Tell Me No Lies

by Shelley Noble

  “Not with Ida Kidmore-Young. She was married to one of the most noted pastors in the city.”

  “A preacher’s wife?” Phil leaned back against the carriage seat. “Will wonders never cease?”

  “But surely she’s mistaken,” Gwen said. “She seems to be tormented in her mind.

  “She used to be a lovely woman, quite popular and outgoing. I never could understand what she saw in Isaac. A parsimonious man—I don’t mean she ever went without, but with his affections. To my mind he never gave her the attention she deserved. And whatever affection had lasted between them over the years was snuffed out with the death of her daughter and grandchild.”

  “It is a sad story,” Phil said, “but influenza can be deadly. Why should Isaac Sheffield carry such guilt? They might have died even if their doctor had come.”

  Gwen pursed her lips. Looked out at the passing scenery. “Well. This was merely a passing rumor. And we never believed any of it, but … Oh, I suppose it doesn’t matter now.”

  “I can be totally discreet,” Phil assured her. “You’d be surprised at the things I’ve learned about the elite Manhattan society.” The tell-all diary locked in her safe attested to it. And her discretion was unquestioned because she hadn’t used any of it … yet.

  Gwen sighed, looked out the glass of the carriage window. “At the time, there was talk that perhaps the baby wasn’t the husband’s. And that’s what Isaac and Rachel had argued about and it had made him late for his train. He was going out of town. He asked Perry to call, but by the time Perry had fetched the doctor it was too late for both mother and child.”

  “Perry was there?”

  “I had completely forgotten this until Loretta mentioned it, but some vicious tongues questioned whether the baby was Perry’s. You know how people are.”

  Phil did indeed. She’d been the brunt of her share of vicious gossip, some false and some a little too close to the truth for comfort.

  “Loretta has always blamed Isaac for the lapse.”

  “So he turned his affections elsewhere?” Phil said. “I fear someone must pay a visit to Mrs. Kidmore-Young.”

  “Oh no, Lady Dunbridge … Philomena.”

  “Your name won’t enter into it. I’m not sure how to go about it. I can see that it will be a delicate matter.”

  “Loretta must be mistaken.”

  “I hope you’re right. But there seems to be only one way to find out where he might be.”

  Phil spent the carriage ride back to the Pratt mansion piecing together things she had learned from Mrs. Sheffield and wondering the best way to tell John Atkins about what she’d just learned.

  He needed to know the information about Sheffield’s possible mistress. A respected preacher’s widow. No one would be pleased if that tidbit got out. And there could be terrible backlash on John Atkins, not to mention herself, if it did. Society didn’t like to see a paragon brought down. Well, most of the time, they didn’t. She’d have to be terribly discreet.

  By the time the carriage drew up to the mansion, she was in deep thought and so evidently was Gwen Pratt, since they both were startled when the door opened and the coachman let down the steps.

  Gwen stopped her on the sidewalk. “Must you involve Mrs. Kidmore-Young?”

  “I’m afraid I must. But I’ll be very careful with what I learn. Do you know Mrs. Kidmore-Young’s address?”

  Gwen looked down, kneaded her hands. And finally told her the address.

  They went into the house, co-conspirators. Luther and Detective Sergeant Atkins were both in the parlor.

  How fortuitous, thought Phil, grimly. She would have appreciated a few minutes to consolidate her information and make a few educated inferences before turning over what information she had to him.

  “Ah, there you are, my dear.” Luther strode across the room to greet them at the door. “How was your visit?”

  “It was lovely, my dear. Now if you and the detective sergeant don’t mind, I really must go see about Agnes.” She turned to Phil, shouldering out the two men. “Will you forgive me, La—Philomena?”

  “But of course. And I must be going, too.”

  “Don’t forget—”

  “To telephone you tomorrow about the drapes. I won’t forget.”

  Gwen hurried from the room, and Phil turned to the men just in time to catch John Atkins’s sardonic expression.

  “Perhaps I can offer you a ride back to your hotel, Lady Dunbridge.”

  She narrowed her eyes at him. “Why, thank you, Detective Sergeant, as long as you don’t expect me to ride sidesaddle on your motor bicycle. I’m not really dressed for such an adventure.”

  He smiled. Well, if she stretched her imagination she might call it a smile.

  “Actually I have a driver waiting outside.”

  “In that case, I gladly accept.”

  Phil was somewhat surprised to see a French Panhard et Levassor awaiting at the curb. It hadn’t been there when they’d arrived a few minutes ago. Unless it had been waiting down the street.

  The driver opened the door and Atkins handed her in.

  “I hope your reputation doesn’t suffer from being seen driving without a suitable chaperone. Shall I let you off a block from your hotel? We wouldn’t want the doormen to talk.”

  “Oh, don’t be ridiculous. And sarcasm doesn’t become you.”

  He laughed and the auto rumbled down the street.

  “I didn’t realize the department also employed the use of automobiles.”

  “Actually we have four, but this happens to be the commissioner’s, loaned for this particular occasion.”

  “So the Pratts wouldn’t be embarrassed by a departmental horse or motorbike parked at their door?”

  “Quite,” he said.

  “Mr. Pratt must be very important to warrant such attention.”

  “He is.”

  “More important than Godfrey Bennington?”

  “In certain circles.”

  The cab turned down Fifth Avenue, the air crisp, a wet chill suffusing the air. “Do you think it will snow?” she asked.

  “What? No. Too early.”

  They fell into silence. She knew Atkins was a decent conversationalist, so why this silence.

  Phil took a breath. She knew by now he wouldn’t volunteer any information if she didn’t have something to trade. She wondered if there was a police term for “tit for tat.”

  Phil turned toward him and leaned in closer so as not to be overheard. “Do you want to know what I found out?”

  He glanced toward the driver. “I knew it. What have you been up to?”

  “Gwen and I made a morning call to Loretta Sheffield.”

  “So I heard.”

  “Is that why you’re so cranky?”

  “I’m not cranky.”

  “Well, I am. It was a trying morning and I’m ready for my lunch.”

  He had leaned in closer to her but now he moved away. “If you’re angling for an invitation, I’m afraid that won’t be possible.”

  “Afraid for your reputation, Detective Sergeant?”

  This time his smile was genuine—and quite devastating. It didn’t last.

  “Are you going to tell me what you found out?”

  “Well…” She didn’t know quite where to start. “We paid the morning call on Loretta Sheffield. As it turns out, she didn’t know where her husband was.”

  “He’s away on business.”

  “So his office says. Mrs. Sheffield told us that he didn’t come home, didn’t pack his valise. She thinks he’s with his mistress.”

  She waited for his reaction, which though he tried to control, was all too obvious.

  “Don’t feel bad. As much as you hate to admit it, sometimes it’s necessary to depend on a woman for results.”

  “And did she name this mistress?”

  “She did.”

  He turned toward her. Their knees touched and he quickly eased away. “Who is it?”

  �
�Well, that may be a problem.”

  10

  “Lady Dunbridge, are you going to tell me the name of this mistress before we reach your hotel? Or do you expect me to guess?”

  “I’ll tell you when we get to the lady’s house.”

  “Oh no, I think I can handle this without you.”

  “Evidently she’s a very prominent member of society.”

  He expelled a deep sigh and dropped his head back on the seat. “Are you trying to tell me I should not pursue this?”

  “Probably not if you care for your job. Not that I think that will stop you. I don’t know the lady in question. But she’s the widow of a very prominent clergyman.”

  “Oh God.”

  She suppressed a laugh. “You do seem to pull these sticky assignments.”

  “On purpose. I’m one of the few detectives who can hold my own in a drawing room, and they hope I’ll screw up so they’ll have a reason to fire me.”

  She stopped laughing. “That must be stressful.”

  “All in a day’s work.”

  “Well, Gwen was reluctant to get involved. It is rather a difficult position. I would go myself but I don’t know the lady.”

  “Thank you, but I believe I can handle this one.”

  “You mean you want me to wait on the sidewalk to help you up after the butler throws you out?”

  “I mean I’m dropping you by your hotel and will visit the lady myself.”

  “She won’t let you in, any more than Mrs. Sheffield would. And she has so much more to consider, though being a widow, she should feel free to act as she likes. But of course, there is that terrible man and his Society.”

  “Anthony Comstock and the Society for the Suppression of Vice?”

  “Yes, that’s the one. I can’t imagine that you actually put up with his outrageous strictures. Sick individual. Bev told me he once visited a whorehouse over fifteen times, just to make sure there was illicit behavior going on. Idiot.”

  Atkins snorted. “I beg your pardon, but you do have a way of surprising me.”

  “Why, Detective Sergeant, what a lovely compliment. I suggest you have the driver take us to the corner of Thirty-Seventh and Park and wait for our return.”

  “Just give me her name and address.”

  “I’m afraid her name and address have slipped my mind. You’ll have to ask Mrs. Sheffield if she can remember.”

  “One day you’re going to push me too far.”

  Phil doubted it. John Atkins was as strong and honest a man as she had ever met. And one who as yet had never let his composure slip.

  He gave the driver the new directions and a few minutes later they were standing on the corner of Thirty-Seventh and Park.

  “You needn’t wait,” he told the driver; the driver nodded and drove away.

  “I suppose you have your reasons for sending the auto away?”

  “Yes,” he said. “Now, which way do we go?”

  “I believe it’s this way.” Phil began to walk east. It was a lovely street lined with stately townhouses. Trees, now nearly leafless, were planted at equal intervals in square plots filled with ivy. They passed several brownstones until they came to a lovely Beaux Arts row house, its light limestone façade banded by rows of sculpted waves separating each of the three stories. On the ground floor, tall French windows opened to a small cast-iron balcony.

  “I must say religion seems to be flourishing in Manhattan.”

  “What do you mean?” he asked, eyeing her suspiciously.

  “This is the home of Mrs. Ida Kidmore-Young.”

  Atkins groaned.

  “Is she terribly respectable?”

  “Terribly. Her husband was one of the most respected deans of one of the largest churches on the east side.”

  “Oh dear,” Phil said. A movement in an upstairs window caught her eye. She looked up to see the faces of several young girls pressed to the panes looking down. Phil smiled and they quickly disappeared from view.

  “Either His Reverend Kidmore-Young was very virile or we may not be visiting Sheffield’s mistress, but his abbess.”

  Atkins cut off an expletive in the nick of time. “Perhaps I should speak with her alone.” Atkins reached into his breast pocket.

  “Stop it. If you’re just going to storm in and arrest them all, we’ll never learn anything. Perhaps you should wait outside.”

  Atkins knocked on the door, and it was immediately opened by a large, dark-skinned butler, who managed to dwarf the impressive figure of the detective sergeant.

  Phil stepped in front of Atkins before he could reveal his identity. “I’m Lady Dunbridge and this is—”

  “Oh, I know who he is.”

  “We’ve come to call on Mrs. Kidmore-Young,” Phil continued. “We seem to have lost one of her husband’s parishioners.”

  The butler grinned. “I’ll see if Madam is receiving.” He shut the door in their faces.

  “Well, I must say, I’ve never been left waiting on a stoop before.”

  “Welcome to New York, Lady Dunbridge.” Atkins was trying not to smile or laugh. Phil was certain he was glad to see her comeuppance. Never mind, she would make a convert of him in the end. Convert? Too much religion for one afternoon.

  The door opened again.

  “This way, my lady,” the butler said not without a tinge of amusement. He frowned at the detective sergeant but allowed him to pass.

  He led them through a high entryway, into a parlor overly stuffed in the manner of the late Victorian style. Phil shuddered at the excess.

  “Madam will be with you shortly.” The butler left them to the dim light of the room.

  Atkins went to peruse the portrait over the unlit fireplace. A man in the robes and red sash of ecclesiastical hierarchy.

  “The good reverend?” Phil surmised.

  The door opened and a tall woman entered. She was dressed in a tweed morning dress, buttoned at the throat, but whose tailoring suggested an hourglass figure. Her hair was pulled back at the nape of her neck. Her face was pale, made even paler by the brilliant blue of her eyes, which Phil was convinced held a sparkle of amusement.

  “Lady Dunbridge, you must forgive Daniel, he thought you were … well, let’s just say some of my callers use all sorts of nom de theatre.

  “And you are Detective Sergeant Atkins. Won’t you both be seated?” She gestured to a curved plush sofa, then sat across from them in a high-backed chair. “Detective Sergeant, I’ve heard you are a fair man.”

  “I try to be.”

  “I understand that you are here in search of a missing person. I’m afraid I’ll be of little help to you. I am a lonely widow and don’t get out much in the world.” She addressed this little speech to the detective sergeant but she shot a curious glance toward Phil.

  Phil took the cue. “Mrs. Kidmore-Young, please. We mean you no trouble. But an accident has occurred and we have been unable to reach Mr. Isaac Sheffield. It’s important that he contact us as soon as possible.”

  The slightest look of alarm crossed her face.

  Atkins cleared his throat. “He has not appeared at his place of business in two days and his wife has not seen him.”

  “Ah, did Loretta send you here?”

  “She gave me your name,” Phil admitted.

  “Foolish woman. Is the earl still alive, Lady Dunbridge? You must forgive me, I don’t follow the English peerage too closely.”

  It was said without irony, just a statement of fact, but it did take Phil aback.

  “No, he died nearly two years ago. I’m a dowager and living in New York now.”

  “It was not a happy marriage?”

  Phil forced herself not to look at the detective sergeant. She was surprised to become the subject of the interrogation. She laughed, slightly forced, but not bad under the circumstance. “I’m afraid the whole world knows that it was not.”

  “Those marriages seldom are. Isaac Sheffield’s marriage is not a happy one.”

  �
��So he came here?”

  “Yes, not to see me in the way poor Loretta suspects. Not entirely.”

  “Not to meet you but meet his mistress?”

  She nodded slightly

  “Une maison de rendez-vous?”

  “As you say.” She looked at Atkins. “I do nothing wrong here, merely provide a salon for gentlemen and ladies to dine and converse and snatch a few hours away from their sometimes mundane, sometimes hellacious, lives. If they do more, it is none of my business.”

  “Pardon me for saying so, but you run a whorehouse.”

  “You’re mistaken, Detective Atkins. I hire people to cook, clean, and wait at table. They are safe in my employ from unwanted advances, even from wanted advances.”

  “And what about the young girls we saw upstairs? I imagine some of them are underage.”

  “I imagine most of them are. They live here. I house, clothe, and educate them. I do not use them. Though perhaps you cannot understand that.”

  “Explain it to me then.”

  Phil sat back to watch this battle of the wills.

  “My husband was a proud man, a just man, a godly man, though perhaps a bit didactic. He served God all his life and all he got was a heart attack and an early grave. And when it came to the support of his wife and children, the Church conveniently developed a case of amnesia.

  “Fortunately, I’m from a wealthy family. Wives of established clergymen generally are. It never occurred to them that I would need his pension. But I did. My children did. I put a word in an ear or two but they laughed me off, and said Herbert wished to have his pension returned to the Church for good deeds.

  “Fortunately the house was mine. And I’ve been able to keep it by my own ingenuity for the sake of myself and my girls. I’ve hurt no one in the process and have managed to provide for a few.

  “Yes, Detective Sergeant, my girls—three of my own, and at the moment four others. There have sometimes been more and sometimes fewer, but I give them a chance for a life outside drudgery or worse, and I’ve done it without defiling them, in the way you are forgiven for assuming they might be. Can you say that for your righteously indignant purveyors of morality?”

  Atkins looked her straight in the eye. “Unfortunately not usually.”