Ask Me No Questions

by Shelley Noble

  “Keep a wide berth of him, Lady Dunbridge.”

  “Is that what you do?”

  He laughed softly. “No and look where it’s gotten me.”

  “And might someday get you fired, or killed. I don’t envy you. Though I must say, it got you here. Sitting on a park bench with a countess is not the worst thing that could happen to a man.”

  He did laugh now. “You are something else. It’s getting late. I have to get back and so should you.”

  “You think Reggie was killed because he crossed some powerful men? Or just the local police?”

  “People in power don’t tend to kill the goose with the golden eggs.”

  “So I should look closer to home?”

  “You should mind your own business and go about entering New York society.”

  “So you don’t intend to help us. Therefore I might as well not tell you about nearly being forced off the road on our way back or that Bev’s purse was snatched.”

  “Did you report this to the police?”

  “I’m reporting it to you.”

  “Tell me.”

  She did, leaving out the part about the money. She saw no reason to muddy the waters and leave themselves open to another raid by the “authorities.” And really, the fewer people who knew about the money they’d found, the better.

  “I’ll see what I can find out and be discreet as possible. But don’t be surprised if you find yourselves in the newspapers tomorrow. There are always reporters hanging about the streets. Now I must go.”

  He stood and reluctantly so did she. What a waste of a lovely afternoon in a beautiful park with an attractive man.

  They walked in silence until they were back on the street. Bentley was still parked where she had left him. She stopped to admire the new Plaza Hotel. “Isn’t it lovely? They say they have wonderful apartments there. I think it would be a nice place to live. Across from the park.”

  “I’m sure it would be—and very expensive.”

  She smiled. “No matter, so am I.”

  Bentley opened the door and let down the steps.

  “Thank you, Detective Sergeant Atkins. You’ve been most helpful.”

  “It was my pleasure, but…” He took her hand and leaned over it. “I wouldn’t broadcast the fact that we met this afternoon.”

  “No indeed. Good day.”

  She didn’t really know what to think of John Atkins. He was convincing in his desire to reform the department. But there was a short distance between convincing and conniving. She’d navigated London society by knowing the difference.

  The one time she’d succumbed to confessions with her best friend about a harmless flirtation with someone other than the earl, her new husband, the story came out in the Tattler the following week, which sent her off to Dunbridge Castle in disgrace, while the earl continued his exploits without criticism.

  She’d learned her lesson, only instead of becoming a docile, obedient wife, she just became more discreet.

  * * *

  The brownstone was eerily quiet when Phil returned after her meeting with Atkins, though she was happy to see it returned to its normal state.

  “Mrs. Reynolds and Mr. Sloane are in the library, my lady,” Tuttle informed her.

  Phil walked down the hall wondering what Bev had divulged to her father about their trip and their brushes with disaster.

  “Aha, there you are,” said Bev, coming through the door. “I’d wondered where you ran off to, Phil.”

  “Emergency shopping for Lily.”

  “You should have sent one of the footmen.”

  “I think it might have had an embarrassing effect on a gentleman,” she said, preventing further discussion.

  “Oh.” She turned to her father. “Well, is it an insurmountable mess? Am I broke?”

  “No, my dear, and even if there is no ready cash—”

  “You don’t need to worry about that, we—”

  Phil shot Bev a quelling look. “We can certainly make do on what I have until things are straightened out.”

  “That’s right,” Bev said, looking chagrined.

  “Neither of you is to worry about any of this. I won’t let you starve. Now, I have to go. I have an engagement for this evening, but make sure Tuttle double-checks the locks tonight. And have the footmen keep watch in shifts.”

  “We’ll be fine, dearest.” Bev stood on tiptoe to kiss his cheek and he made for the door. “But are you sure you can’t stay? Freddy and Marguerite are coming for cocktails.”

  “Sorry, I can’t. Do send them my best regards.”

  “Lady Dun—Philomena.”

  “Daniel.”

  Bev turned to face Phil. “Is it Daniel and Philomena now?”

  “We decided there was just too much Lady Dunbridge–Mr. Sloane to make conversation comfortable.”

  “You wouldn’t want to make Hilda Tappington-Jones jealous. She can be merciless when provoked.”

  Phil laughed. “I wouldn’t think of trying to steal your father or Mr. Tappington-Jones from her.”

  “Oh, good, it wouldn’t do to have you as my mother-in-law.”

  “Heaven forbid.”

  “I should change if you’re entertaining,” Phil said.

  “I don’t think you have time. Freddy said he needed to discuss a point of business.”

  “About…?”

  “He didn’t say, but I’m sure it’s about Thunder and next week’s race. It’s the only thing on people’s minds. Even Tuttle mentioned it.”

  The doorbell echoed from the foyer.

  Phil smoothed her skirt and she and Bev went to greet their guests.

  While Marguerite and Bev kissed and asked about each other’s health, Phil unpinned her hat and set it on the side table.

  “Good evening. I’m afraid I arrived back here only a moment ago. I had to rid myself of this hat.”

  “Think nothing of it,” Freddy said. “We just dropped by because I need to discuss some things with Bev.”

  They went into the parlor.

  Marguerite sat down beside her. “Shopping?”

  “What?” Phil asked distractedly. Freddy had taken Bev to the side. He was speaking in low tones, but Phil managed to pick out “Devil’s Thunder,” “Bobby,” and “Henry” from the discussion. “I beg your pardon?”

  “I asked if you had been shopping. There must be so many things you wish to do now that you’re in New York.”

  “Yes. My maid was separated from her trunks at the docks before we sailed.”

  “—think it’s a mistake to keep him around—”

  “So it was necessary to purchase her an entire new wardrobe.”

  “—what he’s been up to with the horses—”

  “And as much as I depend on Preswick, when it comes to buying certain items, I felt I needed to go myself.”

  “—was a prizefighter—”

  “I ran later than I meant to.”

  “—I can’t be watching the stables every minute—”

  “Oh, dear,” Marguerite said, as Bev and Freddy’s voices rose. “I confess I can’t wait for the end of race season. All this hoopla over a few minutes of excitement. Personally, I can’t think of anything duller than watching horses run around and around in a circle and having men talk nonstop about ‘horseflesh’ and ‘betting odds’ at every gathering. Not to mention that between his work at the mayor’s office and trying to keep Reggie’s enterprises running smoothly, Freddy’s constantly tired and short-tempered, poor man. I suggested we stay home tonight, but some Austrian diplomat is in town and he couldn’t say no.”

  “I wonder if it’s Herr Schimmer. I met him at the Tappington-Smiths’ dinner the other night. Charming man. I knew his predecessor.”

  “Please tell me he isn’t addicted to racing and sports.”

  “He was … very polite.”

  “Well, that’s something, I suppose. At least the clubhouse at the new Belmont track has wonderful food. And we all wear our best finery
to be oohed and ahed over.”

  “That’s very important,” Phil said with just a touch of irony that went over Marguerite’s head.

  Bev hurried over. “Phil, I need your advice. You don’t mind if we talk business for one more second, do you, Marguerite?”

  Marguerite smiled wanly. “Would it make a difference?”

  “No, you old grump. Freddy thinks I should fire Bobby Mullins.”

  “As I told Bev, he’s a shady character. But she has such a soft heart.”

  Phil swore that Marguerite growled under her breath.

  “We can’t depend on him not to start throwing races and handicapping horses to his own advantage. He was known to do such things when he was fighting. And there’s no reason to think he won’t start it again now that Reggie’s not around to keep him in line.”

  “Really?” asked Phil. “I thought he was Reggie’s right-hand man.”

  “He may have been. But he isn’t family, and I don’t think we can trust him.”

  “I know,” Bev said. “But I hate to do that. Reggie’s will said to leave him in charge of the running of the stables.”

  “Because Reggie, pardon me for saying it, couldn’t see beyond Bobby’s toadying up to him all the time.”

  “Not to mention that Bobby introduced him to Mimi,” Marguerite added.

  “Bobby did?” Bev said. “How did Bobby know Mimi?”

  “He’s a lowlife,” Freddy said. “You’d be surprised who his associates are. Henry knows more about horses than Bobby could ever learn. I know he isn’t happy with him either.”

  Bev cast a look toward Phil.

  Freddy gave her a patient smile. “You can’t expect Countess Dunbridge to know the ins and outs of stable management. It isn’t fair to her.”

  “I think perhaps Bev should sleep on it,” Phil said. “Then if she decides to fire him, she can do so.”

  “Bev, I understand your sense of loyalty and it’s to be admired, but Bobby is a hothead. If he gets angry or cornered, he’s liable to get nasty. He may even try to hurt the horses.”

  Phil’s head snapped toward Freddy. It was similar to the story of Silver Blaze, where the trainer was planning to lame the favored winner, and close enough to be suspicious. She shook herself; her imagination was running wild.

  “I think you should leave it to me and Henry.”

  “Maybe he’s right, Phil.”

  Perhaps he was. Phil didn’t know anything about the business or about Reggie’s and Bobby’s relationship. But she hated to see Bev being pushed into something she wasn’t sure of.

  “Freddy’s just trying to help, Bev,” Marguerite said. “And you have to admit, he’s kept Reggie’s business in order.”

  Bev clearly didn’t know if he did or didn’t. Still, Phil was all for Bev taking control of her life.

  “You don’t really mean to take over the running of the stables, do you?”

  “Well, yes.”

  “What on earth for? Do you have any idea how much time and energy it would take? Just look at Freddy. Have you ever seen such dark circles under his eyes?”

  “But he also has his City Hall job. Anyway, I like the horses.”

  “And bookkeeping, payroll, operating expenses?” Freddy asked.

  He said it kindly, but it raised Phil’s hackles. And as far as bookkeeping, surely running a stable couldn’t be more complicated than running a household. Though she had to admit that so far she’d seen no evidence of Bev attempting to run hers.

  “I can’t believe this,” Bev said. “There’s just one unpleasantness after another. Reggie murdered. Dead man in my library. Police ransacking the house. Trucks. I just want it to all go away.”

  “Well, I can at least take this burden off your shoulders.”

  “Fine, Freddy. Whatever you think is best. I’m sick of the whole thing.”

  “Well, then, we should be going,” Marguerite said. “I’m rather eager to meet Herr Schimmer.” She took out a mint from her bag, popped it into her mouth, and smiled slyly.

  Well, well, thought Phil.

  Marguerite gave Bev a kiss. “You should take some powders and get some sleep. Things will look better once everything has died down.”

  “Easy for you to say. You’re on your way to dinner at the Ogdens’.”

  “My poor Bev.” Another kiss and the couple was gone.

  “Are you sure that’s what you wanted to do?” Phil asked, picking up Marguerite’s candy wrapper from the table and dropping it in the wastepaper basket. “What happened to running things yourself?”

  Bev sank onto the settee. “I don’t know. Last night it seemed like such a good idea. But today the ‘men’ wouldn’t even listen to me. And Freddy sounded so sure of Bobby’s perfidy.” She shrugged. “Was that just another incidence of male one-upmanship?”

  “Possibly. You forget, I don’t know Freddy and only met Reggie once.”

  “I don’t know what to think. He was so adamant about what Reggie would want and what was best. And he seemed so certain that Bobby would cheat. And one thing I know about Reggie, he wanted to win, but fair and square.” Bev sighed. “He didn’t mind cheating on his wife, but he drew the line at the track.

  “Let’s have dinner served in here on trays. What’s the point of changing into more black?”

  17

  Phil changed for dinner even though she and Bev would be dining alone. She returned wearing one of her new Paul Poiret tea gowns. It was exquisite, draped purple chiffon over a blue-embroidered underdress and fringed with tiny golden beads, much too elegant for dinner on a tray with a widow, but she felt Bev could use some cheering up.

  Bev’s mouth opened in silent admiration. “You look … absolutely Greek.”

  “A young designer I discovered at the House of Worth. I expect great things from him. Do you like it?”

  “I adore it. And no corset?”

  “Corsets are soon to be a thing of the past. We’ll order you one. You can wear it at home when there are no prying eyes.”

  “Is this the fashion in London?”

  “Not quite, though I imagine it will be all the rage in a year or two. But you know me. Always one step ahead.”

  “You are. And we’ll order one or two, maybe three first thing tomorrow.”

  They ate in silence, each caught up in her own thoughts. Phil felt for Bev’s predicament. It was early days and her friend should have to worry only above receiving condolence calls and choosing mourning clothes. Not murder, corrupt police, car chases, and running a business.

  After the dinner trays were removed, they settled down to endure a long quiet evening at home. Bev passed the time by flipping through one magazine after another, and Phil, finding a deck of cards in a side table, set out building a house of cards on the games table.

  At length, Bev stood, walked to the window, came back, and sat down again. “Oh, Phil, what am I going to do?”

  “About?”

  “Everything. This is interminable. I feel like a prisoner in my own home. If they would just find Reggie’s murderer.”

  “It’s barely been a week.”

  “How did you stand it?”

  How? Every day filled her with resentment that she should have to give up her life because of a man who cared nothing for her. How? “By gritting my teeth, wearing blackest black in society. And being extremely discreet when I wasn’t.”

  “You didn’t keep strict mourning?”

  Phil shrugged. “Most of the time. But Bev, you’ve never been known for being discreet.”

  Bev threw herself down on the couch. “I’m never going to make it.”

  Phil completely agreed. And there was no real reason except etiquette that said she should.

  Bev shot up. “What was that?”

  “Really, Bev, it’s the doorbell.”

  Another ring, longer this time, followed by heavy, insistent knocking.

  “Good heavens. It can’t be the police!” Bev looked quickly around the room as if
she thought she might flee.

  Phil arranged her skirts and tried to look disinterested.

  “Where is she?” echoed from the foyer.

  Not the police. “I believe we’re about to be visited by Mr. Mullins.”

  “Oh, Lord.” Bev grabbed a magazine and pretended to read.

  Phil stood and headed for the door, hoping to stave him off. She didn’t get very far. Bobby burst into the parlor, followed immediately by a remonstrating Tuttle.

  Bobby stormed over to where Bev was seated.

  “Is it true, then? Are you firing me?”

  Bev threw her magazine and pretense aside and stood to face him.

  “Bobby, calm down, have a seat and let’s discuss this.”

  Mullins snatched the bowler off his head, leaving his hair matted and wild; obviously he hadn’t been concentrating on his toilette. He glanced around and dragged a chair over to face the settee. Bev sat. Bobby sat. Phil and Tuttle stood over the two in case one or the other needed to be restrained.

  “Freddy telephoned. Told me my services were no long needed. Didn’t have the guts to tell me to my face.”

  Phil winced. For someone who worked in government, Freddy hadn’t bothered with diplomacy.

  “I didn’t believe him. How could you go and do something like that? Reggie told me to take care of the stables if anything happened to him. I promised him.”

  “Bobby, please. I know it must be a disappointment, but Freddy thinks it’s best if there is only one manager deciding the direction of the stables.”

  “He’s right. But it shouldn’t be him. He doesn’t know nothing about horses except how to bet on ’em. He don’t care about establishing stables or a stud farm. But Reggie did.”

  “Oh, Bobby, Reggie only cared for where his next thrill came from.”

  “That’s not true, Mrs. Reynolds. You know it’s not. Freddy might have led him astray, but he knew what was what and came around in the end.”

  Phil’s ears pricked up. Freddy led Reggie astray? From all she’d heard, it was the other way around. Came around in the end? That had an ominous ring.