popped off the fruit cup lid, and speared a piece of apple with his plastic fork. “‘Hang there like the fruit, my soul, Till the tree die!’”
“I have no idea who said that.”
Edw
in smiled. “It’s Tennyson’s favorite line from Shakespeare. It’s from Cymbeline, a play full of trickery, treachery, and rumormongering. I thought of it because you’re about to encounter treachery from multiple directions. Also, my soul, I am with you. As your lover, ex-lover, or friend, I will be the fruit that lasts beyond the life of the tree.”
He glanced in the side mirror again before adding, “Now that you know what’s in my heart, let’s focus on the complete annihilation of the man who dared to lock me in a cage.”
* * *
By the time Jane passed through the massive iron gates marking the entrance to Storyton Hall, dark was falling. She drove up the winding driveway and felt a rush of pride when the Georgian brick manor appeared on the hilltop, glowing like a lighthouse beacon in the night.
Heading around back to the loading dock, Jane was relieved to see the rest of the Fins waiting to meet her. Butterworth, the head butler, had his hands clasped at his waist. Sterling, the head chauffeur, stood stiff as a soldier. And Sinclair, the head librarian, scanned the surrounding area. When his gaze met Jane’s, he smiled affectionately.
Jane felt encouraged. The men she admired and trusted more than any others were ready to face this new challenge.
“Home,” she said to Edwin.
Butterworth came forward and opened the passenger door for Edwin. The butler then bent at the waist, his bow a sign of respect. Edwin responded in kind.
“It’s good to have you back, Mr. Alcott,” said Butterworth. “It would be my honor to escort you and Mr. Parrish to the Mystery Suite.”
Edwin thanked him and, turning to Jane, briefly laid his palm against her cheek.
“‘Goodbyes are only for those who love with their eyes,’” he said. “Rumi expresses what I can’t.”
Jane watched Edwin and Parrish enter Storyton Hall but made no move to follow. Butterworth would get them settled in the Mystery Suite and see to their needs.
Tomorrow, Jane would play hostess to Ramsey Parrish and to dozens of historians as well. Parrish’s spies would undoubtedly be among the incoming guests, as would two people loyal to Storyton Hall. However, Jane still had no idea who these people were.
Sinclair will tell me tomorrow, she told herself. Everything can wait until then.
Sterling came forward to welcome William and to walk him to Lachlan’s cottage near the mews. Jane watched her husband glance up at Storyton Hall, his face filled with wonder. Wonder, but not recognition.
At that moment, he looked so much like his sons that Jane had to turn away. She needed the pleasure and distraction of being with her boys. She needed to squeeze them, ruffle their hair, and listen to their prattle. Her sons were her true home. And they were waiting for her.
* * *
The next morning, Jane cooked eggs and bacon for Fitz and Hem. She shaped the food into smiley faces and listened to their chatter. After breakfast, she walked them around the corner to the garages where Sterling waited to drive them to school.
“Why can’t we ride the bus?” Fitz complained for the second time that morning.
“Yeah, it’s fun! If you sit in the back, you get bounced around,” Hem added.
Jane gestured at the vintage Rolls-Royce sedan, which was idling in the driveway. “A few weeks ago, we talked about times when you’d have to be on your guard. We have new guests arriving today for a conference, so this is one of those times.”
The boys exchanged excited glances.
“Okay,” Fitz said. “But when the conference is over, can we ride the bus?
Jane glanced at her watch. “We’ll see. You’d better get going or you’ll be late.”
“Grown-ups always say, ‘We’ll see’ when they really mean no,” Hem muttered as he climbed into the back seat.
Jane returned home to put on makeup and arrange her strawberry-blond hair in a low chignon. She wanted to look as polished as possible when her new guests arrived. When they entered Storyton Hall, she wanted these visitors to be dazzled by its beauty and grandeur, but she also wanted them to see that the manager was a poised and confident woman.
As Jane selected a string of pearls from her jewelry box, she let her fingertips brush over the owl pin Edwin had given her. Then, she opened a small velvet box nestled at the bottom of the box. Inside was her wedding ring. As she stroked the band of rose gold, she felt nothing. She’d buried William many years ago. She’d let him go. She’d finally stopped thinking of herself as a widow and had begun to view herself as a single mom and working professional. She was no longer the naïve girl William had married. Even if he suddenly remembered her, the woman he once knew was gone.
As she strode across the great lawn, her thoughts turned from William to another man. Tuck’s death still weighed heavily on her. Last night, she’d dreamed of bringing him the Edith Wharton book. He hadn’t been in his reading room when she arrived, but hard at work in his garden. Upon seeing her, he’d smiled. But his smile had turned to a look of shock as he snatched his hand out of a clump of ornamental grass. Jane saw twin drops of blood. He’d been bitten by a snake. In the dream, Jane had been frightened for Tuck. And for herself. The snake was nowhere in sight. It was lying in wait, a shadow among the shadows.
Jane didn’t need a degree in psychology to know that she was upset over Tuck’s death, concerned over the influx of new guests, and anxious about Ramsey Parrish’s presence.
She decided not to dwell on obstacles, but to keep in mind that two of the historians were on her side.
Entering Storyton Hall by the terrace door, Jane found the main lobby, with its plush seating areas, glittering chandeliers, and stately grandfather clock, filled with an early morning hush.
Butterworth was instructing a member of the housekeeping staff on the proper way to polish brass, but he abandoned his lecture to follow Jane to the table bearing the large coffee urns.
“When will the first guests show up?” she asked.
“Mr. Sterling will go directly from the twins’ school to the train station. The officers of the BackStory Club wanted to arrive before the rest of the attendees by several hours. It is my understanding that these gentleman plan to greet the other historians dressed in military uniforms from the Great War.”
Jane hadn’t had the opportunity to study the names, ages, faces, and occupations of these men. “Are any of these BackStory folks in our corner?”
Butterworth knew what she meant. Glancing at his customary place by the door, he decided he could leave it unguarded for a few minutes and told Jane to accompany him to the Henry James Library.
Sinclair was seated at his desk when they entered but sprang to his feet when he saw Jane.
“You’ve been missed,” he said with such warmth that Jane wanted to hug him. Sinclair looked at Butterworth. “Shall we continue this discussion in my office?”
The walls of Sinclair’s small office were lined with enlargements of driver’s license or passport photos. Sinclair had affixed a sticky note containing relevant information to each photo.
“Let’s begin with the BackStory Club officers. These gentlemen from New York City have been meeting for over a decade. They’re united by their love of history. The club members read and discuss books, watch films, attend lectures, reenactments, museum exhibits—anything relating to the first half of the twentieth century.”
“Are any women in this club?” Jane asked.
“Not as officers. However, Mr. Kelley’s wife, Isabel, shares his passion for history. She has been most instrumental in the success of the centennial tour.” Sinclair showed Jane the photo of Clarence Kelley, who bore a close resemblance to former President Eisenhower, before putting his finger on Isabel Kelley’s photo. Isabel was a handsome woman with a gray bob and a pair of cat’s-eye glasses with lilac frames.
“Who are the other officers of the boys’ club?” Jane wanted to know.
“This gentleman with the red hair and beard is Michael Murphy. This gentleman”—Sinclair pointed at another photograph—“is
Archibald Banks.”
Having noticed a slight change in Sinclair’s tone at the mention of Mr. Banks, Jane studied his image more intently. He was a bald man with a sharp chin covered in dark bristle and an intelligent gaze. Jane guessed him to be in his mid-forties. “Is he one of ours?”
“Mr. Banks is my first cousin on my mother’s side,” Butterworth said. “I knew him as Archie when we were children. Like myself, Archibald has been in America for many years now. He is the custodian of a very large house in New York known for its collection of twentieth-century art.”
Jane was intrigued by Archibald Banks. She’d never met a member of Butterworth’s family, let alone had one stay at Storyton Hall.
“It’s fitting that we’re hosting a group of historians celebrating the centennial of the First World War because I feel like we’re on the brink of war,” she said, examining the faces on Sinclair’s wall. Who was in league with Parrish? The man with the cold stare? The woman with the pronounced widow’s peak? How would they know? Sinclair had already run background checks on every guest without finding a single red flag.
“We need more allies,” Jane said. “I could recruit the Cover Girls.”
Butterworth grunted. “To do what, exactly?”
“Keep their eyes open for shady behavior. Follow people who’ve entered staff-only areas. Get to know certain guests more intimately. That sort of thing.”
Sinclair glanced at Butterworth. “It couldn’t hurt.” He turned back to Jane. “How will you explain the need for their help?”
“Well, one of the things Edwin and I talked about on the way home was whether it was time to reveal his secret to Eloise.”
The men stared at her with expressions of incredulity.
“That would be foolish,” Sinclair said. “Mr. Alcott would only put his sister in danger.”