“Innocent?” Slowly she dropped her hand. “Take it. I don’t want it. I’m sure you’ll have a good laugh at me when you read it.”
“I doubt it. You’re not the first girl to do something silly. Now run along and try to forget that anything just happened.” Phil waited until the girl slumped away, then looking quickly each way, she slipped into the room.
The guest room was like many she’d seen, lifted straight from an English country house or French château and deposited in a smaller space in a New York mansion. A large four-poster bed of dark mahogany commanded the room. It was prepared for the night with one corner turned down, but unused. No one, including Perry, had been in Perry’s bed before he was killed.
She quickly searched the carpets for scuff marks, even drops of blood, though she didn’t expect to find much. Fauks’s shirt and jacket had soaked up most of it. And though it was hard to tell against the black wool, it was even harder to see among the deep jewel tones of the oriental carpet that covered the floor. And as far as scuff marks—there were none.
She moved on to a carved dresser and wardrobe, both in the Hepplewhite style. She was tempted to look inside, but she knew John Atkins would be walking through the door any minute with the same purpose in mind. The same purpose, but perhaps not for the same reasons.
Phil wasn’t even certain why she felt she needed to stay a step ahead of the intrepid detective. He was thorough, intelligent, and honest, as far as she knew. But if her elusive benefactor had known of the murder early enough to warn her of Luther Pratt’s visit, there was something more here than a spontaneous crime of passion or accidental manslaughter.
She opened the top drawer of the dresser. It was a shambles, with linens, socks, and pajamas rudely pushed into heaps. The detective sergeant would be furious. Especially if he thought Phil had made such a mess.
And of course she wouldn’t, but she couldn’t very well tell him Maud had torn through them looking for her letter. Not yet.
She dismissed the thought. One day even the straitlaced detective would accept that there are some things women might just do better than men.
She moved quickly to the writing desk. The surface was clean, she took a little peek in the drawer beneath. The typical guest amenities. Clean sheet of stationery, pens, envelopes. She shut the drawer.
But the wastepaper basket. There was a temptation too strong to resist.
And it appeared to be a treasure trove. Quite a few torn strips of paper. The same stationery she’d seen in the drawer. Her pulse quickened. Had Perry been having trouble writing a letter? Phil wondered. Or breaking off his flirtation, surely not an affaire, with Maud?
She leaned over and stirred the papers with one finger, trying to see some indication of their contents without actually touching them. Most had been torn into strips, and she finally had to lift one out to see what it contained. Love letters and, if she wasn’t mistaken, all in Maud’s hand. So more than one little note, and he’d torn all but one. At the very bottom, one sheet was merely crumpled.
She deliberated for two seconds. After all, it was already crumpled, what did it matter if she opened it and then crumpled it again.
She scooped it up, opened it, and smoothed it against the desktop. It was an article about balloons cut from a newspaper. She leaned over to read the crinkled print.
An announcement of the testing of air balloons by the War Department the following week on Long Island.
War Department. Godfrey. Balloons?
Interesting. That he had this article might mean no more than Perry was boning up his conversational skills for social chats with Godfrey. As heir to Fauks Copper, Coal and Steel, he might have many things in common with the older man.
And the fact that he crumpled it up and threw it away might only mean he was finished with it.
Phil, however, wasn’t. She re-crumpled it and dropped it back into the wastepaper basket. She’d leave the paper but she would ask Preswick to do some research on war balloons as soon as she returned home.
But Maud’s letters were different. Obviously they hadn’t meant as much to Perry as they had to Maud. And the fact that she knew which room was his didn’t bode well for the girl.
A girl in her position could lose every chance of a future in society if she had strayed too far.
Phil wouldn’t be responsible for wrecking the girl’s future if she could help it. She’d take the letters for safekeeping until the time they were needed, and if they weren’t? Well, no need for the world to ever find out about them.
When she was sure she’d collected every scrap, she shoved them all in the pocket of her morning dress and hurried back downstairs—down the front stairs this time—and returned to the drawing room to find not Gwen, but Luther and Godfrey and another younger man, who seemed vaguely familiar.
“How is Agnes taking it?” Luther asked, coming to meet her.
“Gwen is with her. She’s holding up the best she can.” Phil hoped that was true.
“You remember my son, Morris.”
Morris was sprawled in a club chair. His hair, which tended to curl like his father’s, was neatly pomaded in a center part. His demeanor left much to be desired.
Spoiled. Bored. Going to seed already. Phil knew the ilk.
“For God’s sake, Morris,” Luther Pratt said between tight lips.
Morris unfolded from the chair, languidly bowed over Phil’s hand, and gingerly eased himself back down.
“I do beg your pardon, Lady Dunbridge, but I’m sure you can understand. Have a bit of a head this morning. My sister’s debut, a cornucopia of my father’s excellent champagne, several cigars, and a walk along the river with some fellow revelers have made me an anathema to good company.”
He smiled and relapsed into a silent heap in the chair.
Luther Pratt shot him an acid look. “Please be seated, Lady Dunbridge. Detective Sergeant Atkins is telephoning to alert the police to be on the lookout for the valet, Mr. Kelly. And also to summon the coroner and the mortuary van. Are you sure this man can be discreet?”
“Ha,” said Morris. “When have you ever known a copper to be discreet? He’ll cost us a fortune.”
“Don’t be vulgar,” Luther snapped.
Morris shrugged.
“I assure you, you needn’t worry about that,” Phil said, bristling at the assumption that Atkins could be bribed.
“I beg your pardon.”
She nodded slightly. Perhaps he was just a concerned son, worried that his father’s reputation and good name, not to mention his rise among the political elite, might be irrevocably damaged by the death of Perry Fauks.
“It is very kind of you to support Gwen during this difficult time,” Godfrey Bennington said into the silence that had fallen over the group.
“Not at all. So many people, Gwen particularly, have shown me kindness since I’ve arrived, I’m delighted to be able to return the favor.”
She didn’t miss the quick sparkle in his eye. Had he guessed that it was more than her compassion that had brought her here? He suddenly became much more interesting.
He wasn’t ruffled at all at Fauks’s death. Not like Luther Pratt. But then Godfrey wasn’t about to become the head of a powerful banking committee.
He was, however, attached to the War Department. Could such a situation be disastrous to him, also? He didn’t seem at all concerned.
She realized he was watching her, a smile hovering on his lips. Was he just being friendly? Waiting for her to put the pieces together? What was his place in all of this?
Phil sighed. Really, this detective business was getting no easier. She had become suspicious of everyone.
The door opened and another young man strolled in.
“Hey ho, Morris. Brinlow wasn’t about, so I saw myself in.” He stopped mid-step. “Sorry, sir. I didn’t expect you to be home. My apologies. I came to pick up Morris and the girls for a day on the lam. Where are the girls? Aren’t they ready?”
He looke
d from Mr. Pratt to Morris. Frowned. He was obviously no stranger. Middle height, an athletic build, and dressed in motoring weeds. Phil could see the slight indentions from where he’d been wearing driving goggles.
“Anything wrong?”
“Perry’s dead,” Morris said in a laconic voice.
“Drank too much last night, did he? Well, we’ll go without him. Serves him right for hogging all the girls on the dance floor.”
“No, Harry. I mean dead. Deceased. No longer living.”
Harry’s eyes widened and he turned back to Mr. Pratt for verification. “Can’t be. He was in prime twig. Don’t tell me he fell down the steps or something.”
“He was killed, Harry. By his valet as far as we know. The man has disappeared.”
Harry sat down in the nearest chair. “So much for Perry’s great business coup. Murdered?”
“It appears so,” Morris said. “Glad you held on to your money?”
Harry let out his breath. “I’ll say. But poor Agnes. How’s she taking it?”
“She’s distraught, as you can imagine,” Mr. Pratt said, breaking into the two men’s conversation. “The police are here and we’re all still trying to make sense of what happened.”
“Perhaps I should … go?”
“Good idea,” Morris said and stood with more energy than he as yet had displayed. “I’ll go with you. I can’t stand much more of this sitting around.”
“Morris,” his father said, “I really think—”
“If that policeman wants to question me, tell him to come round tomorrow. I’ve had enough. Ta.” He bowed to Phil and he steered Harry out the door.
“Pardon our poor manners, Lady Dunbridge,” Godfrey said. “That was Harry Cleeves. His father is head of one of the city’s major investment companies. Barely escaped collapse. One of the lucky ones. Harry is one of the new set, not much on manners, but heavy on enthusiasm.”
“Please, don’t be troubled by it. But tell me, what were they talking about, Perry’s big coup?”
“Oh, just talk. Those young men are always scheming some way to get rich without working. I just don’t understand the younger generation, so much energy just to fritter it away.”
“Detective Sergeant Atkins may be interested in learning more about Perry’s latest scheme.”
“I don’t see how it could possibly be of interest to him,” Luther said. “Just something to confuse the investigation.”
“Which I’m sorry to say,” Godfrey added, “will not last much longer.”
Phil’s eyebrows went up.
“I’m afraid I was forced to go over the detective sergeant’s head. In my defense, no good can come from him digging into very volatile matters. He’ll be allowed to search the chute tomorrow, and do a cursory questioning of the staff, while the police pursue this valet. But after that, as far as we and his superiors are concerned, his involvement of the Pratt family will be at an end.”
“You’re ending the investigation?” Phil blurted. “But why?”
“My dear Lady Dunbridge, I too have my superiors.”
6
Well, she hadn’t expected that. Now she must readjust her opinion of Godfrey Bennington. Not only was he a good family friend, a doting godfather, he was well connected, powerful, and, she imagined, ruthless.
She didn’t envy Atkins, though she suspected he was used to these strong-arm tactics. He always seemed to be assigned to the more delicate investigations, whether because he was more cultured than most policemen or whether they were trying to make things so difficult he finally quit, Phil could only guess.
The mantel clock struck the hour. It was later than she thought and time to take her leave. She didn’t expect to see Atkins again today. Once he’d finished questioning the servants, he would be hustled out the back door and sent on his way.
Besides, she was getting hungry. She’d only had a slice of toast for breakfast, and the sandwiches the Pratts’ cook had sent up had sat uneaten and were finally taken away.
“Perhaps I could call Mr. Mullins and arrange for tomorrow’s search,” she said to Luther, “and then I’ll collect my maid and be on my way.”
“Of course.” He escorted her back to the study. “I’ll tell Brinlow to send your maid up and leave you to your privacy.” He bowed slightly and closed the door.
She placed the call to Holly Farm. When at last Bobby Mullins answered, she told him about the plan for needing someone small enough and willing to climb down a laundry chute.
Bobby laughed. “Well, that wouldn’t be me, would it, your ladyness?” Once a welterweight boxer, Bobby had put on a few stone over the years; “stocky” would be a polite term for what Bobby was these days. “But I got a bunch of little guys willing to make an extra buck, I mean—”
“Excellent, of course he will be reimbursed,” she said before Bobby could start haggling and give himself a cut. “But I must warn you, this is a police matter.”
“Gorn, not again.”
“I’m afraid so. A young man died at a residence last night. A very important residence. Discretion is required.”
“I don’t know how you get into these things. I’ll bring Rico. I’ll wear my bluest suit and see that he does the same. Rico is okay with you, your ladyness? His English is pretty so-so. And he knows how to keep his mouth shut.” And he was sweet on Phil’s maid, Lily.
She gave him the address and Luther Pratt’s name.
There was silence on the end. Then a whooshing sound as if Bobby was blowing out air. “I’ll say this for you, your countess-ness. You sure do run in some pretty high-up circles. Don’t tell me he’s dead. I don’t think the banks could take it. He and his kind nearly queered the whole stock market. Lucky they didn’t all lose their shirts.”
Interesting that Bobby should know of Luther Pratt’s financial dealings. Of course, before he’d cleaned up his act to run the stables, Bobby had had his hand in a lot of money deals—some legal, some anything but.
But things had changed. Phil knew she could count on him and the other men at the farm.
“Detective Sergeant Atkins will be here to give Rico instructions. Shall we say eight o’clock?” She thought Bobby groaned but whether at the mention of the detective or the early hour, she could only guess.
“We’ll be there.”
“And Bobby, no offense, but could you come to the servants’ entrance?”
“No offense taken. We’ll bring some tools, so nobody won’t know we’re not tradesmen.”
“Excellent. I knew I could count on you. Until tomorrow.”
“Aw revoir,” Bobby said. He was laughing when she ended the call.
* * *
Godfrey stopped her by the open door of the taxi as she was leaving. “I’ve decided to take the whole family out to Foggy Acres, my estate on Long island, as soon as Detective Atkins has finished with his search. Keep them removed from the situation until the valet can be apprehended and the talk dies down.
“I hope I can count you as one of my guests. I’m sure Gwen would love the company.”
“But what about Agnes?” Phil asked, frantically putting together the ramifications of the entire list of suspects leaving town. “It is the beginning of the season. Must she withdraw from society due to Perry’s demise?”
“No. Nothing was settled between them, thank God. Though there was speculation. Which is another reason to get her away. A few days to let the gossip die down and she’ll be welcomed back into society without a thought.
“And while we’re away I’ll keep the young people entertained. I can scrounge up a few couples for dancing. There is still plenty of game for the gentlemen. Quite a few of my neighbors live there year-round. And there are plenty of others who would love to take the drive out to be able to claim themselves as Foggy Acres guests.”
“I see. In that case, Mr. Bennington, I would love to come.”
“Godfrey, please. I believe under these circumstances, formality becomes rather ridiculous.”
>
“I agree.”
“I will have my Daimler call for you.”
“Godfrey. I’d love to come, but I’ll be driving my own auto.”
“I see. And how many staff will be accompanying you? I have plenty of room.”
“Just my maid, and perhaps my butler, an old family retainer. I think he might enjoy a few days in the country. I’m afraid he’s a little out of sorts in America.” She mentally apologized to Preswick, who was having a second youth since landing in New York harbor. Phil even suspected he was “stepping out,” as they say, with a certain cook he’d met recently.
She and Lily climbed into the taxi. Phil was tempted to tell the driver to let them off at Central Park. She liked to stroll every day.
But it was gaining evening and there was much to be done if she was to solve a murder and outfit herself for a country house party. Hopefully it wouldn’t be as boring as English parties, where the gentlemen spent their days “bagging birds” and the women sat around with one amusing non-athletic gentleman to entertain them.
Phil generally joined the shoot, though she’d never enjoyed killing birds. She rather liked them, especially their feathers, which adorned many of her hats, she was embarrassed to say, but one had to get one’s feathers somewhere.
“Well?” Lily asked.
“Later.” Phil nodded, indicating the driver. You never knew who might be willing to sell secrets to the newspapers; she’d learned that at an early age and to her immense chagrin. And even though the rattle of the engine made conversation nearly impossible, she didn’t dare take a chance of the driver overhearing.
So they sat in silence while they drove back to the Plaza.
The taxi let them off at the main entrance on Fifty-Ninth Street.
While Phil fumbled in her purse, Lily reached into her own pocket and paid the fare.
“Clever girl,” Phil said. “Always prepared.” A quality she needed to cultivate in herself, and immediately. Because between the murder, the War Department, and her secret employer, she was bound to have a full dance card.
Tell Me No Lies Page 6