However, before I could ask, the sky opened in earnest, pouring down rain. I lifted the hem of my dress and we dashed toward the house.
* * *
By the time we reached the castle, the taffeta of my dress was speckled with water spots. So I hastened up to my room to remove it, hoping one of the maids might have a remedy to salvage the delicate fabric. It was nearly time for dinner anyway, so I changed into my sleeveless sage green evening frock with its draped V-neck, an embroidered brassiere peeking out at my cleavage. It was rather daringly short, hitting my legs just above mid-calf, but given the day’s events I decided I needed to feel a little audacious or I might never make it through the evening. In any case, my legs were one of my best features, and it always gave me a surge of confidence to catch gentlemen admiring them.
I repaired the rest of my appearance, including my deflated hair, and elected to descend the staircase a bit early. Most of the others would still be upstairs attending their own ablutions, which might give me the opportunity to catch one particular individual alone.
I’d noticed that Charlie gravitated toward the library, seeming to prefer the company of Walter’s books over that of the other guests. Honestly, I couldn’t blame him. Not with all the tense unpleasantness that seemed to bubble under the surface of everyone’s interactions. I’d also noted his predilection for punctiliousness, and trusted this evening would be no exception.
After my conversation with Max, I’d decided I needed to try harder to convince Charlie to talk to me, as he seemed the officer, still living, who was likeliest to be persuaded to share what he knew. I wasn’t above using his regard for my late husband and his memory to induce him to confide in me, but I hoped it wouldn’t come to that. However, I did want to catch the man alone, not wishing to expose Sidney’s potential part in Ben’s death or any other nefarious plot until I knew what I faced.
Unfortunately, Max seemed to have had a similar idea.
My steps faltered at the sight of him in his dark evening attire rounding a corner in the corridor just outside the library door. His dark blond hair was slicked back, making it appear a soft brown in the dim lighting of the corridor where the gas sconces had yet to be lit. He seemed equally startled to see me, though not the least dismayed, as I was feeling, for the corners of his mouth lifted in amusement.
“I should have known we would be thinking the same thing.”
I laughed lightly, hoping he could not sense my apprehension.
“After you.” He bowed, indicating I should precede him into the library.
I had yet to enter this particular chamber, but was not altogether taken aback by how unremarkable it was. Walter had never struck me as a particularly studious man, and from what I’d gathered about his family, they were much the same. It appeared Helen followed in the same vein, for here was another room that had remained untouched by her renovations, despite the rather large water stain spreading across the ceiling in one corner.
The room was no larger than my bedchamber and lacked any sort of charm. Overlarge furniture upholstered in heavy brocades crowded the space, but failed to hide the worn appearance of the rug or lend the room any sort of air of comfort. The drapes had been drawn against the rain now falling steadily outside the tall windows, but a fire had been lit to beat back the shadows that clung to the dark wood paneling and yawning bookshelves.
Charlie was perched somewhat awkwardly in a chair before the fire. The cushions seemed to almost swallow him, forcing his shoulders forward at what looked like an uncomfortable angle. At first he didn’t hear us enter, being so absorbed in the book he read. It gave me an opportunity to study his fair boyish features in the firelight. He really did look young, and yet having served in the war for several years, he must be at least twenty-one. At repose, it seemed impossible to imagine him holding a gun or commanding men almost two decades older than himself, but he had. And survived. I must remember that.
When he did look up, I was nearly standing over him, and his contemplative expression froze into something akin to panic.
“Hullo, Charlie.” I perched on the edge of the chair across from him, nearly toppling backward myself into the mound of cushions. “What are you reading?”
“This?” He looked down almost in confusion at the book he seemed to have forgotten was resting in his lap. “Oh, just a history of the island. Tom Ashley suggested it.”
Hands in his pockets, Max leaned against the bulky, rounded arm of my chair. “Tom was always good for that sort of thing. Did you ever have occasion to visit the village of Suzanne on the Somme where he was stationed for a time as the town major?”
In spite of the awkward position he was seated in, Charlie’s already rigid posture somehow stiffened further, as if someone had thrust a hot fireplace poker down his back. He shook his head.
“No? Well, you would have received an earful then.” Max pulled his cigarette case from his pocket, offering us each one, but we both declined.
While Max lit his fag, Charlie stared at some spot along the hem of my dress, fretfully ruffling the pages of his book. During the lull in our conversation, I tried to think of what to say. How could I ask Charlie what I needed to know without the risk of him saying something about my late husband in front of Max that I would rather he not hear? The soft shush of the paper the younger man continued to rustle did not help, setting my already frayed nerves on edge.
Before I could decide on the right tact, Max blew out a plume of smoke and leaned toward the other man conspiratorially. “Charlie, we need your help.”
His wide eyes blinked back at him. “My help?”
“Yes.”
Charlie’s gaze darted toward me and then back to Max. “But I’ve never been to Suzanne. I . . . I don’t know anything about it.”
I couldn’t stop myself from frowning in confusion. I knew Charlie’s brain worked differently from mine, whether because of shell shock or normal predisposition, but I could not figure out why he had latched on to Suzanne as the subject of our questions, or why he should be so nervous about it. Max, on the other hand, while momentarily stunned, seemed to take it in stride. But, then again, he was much more accustomed to the younger man and his quirks.
“No, no. This has nothing to do with Suzanne.” He reached over to tap a fall of ash into the dish on the table next to him. “I want to speak to you about Ben Gerard.”
Charlie’s face whitened.
“I hate to bring this up. Heaven knows, we’d all like to forget that sodding war. But as I’m sure you’re aware, our fellow guest Sam is Gerard’s brother.”
Charlie sat rigidly, giving no indication whether he had known this or not.
“And that has gotten me thinking again. There’s something about Gerard’s death that has always bothered me.”
Once again, he shook his head. “I wasn’t there. I don’t know anything about it.”
“I . . . I know.” Max seemed startled by his stringent denial. “But perhaps you heard something. From Walter? Or Jimmy?”
“Nobody told me anything.”
Max and I shared a glance.
“What about Sidney?” I ventured to ask. “Did he . . . mention anything?”
Charlie looked as if he might be sick. His hands shook as he closed the book in his lap and clumsily set it on the table next to him. “I . . . I don’t know anything. I wish you would stop asking me.”
Stubbing out his cigarette, Max leaned forward, propping his elbows on his knees. “Charlie, look at me,” he ordered gently, but sternly, and waited for the trembling man to comply. He arched his eyebrows. “It’s evident you do.”
Charlie started to shake his head, but Max would have none of it.
“You do. Now, why don’t you just tell us what you know.”
But the young man had fallen mute. His eyes dropped to the floor, as if searching for the answers there. His hands gripped the arms of his chair, their tips turning white. He was plainly conflicted, and if I wasn’t mistaken, also terrified.
But of what? Of whom? What did he know that he was so afraid of revealing?
My stomach churned at the possibility he was hesitating because he didn’t wish to divulge Sidney’s perfidy to his wife.
When no words were forthcoming, Max decided to prod him again. “What about the two men in your company who were convicted of desertion?”
Charlie’s feet began to bounce.
“I know you gave evidence at their hearing.”
At first, I thought he would refuse to answer this, too, but then his hand darted up, rubbing the back of his neck. “All I knew about that was that they were sent on an errand, and they never returned. They . . . they were given a letter, and it was never delivered, and then they were found out of uniform, miles away from where they were supposed to be. That’s it.”
I wanted to reach out and comfort the young man, to soothe his distress, but I knew he would only flinch away. Max nodded, but then out of the corner of my eye, I saw his body still.
“Wait. They were delivering a letter?” His brow furrowed. “I don’t remember that from the inquiry.”
Charlie’s expression contorted into something almost painful. “Then maybe I misspoke.”
“No. No, I don’t think you did. What letter? And to whom were they supposed to deliver it? They weren’t runners, after all.”
“I don’t know!” he exploded, rising up from his chair. “I . . . I don’t know.”
“Well, then whom was the letter from?”
Charlie turned toward the hearth. His breathing was fast and frantic, and his right hand scrabbled at the tie around his neck. For a moment I was worried he was going to do himself some harm, or strike out at us. Clearly having the same thought, Max rose to his feet, shielding me.
“Charlie,” I murmured softly, wishing I knew what to do, how to calm him. Perhaps Mabel would know.
I glanced toward the door, preparing to stand and go look for her, when Charlie began to mumble. “Submit. Confess.” He repeated the two words twice and then fell silent.
Max’s eyes met mine, reflecting the same bewilderment I felt.
“There you are!” a voice behind me exclaimed. “I was wondering where everyone had run off to.” Tom strode into the room, once again choosing abominable timing to make his entrance. “I knew I couldn’t have been the first person to make an appearance downstairs.” His brow furrowed as he finally seemed to take note of the scene before him. “I say, is everything quite all right? Charlie, old chap, are you unwell?”
Charlie inhaled sharply. “I . . . excuse me.” Then he beat a hasty retreat, sliding past Tom and out the door.
Tom stared after him, shaking his head. “It’s too bad. Seems a nice enough fellow. Hate to see when it happens to them.”
That he was referring to shell shock was obvious, but I was no longer certain that was what was wrong with Charlie. I began to suspect he might actually be plagued by a guilty conscience. Add to that the fact that he was religious, and it wasn’t difficult to imagine how tormented he was, especially if whatever he was hiding was also not good for his soul.
Max paced toward the fireplace, reaching up to fidget with some small object on the mantel before turning to face us. Though he did a good job of masking it, I was beginning to read him well enough to discern his apprehension. I wasn’t the only one who believed there must be something about that letter that was worth concealing; otherwise, Charlie would not have become flustered when he realized he’d slipped up by mentioning it. And why hadn’t it been cited during the hearing?
* * *
Dinner that evening was much more subdued than the night before, which was not unexpected given the manner in which the wind howled and buffeted the castle outside. Rain pinged sharply against the windows concealed behind their drapes like pebbles being flung by a child, and the candles overhead periodically flickered as if disturbed by a stray draft. I’d risked a glance outside the window in the foyer earlier as we’d passed through and been alarmed by the size of the waves crashing against the lowest steps of the castle leading down toward the beach.
Despite all this, or perhaps because of it, the drinks continued to flow. Even Gladys, despite her wan complexion and the dark circles under her eyes, claimed to have recovered from her queasiness that afternoon and joined in the effort to embalm herself once again. She and Elsie bemoaned the impossibility of us dancing on the terrace that evening, but Helen was not without a solution.
“Then we shall just have to push some of the furniture in the parlor out of the way to make room for dancing.”
Elsie clapped. “Oh, splendid!”
“Darling, don’t forget we’re a bit short-staffed at the moment,” Walter interjected before turning to the rest of us to explain. “I decided it was best to allow some of the servants who do not live on the island to return home early because of the weather. So we only have our small contingent of live-in servants at our disposal until tomorrow.”
“Well, then our gentlemen guests will have to do it,” Helen replied sharply, then softened the sting of her words to her fiancé by offering the rest of us a smile. “I’m sure they would be only too happy to oblige.”
“Of course,” Max answered.
Helen beamed at Walter in triumph. “You see.”
He nodded curtly and turned back to his conversation with Nellie seated next to him.
It was impossible not to notice the strain that seemed to be growing between the happy couple, for these weren’t the first cutting retorts and snapping glances they’d exchanged. Something had noticeably upset their joy, and I couldn’t help but wonder if Walter had told her about Jimmy’s suicide.
My gaze swept around the table, again noting Charlie’s absence. I felt guilty for upsetting him with our questions, though they had been necessary, and even more so for not telling him about Jimmy’s death. I couldn’t help but wonder if he would have been more or less willing to confide in us after learning of his fellow officer’s suspicious passing.
I met Max’s eyes over the glittering table spread. From the tightening at their corners, it was evident he, too, was bothered by Charlie’s empty seat. I suspected we would not see him again tonight, not that he would readily converse with either of us again anyway. So it seemed best if we turned to someone else for possible answers.
I had absolutely no desire to draw Felix aside, and highly doubted he would share anything worthwhile beyond his snarky opinions. Walter might be able to answer our questions, but somehow I didn’t trust him to be honest. There had been something in his eyes when we told him about Jimmy’s death and later on his yacht that made me wary of tipping our hand to him, especially about our suspicions. We needed more concrete information first, not guesses and suppositions.
Mabel’s throaty laugh pulled my attention toward the opposite end of the table, where she was once again seated next to Sam. I wondered if Sam knew any more details about his brother’s death than Max or I. Whether he held any misgivings about the official report. I would hate to plant any seeds of doubt in his head if they weren’t already there. But after finding the burnt cork and that Field Service Postcard supposedly written by Ben tucked into Jimmy’s pocket, marked with the words “stabbed in the back,” I didn’t know how he couldn’t be questioning what had truly happened out in No Man’s Land during that raid.
When the meal was finished, we all rose as one to cross over to the parlor, but rather than enter the room, I paused to fidget with an imaginary snag near the hem of my dress. Having trusted Max to see through this ruse, I was gratified when his hand solicitously cupped my elbow and helped me straighten back up to my full height.
“I think we should speak with Sam,” I murmured.
Max nodded, understanding without words what I intended. Then he stepped to the side to softly hail the man in question. Sam whirled about at the doorway, his eyebrows arched in query as he moved to the side to allow Mabel to precede him into the parlor.
“Could we have a word?” Max requested in a lo
wered voice.
“Of course.”
Max gestured us into a small alcove a few paces away from the parlor door, though if Sam found such a maneuver odd, he didn’t remark on it.
“What can I do for you?” he asked with a warm smile.
I hesitated, hating to lower his mood, but the question had to be asked. “We have been discussing this morning’s events.”
His expression sobered. “I see.”
I glanced at Max. “Most particularly that Field Service Postcard we found and . . . Well, I wondered if since you’ve had some more time to think, whether it holds any more significance for you.”
Sam met my gaze steadily. “I’m guessing that you refer to my brother’s death.”
I cringed. When phrased so bluntly, my inquiry did sound terribly gauche and insensitive. “Yes, I’m sorry. Perhaps I shouldn’t have said anything. . . .”
“No, no.” He waved it off. “It’s a legitimate question.” His brow furrowed and he glanced over his shoulder as if to be certain no one was listening. “And the truth is, I have been thinking about it. Though I hope you’re not about to propose that my brother is alive.”
My eyes widened at the suggestion, which until this moment I hadn’t really considered. But now that he’d mentioned it.... “Do you?”
He shook his head. “No, Ben is dead.” His gaze slid to the side as a pained expression crossed his features. “If he were alive, I would know it. Maybe that makes little sense, but . . .” He shrugged his shoulders.
When his eyes lifted to meet mine, I nodded, even though I didn’t understand. Not really. Whenever I thought of Sidney there was only a yawning hole, an emptiness that went unfilled. But it had been that way for much of our short marriage, with him away at war and me in London always waiting. Waiting for the war to end and our lives together to finally begin. Each leave he came home was merely a bittersweet interlude, a snatch of stolen time. And as the war stretched on year after year, imagining a time when it was over, when we could truly be together, became harder and harder to do, until it almost seemed impossible. Our life was the war. All the hopes and dreams we had for afterward were only pretend.
This Side of Murder Page 13