A Veil Removed

by Michelle Cox

  “Well,” she said, sniffing and looking at both of them as she wiped her eyes, “if you are supposed to be resting, then perhaps you might tell me why you are both snooping about my room?”

  “I told you before, Mother,” Clive sighed, “I need to go through Father’s things.”

  “Whatever for?” Antonia asked, her previous, irritated tone seeping back into the conversation. “I don’t understand this . . . this obsession of yours. There’s nothing here, as I assume you’ve since discovered.”

  “It’s difficult to explain,” Clive said uncomfortably. “We’re—I’m looking for . . . for—”

  “Clues,” Henrietta put in.

  “Clues?” Antonia asked, her brow furrowed. “Not this again,” she sighed, as she carefully set her handbag on the dressing table. “Clive, I insist you see a doctor. I’ve already had a chat with someone, actually; he’s a very good friend of the family. Very discreet. I’m quite sure he can help.”

  Clive tiredly rubbed his eyes.

  “And you,” she said, shooting Henrietta a dagger, “I’m disappointed in you, Henrietta. Going along with this nonsense. Clearly, he’s unwell. Did you not think what indulging his fantasies might lead to? Total madness,” she whispered in a hiss.

  “Mother. That’s enough. I’m perfectly sane.”

  “Clive,” Henrietta implored. “I think you should tell her.”

  “Tell me what?” Antonia asked, looking sharply at Clive.

  Clive caught Henrietta’s eye and saw her give him the slightest nod of encouragement. She was so damningly beautiful . . . He closed his eyes to focus himself, knowing she was right. The time had come. He went to where his mother stood and took her hands in his. “Listen, Mother, there’s something I must tell you.” He paused here, considering his words. “We know for a certainty that Father’s death was not an accident. He was killed. We have proof now,” he said as gently as he could, studying her face for what he was sure would be her extreme reaction.

  “Clive, please,” she said in an unexpectedly calm voice and tried to pull her hands from his, but Clive held them tightly.

  “Mother. It’s true. I’ve confronted his killers. They’ve as much as admitted it. They—”

  “Is that what happened?” she interrupted, her voice wavering a bit now as she turned her attention to his bruises. “To you, I mean?” she asked fearfully and pulled one hand free from Clive’s grasp and lightly touched the side of his face.

  “Come on, let’s go downstairs. We’ll explain over some tea,” he said, putting his arm around her. As he moved to usher her from the room, he shot a glance at Henrietta, and she nodded, knowing what he wanted and went ahead to arrange things with Billings.

  Once the tea had been delivered and the three of them were alone, Clive began to relate all he knew about Alcott being a victim of extortion, how he had sold the “missing” painting, presumably for money to pay the mob, as they most certainly could be called, and how it had ultimately led to his death.

  Antonia sat resolute, holding her teacup in her hands, staring at the pattern of the Oriental rug as Clive and Henrietta exchanged worried looks.

  “Poor Alcott,” she whispered. “All those years he had to bear this burden alone. I wish he would have confided in me.”

  “Yes, I know the feeling. I suppose he felt he couldn’t, though,” Clive tried to say gently. “That it would put you . . . and us . . . in danger somehow.”

  Antonia reached up with her handkerchief and wiped her eyes.

  “He wasn’t completely alone,” Clive said in an attempt to comfort her.

  “What do you mean by that?” she asked, looking up at him.

  “Just that Bennett knew.”

  “Yes, Bennett,” she said quietly.

  “He’s known all these many years, apparently. And he was there when he died,” Clive reminded her.

  “Yes, he told me. He came to me that day. But he said that he slipped. That Alcott had lost his footing . . .”

  “Obviously, he meant to spare you. And to protect you, perhaps.” A new thought crept into his mind, then. “Has . . . has Bennett been acting or saying anything odd . . . especially lately? To you?”

  “Odd? What do you mean by that?” she asked, her voice growing steady.

  “Carter told me that Bennett rang here on Christmas Eve. That you spoke to him. I’d forgotten about it until now. What did he want?”

  “Really, Clive. I can hardly remember,” she said giving him an unexpectedly icy look. “I think it was just to wish us a Merry Christmas—despite the situation, of course. That he had hoped to tell you that at the office but that you hadn’t been in. Something like that, I believe. And, anyway, what business is it of yours what Sidney Bennett says to me?” she said, drawing herself up.

  “Well, given the situation, I’d say it’s very much my business, Mother,” he said dryly and wondered why he just couldn’t shake the feeling that Bennett was hiding something.

  “I still don’t understand what you are looking for upstairs among Alcott’s things,” Antonia said suspiciously.

  “Don’t you see?” Clive sighed. “Father sold the painting and gave half to these thugs. Now they want the rest. I could raise the money elsewhere—and it looks like I’m going to have to, maybe by selling off some of my personal stock—but where is it, the original stash, that is? What did father do with it? I can’t find any trace of it in any of his accounts or the safe. It’s just disappeared, and I feel like there’s something behind it. Some link to the case somehow.”

  Antonia looked dubious. “I suppose,” she said. “But the bigger problem is the fact that the mob is after you now, as well as Bennett, it would seem.”

  Clive had not related to her how Randolph Jr. and Howard—all of them, really—were now a target for Neptune and his men. It was a detail she did not need to know at this juncture.

  “That’s what I said, Antonia,” Henrietta put in, and Antonia gave her a small smile.

  “Clive, you’ve got to go to the police. I positively insist,” Antonia said. “If you don’t, I will,” she threatened.

  “Yes, yes. I’ve been to the police.”

  “But not since you were roughed up at the Aragon, Clive,” Henrietta pointed out.

  “Clive!” Antonia wailed.

  “I’m waiting for some sort of signal—one of their letters, maybe?— to come through from them as to when and where I’m supposed to meet to hand over the rest of the cash,” Clive tried to explain.

  “Which you will then report to Sergeant Davis, right?” Henrietta encouraged. “You do have a plan, don’t you? One that involves the police? You can’t just hand the money over to them. Surely they’ll just keep demanding more, or maybe even . . . kill you,” she said urgently.

  “Yes, of course I have a plan,” Clive said flippantly, though in truth it was sketchy at best. “But there’s something else that’s been bothering me,” he said, turning toward Antonia. “Any idea how these notes, or letters, have been finding their way into the house?”

  “No,” she said slowly, as if considering this for the first time. “None at all.”

  “What about Carter?” he asked.

  “Carter! Carter wouldn’t do something like that!” she exclaimed.

  Clive narrowed his eyes and studied her. If it wasn’t his own mother, he would have guessed that she were hiding something. “Think clearly, Mother. It could have been him. He would be in the perfect position to place letters on Father’s desk.”

  Antonia’s response was swift. “How dare you, Clive!” she said hotly. “Carter has been a good and faithful servant all these many years. He came with your father from England; he would never have betrayed him. They were almost like brothers. In fact, I daresay he was probably closer to Carter than even Montague.”

  Clive did not think this was true. On more than one occasion of his youth, he himself had heard his father disparage Carter, though usually only after a couple glasses of brandy. Obviously his
mother was unaware of this, Clive realized. But what good would it do to mention it all now? “Be that as it may, Mother, no man is beyond temptation. Or maybe Carter was delivering the letters under duress. Maybe the mob had something on him and was forcing his hand.”

  Antonia paused to consider this. “I very much doubt it,” she said, her eyebrows raised.

  “I’ve already spoken to him once, but I’ll have to question him again,” Clive said stiffly.

  “Let me do it,” Antonia suggested a little more hastily than Clive appreciated. “He might speak to me more than he would to you,” she added.

  He gave her a skeptical look.

  “He’s actually quite shy. He might be too intimidated by you to speak to you regarding such matters.”

  Clive would never have described Carter as “shy,” nor did he ever remotely appear “intimidated.” Quite the opposite, actually. Were they even talking about the same person?

  “As you wish, Mother,” Clive said, though he still planned to corner Carter later, but there was no need to tell his mother that.

  “So what do we do now?” Henrietta asked.

  “We keep looking for the money,” Clive said soberly.

  Antonia set her tea cup gently on its saucer. “I think I might know where it is.”

  Clive groaned as he pushed against the door of the cottage, a ripple of pain radiating from his injured ribs. He gave it another shove, this time with his good shoulder, and was relieved when the door finally swung open, creaking loudly as it did so. He shone his flashlight around the interior. They had not been here since their honeymoon night, but upon first glance, it appeared to be as they had left it, though tidied up since, of course, by the servants.

  Clive made his way into the darkness, with Henrietta following closely behind. It was little warmer than the frigid air outside, and their breath fogged in front of them. Clive gave the flashlight to Henrietta to hold while he grappled inside his coat for the matches in his suit pocket. He lit one and then bent to light the kerosene lamp on the kitchen table. Antonia had suggested that they wait until morning to search the cottage, especially as it did not have electricity and it was already growing dark when they had first sat down to tea, but Clive wouldn’t wait. He was hoping the search would be quick, but he had not foreseen how cold the cottage itself would be and now wondered how far they would actually get, bundled up as they were. He did not really want to take the time to light a fire, but the sight of Henrietta shivering beside him, blowing on her gloved hands, convinced him. Anyway, perhaps it would take longer than he had imagined to conduct the search, and it would be a much more pleasant task if it were warm. He wasn’t at all convinced that the money was out here; it seemed a wild goose chase, despite what his mother thought. She had been very closed-mouthed as to why she felt it was out here, saying that it was just a hunch, but his mother, Clive knew, did not operate on “hunches.”

  He moved toward the big stone fireplace and found a few small logs still sitting in a basket on the hearth. Carefully he stacked them in the grate.

  “It’s a shame this place is sitting empty, Clive. Someone should live in it.” Henrietta said, as she went around lighting more lamps.

  “I think Mother mentioned something about giving it to Carter, of all people,” Clive said, reaching for the billows that looked old enough to have been from the Civil War. “But I thought you wanted this to be our special place. Isn’t that what you said?” He shot her a teasing glance.

  “Oh, those were the silly ravings of a young girl on the eve of her wedding,” Henrietta said, the cold air frosting her cheeks pink in the most delicious way, as she stood by the old Victrola. “Still,” she said, “this place does hold such fond memories for me. It will always be special to me.” She walked toward him now and stood in front of him. “If it weren’t so cold,” she said, kissing his warm lips, which caused an immediate response in his lower regions, “you could take me on the bed. For old time’s sake,” she whispered. She wrapped her arms around him, which unexpectedly caused a stab of pain to rip through him, and he winced.

  “Oh, I’m sorry, darling,” she exclaimed, pulling away. “Oh, you poor thing!” she said, and couldn’t help laughing a little. “What are we going to do?”

  “We’ll have to figure that out later,” Clive said ruefully, wondering how he could make love to her with cracked ribs. He’d have to be inventive.

  The fire had caught now but it was weak. Clive knew that if he didn’t add more wood to it, it would die out soon. Henrietta seemed to read his mind.

  “I’ll go out back and look for some wood,” she suggested. “You start snooping around.”

  “You’re sure?” Clive asked. “You’re marvelous, darling.”

  “I keep reminding you that I used to work for a living—quite hard, actually,” she called, as she tightened her scarf and made her way back out the door.

  Clive removed his bulky coat despite the cold and looked around the cottage. Nothing looked disturbed. Where would his father have stashed something? And why here, in the cottage? And yet his mother had been quite sure. There must be more to that story, he reasoned, but he hadn’t had time to drag it out of her.

  Where to start? He glanced over at the kitchen, but instinctively he did not think it would be there and instead moved toward the bedroom. He first went to the little desk in the corner, but it had nothing on it but a lamp and only one drawer, which was empty. He went to the bedside table, then, but that was also empty. With great difficulty, he got down on his hands and knees to peer under the bed. Again, nothing. He heard Henrietta come in with the wood and drop it loudly in the basket.

  “Need help?” she called out, as he heard her place a few logs on the fire.

  “No, you look in the kitchen, would you?” he shouted back, as he gripped the side of the bed to help himself up, trying not to groan as he did so. Slowly, holding his side as he walked, he went to the old bureau and pulled each drawer open. Again, nothing. He sighed. The only other place to look was the armoire in the corner, but that seemed so obvious. Still, he walked over to it and pulled open the doors, peering inside. Of course, there was nothing. Nothing hanging, no box or envelope sitting conveniently on the floor of it. Clive methodically opened all of the side drawers but found nothing there, either, except some old cedar blocks. Almost routinely, he ran his hand quickly along the top shelf and likewise felt nothing, except perhaps something way back in the corner . . . It was probably nothing, he told himself, but his heart skipped a beat just the same. He raised himself up on his tiptoes to stretch for it. The pain that ripped through him as a result was intense, and he involuntarily cried out.

  “Are you all right?” Henrietta called from the kitchen.

  “I might have found something. Would you help me?” he called back, breathing heavily and hating to ask for help. But he had no choice.

  Henrietta was at his side in a moment.

  “Back there,” he said, looking up at the shelf. Henrietta stretched her full length, but it was too tall for her.

  “Just wait a moment,” she said, and she ran from the room and returned carrying a chair. “Here,” she said, setting it down in front of the armoire. Carefully she stood on it, Clive holding one of her hands to support her. She took a moment to feel around the back of the shelf and then looked down at him with a smile. “Yes, there’s something here,” she said, proudly pulling out a large, bulging envelope and placing it in Clive’s waiting hand.

  “Jesus,” Clive muttered. “This has got to be it.” He held his hand out to her, giving her a quick wink, and once she was safely on the ground, he grasped the envelope firmly, feeling the bulges inside and turning it over to look for any writing, any sort of address. “I think this is it,” he repeated, and shoved his thumb under the sealed flap and ripped it open. Eagerly he looked inside and, to his utter delight and disbelief, saw the stacks of green money. But had his father really stored five thousand dollars in a plain envelope and put it on the top she
lf of an armoire in the empty cottage at the edge of their property? Despite his elation at finally finding the money, he was not a little annoyed at his father’s movements. Anyone could have found it out here! What had he been thinking?

  He handed it to Henrietta, who peered inside as well. “Oh, Clive,” she murmured, looking back up at him with a smile. As she held it out to him to take back, however, her eye seemed to catch on something else, and she stopped and peered inside again. “There’s something else,” she said, reaching inside and pulling out what looked to be a smaller envelope. She handed it to him. “Some kind of note maybe?”

  Clive examined the thick envelope, his heart speeding up, and quickly opened it to reveal what looked like a long missive in his father’s hand, the sight of which unexpectedly caused his eyes to become blurry, and he felt his throat tighten. “My dear boy,” he read aloud and then had to stop, surprised by the unexpected emotion he felt. He cleared his throat and began again.

  My Dear Boy,

  I address this missive, obviously my last, to you, as I have no doubt that it will have been you that has found it. You are quite skilled as a detective, but I never told you that, for which I am now very sorry.

  If you are reading this, then something has gone very wrong, and I have departed from this world. No doubt my death will have seemed like an accident to all, except, I suspect, to you, and, of course, Sidney Bennett. By now you will surely have pieced together the fact that I have been the victim of extortion almost from the beginning of my new life on these shores. I should have done something about it long before, but, though it pains me greatly to admit it to you, I am a coward at heart. Still, though I by no means deny this charge, I will say that I acted not out of desire to protect myself all these years, but for fear of what might have happened to you and Julia and my Antonia.

  There is much I would write—so many things I wish I would have said to each of you, but time is running short now and my rendezvous quickly approaches. Would that I had had the presence of mind to compose this at my leisure, but it is only now, as the clock quickly ticks down, that I feel compelled to explain myself should all not go satisfactorily. It is my fervent hope, however, that I may return, victorious from my encounter with this villain, and have the deep pleasure of tearing up this missive, welcoming you home with your lovely bride in a few months’ time, and having the joy of one day holding in my arms your child, my heir. But if you are reading this, then all has not gone well, and so I shall employ this thin tract, grossly insufficient as it is, to relay to each of you my deep, enduring love.