He had a point.
“Would you like to join me? He might be more civil with a lady present.”
I highly doubted that, but I did want to hear what Felix had to say for himself. I was still wary of Max and how much he might be involved, but in this instance his presence might be beneficial, for Felix plainly did not like him. Maybe he would let something slip that could tell me if the two men happened to be working together.
“Yes. Shall we adjourn to the library?”
Max dipped his head in assent and strolled over to corral our suspect.
I had half expected Felix to refuse to speak with us given his extreme dislike of Max, but I should have known better. What better opportunity to mock and insult his former commanding officer than by agreeing to be interviewed and then belligerently refusing to cooperate. As usual, he was smartly dressed in another slim pin-striped suit, with his dark hair slicked back into place. He seemed determined to be at ease, staring back at us with mocking eyes as Max tried to draw him out. Realizing that he was prepared to endure this for hours without giving anything away just for the pleasure of holding such sway over us, I rose to my feet and began to pace behind the settee Max now occupied alone. Felix’s gaze flickered with confusion, and I knew I’d pegged his motives correctly.
“Felix, where are you from?” I asked almost indifferently, interrupting Max. From the corner of my eye, I could see that both men were looking at me in confusion. “I can’t seem to recall if anyone has mentioned it.” I knew this would be a blow to his ego that I should not remember something pertaining to him, and as such was not surprised when he answered.
“Watford.”
I frowned in contrived contemplation. “Is that near London?”
“Yes, northwest of the city.”
“Near Harrow?”
“Yes.”
“Then I suppose that’s where you attended school.”
Felix scowled, and for good reason, for I distinctly recalled the conversation where he had talked about being part of the rowing team at Radley. “No, I attended Radley.”
“And then Cambridge?” I guessed, correctly recalling this bit of information. It wouldn’t do to appear as if I’d paid attention to nothing, or he might grow suspicious.
“Yes.”
I could feel Max watching me over the back of the settee, wondering what on earth I was doing, but he allowed me to continue.
“So you weren’t at Oxford with Sidney and Walter and Max.”
“No,” Felix replied, exasperation growing in his voice.
“Hmmm.” I hummed, needling him. “Any MPs in your family?”
“No,” he bit out. “But what does that have to do with anything? I thought you were asking me about the attack on Walter.”
I halted my steps and finally turned to look at him. “So you admit you attacked him.”
“No!” he protested, sitting forward. “I don’t admit any such thing.”
I arched my eyebrows in doubt.
“I was in the billiard room with Gladys and Elsie for at least an hour before Tom demanded we join everyone in the parlor. So I couldn’t have planted those bees.”
Except we didn’t know how long that package had been lying at the bend in the path, waiting for Walter to trip over it. However, the fact that Felix was at least denying his involvement was a step forward from his stubborn refusal to answer.
He scowled as if realizing this, but plunged onward. “And I didn’t kill Jimmy or Charlie either, though I’m not going to pretend I’m heartbroken over their deaths.”
“But you did sabotage Walter’s yacht,” I insisted.
“I did no such thing!”
Ah, but if I were a betting woman, and I had been a rather avid poker player at one time—a good one, too, until I watched a friend be ruined by her predilection for the card game and decided to bow out while I was ahead. But if I were still that woman, I would have bet all-in that Felix was lying about Walter’s boat. So I decided to press my advantage.
“What about those men you helped frame for desertion?”
He opened his mouth to hotly retort, then snapped it shut, realizing too late that he’d just displayed he knew exactly whom we were talking about. He studied each of us in turn as we waited for his reply, and a sharp glint entered his eyes. A glint I didn’t like one bit.
“That wasn’t my doing,” he claimed, sinking back in his seat. “Nor my fault.”
“But you admit to knowing those men were wrongly accused?” Max pressed.
Felix shrugged. “I don’t know anything about that. All I did was give my testimony exactly as I witnessed it.”
“And phrase it in the worst possible light,” Max argued, knowing the details of the case better than I did.
“I never lied.”
I could almost hear Max’s teeth grinding at this slimy bit of semantics.
“But who asked you to testify? Who accused those men of desertion in the first place?” I interjected, tired of Felix’s games.
Nevertheless, he wasn’t finished, for he feigned shock, even as his eyes still shone with cutting glee. “Why, don’t you know? It was your husband.”
CHAPTER 21
I stiffened at this pronouncement, but before I could so much as blink, Max leapt in to berate Felix.
“That’s a lie. And a rotten, shameful one, too. I’ve read the reports. I know it was Charlie Montague who issued the complaint.”
“Yes, but at Sidney Kent’s urging,” Felix sneered, as if Max was stupid. His gaze flicked toward where I stood gripping the back of the settee with white knuckles. “Sidney had a lover, some French woman he’d set up in the next town. He utilized some of the younger privates we would sometimes send back and forth with communications to HQ when a runner couldn’t be found as his own private messengers to hand-deliver his love letters for him when he couldn’t get away.”
He flipped open his cigarette case and extracted a fag as if he hadn’t a care in the world, though his words were ripping a hole in mine.
“I’m not sure how he discovered it,” he drawled. “But somehow he found out that two of the men he used most often, the two who were always most eager, were actually committing treason. Said they were sharing information with some German spy, but he couldn’t get the evidence he needed to prove it.” He blew out a long plume of smoke. “So several of us officers agreed it would be better to see them shot for a charge we could prove, namely desertion, than let them go on betraying the lot of us.”
Unable to maintain my silence one more second through this ridiculous recitation of balderdash, I leaned forward, stabbing a finger at him. “That’s a lie! A bloody, filthy lie. Sidney would never have done such a thing.” I stood taller, inhaling an angry breath. “Besides, Tom already told me which officer had a French lover, and it wasn’t Sidney.”
Far from being daunted, Felix merely fixed me with a negligent stare. “Well, he wouldn’t want to admit such a thing to the man’s widow and his childhood friend, now would he?”
I wanted to launch myself over the chair and force Felix to take back his words, but I made myself turn away with a furious huff instead.
“Halbert, this is low even for you,” Max scolded. “You know this is all a lot of nonsense. Kent was the best of us. We all knew it. Just as we all knew you were a scheming little weasel. And you couldn’t stand the fact that Kent was the first to figure it out.”
Felix’s eyes narrowed in loathing. “Just as you were a cowardly little mouse, hiding behind your father’s title.” He rose to his feet, flicking the remainder of his cigarette into the hearth. “We’re done here.”
I glared at his retreating back, despising the fact that he had been able to upset me, hating that he had so adroitly stirred up my worst fears.
“You cannot be taking any of that drivel seriously,” Max objected, standing to face me over the back of the settee. “He’s obviously lying about Sidney’s part in the matter, though some of the rest may be true,” he
conceded. “If Sidney was, in fact, the officer behind it all, why would they have killed him to keep him quiet?”
I wrapped my arms across my torso, clutching my elbows. “Perhaps he wasn’t shot to keep him quiet, but to stop him.”
Max’s gaze scoured my face as I struggled not to let my extreme apprehension show. “Very well, then,” he declared, perching on the padded arm of the settee. “For the sake of argument, let’s say that’s true. Why would they need to stop him? If the other officers believed his assertions that those two messengers were committing treason and colluded with him to frame them for desertion . . . which, by the way, I find nigh impossible, as Sidney is not mentioned even once in connection with that affair, and I don’t for one minute think that would have been conceivable had he been the ringleader of their demise. But if he was, then what reason would they possibly have had to stop him?”
Hearing it phrased like that did make it seem preposterous. I inhaled deeply, feeling the fear that had gripped me loosen its hold. “Well, he then would have arranged to have Ben Gerard killed, to keep their secret,” I hypothesized, willing to play devil’s advocate if it would help me understand better. “So maybe they were worried they were next?”
“But why would Sidney then request to have Ben’s brother Sam assigned to his command?”
“Maybe he was worried that Ben had shared something with him.”
“But Sam already told us he hadn’t. Sam didn’t suspect anything was wrong with his brother’s death until Sidney revealed his misgivings.”
I nibbled on my thumbnail, considering the matter, wondering how close I should prod to the truth as I knew it. “What if . . . what if the messengers weren’t the ones committing treason?”
I looked up to find I’d arrested Max’s attention. The firelight threw his shadow across the floor, making him appear even larger and more brooding than usual.
“What if Sidney was the traitor and he was using those two young soldiers to deliver his messages to his informant.”
“And then something went wrong and he decided he needed to cover his tracks, having the messengers discredited and silenced,” Max surmised, filling in the rest of the blanks. His brow furrowed as he contemplated the scenario in silence.
I watched his face closely, trying to tell what he might have already known, whether he was merely startled by the suggestion or alarmed that I had figured it out. Had he been part of the plot or not?
My intuition was telling me that this was the first time he’d even considered the possibility that treason was the motive behind it all, but I also knew I wanted him to be innocent. Irrespective of any attraction I might feel for him, I liked Max. He was kind, intelligent, and steady. And that was more than I could say for a lot of people. He seemed like someone on whom I could rely.
But these perceptions were also tempered by the fact that I still wanted to trust my husband, to believe he was good and honest and true, even though he had cruelly abused that trust by allowing me to believe he had been dead for more than a year. Even though he had placed his resolve to catch this traitor over all else, including me.
“I suppose it’s possible,” Max replied, interrupting my tormented thoughts. “But I would have thought Sidney the least likely officer in that battalion to indulge in such a perfidious deception. And it still doesn’t explain why he would have requested that Sam join his company and then told him his suspicions about Ben’s death.”
He looked up from his study of the rug to find me watching him. I could see the questions forming in his eyes, his curiosity about how I had developed such a theory. So before he spoke, before he forced me to lie, I chose retreat.
“I’m going up to check on Walter,” I said, moving toward the door. “If he’s conscious and able to speak, perhaps he’ll be able to tell us something useful.” Not wanting him to follow me, I glanced back and added, “Maybe you should check on the others.”
And with that feeble attempt at diversion, I swept from the room.
* * *
“How is he?” I whispered when Walter’s valet answered my knock on the master bedchamber’s door. His face looked drawn and I could hear weeping coming from inside the room behind him.
He shook his head. “Not good, I’m afraid.” He glanced over his shoulder, affording me a view of Helen seated in a chair next to the bed. She had crumpled forward, sobbing into the counterpane. “Miss Lorraine has gone to mix up some sort of remedy she hopes might help Mr. Ponsonby, and I need to go fetch some more provisions. However, I hesitate to leave Miss Crawford alone.” He looked distinctly uncomfortable, but I knew what request he was trying to make of me.
“I’ll sit with her,” I said, saving him from having to voice the entreaty.
He nodded gratefully. “If you have need of me, ring the bell. I’ll return as swiftly as I can.”
He closed the door softly behind him and I inched toward the bed, unsure whether Helen would welcome my presence. After all, I knew quite well that sometimes one preferred to cry alone. She sniffed into the silence and lifted her head to look back at me. Her eyes were red and puffy, and her cheeks streaked with tears. Her countenance was so miserable and frightened, I couldn’t hold back.
“Oh, Helen, dear,” I crooned, hastening forward to offer her what consolation I could.
She let me lead her away from the bed where Walter lay laboring to breathe. His face was even more swollen and ruddy than before, all but swallowing his eyes except for two slits. However, she refused to leave the room when I suggested a bit of distance might help her settle herself. I couldn’t blame her for wanting to remain by his side, so I didn’t press the matter, instead sitting beside her on a gold settee a short distance from the foot of the bed.
She buried her face in my shoulder, sobbing into her handkerchief while I rubbed her back and offered what comfort I could. After a few minutes, she began to take hold of herself, lifting her head as she dabbed at her eyes.
“I’m sorry,” she sniffed. “It’s just so . . . so terrible.”
“I know,” I said, patting her hand in her lap.
“Of all the nasty luck. He lives through the war and that horrid injury, and then has to suffer this.” Her gaze crumpled as she glanced at the bed, but she managed to inhale and steady herself.
“What does Mabel think? Has she much hope this remedy she’s preparing will work?”
Helen shook her head. “I don’t know. She won’t tell me much. I think because it’s not good.” She dropped the hand clutching her handkerchief into her lap with a snap that rattled the bracelets on her wrists. “If only the telephones were working and we could reach one of the hospitals on the mainland. I’m certain they must have something they could give him.”
I smiled in commiseration. Yes, the killer seemed to have thought of everything.
“This cursed weather,” she grumbled, glaring at the window over my shoulder. Even through the thick walls of the castle we could still hear the wind battering at the glass, stone, and wood.
I remembered then that she did not know about Jimmy’s and Charlie’s deaths, or that the bee stings her fiancé had suffered had not been by accident. But now did not seem like the time to tell her.
“Shall I pour you a drink?” I asked, wondering if that might help brace her.
“Yes, please.”
I crossed the room toward the table where the glasses and decanters stood, taking a moment to observe Walter again. He truly did look in a bad way. His breathing was tortured, scraping against my ears as he dragged it into his constricted airway. I could only pray Mabel returned soon, and this preparation of hers helped.
I returned to Helen and passed her a glass of brandy, which she sipped. Sinking her head back against the cushions, she sighed wearily and closed her eyes. I couldn’t help but note how pretty she still looked even blotchy-faced from crying. Though the luster and vivaciousness that I suspected had first drawn Walter’s interest had decidedly faded.
“Perhaps this hous
e party wasn’t such a good idea,” she surprised me by murmuring as I settled down beside her.
“What do you mean?”
She peered through her eyelashes up at me. “Everyone has been quarreling and bickering, two of the men have fallen ill, and now . . . and now this.” She gestured toward the bed.
I waited as she took another swallow of brandy, smothering the emotion welling up inside her.
“Walter didn’t want it, you know. The house party. He thought we should just host a small affair at his London townhouse. But I insisted.” Her face screwed up in self-recrimination. “I didn’t even consult him on the guest list, wanting to surprise him. That was a mistake.”
“So it was your idea to invite all of the surviving officers from his former battalion?” I asked, curious exactly how the matter had played out.
“Well, no. I suppose Sam was the first to suggest it. But I thought it was a capital idea. And it only seemed right to invite you, too, for I knew how close Walter had been to Sidney.” Her eyes grew troubled. “He used to talk about him, especially when he first returned from the front. He would mutter about him in his sleep or when the pain became so bad the nurses had to dose him with more morphine.” She glanced over at me. “I could tell how much Sidney’s death affected him.”
I smiled tightly, not certain I wanted to hear all that. “But Sam believed your surprise was a good idea? And Mabel?”
Sidney had said that, at his instigation, Sam had encouraged Helen to invite the officers of the Thirtieth, but I couldn’t help wondering if there might have been more to it than that.
“Oh, yes. He said Walter would be shocked, but grateful to see his old war chums again.” She tilted her head in consideration. “Mabel was a bit more hesitant at first, but she came around to the notion easily enough.”
I studied her profile as she sat gazing across the room toward the bed, wondering again at her curious mix of naïveté and worldliness. It seemed obvious to me that a gathering of the men one had so recently fought alongside would not be welcomed by most soldiers. Not so soon after the war, when they were all still trying to recover from the horror of those four years, and certainly not in mixed company. But, then, I had seen far more than the average British citizen. I had some grasp of what they were coming home from, even if I could never completely understand. I suspected several of my female friends would not have had the sensibility either to recognize the impending disaster of such a gathering. At least, no more than Helen had.
This Side of Murder Page 25