Bev finished her drink and showed all the signs of lying down for a rest. Philomena took the glass from her hand and returned both glasses to the drinks cabinet.
“Come on, what you need is a nice hot bath and a lie-down before Cousin Freddy arrives.”
Bev let Philomena pull her from the sofa. She was as malleable as warm wax and for a minute Phil was afraid she was going to have to call for assistance, but Bev roused herself.
“I’m a terrible hostess. You must be fagged to death. We’ll both have a lie-down, then dinner at home.”
Upstairs, Philomena deposited Bev with her maid, who was waiting patiently in her boudoir. Then she made her way to her own room, where Lily was pacing the carpet with the look of murder in her eyes.
“Well, well,” Phil said. “This is probably not what you expected when you agreed to be a lady’s maid.”
“Was he murdered? Madam,” she added as an afterthought.
“Possibly. Probably. Does that frighten you? I promise, I’ll keep you safe.”
“It doesn’t fr-r-r-ighten me,” Lily returned, rolling her r’s in the way she did when emotion got the better of her.
The sound grated on Phil’s ears. “Then what disturbs you?”
“That other maid. Elmi-r-r-r-a. She has airs. And she is an American.”
Phil laughed. “Oh, my dear, Americans are allowed to have airs, too.”
“Bah.”
“What are they saying downstairs?”
“How should I know, when they shut up the minute I come into the room?”
“Well, never mind. Downstairs people are usually higher sticklers than upstairs. It will take some time for you to insinuate yourself—as certainly you must—into their midst.” She tapped her ear. “Comprends tu?”
“Oui, madame. Je comprends very well. I am to spy for you.”
Phil took a deep breath. “I was thinking of something a little more subtle than that.”
“Yes, madam. I understand that, too, but they are very annoying.”
“Be patient. Now pour me a bath, please. All this tramping about on the streets of New York has left me dusty and not quite the thing.”
Lily slipped through the dressing room and into the bath beyond. The sound of gushing water began soon after and Lily returned to help her out of her dress. “You will be going out this evening?”
“No, but there will be at least one visitor in connection with Mr. Reynolds’s demise, so I will need to dress for dinner. But I think … something demure.”
“Do you have such a gown?”
“Don’t be sarcastic, Lily. You must at least pretend to be servile.”
Lily dropped to her knees. “Oh, I am. I owe you my life. Sometimes I forget who I am now.”
And who were you before? I wonder. One day hopefully Lily would trust her enough to tell her story. Until then …
Phil smiled. “Not that servile. Please get up. I’m sure you would have managed on your own, but I think we do quite well together.”
“Yes, madam. Very well.”
The bath was indeed hot and filled the deep marble tub. Phil slid into the water with a satisfied sigh, leaned her head back on the rim, and closed her eyes.
Deliciously hot running water. Another good reason for living in Manhattan.
Lily came behind her and began to pour water over her shoulders. “I think it was in poor taste for her husband to die where all could see.”
“I completely agree,” Phil said. “But we shall keep all opinions to ourselves in this house and everywhere. I believe Mr. Reynolds was acquainted with some none-too-savory characters. We don’t want to incur any hard feelings.”
“Humph.” Lily came to the side of the tub. “I am not afraid.” She pulled up one side of her dress. “I have this.” A wickedly long knife was strapped to her ankle.
“Good heavens,” Phil exclaimed. “What if someone were to see that?”
“They would run away very fast.”
Phil sat up and rested her elbows on the side of the tub. “That or slit your throat while you leaned over to retrieve it. Besides, it’s extremely unladylike, and you should find a better place to keep it.”
“Where do you suggest, madam? My linen dr-r-rawer?”
“I was thinking perhaps your thigh.”
* * *
Philomena was downstairs when Freddy Beecham arrived. She’d dressed in an at-home dinner gown of muted rose silk moiré. The only black gown she owned was an exquisite silk cut velvet with hand-embroidered borders designed by Worth. Definitely not mourning wear and not to be wasted at home on Reggie’s cousin.
Freddy stepped into the parlor and looked around until his eyes settled on Philomena. He dipped his chin in her direction. “You must be Lady Dunbridge,” he said with a slight nod, and strode toward her. “Poor Bev has been so looking forward to your visit, and now this. How is she?”
Philomena held out her hand and he kissed it lightly. “I expect her to come down shortly. She was still dressing when I stopped by her room earlier.”
“Ah, yes, well.” He turned slightly, his gaze taking in the drinks tray. “Care for a drink? I could use one myself. Terrible, terrible business. I’ll just pour if you, um, your ladyship doesn’t mind.”
“I don’t mind at all. And please let’s not stand on ceremony. Call me Philomena.”
He relaxed visibly. He was a tall, stout man and younger than Phil had been expecting, after Bev’s “dear old thing,” maybe late thirties or early forties with light brown hair parted slightly off center and pomaded to each side. He’d evidently stopped at home before coming here since he was dressed in evening wear. A quick “strategy meeting,” a couple of drinks, and he’d still make the theater by curtain time.
“Freddy,” said Bev, gliding into the room and looking romantically pale in an elegant black gown. Not a mourning dress by any stretch of the imagination. Low cut in front and trimmed in jet and deep carmine glass beads. She looked stunning.
Freddy obviously thought so, too. He hastily put down the glass he’d just picked up. He rushed to meet her and took both her hands in his. “My dear.”
“Oh, Freddy.” Bev melted against his chest.
“There, there,” he said, patting her back. “Buck up. We’ll see this through.”
“How? What are we to do? There will be such a scandal. And Papa will be mad as nails. He warned me time and again to take Reggie in hand. But there’s no dealing with either of them.”
“I know. You just let me handle this.”
“Will you, Freddy? Can you fix it?”
“Well, for the most part. I can at least focus the attention elsewhere. At least for a while.” He glanced at Philomena, lowered his voice. “There isn’t anything particular I should know?”
Bev pulled away far enough to look up at him. “I don’t understand.”
Philomena did. She wasn’t the only one who wondered if somehow Bev had managed to kill her husband or arranged to have him killed. Everyone knew America was filled with gangsters ready to murder for payment.
“You don’t own a pistol, do you? Don’t say a word. Only if you do, have one of the servants dispose of it immediately. And don’t be stingy with your appreciation.”
“But I don’t own one.”
“Well, then, nothing to worry about.”
They both told Freddy their versions of what had happened. He nodded and hmm’ed and fixed them all another drink. “I’ll see what I can do to make this as painless as possible. I’m honored, Lady Dunbridge—Philomena—to have the ear of several influential men in the government as well as the police force. I’ll see that the situation is treated with sensitivity and discretion.”
“Indeed.” Bribery is what he meant, she had no doubt. He was already calculating whose palms he could anoint. So no minor official, then.
It was a good thing that Philomena had spent time in country houses and on the hunting field with some of the more interesting political figures of the realm—a
nd their wives. She’d learned quite a bit about how to stanch rumors and stop speculations. Not that she always bothered when it came to her own indiscretions.
The English lords used power or the withholding of power to achieve their ends. Americans, it appeared, resorted to money.
Phil understood the allure of money, but she didn’t trust it as much as she trusted power. So she would leave Freddy to pay off whom he would and wait to see how long it would take John Atkins or the newspapers to uncover his schemes.
For herself and Bev’s sake, she thought they needed a little more activity.
The doorbell rang, followed by muted voices.
“It’s probably Marguerite,” Freddy said. “I dropped by home on my way here and she stayed behind to telephone the guests to cancel the party.”
A woman hurried in. “Oh, my poor dear Bev. I’m so sorry.” She took Bev into a hug.
Very affectionate, these Americans. Phil wasn’t sure she would enjoy being mauled by everyone she knew.
Introductions were made. More drinks were passed around, this time by Tuttle.
Philomena had no love for Reggie Reynolds. Well, in truth she hardly knew the man, but it did seem that everyone was acting very cavalier about his death.
Marguerite Beecham took a seat next to Bev on the sofa. She was very petite, dainty almost, with deep golden hair and large blue eyes, and like her husband was dressed for the theater. She took one of Bev’s hands. “I telephoned or sent around notes to everyone I could. We’ll just have to turn the others away.”
Bev nodded and slipped her hand from Marguerite’s in order to dab her handkerchief to her eyes. “Thank you, Marguerite, you’re so kind.”
“Not at all. Do you have any idea of who Reggie might have invited without your knowledge?”
Bev shook her head. “Tuttle will just have to turn them away with our apologies. Lord, we have canapés and crudités enough for an army. I suppose the staff can have them for their dinner and we’ll just have to throw the rest away.”
“Well, anything that can be kept, they should refrigerate. You’re bound to have a crush of condolence calls.”
Bev sank back again. “Phil, you should go to the variety with Freddy and Marguerite.”
“Nonsense,” Freddy said. “None of us is going. We wouldn’t dream of leaving you alone at a time like this, unless of course the countess…” He ducked his head in Phil’s direction.
“No indeed,” Phil said. Besides, she wanted to hear more about how Freddy was going to “handle” things and whether that extremely coarse, not-to-be-trusted police detective would make a surprise visit.
The four of them were sitting in the parlor when the doorbell rang for the third time. There was a commotion in the foyer and four people burst into the room—two couples, all dressed in the latest mode and smelling of L’Origan parfum and bay rum.
Tuttle followed them in.
“Tuttle said you weren’t at home, but we had to give our condolences in person. Our poor, poor Bev. We just can’t believe it.” They clustered around Bev, making soothing noises with a little too much gusto.
Bev motioned to the butler. “I think you’d better bring up some champagne. I suppose … the grand cru.”
“Yes, madam.” Tuttle took his leave.
Philomena followed him out as Freddy began passing around cocktails.
Another group swept past her. A footman stood rigid and open-mouthed at the door.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Tuttle,” he stammered. “They just pushed past me. There was nothing I could do.”
“Go to the cellars and bring several bottles of champagne. The grand cru.” Tuttle sounded like he might choke on the words. He turned to Philomena, and she realized that he was waiting for her to give him orders.
“I don’t think we’ll be rid of them easily. Perhaps you should ask Cook to serve the canapés. I believe we’re having a wake.”
Another group arrived before he could get away; this time they poured into the foyer, dropping coats and top hats wherever they could. Almost a dozen in all rushed into the parlor. “Look who we picked up on the sidewalk outside. They said they’d been turned away. Nonsense, I say. Where’s Reggie?”
Philomena and Tuttle exchanged looks, then he bowed and hurried away.
Philomena returned to the parlor, where the noise level had risen as the news of Reggie’s demise spread to the newcomers.
“Shot, you say?”
“Good heavens, a robbery. Getting so you can’t walk the streets.”
“The Florodora girl? She didn’t—Oh, sorry, Bev.”
Bev waved a languid hand.
At least they weren’t accusing Bev—yet.
“We’ll give him a sendoff. Here’s to Reggie. A fine fellow.”
Those who had glasses raised them. “To Reggie.”
“Who are these people?” Phil asked Bev when she managed to get close to her.
“I don’t know half of them. This is just like Reggie to invite all these strangers and not be here to greet them.”
Phil cut a look at her friend. Reggie wouldn’t be greeting guests ever again. At least not on this mortal plane. Perhaps Bev was suffering more from shock than Phil had realized.
Someone claimed Bev’s attention and Phil moved away.
She broached the subject to Freddy.
“Not much we can do at this point, except remind them of curtain time and hope they take the rest of these folks with them. Reggie was always doing this—bringing home people, his cronies from the track or the gentlemen’s clubs or God knows where. He had no regard for how it looked. No regard at all. Stupid, selfish man. And to do this to such a lovely girl as Bev. I wouldn’t blame her if she had—” He broke off. “Sorry. Forgot what I was going to say.”
—If she had killed her husband?
As Philomena was returning to Bev, she noticed one of the guests standing by the French window. He’d come in with the last large group. She’d noticed him right away. His manner was not the insouciant carelessness of Reggie’s friends—refined yet possibly dangerous. She reminded herself she was at a wake. But really, murder or suicide, an alluring man was an alluring man. She caught his eye and tilted her head, acknowledging him and letting him know she’d seen him and that it would be appropriate for him to introduce himself, but he turned away and was lost among the revelers who littered the floor.
In England she might suspect him of giving her the cut direct. Then she turned and saw him watching her, only to turn away again. Odd, but she’d never learned to understand the manners of these Americans.
The champagne flowed freely. Occasionally she’d see her intriguing guest standing near one group or the other, but he never came any closer to her. It was just a tad lowering.
Tray after tray of hors d’oeuvres were served and eaten. The “mourners” became more boisterous.
Bev sat on the couch, letting Phil mingle with the guests as titular hostess.
As the evening wore on, she found herself getting annoyed at their elusive guest. She must have met every other person in the room, some of them twice, and yet he always managed to elude her.
As far as she could tell from a distance, he was just what she liked. Tall but slight, with dark, slicked-down hair. A well-kempt mustache that could be easily dealt with if the occasion ever arose—she did despise hairy kisses. The earl had nurtured his carefully, and his kisses always left her mouth feeling as if she’d just eaten waxed fruit.
She pointed him out to various people, but no one seemed to know his name.
“Must be one of Reggie’s turf friends,” said one of Bev’s friends.
“Must be someone his wife knows,” said Reggie’s friends.
“’Fraid I don’t know the family. We’re friends from the club. Reggie said to come on over tonight.”
“Which gentleman?”
“There.” But he had stepped from view.
Was he doing this on purpose? Some kind of titillating game? Normally Philo
mena would enjoy this kind of cat-and-mouse dalliance. But it was beginning to feel like work, and that was no way to begin a flirtation.
At one point during the evening she spied him standing much closer to her than usual as he leaned over to light a cigarette. She wove her way past the inebriated guests to where he’d been standing only to find nothing but the lingering aroma of an unusual and exotic tobacco.
Oh, yes, Phil thought, an evasive and exotic tease, like its owner.
Unfortunately, any furtherance of their acquaintance would have to wait. Bev was looking fagged to death. Phil needed to call an end to the wake.
She enlisted Marguerite, who agreed that the evening was setting the wrong tone and went off to find her husband and ask him to rid the house of the partygoers.
Philomena found Bev back on the sofa. She squeezed in beside her. “I’m going to send these people away, you’re exhausted.”
“Yes, please.”
“But first, who is that man?”
“Which one?”
Phil pointed discreetly to where the mysterious gentleman had just appeared. He was gone again. She perused the room, but this time she didn’t catch sight of him.
“It doesn’t matter. I’ll just get rid of your guests.” Phil took a glass and ice tongs from the drinks table and clinked the crystal for silence. At last the conversation died down.
“Thank you for coming to pay your condolences. But I’m sure you all have plans for the evening, and Mrs. Reynolds is very tired. The butler will see you out. This way please.” She started herding people out of the room. Marguerite took the cue and ushered a handful of guests toward the door. Freddy stood in the foyer thanking everyone for their kind visits while Tuttle and the footman doled out hats, coats, and scarves as quickly as they could.
At last they closed the door behind the revelers.
“Bev is exhausted. I’m sending her to bed.”
“Right, right,” Freddy said. “What an untenable situation. But what could we do? It would have been impolite to turn them away.”
Of course, Freddy didn’t have to pay for the liquor and food.
Marguerite took her coat from the butler. “I’ll come to see Bev tomorrow.”
Ask Me No Questions Page 3