Tell Me No Lies

by Shelley Noble

“They are always complaining about the twins. How demanding they are, always competing to look best. They are very spoiled.” She took another hairpin. “And Miss Maud is no better than she should be.”

  “Ah.” Phil waited for the hairpin to find its place. “A phrase you picked up from the scullery maids, no doubt. Anything in particular?”

  “That’s just the problem. She’s not particular.”

  “Oh dear.” Phil took a bite of toast and stood while Lily helped her into the walking skirt and matching jacket. She would have worn it to the shoot if she’d been inclined to go. The soutache braid of the jacket lent it a somewhat military air.

  “Go downstairs and insinuate yourself to the staff. Then we’ll meet after lunch with Preswick and plan a course of action.”

  * * *

  With the men gone and Gwen and Ruth breakfasting in their rooms, Phil and Daisy decided to do the same. They met in their connecting sitting room.

  “I managed to talk with Godfrey about my investments last night,” Daisy said over a plate of ham and eggs.

  “And?”

  “He was surprised that Mr. Fauks would be interested in buying my mines, since evidently Fauks had no power to buy or to sell anything in the company. And he told me not to sell or invest in anything until I talked to him.”

  “And are you going to talk to him?”

  “I suppose. But he’s very much against the socialists. He thinks I’m being irresponsible. Of course he would. He thought I was irresponsible years ago.”

  And he was probably right, Phil thought. “Well, I’m glad you consulted him.” She’d like to talk to Godfrey herself on a totally different subject. But there had never been an opportunity … as yet.

  As Phil was pouring them a final cup of coffee, a note arrived from Gwen asking them to join her and Ruth in the downstairs morning room.

  “Ugh,” Daisy said. “That Ruth is a dour one.”

  “True,” Phil said. “It promises to be a long morning.”

  They found Gwen and Ruth downstairs in the morning room, bright with many windows and a view of the terrace. A tray of coffee and tea and sweets had been laid out on the sideboard. Gwen was pale and Phil wondered if the wet, cold weather was affecting her breathing.

  Ruth barely acknowledged them as she bent over a square of needlepoint.

  They sat down; Daisy picked up a magazine. Phil looked out the window where a few wisps of fog clung to the landscape.

  “In the old days we’d meet the men to dine alfresco,” Daisy said a little wistfully, and Phil wondered if suddenly stepping into her old lifestyle was making her rethink her socialistic views of property.

  “We often do so here, too,” Gwen said, sitting forward for Elva to plump the pillows behind her. “Some of the ladies even shoot, though it’s a bit too much for me.”

  Elva backed away, stopped to fiddle with the vaporizer that was used to heat Gwen’s medicinal incense.

  “Oh Elva, would you please stop fussing.”

  “Sorry, Mrs. Pratt.”

  Gwen waved her away. “That will be all, thank you. I’ll call you if I need you.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Elva bent at the knee and hurried from the room.

  “She’s a wonderful maid,” Gwen said. “But this situation has made her overly protective and nervy. Jumps at the least provocation. Though who can blame her—all our servants are upset, and I’m sure word has gotten out with Godfrey’s.

  “Do you think we did right to quit town, Philomena? Godfrey thought it would be best just to remove ourselves until the air cleared, but I feel like I’m shirking my duties. And poor Loretta Sheffield. She has no one. What must she be feeling?”

  What indeed, Phil thought. With the newspapers speculating on her husband’s death or his calumny. And where was the man? And what did Godfrey know? Had he, unbeknownst to the rest of them, turned Sheffield in to the police? Had he indeed killed Perry Fauks? It didn’t seem to Phil they were any closer to catching the killer than they had been the day after it happened.

  “I think I’ll take a walk outside,” Phil said.

  Daisy raised both eyebrows at her.

  “I take that to mean that you won’t be joining me?”

  “Not in this weather. I spend too much time as it is out in the raw air to talk to the masses. Since I’m here, I’m going to snuggle into a cozy chair and read these lovely ladies magazines that have been provided for our entertainment.” She frowned. “Monday I’ll go back to making the world a better place.”

  Phil smiled, understanding more than Daisy realized. She deserved to have a day of relaxation. As for Phil, what she needed was exercise and time to think.

  “Have fun,” Daisy said, turning the page of her magazine. “Don’t get lost.”

  Phil retrieved her hat, coat, and muff from Lily and went out the colonnaded doors to the flagstone terrace she could see from her bedroom. The air was cold and crisp and would be uncomfortable if not for the sun shining palely through a hazy sky.

  It was a large terrace, delineated by a low columned parapet, with wide brick walkways leading off to each side. A huge stone double staircase led down either side to a wide lawn, green even now. She went down to the lawn and turned to admire the house.

  It was even more magnificent than the front entry. Topiary boxwoods sat like giant wedding cakes across the front; the balcony’s wrought-iron rail ran along the second floor above the terrace like a filigree necklace.

  She could see the lights from their private rooms and imagined Lily there cleaning up the remnants of her toilette.

  The lawn, the gardens, the distant sparkle of the Sound peeking through the woods. It was quite spectacular.

  But the predicament that had brought her to Foggy Acres kept her from fully enjoying the view.

  John Atkins, who needed to solve Perry’s murder, was absent. Mr. X, who didn’t seem particularly interested in the murder, was here. She was almost certain he was working in some clandestine way for some specific reason. But why? And for whom? The government? A cartel of businessmen? A group of concerned citizens?

  A secret society of criminals?

  Perhaps the same entity that put Phil up at one of New York’s most exclusive hotels in order to “call upon her again” and that was so secret that it precluded her even knowing what she was investigating?

  She walked down a grassy boulevard lined with mature linden trees, saw a path that led through what must be a beautiful rose garden in the spring. Now, the bushes were cut back, skeletal without their glossy leaves. In the center of the garden a fountain stood dry and naked. As she reached it, the sun slipped behind the clouds; the air took a sudden chill and for some reason, so did Phil.

  Where the water had glistened in the distance before, it was now hidden by a rolling curtain of what must be fog.

  Phil sighed; now she understood why the estate was called Foggy Acres. Hopefully, this fog would stay in the distance. She turned down a path through the trees, trying to piece together the many aspects of Perry Fauks’s murder. The many people whose lives were affected by his death. The people who might be innocent and those who might be guilty.

  She came to a lake, quiet, serene, and incredibly lonely. And beyond the lake, far into the forest, she could make out the roof of a house or cottage. A neighbor. Perhaps Maximillian Rosarian. Or the groundskeeper’s cottage.

  There was no sun here and it had become quite uncomfortable even in her winter coat. She turned to retrace her steps and noticed the wisps of white mist that wove among the nearby trees and began to rise like ghostly fingers from the surface of the lake. The fog had appeared without warning and was coming in fast, spreading along the ground like living clouds.

  This was the lake Godfrey had warned her about.

  Even the intrepid Countess of Dunbridge knew when to retreat. To her right she saw the steps that led back to the brick walk of the mansion. But before she could reach them, they disappeared into the mist. Her toe found them before her ey
es did and she felt her way upward.

  When she reached the top, she was relieved to see daylight ahead; the fog seemed to be chasing her back to the house. She hurried up the path and came face-to-face with Godfrey and Luther returning from the hunt.

  “Lady Dunbridge!” Godfrey exclaimed. “What on earth are you doing out here in the elements?”

  “Getting a bit of fresh air,” she said, pretending to be oblivious to the encroaching fog. “I had no idea I was within range of the shoot.”

  “No, no. You were perfectly safe. The fog started coming in an hour ago, so we gave the shoot up early, and stopped in at the colonel’s for a drink. But please, come with us back to the house. A few more yards and you might have fallen down the stairs. Or worse, into the lake.”

  Phil automatically turned to look behind her. Saw nothing but fog and a tiny faint glow of light, like a captured firefly facing certain death.

  “What is—” she began.

  “We should hurry.” Godfrey took her arm and hurried them all up the path to the house.

  When they reached the house, the men excused themselves to change and Phil went into the parlor to see if Daisy was still about.

  Daisy was there, as was Agnes and her cousins, as well as Morris, Harry, Vincent, and Newty Eccles, who had decided not to “tromp around in the fog all morning shooting at shadows.”

  “Ah, Lady Dunbridge,” Harry Cleeves said, half rising from his chair. “You find us in a state of hopeless ennui. But please join us.”

  Morris rose even less in his chair than usual. However, Vincent stood and bowed. “I was even given the day off to amuse myself.” As if he needed to explain. It was hard to believe that this serious young man had once been crony to the others.

  Phil sat down next to Daisy.

  Agnes turned from the window where she’d been standing. “The fog is coming in, and now we’ll be stuck inside when we could all be at the horse show at Madison Square Garden.”

  “And see if Roosevelt got his way about women’s style of riding,” said Effie.

  “I hope he does,” Harry said.

  “How would the great man prefer we ride?” Daisy asked with just a touch of irony.

  “Astride of course.”

  “No more sidesaddles? That would mean a whole new wardrobe.” Daisy winked at Phil.

  “And I’m missing Maddie Flowers’s Italian tea,” Agnes said. “She’s going to have everything served while the guests are sitting in gondolas. It will be so beautiful.”

  “Stop complaining,” Morris said. “You should be thanking Godfrey for removing you from ruin.”

  Agnes gasped. “I’m not … not ruined. Am I?”

  “Not unless you’ve been a naughty girl,” said her brother. He smiled in a snide way that made Phil want to slap him.

  “I haven’t been.”

  “Really, Morris,” Harry interrupted. “There’s no call for teasing Agnes in such a way. It isn’t funny. Think of the ladies.”

  Morris cast a look in Phil and Daisy’s direction. “I beg your pardon, my ladies, if I offended you.”

  “Not at all,” Phil said. “Though you might have offended your sister.”

  He smiled back at her, then bowed to his sister without rising from his chair. “I beg your pardon, Sis. But even you must realize that Godfrey has done us the greatest favor by abducting us away from the scandal. And inviting our friends to help us enjoy our forced exile. What’s a few gondolas when your whole future is at stake?”

  Agnes’s gaze flitted around the room, lingered a little too long on Vincent, who was sitting bolt upright in his chair, one fist clenched by his side.

  Perhaps Agnes had had other plans all along, thought Phil.

  Morris yawned. “Well, not to worry, Godfrey has promised you a balloon ascension tomorrow.”

  “Oh yes, the balloon ascension. That will be grand, won’t it?” Agnes exclaimed in a burst of enthusiasm. It only lasted a second. “If the weather permits,” she said, her bottom lip protruding in a pretty little pout.

  Maud sighed. “I want to go home.”

  “You’re not helping,” Harry said. He picked up a copy of the Daily Eagle he’d evidently been reading. “No good news here. Banks, banks, banks. Ugh. Now Borough Bank has gone under the hatches, given sixteen months for full repayment to depositors. It will be amazing if any of us get out of this unscathed.”

  “Fat chance,” said Newty. “Isn’t there any good news?”

  “Well, it didn’t fail. That’s good.”

  “Yet,” Newty said.

  “Well, listen to this, President Roosevelt just came up with a plan to…” Harry ran his finger down the page. “Here it is. ‘Relieve the current situation and guard against future disturbances due to insufficient money to meet the demands of business.’”

  “And how is he going to make the trusts do that?” Morris said. “They don’t want to keep even five percent cash on hand. He’ll never get them to go for it.”

  “He’ll put J.P. on it,” Newty said.

  “Old man Morgan? He’ll own us all before it’s over,” Morris groused.

  “Boring old business,” Agnes said petulantly. “Isn’t there anything amusing?”

  Harry riffled through the pages. “Here’s something that should cheer you up, the latest installment of ‘The Avengers’ from the Daily Eagle.”

  “‘The Avengers,’” Agnes said, clapping her hands. “I love that serial. Read it to us, Harry.”

  Harry folded the paper over and flopped back in his chair. “Just to catch you illiterates up to this installment…” He began to read. “‘Morris Barnes, a dissipated rounder’ … hey, Morris, he must be named after you.”

  “Very funny.”

  “‘… is murdered in his cab in London. His apartment has been ransacked by a young and beautiful woman, who then bumbles into the lower apartment of Herbert Wrayson, a serious newspaper editor.’” Harry lowered the paper. “That has to be you, Vincent. Mr. Serious.”

  “We could put on a play,” suggested Agnes. “Who else is in it?”

  “We have plenty of characters.” Harry winked at her. “But who would play the beautiful young woman?”

  Agnes beamed at him.

  He smiled back and continued reading. “But it says here she is apparently of superior rank, but estranged from her father and living with Baroness de Strum. So she must be very upper crust. We just happen to have two delightful members of the peerage among us, but how do we decide between them?”

  Daisy laughed. “You’re a darling, but I can hardly be considered young. I must bow out of the honor.”

  “Au contraire.” Harry grinned at her, absolutely flirtatious. And the serious socialist of yesterday, Daisy, flirted back.

  “Or you, Lady Dunbridge? Will you be…” He looked down the page. “Now what is her name, this paragon whom Wrayson falls desperately in love with? Ah, the plot thickens. She swears she isn’t involved in the murder but knows the reason for it.”

  Phil willed Daisy not to look at her.

  “Do you, Lady Dunbridge? Have all the answers?”

  Phil trilled a laugh. “Not one, I’m afraid.”

  “Desperately in love?” Newty guffawed. “I don’t know, Vincent. Are you up to the task of violent passion?”

  “Of course he is,” Agnes said, and smiled encouragingly at Vincent, who sat unmoving.

  “You have a champion,” said Harry.

  Vincent stood suddenly and went to the window. “I don’t think we should be making light of murder considering he was a friend of ours and the murder was committed in our hom—presence.”

  “Oh, don’t be a spoilsport,” Newty said. “It’s not our fault that Perry and his valet chose to fight out their problems. Terrible manners.”

  Phil picked up a magazine and pretended to read.

  “Do you suppose he caught the valet stealing from him?” Newty persisted.

  “Most likely,” Morris said.

  “I don�
�t want to hear about that horrid old murder,” Agnes said. “Keep reading, Harry, do.”

  “Your wish, etcetera,” Harry said. “Let’s see. Sidney, Morris’s greedy brother, arrives from South Africa in desperate search for funds he believes Morris has hidden. Are you sitting on a fortune we don’t know about?”

  “That’s a laugh. I had to beg cab fare from Vincent the other day.” Morris sighed. “He turned me down, the monster.”

  “I didn’t have it,” Vincent said, unbending a little.

  They all laughed.

  “Well, I think you’re all being just beastly,” said Maud and ran from the room.

  “Lord, she’s getting tiresome,” Harry said. “You’d think she was in love with Perry. Oh sorry, Agnes.”

  Agnes looked contrite, but only for a second. “What happens next?”

  “I’ll go see to her,” Effie said and followed her sister out.

  “A couple of drooping violets, those two,” Newty said. “Don’t know why Bennington invited them.”

  “They’re my cousins,” said Agnes.

  “Well,” Phil said, taking the lull in the story to make her escape. “You’ll have to find another heroine. This countess is off for a nap.”

  It was time she had another little chat with Maud Jeffrey.

  20

  As soon as Phil was in the hallway she started listening for any clue as to where Maud and Effie had gone. And heard voices coming from a room across the hall. She hurried to the door to listen, expecting to find Maud in tears and Effie consoling her like any good sister would do.

  She heard so much more.

  “You’re ruining the whole weekend.”

  “So what if I am? I hate Agnes. She could have married Perry, but no, she’s out there flirting with Vincent, like Perry wasn’t even dead. Vincent! How could she? He’s a secretary.” A sob. “He’s not nearly as handsome as Perry. Why?”

  For a few moments all Phil heard was sobbing.

  “She always gets what she wants. She’s a snake in the grass.”

  “Gee, Maud, that’s just not true.”

  “It is so. I bet she killed Perry, just so I couldn’t have him.”

  Effie gasped. Phil moved closer.