The letter left behind indicated a growing debt from a nasty gambling habit. Now retired from the life of the track, her husband’s random comments about horses and jockeys, which had so helped her addiction, had ceased. Poor Mr. Beaumont had never realized that his wife’s friendly wagers were, in fact, sizable bets. She admitted to selling off her jewelry after the last derby depleted her own stash of betting capital.
She did not admit to killing Alisa Sidorvo; however, she did write that she couldn’t bear seeing what the papers would make of her misdeeds. With her typical wit, she closed the letter by saying, I’ve struck a different kind of iceberg, and I’m going down with the ship.
The captain did his best to console Mr. Beaumont, although this was not the man’s strength. He looked like a timid fellow uncomfortable with hugging a child. (This was not meant to be a tasteless joke in regards to Mr. Beaumont’s stature.)
The captain briskly ordered Mr. Pace to find other quarters for the new widower. He then took me by the elbow and led me back to our cabin. Rather apprehensively, Lucy followed close behind, holding Yara’s hand.
Back in our room, the captain pointed a long finger at me and asked, “Mrs. Stayton, do you have tickets to return to South Hampton on this ship?”
Nervously, I responded, “I do.”
“I would like to see them.”
The pointing finger was replaced with an out-reached palm, as Lucy went to the desk to fetch that which the man had requested.
The captain took the two first-class tickets from my friend and examined them. “Mrs. Stayton, you are a menace to the seas. If this ship had a plank, I would have you walk it.”
I watched with curious amazement as the man tore the tickets into pieces and allowed them to drop to the floor.
***
Lucy and I bade farewell to Yara as we were escorted off the ship like two stowaways. An apologetic Mr. Pace explained as delicately as he might that the captain wanted us off the ship before we created any other disaster.
After being rushed through customs, we were bustled off the ship, and before I knew it, sweet Mr. Pace was shaking my hand as I settled in the backseat of a taxi.
Well wishes were exchanged, and then the motorcar drove on.
“How did you know it all had to do with Mrs. Beaumont’s jewelry?”
I was glad that Lucy asked. “After the countess’s death, Maxie was without her jewelry. She ceased to mention it and wear any. She wore silk scarves, and also bought Yara’s marble necklace to distract the keen observer.”
“Oh dear, she was wearing that necklace when we frightened them out of their room.”
I knew what Lucy was thinking: Maxie ‘Grip’ Beaumont had delivered one more necklace to the bottom of the Atlantic, this time in person.
Rather spontaneously, Lucy remarked, “Mr. Hurst deserved his fate, and I suppose that it’s fitting that Maxie Beaumont joined him.”
I had no response to my friend’s statement. It hadn’t been my desire to see them perish; I only wanted to decipher the truth. There was plenty of guilt to go around. Mathew Farquhar was an adulterer, Simone Wainwright was an adulteress and a would-be accomplice to murder, and for that matter, so were Alisa and Gerald.
I felt a wave of melancholy. Poor Mr. Jerome Beaumont, he’d been innocent of all guilt, and now he would be punished with public shame and the sadness of losing his beloved wife.
From my purse, I removed my little silver snuff box and took out a clove. Lucy tended to ignore this action, but on this occasion, she asked in a concerned tone, “Are you all right, dear?”
“Such futility,” I replied.
We arrived at our hotel, and I was seized by a moment of panic. “Our luggage?”
Stepping out of the car, Lucy pointed toward the taxi that had pulled in behind us. I realized that Mr. Pace had instructed the Red Star Line’s staff to fill a second motorcar with our belongings. I am embarrassed to say, it appeared that they barely fit in the automobile.
We walked on past several of the hotel porters, who eyed the laden vehicle with some trepidation.
I wanted very much to make our way to the room and arrange my photographs of my dear Xavier on the mantel. His presence would bring me much-needed solace after the whirlwind of misadventure we’d braved.
Lucy saw to the business of checking us into the hotel and we were quickly escorted to our suite. Deprived of sleep, Lucy and I agreed that a nap was in order, and we retired to our adjoining rooms. Neither of us awoke until late the following morning.
After Lucy placed a call to room service for brunch, she said, “Once we have eaten, would you like for me to place a call to Mr. Orenstein to set up an appointment?”
Yes, Harold Orenstein, my prospective agent, my next storm to weather. “I think not. We should take him by surprise.”
There was an unexpected knock on the door. Curious, I said to Lucy, “No one can scramble an egg that fast.”
Standing in the hallway was a chipper young porter, who greeted me, “Morning, Mrs. Stayton. I have a few messages for you.”
With keen interest, I took the telegraphs, while Lucy appeared beside me with what I hoped was an adequate tip for the young man.
“Who are they from?” she asked.
I opened the first one and replied, “Michael Emerson.”
“What does he have to say?” Lucy was very excited.
I read the message aloud. “Dear Mrs. Stayton and Ms. Wallace, I had hoped to thank you in person for your assistance in regards to the incident with my brother and Miss Yara. I was unable to locate you once the ship reached port, but Mr. Pace was kind enough to let me know which hotel you had departed to.
“Rory and I are setting off to the countryside now. He is the happiest that I have ever seen him. I have high hopes that this will be a tremendous improvement in the quality of his life.
“My brother and I thank you both. May God bless you. Michael Emerson.”
Lucy’s eyes looked a bit misty as she said, “Oh, how nice.”
I opened the next. “Mr. Farquhar,” I told her.
“If it weren’t for you, they’d be measuring his neck for a rope,” Lucy commented, unable to conceal her disdain for the adulterous fellow.
“Dear Mrs. Stayton, I will forever be indebted to you for saving my life. I certainly hope that you never personally experience the sheer villainy that I have survived due to your quest for the truth…” My words trailed off, as the message became far more personal, far more in depth, than I thought Mathew Farquhar capable of composing.
After refolding the telegraph, I dried a tear from my cheek.
Lucy looked away, and seeing that the man’s words had touched me, my sweet friend had nothing more unpleasant to say about Mr. Farquhar.
Our meal arrived, and we ate quickly, then departed for the office of Mr. Harold Orenstein.
***
Sitting in a large wood-paneled outer office, a smart-looking secretary greeted us.
Returning her pleasantries, I told her that I wished to see Mr. Orenstein.
The woman’s shoulders slumped, and she said, “I am terribly sorry, but Mr. Orenstein is on vacation. He’s traveling abroad.”
I felt my heart quiver, or perhaps the scrambled eggs did a little jig. “May I ask where he is going?”
The friendly woman replied, “London. He’s traveling on the Olivia. I believe she sets sail this afternoon.”
Lucy remarked, “Oh, dear.”
The secretary’s eyes grew wide, and she grabbed for the newspapers on her desk. “You are Mrs. X, aren’t you?”
Finding my voice, I replied, “Yes, that’s what the papers called me.”
The woman handed me one of the newspapers and a pen. “May I have your autograph?”
Dumbly, I took the paper and read the largest of the headlines.
Counterfeit Countess Murdered on the R.M.S Olivia!
The excited woman snapped her fingers and said, “The ship doesn’t depart for another
hour or so; perhaps you can catch up with Mr. Orenstein if you are traveling light!”
I heard Lucy wince, and then the thought of our baggage caused me to feel a little strangling sensation.
The helpful secretary stood from behind her desk and pointed to the next headline. “If you don’t mind, you could sign your name here.”
I glanced to the bold print beside her slim finger.
Mrs. X nearly scuttles legendary luxury liner!
Quite humiliated, I said, “These newsmen have it all wrong!”
Lucy leaned over my shoulder and pointed to the next headline, farther down the front page. “Indeed they do; look at that. We both know that Mrs. Beaumont was wearing them when she killed herself!”
I looked to the headline and felt quite awful that I was not able to suppress a shameful smile derived from Lucy’s faux pas.
The Famed Maxie ‘Grip’ Beaumont loses her marbles at Sea!
Author’s notes:
I couldn’t have written this book without the help of Maggie, Melissa, Tammy and Dana.
(So blame them too!)
What peril awaits our heroines within The Valley of the Kings?
Is there a Mummy’s Curse or a sinister mortal with nefarious designs?
Find out these answers in the next adventure!
MURDER MOST EGYPTOLOGICAL
A Mrs. Xavier Stayton Mystery
Murder Most Posh: A Mrs. Xavier Stayton Mystery Page 11