by Michelle Cox
But his thoughts were abruptly curtailed when he felt her hands ever so faintly come to rest on his buttocks, causing several things inside him to explode. Where was the demure Rose he had come to know? he wondered briefly, but right now he didn’t care. He felt wildly attracted to her and enormously grateful that they weren’t pressed tightly together so that she wouldn’t observe his excited state. Oh, God, why couldn’t he think? He looked at her again as if for direction, and when he saw her big green eyes again, he lost all control and grabbed her to him, kissing her fiercely, though it was a bit more awkward than he had hoped. Why did it look so glamorous in the movies? Sobering suddenly, he pulled himself away.
“No, Rose. I … I shouldn’t be doing this. I … I’m supposed to be engaged soon.”
“Engaged?” she said with what might have been pretend hurt. “It doesn’t seem like it to me. Are you sure?” she asked seductively, running a finger along his clean-shaven cheek. (He always considered himself lucky that no ugly stubble ever appeared on his cheeks as each day wore on. Boys at school had always seemed so proud of their scratchy hairs, but not him. He preferred his smooth skin.) He felt his insides melt at her touch.
“Because I could have really cared for you, I think,” she said as she kissed him softly on the lips again. Before he could say or do anything more, though, she turned and disappeared into the house, leaving him hot and fuming on the frozen, deserted sidewalk.
The very next morning, a Sunday, as it turned out, he was determined to have it out with Elsie. Obviously they could not go on this way. Well, he could not go on this way. He had hardly slept a wink last night. He simply could not get the memory of Rose’s lips on his, of her hands on his … well, on his body … out of his head, re-envisioning the scene outside her house over and over. In the dark depths of the night as he lay staring at the ceiling of his bedroom, it had made perfect sense for him to split with Elsie. It seemed inevitable, really. He realized now how very much he liked Rose, with her pretty hair and long legs, so graceful in every way and usually so ladylike, last night being an exception. (But such a nice one!) She was kind at times and witty, he ticked off on his fingers, and she liked hearing about his work at the electrics and his model airplane collection. And look how patient she was with Billy. For all of his faults, Billy was an okay guy, Stan assessed. Better than Eugene, really. He had never actually met Rose’s father, but he had heard him before, swearing inside the house as Stan waited on the sidewalk. That was a bit of an obstacle, Stan worried, but wouldn’t it be so much better for Rose if he could get her out of that situation? He assumed her mother was dead, as Rose never spoke of her.
Speaking of mothers, Stan thought, as he rolled over on his side, what would his own mother say if he threw over Elsie for Rose? He and his parents had all discussed, many times—usually over his mother’s pot roast or some other equally delicious dinner—his prospects with Elsie, and they had jointly decided that she would make a good addition to the Dubowski family. Even his mother had begun to like her despite the fact that she was a Von Harmon and obviously came from deficient stock, not liking to speak openly of what the whole neighborhood called the father’s cowardly, sinful act. And now that Elsie was well-connected and living in Palmer Square, his mother had been all the more accepting of her and had irksomely begun to inquire every other day or so as to Elsie’s well-being, charitably willing now to put the past, or Mr. Von Harmon’s past, rather, behind them. In fact, Stan was pretty sure that his mother assumed he was out with Elsie most of the time when really he had become consumed of late with dogging Rose. His mother would grow to love Rose as well, though, he was convinced. How could she not? There was so much more of her to love, and he again recalled the incident on the sidewalk one more time in his feverish mind.
But how, he wondered nervously, as he determinedly marched down Dickens toward Palmer Square, cutting across Humboldt Boulevard to save time, would he break it to Elsie? How could he explain to the poor kid that he had fallen in love with someone else? As he walked, another unnerving realization made its way up to his conscious mind. He understood clearly now that if he gave up Elsie, he would no longer have any reason to be near Henrietta, that his connection to her would be well and truly severed. But wasn’t that for the best? he thought as he angrily kicked a rather large stone out of his path.
Stan did not perhaps have the wherewithal to completely analyze his feelings, but he certainly was able to feel that something had died inside him the day of her wedding, the final nail being her and the inspector’s kiss on the altar and the priest announcing them as Mr. and Mrs. Clive Howard and watching her beaming face as she had walked down the aisle on his arm. Before then he had enjoyed believing that Howard had somehow beguiled or deceived her, had somehow made her an offer she couldn’t refuse and that she had somehow offered herself up as some sort of sacrificial lamb, but he knew, sadly, as he watched her face that day, that it was no sacrifice on her part, that she truly loved him. And after that, if he was honest, the luster of his feeling for Elsie, already a bit dim in comparison to what he felt for her dazzling sister, dimmed further, then, almost beyond recognition.
No, he thought resolutely now, it would be better for him to give up the Von Harmons entirely. Henrietta was gone and there was no changing that, and Elsie, he supposed, had never really had a claim on his heart. The thought of her devastation when he told her, however, nearly crippled him as he climbed the steps of the house now. How could he explain it to her? And what would Henrietta say when she found out? But what did he care? he told himself angrily. He paused before knocking, taking a deep breath, his courage nearly leaving him completely. He wasn’t sure he could actually go through with this and found himself hoping that she might be out after all. But no, he said, gathering himself up straight and boldly taking the brass knocker in hand and forcing images of Rose to the forefront of his mind. It had to be done.
Chapter 16
Detective Chief Inspector Hartle had eventually departed from Castle Linley, but not before asking the rather distraught Lord Linley if he might further make use of his study to speak to Wallace’s valet, Compton, and maybe one or two of the other servants or guests.
Lord Linley’s temper had flared up, demanding that the police use their skills to find his missing son, not interview his household as to the murder of some unknown man in the village! Was their duty not to the living? he had challenged the inspector, not to the dead? The inspector, for his part, again rationally explained that the two might in the end be linked and that he felt relatively sure, given that it had come to light that this seemed to be a particular habit, albeit a mysterious one, of the Honorable Wallace Howard, he was therefore probably not in any great danger. Lord Linley had grumpily relented, then, and retired to his rooms, but not before instructing Stevens to assist the two gentlemen in his study by summoning Compton and any other personages they might request.
Once Lord Linley and Stevens had finally left, the inspector slowly paced the room, his hands behind his back, before sitting down at Lord Linley’s desk as he waited for the valet to appear. Clive had remained as well, having not been specifically instructed to leave. He casually removed his pipe from his jacket pocket and lit it.
“Don’t you have a sergeant, Chief Inspector?” he said through narrowed eyes as he puffed deeply to ignite the tobacco.
“I do. He’s on an assignment just at the moment. Looking into the London connections of the dead man.”
“I see.”
The inspector eyed him. “But you’ll do for today. If you’ve a mind to.”
“I was under the impression that I already was.”
Hartle’s jaw shifted to the left. “But I’m doing the questioning,” he said sternly.
There was a faint knock, then, at the door, and Stevens and a quivering Compton entered the room. The inspector asked him the routine questions, Clive listening closely, but little more was forthcoming than was already known—that Wallace had left the party at
around ten o’clock, that, no, none of his things were missing, that, no, he did not know where he took himself off to, and that, yes, he often did this, Compton had reported, visibly trembling. Timorously, the servant suggested that he shouldn’t think anything of it if he were the sirs in front of him now and that no harm had surely ever come from it before. The inspector had dismissed him eventually with a sigh, and Compton had hurriedly left.
As they waited for one of the gardeners to be brought in who claimed to have heard something in the night, the inspector eyed Clive once again. “And you say you didn’t see anything?”
“I did see Wallace cross the grounds last night, yes, when I stepped out for a moment. About ten o’clock, just as Compton said. Didn’t think anything of it, really. I’d seen him do it before.”
“Were you ever planning on sharing that detail?” the inspector asked intently. “Are you working for me or against me, Mr. Howard? Something else you’re not saying, perhaps?”
“I wasn’t aware that I was working for anyone,” Clive said evenly. He wanted to say more, but he held it in, not wanting to make an enemy of the inspector. “I had forgotten about it,” he said, referring to the detail about Wallace. “I’ve only just remembered.”
“That’s handy,” Hartle said, studying him closely for several moments. “Bit of a nutter, this Wallace?” he asked finally.
“No, I don’t think so,” Clive said thoughtfully, aware of what the inspector was doing—trying to momentarily distract him. “Maybe hiding something, but not a murderer,” Clive suggested.
Hartle actually laughed. “They all say that; you of all people should know that by now.”
Clive allowed only a small smile to escape. “I suppose you’re right.”
“See anything else while you were out there?” the inspector continued more seriously now, and Clive knew that he suspected that he was holding back. He hesitated about reporting Foley’s short absence; after all, it was probably nothing. He had been gone for only about fifteen minutes, surely not enough time to get to the village pub, murder a man, and get back. There was something off there, however, but Clive was almost positive it was unrelated. Regardless, he didn’t want to share it with the inspector just yet.
“Not that I can recall,” Clive said nonchalantly, keeping the inspector’s gaze.
A commotion could be heard outside the door now, the shrill voices of the Fairfax girls rising up.
“Me first, Sara! I want to be questioned first!”
“But I’m the oldest! Of course they’ll want to speak to me first!”
Stevens knocked then and stepped in. “I beg your pardon, sirs, but two of the young ladies wish to be interviewed. They claim,” he said with a disapproving sniff, “that they have something rather urgent to report.”
“Show them in,” the inspector sighed.
Miss Jane and Miss Sara Fairfax then rushed in, their faces both aglow—that is, until they saw the imposing figure of the inspector himself, which somehow caused them to slow their steps and become suddenly shy. After a few routine questions from Inspector Hartle, their flustered testimony was found to consist of reports of strange noises in the night, though the time said noises were heard varied widely with each retelling of the story, and never did the two ladies ever quite agree. Finally, the inspector thanked them for their help and himself walked them to the door, where he turned them over to an apologetic-looking Stevens. The inspector and Clive then saw the gardener, who had been patiently waiting in the hall all this time, as well as a few other servants, though nothing new came to light, most of their statements being of little interest and much the same.
The inspector eventually took his leave of Castle Linley with a decided air of reluctance, Clive suspecting that he was waiting around should Wallace suddenly reappear. But, he said, he could no longer afford to stay and had other leads to check up on. He had instructed Clive, as he carefully placed his hat back on his head, to inform Wallace, whenever he happened to turn up, that he should step down to the station in the village double quick to give his statement, or the inspector would be obliged to send his men round to fetch him.
Alone in the study now, Clive tried to collect his thoughts, wanting to lose no time in following up on his own suspicions. His first objective was to find Wallace, of course; his second was to find Foley and discover what he might know. It was past midday now—where the bloody hell could they have gone? Clive wondered. He hurried across the study, intent on beginning a real search, but as he passed through the heavy door leading out into the hall, he nearly tripped over Henrietta.
“Darling,” he said, startled. “Whatever are you doing here?”
“I’m waiting for you, of course.” She looked up at him now, and he could see she wanted to speak, but neither of them did. She bit her lip slightly, and he knew she was upset about something, but he hadn’t the time just at present to fathom it out.
“I’ve had a letter from home,” she said finally, breaking the stalemate.
Ah. That was it. “Oh?” he asked, trying to be interested, but he could feel his mind reverting back to the case. “Everything all right?”
“Well, not exactly …”
“Why am I not surprised?” he sighed. “Listen, darling, perhaps you might tell me about it later. I’m in a bit of a hurry just now.”
“Oh. Yes, of course. How … how did it go? With the inspector, I mean?” she asked tentatively.
“Fine, I suppose. Seems a simple case of robbery to me. Still …” He broke off, a new thought occurring to him.
“Is it true that Wallace is missing?” Henrietta asked, breaking his concentration.
Clive looked at her keenly. “How did you know that?”
“Sara Fairfax.”
Clive felt his initial alarm give way to mild aggravation. “I’m afraid he is, yes, but I really must speak with Captain Foley. Have you seen him, by chance?”
“I can’t say that I have. I’ve been stuck up in our room writing letters all morning.”
“Listen, darling,” he went on hurriedly. “I know we were supposed to ride to the Heights this morning, but would you mind terribly if we did not? I really must get to the bottom of this.”
“You can’t keep from being the inspector, can you?” she smiled suggestively, reaching up to touch his cheek.
“A man’s been murdered, Henrietta!” he said, pulling away. “And Wallace seems unfortunately to have been in the vicinity. It doesn’t look good. Lord Linley’s quite upset.”
“Of course we don’t have to go riding,” she replied quietly as she lowered her hand.
Instantly he regretted being so forceful. He was just about to say so when she spoke again.
“Why don’t I come with you?” she asked tentatively. “To look for Wallace or Captain Foley?”
“Darling,” he said, trying to be patient as he took her hands. “I’d rather you didn’t. It may not be safe. Why don’t you stay here and join the ladies?”
She pulled her hands slowly from his, and he knew that he had truly upset her now.
“If that’s what you wish,” she said quietly.
“Henrietta, please … you’ve got to understand … I … I need to find Foley on a private matter.”
“I see,” she said and stood looking at him, her eyes boring into him. “Isn’t it a bit soon to be having private matters?” she finally asked.
“What? No! My God, it’s nothing like that. I … it’s regarding a different matter. I’ll explain later. I promise.” As he searched her eyes now, he knew he was disappointing her, but it was for the best, for her own good. She would just have to understand.
“Very well,” she said resolutely. “I’ll walk into the village later and post my letters.”
“Just give them to Stevens. There’s no need to walk into town.”
“I fancy a walk,” she said coolly.
Now she was angry, he could see. How could she be so unreasonable? Didn’t she see the bigger picture?
<
br /> He exhaled deeply. “If you insist on walking, at least take someone with you. Perhaps Lady Winifred. Don’t go alone.”
She gave him a disparaging look. “Is that a command, Inspector?”
“Yes, it is,” he tried to say gently. “Promise me, Henrietta. A man’s been murdered, and I don’t want you out on your own.”
“Very well, Inspector Howard,” she said coldly. “I won’t.”
She turned and left then, leaving him in turmoil. He was angry at what he perceived to be her willful misunderstanding of the situation, but he felt he had no choice. Well, he thought, as he turned in the other direction to find Foley, he would have to sort it out later.
Henrietta angrily pinned on her hat as she looked in the clouded mirror of the antique cherry vanity in their room, its thick legs carved with cherubs intertwined with leaves and small animals. The edges of the mirror were spotted with age, but Henrietta could still make out her image clearly enough. She stood up and placed her two letters, one to Elsie, of course, and one to Julia, in her handbag. She had written to Julia as the only person she could think of who might be able to guide Elsie while she was away and hopefully steer her clear of the lieutenant, if he was really as bad as Aunt Agatha had reported.
How dare Clive require her to stay behind! she thought as she turned sideways in the mirror to assess the tweed suit Phoebe had laid out for her. She had been willing to overlook this morning’s slight at the breakfast table, but her inflammation flared up again now at this new sting. As if looking around the house and grounds for Captain Foley or Wallace was so very dangerous!
She was angry—but wretched, too. She had believed Clive when he told her that she was his equal, but it was clear, again, that she was not. He had done this before, hurt her, and then had promised that he wouldn’t again. And yet here they were. She thought for sure he would have called her back to him when she walked away from him just now, but he had not. Her throat was still aching from holding in her tears as she had quickly climbed the stairs to seek solace in their room and to collect her things.