A Veil Removed

by Michelle Cox

  “You’ll be brilliant,” Henrietta said eagerly. “What a lovely Christmas gift.”

  “Yes, it is, isn’t it? I’ve been praying so much about it. I’m praying for you too, Henrietta.”

  While Henrietta was grateful, of course, for prayers, it struck her as an odd comment coming from Elsie. Before she could ponder it anymore, however, Karl appeared with their coats, and she and Clive were quickly bundled up. Hugs and kisses were then distributed all around, accompanied by endless exclamations of “Merry Christmas.” The three littlest children resumed their restless pushing and pulling, as Clive and Henrietta said their final farewells, reserving the last, of course, for Ma.

  “Merry Christmas, Mrs. Von Harmon. Thank you for a lovely evening,” Clive said as he offered her his hand. Instead of taking it, however, Henrietta was stunned to see her mother shuffle forward and actually embrace Clive, albeit awkwardly.

  “Thank you, Clive,” Henrietta heard Ma say in a low sort of grasping tone. “Thank you for bringing Henrietta home for Christmas . . . and for . . .” she paused as if not being able to find the words. “Well, you know what I mean. Thank you.”

  All of them stood, mesmerized, watching the scene play out, Henrietta the most shocked of all. She felt she might cry at Ma’s acceptance, finally, of her choice of husband, and therefore, by extension, her.

  “It’s me that should thank you, Mrs. Von Harmon,” Clive said gently, still holding onto her arms.

  “Martha.”

  “Martha,” he said kindly, the corners of his eyes creased with pleasure. He bent and kissed her softly on the cheek. “Merry Christmas.”

  He and Henrietta looked around once more at all the bright faces and then departed into the freezing air, Henrietta holding onto Clive’s arm as they descended the front steps and began walking to where Clive’s Alfa Romeo was parked. He still refused to use Fritz’s services as much as possible—a habit he knew he would have to break soon. After all, he couldn’t employ the man to have him do nothing, and letting him go was out of the question, especially after he had already been wrongly fired once before.

  As they walked hurriedly along, Henrietta’s eyes burned, either from the frigid air hitting her face or as a result of the touching sentiment of which they had just been a part of. As she leaned into Clive, she couldn’t remember a happier Christmas Eve in her whole life. She glanced up at him now, however, hoping to bask in her happiness with him, but his face was unusually hard-set and seemed oddly grim. Perhaps it was the cold, she thought, though he was wrapped well with a muffler, she observed.

  “Did you have a good time?” Henrietta asked.

  “Yes, very much,” Clive answered, not looking at her but glancing over his shoulder instead, as he gripped her more tightly.

  “Everything all right, darling?” she asked tentatively, though she had to raise her voice to be heard over the wind.

  Clive did not respond, but instead looked over his shoulder again. Henrietta made a move to turn too, to see what was capturing his attention, but Clive pulled her forward, saying, “Don’t look back.” Alarmed, now, Henrietta saw him put one hand inside his coat and she knew he was reaching for his revolver. She had seen this move before. “I think we’re being followed,” he said in a low voice as he smoothly pulled out his gun and cocked it.

  Fortunately, they had not parked far away, and Clive quickly deposited Henrietta inside the car before racing around to the other side and slipping in. He started the car and pumped the engine for several moments before putting it into gear and pulling out onto Kedzie Avenue.

  “Are they following us?” Henrietta asked, her breath vaporizing in front of her, as she turned and peered out the rear window.

  “Yes, I think so,” Clive said severely, looking in the rearview mirror as he shifted gears.

  “The blackmailers? Or rather, the extortionists?” Henrietta asked, turning back around.

  “Very probably,” Clive muttered, remembering Bennett’s words about him being watched. His story was beginning to sound more and more plausible, just as his gut had told him.

  There were very few cars on the road at this time of night, especially as it was Christmas Eve, and Clive was able to maneuver easily away from Logan Square. At one point he even ran a red light, and they were very soon zipping up Green Bay Road back to Winnetka. The city behind them now, Clive put the Alfa into high gear with a smooth, almost elegant movement of his wrist, and the car responded beautifully despite the paralyzing temperature without.

  When they eventually turned off onto Sheridan, Clive was pretty sure that he had lost whoever had been following them, but it was hardly comforting. Obviously, whoever it was knew all about them and could easily pick up the trail at Highbury. Or communicate with whomever might be stationed there . . .

  The house was dark when they finally arrived home. Neither Billings nor James was at the door, and Clive was obliged to use his key, though he was glad of the trouble, as he had left explicit instructions that the house be locked in his absence. The servants had of course been given the night off and were engaged in their own Christmas party below stairs.

  Clive was just taking Henrietta’s coat for her, playing the role of butler, when Billings himself appeared, looking a bit rosy in the face but inquiring if they were in need of anything. Clive asked if his mother had returned yet from the Cunninghams’, to which Billings replied in the affirmative, that she had indeed arrived back hours ago and had since gone up to her rooms. Clive winced at the thought of her sitting alone for hours on Christmas Eve, but he pushed it from his mind and focused on the fact that at least she was home safe. He then asked if all the doors were locked, to which Billings again replied in the affirmative. He relayed that everything was quite in order and then asked if there was anything else that was needed at the moment.

  “No, no, if we want anything, we’ll get it, Billings. Go back to your party.”

  “Thank you, sir,” Billings said with a bow, albeit a sort of unsteady one. “I trust you had a pleasant evening out.”

  “We did indeed, Billings, thank you. And Merry Christmas,” he said distractedly.

  “A Merry Christmas to you, too, sir. And to you, madam,” Billings said, bowing slightly again.

  “Thank you, Billings,” Henrietta answered. “Merry Christmas to you.”

  Billings having finally departed, Henrietta turned to Clive, smiling slyly. She took hold of his tie and pulled him forward, surprising him. “Come on. Try to forget about it,” she said, obviously referring to whomever was following them. “There’s nothing to worry about anymore tonight. There’s nothing we can do. Don’t let it ruin our Christmas.” She reached out then and rubbed the back of her hand against his cheek, and he felt some of the coiled tension drain out of him, despite himself.

  “Let’s go upstairs,” she said. “Don’t you want to see what I got you? Or are you too tired to open your gifts?”

  God, he loved her. She could so easily set aside a very bad situation. But he had to be careful that he didn’t let his guard down too far, even for her; he needed to be vigilant. He had made that mistake before.

  “You’re quite right, darling,” he answered, trying to push away his anxiety and taking her hand instead. “Of course I’m not too tired, though I do hope you haven’t gone and got me socks or some such dreary thing.”

  “No, nothing like that,” she laughed, pulling him up the steps. “Though it is sort of handmade.”

  “Handmade?” Clive was intrigued. “By you?” he asked, climbing the stairs behind her.

  “Well, not exactly—” she broke off here as she stepped onto the landing and came face-to-face with Carter, of all people, who appeared to be coming from the direction of his father and mother’s wing of the house. Or, rather his mother’s wing, he should say, and he felt a pang of grief all over again.

  Carter did not appear flustered in any way by suddenly meeting them on the stairwell, but he seemed to have a hard time meeting Clive’s gaze ju
st the same.

  “Hello, Carter. Anything wrong?” Clive asked.

  “On the contrary, sir; all is well. A Merry Christmas to you,” he mumbled and stepped aside for them to pass.

  “Aren’t you at the party?” Clive asked, a suspicious niggling entering his mind.

  “Just making sure all was in order for your return, sir,” he said briefly. “I’ve laid out your things. Would you like me to attend to you now?” he asked, looking condescendingly at Henrietta. Since Clive had officially adopted him as his valet, Carter had not expressed even the slightest bit of gratitude or humility, much to Clive’s surprise. He merely went about his business as usual, taking up with him where he had left off with his father. In the process, however, Clive had observed that Carter did not seem as deferential to Henrietta as he should, which annoyed Clive, as it was she whom Carter had to thank for his continued employment—besides his mother, of course. It was almost as if she were in the way of him properly serving his new master. But wasn’t Carter already used to having to work around his mother in serving his father? Oh, what did it matter? he sighed. Carter would learn, eventually, he supposed, though he was a bit of an old dog.

  “I say, Carter, has anyone stopped round the house while we were out?” Clive asked him.

  “No, sir.”

  “Any letters delivered?”

  “None of a personal nature, I don’t believe, sir.”

  “Hmm.”

  “There was one call that came through on the telephone, though, sir.”

  “Who was it?”

  “A Mr. Bennett, sir, is what Mr. Billings said.”

  “Any message?”

  “None that I know of, sir, though I believe Mrs. Howard spoke to him.”

  “I see,” Clive said and glanced over at Henrietta, who was looking at him impatiently and reminding him that he needed to set this aside for the night. “Well, thank you, Carter. Merry Christmas to you.”

  “And to you, sir,” he said with a slight bow.

  Once upstairs in their wing, Clive poured them some cognac while Henrietta skirted off to her dressing room to presumably unearth her gift to him. He took a deep breath, thinking about how close their followers had been. As they had stepped out of the Von Harmons’ home, Henrietta still saying good-bye to her family, he had immediately noticed two large men standing in the shadows about three houses down, and his suspicions were further fueled when he glanced back and saw that they were indeed following them.

  He gripped his glass tightly as he waited for Henrietta to return. He wasn’t sure how much longer he could just sit and wait for the mob to make a move in this bigger game he now found himself—them—in.

  He closed his eyes and took a large drink of cognac, feeling the comforting burn as it went down, and forcing these thoughts from his mind. It was Christmas Eve, after all, and he wanted to enjoy it with his lovely wife. As if in answer to this, Henrietta then appeared, carrying a wrapped package. Her eager smile was contagious, and he found himself smiling back. The package she held—his gift, presumably—was long and flat, and he was surprisingly more intrigued than he thought he would be. He hadn’t received a real gift in a long time. His mother and father, and Julia, of course, always gave him the predictable things—cufflinks, driving gloves, a new tie. But this was clearly different, unusual. Handmade, had she said? He couldn’t imagine what it would be.

  He, in turn, had placed his gift to her under the tree earlier today. She set his next to it and took the glass of cognac he handed her.

  “Who first?” she asked, her eyes bright. Sometimes, like right now, she looked almost like a child, and he had to steady himself, remembering that she was indeed his wife.

  “You,” he said, loving her with his whole heart. Just watching her, knowing that she was his forever, was gift enough. Almost as if she could read his thoughts, she leaned forward and kissed him.

  “You’re my gift,” she whispered. He kissed her back, longing for her, desiring her—the gifts be damned—and lifted his hand to grasp her neck and pull her closer. She moved into him for a few moments, kissing his lips and then his earlobe and then his neck, just above his shirt collar, flushing him with desire for her. Abruptly, she pulled back, laughing. “Not yet, Inspector,” she said, grinning. “Gifts first!”

  His heart contracted when she called him that, and he felt boyishly giddy, more so than he knew he should. She had an intense power over him; he hated to admit it, but he knew in his heart he would do anything for her. He wished only to make her happy in return for the joy she had brought him.

  She had gotten up to retrieve his gift to her—a large square box— and sat down heavily now on the settee next to him.

  “What is it?”

  “Well, open it!” he laughed.

  “Somehow I don’t think this is jewelry.”

  “Does that disappoint you?” he asked, concerned.

  “Of course not! I’ve loved all of the jewelry you’ve given me, of course, but you’ve never given me anything but. This shows a little creativity.”

  “Some women are never pleased,” he said with a grin, one eyebrow raised.

  “That’s not what I said, and you know it, naughty thing.”

  She began to open the package then, carefully ripping the paper, and exclaimed in joy when she saw the stack of brand-new records. Quickly she flipped through them: Artie Shaw, Benny Goodman, Woody Herman, Tommy Dorsey, and Cab Calloway.

  “Oh, Clive! How did you know?”

  “Well, I am a detective; I notice things, as I keep having to remind you.”

  “Oh, Clive, they’re wonderful! Let’s put some of them on, shall we? But, no! First you have to open your gift. It sort of goes with what you just said—about being a detective.”

  This comment intrigued Clive, but it did not help him to guess. Carefully Henrietta extracted herself from among the discarded wrapping paper all around her, reached for his gift and handed it to him. He tried to feel along its length, but he couldn’t guess it. A board of some kind? Finally, giving her a smile, he tore open the paper to discover it was indeed a wooden placard with a wrought-iron bracket cleverly taped under it for hanging. He removed more of the paper to read the words that had been carved into it and embellished with gold paint: Howard Detective Agency. Puzzled, he looked at her.

  “It’s a sign!”

  “I see that,” he said, looking confused.

  “For the detective agency . . . you know . . . like we talked about in England . . .”

  Clive found this gift enormously absurd, but he was touched nonetheless. It made him sad, truth be told, but he did not want her to see that. “Ah!” He tried to smile. He turned it over and back and read it again. He broke into a little laugh then, amusement suddenly flooding through him. Her naiveté knew no bounds. As if producing a wooden sign for a . . . what was she calling it? . . . a detective agency? . . . would make it possible for it to be called into existence.

  “Don’t you like it?” she asked, concerned. “Is it not big enough? I thought it might not be, but the man at the hardware store in town said that if it were bigger, it might be considered ‘showy,’ I think was how he put it.”

  “I think,” he said, pausing and grinning up at her, “that it’s the very best present I have ever received.” He leaned forward and kissed her, the sign wedged uncomfortably between them. “Thank you, darling. It’s marvelous.”

  “You can’t fool me, Clive,” she said when their kiss ended. “You think this is a hopeless dream that’s been dashed, don’t you? But it isn’t dashed! I told you that on the ship. You’ll see. Soon you’ll be able to run the firm without thinking about it, and then you’ll have plenty of time to solve cases. Or, I should say, we’ll have time. It’s a partnership, remember?”

  “What am I going to do with you?” Clive asked her with a smile, knowing that remaining a detective was just a fanciful dream. He had realized it the moment he had gotten the telegram in England announcing his father’s death,
and being home this last month and sorting through the various affairs of Linley Standard, had sadly confirmed it.

  “You mean, what are you going to do with it? The sign, that is? I thought maybe you could hang it on the side of the garage or the stables. We could clear out a space to set up shop. Or maybe the cottage. We could make it our headquarters . . .”

  Clive peered at her through eyes that were growing tired and suspected that she had perhaps had too much to drink. Her suggestions were becoming ludicrous now, and he couldn’t help but laugh out loud.

  “Why are you laughing?” she asked, a smile on her own lips.

  “I’m not. Honestly. I . . . I just love you so much. Come here.”

  “Is that an order?”

  “It is indeed,” he said sternly.

  “Very well,” she said and leaned into him, as he expertly set the sign on the ground beside them as his arms encircled her.

  “Merry Christmas, darling,” he said, brushing his lips against hers.

  “Merry Christmas, Inspector.”

  Chapter 13

  Christmas morning dawned quietly, a heavy stillness blanketing Highbury and the surrounding acreage as the thick snow fell as if in some sort of dream. Clive lay in their massive feather bed, staring out the window and watching the abnormally large, perfect crystals fall without making a sound, mesmerizing him in their silent descent. It reminded him, for a moment, of a similar snow that had fallen in the Argonne Forest during the Meuse-Argonne Offensive, as he lay in a copse with his men, watching the snow fall and thinking back to his boyhood and to Highbury. At dawn Clive had had to give the order, against his better judgement, to mount up and advance toward St. Mihiel, which led them straight into the line of fire, cutting the perfect silence of that snowfall with screams of pain or worse—helpless whimpers, as his men were gunned down all around him. He remembered the crippling anguish he had felt when he had stumbled across the clearing afterward, despairing that such perfectly white, pure snow was now grotesquely stained by the lakes of blood oozing from stray body parts and disfigured men that littered the ground. Even at the time, a part of him knew that there was something inverted there in his mind, that he had been fixated on the snow being violated rather than his whole company destroyed, but he hadn’t been able to dislodge it, and for a time it had consumed him.