by Michelle Cox
“You?” he asked Clive.
“Not that I can recall,” Clive lied easily before he had time to think. Why did he want to keep this information to himself? “There were a lot of people mingling about, Chief Inspector.”
“What about the servants? Might I have a word with them later? They might have noticed something you didn’t in all of the excitement of the party.” Clive heard the sarcasm in his voice. Hadn’t he himself used it often enough in the inspector’s position?
“I say, Inspector! It’s going a bit too far now. Are we suspected of something? If you wish to involve the household, you’d better tell me now just what’s going on!”
Hartle acquiesced. “All right, then, a man was murdered in the village last night.”
“Yes, we know that bit!”
“Can you give us some of the details, Chief Inspector?” Clive asked calmly.
Inspector Hartle looked at Clive for a few moments as if deciding whether or not to share any information. He finally seemed to reach a decision and eased back into the chair, resting his hat on his knee.
“We don’t know much, really,” he exhaled deeply.
A footman entered then with a large tray holding the usual tea accoutrements as well as a plate of biscuits.
“Thank you, Fennington,” Lord Linley said, as the servant set it down carefully on the low table between them. Fennington gave a brief bow and dutifully disappeared while Clive leaned forward to pour out the tea.
“Do you have a name?” Clive asked as he offered the inspector a cup, which Hartle declined with a wave of his hand.
“Not for me, thanks. We do. He was one Ernest Jacobs of London, apparently. Wallet was still on him, but no money. We are in the process of tracing the address in his wallet to see where it leads us.”
“How did he die?”
“Blow to the head. Heavy object of some kind, like a branch or a club perhaps. Maybe a walking stick. He was seen at the Horse and Coach until about eleven, maybe eleven thirty. Stumbled outside and got about five hundred yards down the lane before he was set upon and killed.”
“What’s the innkeeper say?”
“Says he came in about six o’clock off the London train. London accent. Tongue got loose as the night wore on, drinking gin apparently, said he was up looking at some property for the estate agents he worked for.”
“Why would they be interested in property in Matlock?”
The inspector inclined his head approvingly at Clive’s line of questioning.
“Did he have a room?”
Another inclination of the inspector’s head. “Not at the Horse and Coach. Said he was staying with a relative and wandered off.”
“Any case or bag with him?”
“Innkeeper said he had a little carpet bag and a black attaché case with him.”
“What time did he leave? Eleven, you said?”
“Thereabouts, the innkeeper says. Well and truly full of drink by then.”
“Simple robbery?”
The inspector shrugged. “Seems that way. Hopefully the London address will tell us more. He had a wedding ring on, so maybe there’s a wife somewhere.”
“Do you have a list of names of who was in the pub?”
“Pretty much. Checking on that as we speak,” Hartle said, fingering his hat. He looked steadily at Lord Linley with a piercing gaze before he continued. “I should tell you now, my lord,” he paused again. “One of them was your son, Wallace Howard, and he was seen leaving just after eleven.”
Lord Linley stared at him, incredulous for a moment before he exploded. “That’s preposterous, Inspector! There must be some mistake! He was here the whole time! I saw him!”
“Be that as it may, your lordship, three people identified him. He must have left the party at some point.”
“It doesn’t make him the murderer, though, Chief Inspector,” Clive said evenly.
“No, it doesn’t, but why would the Honorable Wallace Howard be sneaking about the countryside and frequenting the village pub when there’s a house party unfolding at Castle Linley, where I’m sure his presence is not only welcomed but required? After all, it was a party celebrating his cousin’s wedding, didn’t you say?” The inspector let his eyes rest on Clive, who, in turn, carefully kept his face and his own suspicions hidden.
“Is he here?” the inspector asked of Lord Lindley after a pause, though he kept his eyes on Clive.
“Of course he’s here! What are you suggesting, man?” boomed Lord Linley.
“May I speak with him?” he asked, turning his gaze to the older man, now.
Lord Linley seemed on the verge of refusing Hartle when Clive interrupted.
“I think it would be best, Uncle Montague.”
“Oh, very well, but this is a bloody waste of time. You are trespassing dreadfully on my patience, Inspector. I’ll not have my son accused in my own home!”
“No one’s accusing anyone, Lord Linley,” the inspector said with an arched eyebrow. “He simply may be able to help us identify anyone suspicious or even give us some clues as to the dead man.”
Clive knew a bluff when he saw one, but he said nothing while Lord Linley rang for Stevens.
“Yes, my lord?” Stevens said, stepping in with amazing speed as if he were, for example, listening close by.
“Would you be so kind as to ask Mr. Wallace to attend us?”
“I’m afraid that is impossible, my lord. His valet, Compton, informed me this morning that Mr. Wallace did not come to bed last night at all. Indeed, he’s not anywhere to be found.”
Chapter 15
Stan shifted uncomfortably in his chair at the Green Mill, where he sat very close to Rose, and gratefully reached out and took the glass of beer handed to him by Gwen. He and Rose had already danced to four songs now, and he needed a break. Dancing was not his forte, nor was it a particularly enjoyable diversion, and yet he had agreed to come along. As he looked out over the dance floor, he wasn’t exactly sure how he had gotten himself into this position, not that it was bad, necessarily, he mused, as he glanced over at Rose, laughing now at something Lucy had just said to her.
He had never been inside the Green Mill before and was surprised at how dim it was and how it gave off an air of seediness that he couldn’t quite explain. He had heard that Al Capone had frequented this place in the past, and he couldn’t help looking over his shoulder every now and then, even though Capone and most of his gang had been locked away in Alcatraz for several years now. He couldn’t quite put his finger on what made him so uneasy—maybe it was because the lights all gave off a red glow, or maybe it was the scantily clad waitresses, or perhaps it had something to do with the slow seductive jazz that the band seemed to prefer rather than the big band hits he was used to. More than likely, it was some combination of all three.
Rose had asked him to come along with them, and he couldn’t understand why the girls would choose such an establishment in the first place. He wondered what Lucy and Gwen’s husbands would think if they knew and decided that they must be awfully understanding, that or perhaps they didn’t know. Stan had asked on more than one occasion why they never brought their husbands along on any of their nights out, and they had just giggled and said that their “fellas” were working. It was obvious to Stan that Lucy and Gwen were very good friends, having frequently caught them leaning very close to each other and whispering things in each other’s ear. And once—just tonight, as a matter of fact—he could have sworn that he saw Lucy rub Gwen’s arm, and—if he didn’t know better—he would have said it seemed more like a caress than anything, but he was obviously mistaken there. It must be the dim light or the copious number of beers he had already consumed. He hadn’t meant to drink this much, but Gwen was always handing him a fresh drink, which bothered him for more than one reason, actually. As a man, he shouldn’t be accepting drinks paid for by a woman! And yet they kept appearing.
In an odd way, however, it was precisely because of Lucy and Gwen’s
close relationship that Stan had gotten involved, if one could call it that, with Rose in the first place. Not only did Lucy and Gwen have husbands, but they had each other as well. It hadn’t taken Stan long to observe that Rose was the odd one out in this threesome. Ever since he had accompanied her to the maintenance shed to deliver her brother’s lunch (no—actually, it went all the way back to Henrietta’s wedding!), he had felt sorry for this poor girl, who apparently had no other friend in the world, well, except Lucy and Gwen, and, in Stan’s opinion, anyway, they weren’t very good friends, often leaving Rose to her own devices, sometimes only in the company of some other girl to find her own way home after an evening out. Stan couldn’t bear the thought of her making her way home from the Melody Mill at night, fretting about her dimwitted brother and having to go home to her probably drunken father. It tore at his heart, it did, and he didn’t know why. Surely there were plenty of girls out there that fit this same bill, and he obviously couldn’t follow each one of them home every night, nor protect all of them. In fact, he could barely keep up with Rose.
He had somehow fallen into the habit of arriving at the Melody Mill on the nights she was working—or on as many as he could manage, anyway—so that he could walk her safely home. In the weeks that had followed since he met her, he had come to genuinely enjoy her company, so that what had initially started out as a benevolent duty on his part had now become something, he had to admit, that he looked forward to. Even at the wedding, Rose had reminded him of someone, and as the weeks progressed he realized, with not a little trace of shame, that she reminded him in some strange way of Henrietta. She looked different, of course, but she had that same vivaciousness, that same—gumption, would he call it?—for life. She had an independent streak, like Henrietta, but she seemed much more willing to rely on him, to need him, to expect him to help her, and, he had to confess, it was beginning to be very attractive to him. It was exciting to have this new friendship, as he liked to call it, and yet it made him feel wretched at the same time. He knew his feelings for Rose were crossing over into a more amorous state than mere friendship, and he was not a free man, was he? He knew his allegiance lay with Elsie, and yet he could see now, with utter regret, that he just didn’t feel the same way about her.
He felt terrible about it, but it was true. Try as he might—at first to please Henrietta and then because he genuinely felt sorry for Elsie herself—he had tried to love Elsie. And he did love her, in a certain way, but not in that way. She was just too … what word would describe her best? Plain? Plain and needy, he supposed would be the best choice of words. Not needy in the way that Rose was needy. That was different somehow. Elsie felt more like a sister to him, if he was honest. And anyway, now that she was rich, apparently, and locked up in a fancy house on Palmer Square, she seemed all the more removed from him. Let’s face it, he had told himself over and over as he stood on the line at the electrics, analyzing the situation exhaustively, Elsie was a sweet girl, but she never got his heart racing the way Henrietta had or, truth be told, the way Rose was beginning to.
He knew that he needed to have a serious talk with Elsie, but every time he worked up the required courage, usually with the help of a couple of swigs of whiskey (a beverage which, he noted happily, Rose did not seem to mind his drinking in the least), to call on her, she was out—either staying with her new aunt and uncle, Karl had told him when he sleepily opened the door to Stan, or supposedly walking in the park. The second time Karl had offered the walking-in-the-park excuse, Stan noted the nervous shifting of his eyes and, putting two and two together, was having none of it and demanded to know in whose company she walked.
“I don’t think it’s proper to say, sir,” Karl had said hesitantly, obviously knowing full well what side his bread was buttered on as he backed himself up against the front door of the Palmer Square house in response to Stan’s threatening steps toward him.
“I don’t care what’s proper, Karl; you’re going to tell me,” Stan said, pointing a finger at Karl’s concave chest, wincing at the realization that in so doing he maddeningly reminded himself of none other than Inspector Howard. Promptly, he thrust his hands in his pockets.
“Oh, all right,” Karl said wearily now that he was not being immediately threatened. “She’s with the lieutenant.” This revelation, plus the fact that said person was referred to so casually by the household staff, was alarming to Stan.
“Where’d they go?”
“I wouldn’t know, sir. He said something about sailing, I think,” Karl said with a small shrug.
Sailing! Stan thought, infuriated. How dare that rascal take her sailing! This seemed to go beyond a friendly walk in the park! Who did he think he was, obviously taking advantage of a girl like Elsie? And, come to think of it, why had Elsie agreed to go along? he wondered as he slowly turned to retreat down the stone front steps of the Palmer Square house. Obviously she must have felt trapped and obligated, and he became even more infuriated.
“Should I tell her you called?” Karl asked listlessly.
“Don’t bother!” Stan said with a toss of his hand. “I’ll come back.”
Stan felt Rose’s hand on his arm now, startling him from his thoughts. Lucy and Gwen had disappeared somewhere, and Rose, leaning toward him to be heard over the band, asked him if he would take her home now, that she was tired, she said, as she snuffed out her cigarette. Stan did not like the fact that Rose smoked. He thought it quite unladylike and had questioned her about it early on in their acquaintance. Rose had merely laughed at him and carried on just as she wished.
Stan, also eager to leave, stood up adroitly at her request and looked around, annoyed, for any sign of Gwen and Lucy but was unsuccessful, as usual. They were always doing this! Always disappearing somewhere. Rose had told him often enough not to let it bother him, but he could not help thinking that it was terribly inconsiderate and possibly dangerous. What if he weren’t here, for instance? What would Rose do then, all on her own? Carefully, he wove through the crowd, trying not to knock anyone’s drink or inadvertently bump into anyone—not particularly desiring a fight. Rose squeezed along behind him.
Once outside, the icy wind hit them head-on. It was welcome at first after the sultry heat inside the club, but as they began to walk, they quickly grew cold. Rose wrapped her scarf around her tighter. Stan could see that she was shivering and contemplated putting his arm around her to warm her further but then thought better of it. He didn’t want her to get the wrong idea, after all.
When they finally arrived at her little brick bungalow, there was only one light on upstairs. Stan thought he saw someone looking out the window, but when he looked again, whoever it was was gone. He was pretty sure it had been Billy.
“Want to go in and make sure everything’s all right?” Stan asked, referring, of course, to her father. A routine had already sprung up between them that consisted of Stan waiting outside on the sidewalk while Rose went in to make sure her father wasn’t in a particularly violent mood. If he was, the two of them would simply continue walking around the block or would go and get a cup of coffee, now that the weather had turned colder, until Rose was sure that enough time had elapsed for her father to have passed out.
“Nah, it’s okay. Billy’s home tonight.” Billy indeed served as a sort of protector of her, mindless though he was, never allowing their father to harm her in any way, she had said, well, physically at least. Mr. Whitman was a big man himself, but when intoxicated, he seemed to cower in front of Billy. His revenge, however, was to lash Billy with his tongue, calling him every form of known obscenity during these altercations. Billy never seemed to mind the violent barrage of words hurled at him, though, or, if he did, he didn’t show it, but just made his slow way upstairs to his room, where he whittled small animals from scraps of wood he stole from the electrics.
“All right,” Stan said somewhat wistfully. “Goodnight, then.”
Normally at this point, Rose would disappear quickly into the house, but ton
ight she lingered in front of Stan as if waiting for something, though Stan couldn’t imagine what it was. He always tried to avoid looking into her eyes, as if that were some sort of betrayal of Elsie in and of itself, but tonight she seemed to take him off his guard and he found himself staring at her big green eyes, mesmerized. He felt his heart speed up for some reason and, despite the cold, his hands felt warm and clammy. He was so desperately confused. He had an overwhelming desire to kiss her, really kiss her as he had seen in the movies, and the strain of resisting caused him to let out a deep breath and look away.
Rose reached out a hand then and turned his face back to her. Slowly she leaned forward and kissed him. Lightly at first and then harder. It was his very first kiss ever, and she tasted of something sweet, something delightfully fresh, like candy.
“Do you like it?” she whispered, her lips still dangerously near his, and she kissed him again, this time allowing the tip of her tongue to gently touch his.
Stan felt his whole body go rigid in reaction, and he awkwardly put his arms around her, wanting more of this delicious sensation. The passion that was coming alive in him, however, sent out warning bells, and he shortly pulled himself from her grasp, breathing heavily.
“I … I shouldn’t be doing this, Rose,” he said apologetically, almost frantically.
“Do you really have someone else?” Rose said, her eyes looking like big, sad pools of water. “Lucy says you do.”
“Sort of, yes …”
She ran her hand down his back and he suddenly felt himself quiver. “Is it all that serious?” she asked.
His mind suddenly went blank as he felt her hands creep lower. They were on his lower back now. He tried to think. Was it serious?
“I mean … you never seem to spend any time with her …”
That was true, he was able to reason for a mere second or two, thinking again of Elsie’s many absences when he called on her and, worse, her apparent sailing date with Barnes-Smith. What kind of a name was that, anyway?