by Beth Byers
She blew out a frustrated breath, utterly confused about the conflicting emotions that warred for primacy. Every time she felt relief, that feeling was drowned by the guilt that washed over her. She wasn’t a superstitious type but now she was questioning herself. Had she actually wished him dead? Was it possible that she’d somehow caused this tragedy with her careless words?
“It’s not your fault, you know.” Ro startled at Hettie’s sudden presence next to her and her apparent mind-reading skills. “Come now, darling. You’ve seen enough, don’t you think? This is no place to linger. It isn’t good for either of our souls.”
Ro swallowed back the round of tears that threatened to overwhelm her, nodded, and let Hettie lead her out of the sterile room. Once in the hall, Ro felt like she could breathe again.
The doctor had followed and he told them, “I’ll take good care of both of them, ladies. You can do this.”
Hettie softened a little towards the doctor, and Ro paused to stare at her friend. Surely she wasn’t…no. Ro looked the doctor over. He was young, yes. He was handsome, yes. But it was the eyes. They were fixed on Hettie and they weren’t anything other than sympathetic. The doctor must have supported Hettie when Ro hadn’t been there. She felt the guilt again, but it immediately fled. Maybe Hettie had needed that man at the time. Maybe Hettie needed a good, kind man to reach out and let her know things would be right again.
He smiled at both of them, and though his gaze was filled with gentleness, the smile reached his eyes and even made the crinkles at the corner of his gaze move with his smile. He didn’t linger, and Ro felt a sudden relief that the fellow really would look after Harvey and Leonard.
She turned to her friend and admitted, “I don’t understand, Hettie. How is that I feel guilty? I only wished him dead and wishes are about the most worthless thing I can imagine. I certainly wished to get out of my marriage many, many times before now. It never did work.” She tried to hold back her worry that Leonard’s death was her fault, that disliking him enough was all it took for the grim reaper to show up on a doorstep—or a yacht bridge. “After all he put me through, why should I grieve? He doesn’t deserve it.”
Hettie handed a kerchief from her pocket to Ro, who promptly soiled it. “You grieve because there was a point in time where you hoped. When the little girl inside you dreamed of a happily ever after. I don’t think your grief is so much for Leonard’s passing as it is for the death of the hope that you once dared to believe in. I’m struggling with the same thing.”
“It’s true,” Ro said, fisting her hands. She turned away from Hettie to press her forehead against the wall. She breathed in slowly and then let it out. She didn’t want to cry. Not here. Not outside of the room where the doctor cared for Leonard. “I did love him. Even as a little girl. I always imagined I’d marry him and we’d be so happy.”
“I keep remembering Harvey from last night. He asked me to dance at dinner, which he never did. He was as charming and as happy as he’d been when he made me love him. Why is that the image I remember? During the dance, his happiness just irritated me. I knew he wouldn’t come home with me. I didn’t even want him to. But he made me think of before, when I thought he loved me, and I hated him. Why is that the vision that’s replaying in my head?”
Hettie gasped and Ro turned enough to see Hettie pressing her hand against her mouth. “Goodness, I hate him. Hated him.”
Ro laughed her own gasping, watery croak.
Hettie dropped her hand a moment later. “Regardless, though, our philandering husbands are dead. I’d say death doesn’t look so handsome on them, does it? Cry until you don’t want to anymore. That’s what I’m going to do. I’ll cry for as long as I wish and not one moment more and I won’t let myself be drowned by the relief that Harvey won’t crush me every single day like he did last night.”
Ro sniffled and pressed her handkerchief to her eyes.
Hettie wiped her own tears angrily away. “I’ll not judge you for how much you cry. Anyone who does, they can jump in a lake. Better yet, they can take a flying leap into the Thames and accompany our dearly departeds on the road to hell.”
Ro let out a laugh that sounded more like a dying hog as she sputtered and gasped for air. “What would I do without you, Hettie?”
“Think about yesterday,” Hettie suggested, “and then remember what you did then.”
Chapter 6
Ro choked on another unexpected laugh as Hettie pulled out her own handkerchief and dabbed her eye.
“It’s easier,” Hettie said, glancing at Ro, “knowing you’re going through the same thing as I am. I hope my appreciation of your suffering doesn’t ruin our friendship.”
“I suppose I can move past your joy of my suffering if you can move past my joy of your suffering.”
“Deal,” Hettie said.
They linked arms and walked through the maze of hospital hallways, winding past the garden Ro had visited earlier and overheard the detectives.
With the sudden recollection, Ro stopped and pulled Hettie out into the garden. “I almost forgot. The detectives. They’re here, and I overheard them earlier. They seem to suspect we had something to do with the boat sinking.”
“What? That’s preposterous.” Hettie paused. “I find I am unsurprised that Harvey continues to make my life difficult.”
“They don’t seem to be concerned with reason. They talked about your reaction when you laughed at the news that Harvey was among the deceased.”
Hettie glanced about the garden, noting the miserable-looking patients in wheelchairs and the general lack of wildlife. There were, however, two cats sunning on a patch of grass. Did that mean that the hospital had mice? The thought struck her suddenly and left her shuddering. She didn’t want Harvey here if there were mice.
Her mind skipped from the mice to the detectives. Hettie put up a hand as if to stop Ro from saying anything else. “Wait. Does that mean that the police suspect foul play? I assumed either my drunken husband or yours simply ran the yacht aground, given they were probably up to the gills with gin. It was death by compromised state and nothing more.”
“What compromised state would that be? Drunk on wine or drunk on girls?”
“Both, I suppose.”
“I didn’t hear them specifically mention foul play, only their consideration of our possible involvement, which must mean they at least suspect something sinister.”
In spite of herself, Hettie shivered. “Could it be that someone murdered our husbands, Ro?” Hettie eyed Ro questioningly. “You sound excited at the prospect.”
Ro shrugged. “I know you said I shouldn’t blame myself and I suppose I don’t. The only thing that makes me feel guilty is how relieved I feel that my struggles are over.”
“So you didn’t wish him dead?”
“I suppose if I were to make a wish like that, it would have been that the marriage act passes so that all of us poor souls would be free. I wouldn’t have had even the smallest amount of guilt about divorcing, despite what my mother says or how my aunt would feel.”
Hettie laughed. “I agree with you. I had decided to divorce Harvey if the act passed, but I was not sure that living near my family would have been a long-term plan for me. Do you feel guilty?”
Ro shook her head. “No, I don’t. Not really. Well, maybe a little. I mean, I did feel a sense of relief. Since then, I’ve felt remarkably awful that I felt anything other than devastation.” She leaned in closer to Hettie, remembering how easily she’d been able to accidentally eavesdrop on the detectives. “I’m happy that he’s out of my life, Hettie, but I feel like the most immoral person in the entire world that I’m happy about it. What does that say about me?”
“Whatever it says about you, darling Ro, it says about me. You summed up my feelings with exactitude. We should probably, however, not talk about that relief if Scotland Yard is actually considering we were involved.”
Ro snorted and then sighed. “What I don’t understand is how they w
ould consider us involved at all. We weren’t there. I feel like it would be just my”—Ro glanced at Hettie and corrected—"our luck to finally be free but end up jailed or hanged for murdering those fiends.”
They both shuddered. There was something about saying the word ‘murder’ to make one feel as though an evil mastermind were watching them from the shadows. When you added in the birdsong they’d heard that morning and the budding flowers, it made for a ridiculous dichotomy. Death in the spring was an irony, it appeared, especially for the young.
“Shall we go?” Hettie asked. “I find that I am starving, in need of a hot bath, and desperate for sleep. I believe I will wake up and be uncertain of whether this was a dream or real.”
“Try to look sad on our way out then,” Ro suggested, though given their state, that wouldn’t be difficult. “Those detectives could still be about.”
The pair made their way through the hospital and outside where Hettie’s driver waited for them. He wasn’t the only one lingering next to the auto.
The detectives stood beside it, speaking with Peterson.
“Bloody hell,” Ro said at the sight. “I bet they’re trying to see if we have an alibi.” Her teeth ground together in frustration. “Leave it to Leonard. Of course, he couldn’t even drown without dragging me in!”
“Ro. Pull yourself together. Look weepy. Clutch your handkerchief. Also, remember we didn’t kill them.”
The detectives had noticed them by now and made their way over as Hettie tried to shush Ro.
“Ladies, we were just speaking with your driver. I’m pleased that we caught you before you left. We’d like to have a few words with you both, ask a few questions about the events leading up to your husbands stepping aboard the yacht last night.”
Ro answered their request with what she was certain sounded like a drunk hyena. Her maniacal cackle was enough to earn Hettie’s elbow into her ribs. Distracted by Hettie’s assault, Ro took a deep breath and addressed the detectives.
“As I’m certain you can imagine, this has been quite the ordeal for us and I’m afraid we aren’t quite in our right minds. Please forgive my outburst. I was exhausted before I knew of the accident and having to see Leonard like that…it has left me quite upset.”
“I’m sure it’s a harrowing time for you both,” Detective Harris answered, rubbing his stubbly jaw, his tone saying that he didn’t believe his own words. “We need to get an idea of what happened last night, and you two are survivors.”
Hettie nodded, though Ro was sure Hettie also saw the lack of belief from the detective. She would have also noted the word survivors, as though they had been on the yacht.
“My husband was many things detective,” Hettie said, dabbing her lashes with her handkerchief, “but of all things he was young. I find that I am certain this is all a terrible dream, but I keep not waking up. I think, despite having seen poor Harvey, that it cannot be true. Perhaps you can interview us at another time. I am not myself.”
Hettie to the rescue again, Ro thought, but neither of the detectives moved from blocking the auto. “We have reason to believe that this was no accident. It would be a great help to us if you’d cooperate and answer our questions. It won’t take long.”
The four of them stared at each other for a moment before Ro finally squared her shoulders, lifted her chin and spoke. “Excuse me?”
“Not an accident?” Hettie gasped. “How can this be?”
“We are, neither of us, in a state of mind or heart to be able to help you, detectives, but of course—we’ll do what we can. Perhaps we can offer you ten minutes now? I believe both Hettie and I would do well to see a doctor. We are, both of us, on the edge of hysterics.”
The two men looked at each other as if contemplating a decision. The handsome Detective Truman nodded to the unspoken question.
“Ten minutes then. Mrs. Ripley, if you’ll come with me. My partner will interview Mrs. Hughes.”
Ro and Hettie exchanged a knowing look before they each followed their respective detective. Ro glanced back at Hettie, found her looking over her shoulder, and then turned to the detective.
Detective Truman stopped at a stone bench nestled among several different bushes and flowers. It was quite a tranquil setting.
“You and your friend’s reactions to discovering the deaths was quite unusual.”
Ro blinked rapidly. Not so much at the question as at the way he started with that particular statement first. “Are they? What would be the appropriate response for a new widow, pray tell?”
Ro heard the edge in her own voice and silently chided herself to be more polite. The goal was to remove suspicion from them, not cement their guilt in the minds of the investigators.
“We don’t typically see laughter at a time like this.”
She nodded thoughtfully. “That must be dreadful for you to be met with wailing and gnashing of teeth every time you must inform a poor wife that her husband won’t be returning home. I suppose what’s different about those instances is that the women were deeply in love with the husbands. Also, their husbands were possibly worth grieving over. Hear me out, detective,” she said, noticing he was about to interrupt.
He closed his mouth again.
She continued on her mini-tirade, knowing even as she spoke that Hettie would be disappointed in her for not playing the part of a grieving wife better. “Leonard left me alone at a party to take his mistress and the sycophants that travel in his company out on the yacht. He’s been a philanderer since before I married him, but I was too naive to know it.”
Detective Truman winced, but his gaze was no less sharp. She was probably giving him what he needed for a motive. That realization did not, however, stop her.
“In the nearly five years since we married, it became increasingly obvious that my husband was an insult to the word husband and had made a mockery of our vows. Last night on the yacht was one of a string of reasons I’ll not be grieving my husband the same as the wives you are used to seeing. Instead I grieve for the future stolen from me right under my nose. Now, I believe you have about five minutes left. Do you have questions or do you only wish to stand here and critique a new widow for not being upset in a way that makes you more comfortable?”
Silence settled around them. Finally, after some moments, he cleared his throat and took a deep breath. “Are you aware of any mechanical difficulties your husband’s yacht may have experienced prior to last night?”
“It’s my yacht, paid for by my dear aunt. No, we’ve not experienced any difficulties of any sort.”
“I see. How often do you sail with your husband?”
“I sail more than he, if you must know. I’ve been learning about yachts and all manner of sea-faring vessels since I was a young girl. Leonard was insufferable to teach, but I was still enamored with him at the time so I taught him all I knew about sailing. As soon as he was confident in taking the boat without me, he never invited me along again. I still took it out myself quite frequently and therefore I can attest to the perfect condition of the yacht. The sinking would likely be attributed to operator error on Leonard’s part, not a defective yacht. He was quite, quite drunk when I last saw him, and I have little doubt that he continued to drink heavily over the course of the evening. I wouldn’t, in fact, be surprised if you told me that he was seen using opium or morphine. Why do you suspect foul play, detective, instead of idiocy?”
He looked taken aback by her question but recovered relatively quickly.
“It’s too soon to say. Do you know of anyone who would want your husband dead?”
Ro resisted the urge to say ‘besides me?’ She just stopped a smile at the pride she imagined Hettie would feel that Ro had been able to control her tongue. She hadn’t done such a great job appearing neutral, let alone innocent, since she’d started speaking with Detective Truman.
“Besides the husbands of Leonard’s many mistresses? The lovers he abandoned along the way when they no longer held his interest, the business
associates that he cheated quite regularly, and the servants in our home whom Leonard was most brutal toward? No, I can’t think of anyone.”
“I see,” he said, ever professional. “So your husband had quite a number of enemies. And there was no love lost between the two of you?”
“There was plenty of love lost.” Ro could hear the disgust in her voice. “I fell in love with him, lost myself to him, and then he discarded my affections for the shallow encounters with any easy woman who temporarily caught his fancy. So, yes, detective, I have lost quite a lot by falling in love with my husband. But I most certainly did not kill him. I’ll address that for you since your courage seems to have failed you. I was happy to bide my time traveling with friends until the marriage law that would allow me to divorce him was passed by Parliament. I’d not risk the rest of my future—let alone my soul—on murder.”
“Where were you last night between the hours of midnight and six a.m.?” His tone suggested that he remembered that he was the detective and that she needed to remember as well. Under any other circumstances, she would have smiled at the power struggle they were experiencing.
“I was at a bottle party with my good friend, Hettie Hughes. We drank champagne and frolicked in the pool while my husband was busy drinking, whoring, and eventually dying. It was certainly a ridiculous and overdone evening of spoilt women like myself, but compared to my husband, it was almost on the level of raising funds for orphans.”
“How much champagne did you have and can anyone, besides Hettie Hughes, vouch for your whereabouts?”
“Enough to make my speech slurred, not enough to forget that I didn’t kill my husband. Is there anything else? I need rest.”
He opened his mouth to speak, frustration sparking in his dark eyes, then closed it again. He definitely suspected her and probably didn’t like her, which was perfect because she didn’t care for him either.