A Fiancée's Guide to First Wives and Murder

by Dianne Freeman

  “Yes, in the company of my aunt. We returned home and found her body.”

  His eyes narrowed. “Your aunt was with you when you found the body?”

  These questions were beginning to grate on my nerves. “No. Hetty stayed in the drawing room, so I was alone then.”

  “And what did you do when you found her?”

  “At first, I thought she was asleep, so I touched her arm to wake her.” I drew in a long breath as the memory assailed me. “I also checked the pulse in her neck, and when I determined she was dead, I went through the garden to Mr. Hazelton’s home to call the police.”

  “Once that was done, Hazelton returned here with you? You came directly into the house, where someone saw you?”

  “I came in to tell Aunt Hetty what had happened, then returned to the garden.”

  “Where you had left Hazelton . . . alone?”

  “He wanted to view the area before the police and coroner tromped over everything.”

  He cocked one bushy brow. “Or perhaps he wanted to remove some evidence.”

  “Now you imply Mr. Hazelton murdered her? You know us, Inspector. You know neither of us is capable of murder.”

  “Lady Harleigh, you must be aware I hold both you and Hazelton in high regard, but my line of work has taught me anyone can be capable of murder. All that’s needed is the right motivation. So perhaps you’d like to answer my question now. How did you feel about Miss Teskey?”

  I lowered my head, blinking back a tear. Then I realized that would make me look doubly guilty and turned to face him. His eyes softened. It must have been hard to push me for an answer. And was he wrong, really? My extremely limited experience with murder had shown me that people I never would have suspected were capable of taking a life. However much I disliked it, Delaney was simply doing his job.

  “When I first met Miss Teskey,” I began, “I assumed she was a liar and up to some sort of trickery. As I came to know her in our very brief acquaintance, I felt at turns sympathetic and irritated with her. She was a lonely young woman deprived of a family. I think the embellishments to her stories comforted her in some way, made her feel less alone.”

  His brow lifted a bit higher.

  “For Miss Teskey, the truth was bleak. I didn’t hate her. I didn’t want her dead. Bradmore confirmed she was married to him, not Hazelton. I think she was being honest and simply didn’t know the difference between one man and the other, and it appears she may have been telling the truth about her life being threatened.”

  Delaney closed his notebook around the small pencil and stuffed it into the pocket of his coat. “I’ll check with this Bradmore chap and, of course, see what the coroner has to tell me about the time of death, but until I learn more, I have to consider you, Hazelton, and Mrs. Chesney as suspects.”

  He came to his feet as I sputtered random words of denial.

  “You all had motive and opportunity. I can’t rule any of you out yet.”

  Chapter Eight

  I found Hetty and George waiting for me in the dining room after Mrs. Thompson informed me dinner was ready. I was surprised so much time had passed, and I ought to have been hungry, but Delaney had successfully ruined my appetite. However, now that I knew marketing and cooking had taken up much of Mrs. Thompson’s day, I’d eat every bite if I had to choke on it.

  Hetty had found time to change into evening wear, but I had no intention of asking the housekeeper to wait dinner even longer while I did the same. As George was still dressed for the business of the day in a wool suit, I saw no reason why my afternoon gown should not suffice.

  Now that I thought about it, I wondered why he was here at all. As we moved to the table, I asked him. “I’m surprised to see you here. Didn’t Delaney send you home?”

  No sooner had we seated ourselves at the table than Mrs. Thompson brought in the soup.

  “Didn’t he tell you? As a suspect who’d been alone with the deceased, I might have taken some evidence and hidden it away at my home, so of course he must search it. I suspect he’s there right now.”

  “Enough of that talk. You’ll frighten Mrs. Thompson off, and however will I replace her?” Mrs. Thompson ladled a rich vegetable broth into my bowl. “Please say it’s not becoming too much of a trial working here, Mrs. Thompson.”

  The housekeeper clucked her tongue. “Miss Teskey’s murder is a sad state of affairs, my lady, but at least I didn’t discover the deceased this time. And I know very well no one in this house is a killer.”

  George stood and took the soup tureen from her. “If everything is ready, why don’t you and the maid bring the dishes up and lay them on the table? We’re just a family party tonight and perfectly capable of serving ourselves.”

  Mrs. Thompson looked to me for confirmation, and when I nodded, she left to find Jenny. George returned to his seat on my right.

  “That was an excellent idea,” I said. “As soon as the table is laid, we are free to talk without frightening the staff.”

  In fact, none of us spoke a word until Mrs. Thompson and Jenny left the room, now filled with the enticing aroma of rosemary, thyme, and garlic emanating from the covered dishes at the end of the table. Perhaps I did have an appetite, after all.

  “I, for one, am completely incensed that Inspector Delaney has accused all three of us of murder.” Hetty’s jaw was tight, and her words were clipped. She was usually such a calming influence. How odd to see her more ruffled than I.

  “Did he provide any explanation as to how you might have murdered her?” I asked. “You were never alone in the garden with her.”

  Hetty pressed her lips together. “You underestimate how swiftly I move, Frances. When you went upstairs to check on Miss Teskey, I had all of five minutes to learn she was in the garden, strangle her, and return to the drawing room.”

  I stared at her as I lowered my spoon to the bowl. “Are you joking? Did he actually say that?”

  “Not in so many words, but no other time was possible. Perhaps he thought I had ten minutes.” She picked up her spoon and dipped it into her soup.

  “In your case, Mrs. Chesney, it’s likely Delaney believes you might be willing to aid Frances or me in the murder of Miss Teskey, due to your affection for us. I doubt he thinks you’d murder her yourself.”

  “That’s all well and fine, but how can he suspect you or I would do such a thing?” I asked.

  “Love. Jealousy. He likely believes Irena stood between us and our future happiness.” George got up and nosed around the dishes at the end of the table, tipping the covers up just a bit and peering under them. He made a happy noise of discovery upon finding the roasted lamb and brought the dish to our end of the table.

  “You’re missing my point. I understand the typical motives involved in these circumstances, but Delaney knows us. How could he think I’d be so overcome with jealousy that I’d murder Miss Teskey?” I snatched the soup bowl from George’s plate before he could serve the lamb in it. He gave me a look of suffering but added his portion to the correct plate. Hetty handed me her bowl, and I set them all aside.

  “Both of you are taking this far too personally,” he said.

  Hetty and I first turned to one another, then back to George before attacking him in unison.

  “How do you suggest we take it?” I asked.

  “It feels quite personal to me,” Hetty agreed.

  “Delaney is looking at this case objectively, dispassionately, and disregarding any relationships he has with any of us. It’s the only way he can do his job and solve the crime.”

  “Are you saying it does not trouble you one whit that you’ve been accused of a crime?” Hetty looked incredulous.

  “I am suspected of a crime. There’s a big difference. And no, it doesn’t bother me, because I didn’t murder Miss Teskey, and any motive Delaney thinks I . . . we have will disappear once he speaks with Bradmore.”

  “But I already told Delaney that Bradmore was Miss Teskey’s husband.”

  “H
e needs the man himself to confirm it. In fact, he needs to confirm that not only do you know that now, but you also knew it this morning.” He shrugged. “Delaney has to follow procedures. He can’t just take your word for it.”

  Hetty frowned. “That should serve only to make the inspector transfer his suspicions from us to Mr. Bradmore.” She paused. “What about the letters she is supposed to have received? They don’t sound like something Mr. Bradmore would have sent her. ‘Go away, or you will die!’ ”

  “That’s true. Bradmore said he had been trying to contact Miss Teskey. If he realized she was in London, he would have sought her out, not chased her away.” I turned to George, who was applying himself to his lamb. “Shouldn’t Delaney be looking for someone else? Someone who might have sent those letters.”

  “What letters?” he asked, gazing longingly at the remaining dishes.

  “Take your plate and serve yourself something of everything. You needn’t wait until Hetty and I are ready for the next course.” I turned to my aunt. “And we should eat, as well. If we send this food back, that may just be the last straw for Mrs. Thompson. If she leaves, good luck to you in finding another housekeeper who also cooks and puts up with murders in the back garden.”

  Hetty blinked. “That’s right. It will be me she’s leaving.”

  She turned her attention to dinner, so I prodded George, who’d just returned to his seat with a full plate. “What do you mean, what letters? The threatening letters Miss Teskey received.”

  “I didn’t find any letters, and it’s definitely possible they never existed.”

  “If not, that does make Bradmore a more reasonable suspect. What did he tell you about their supposed marriage? What was his state of mind?”

  “I don’t know any more about how he got himself into this mess than he told us this morning. I suspect, in addition to opium, copious amounts of cognac were involved. At least enough to make him think marriage to Irena was a good idea. But his state of mind today was that he wanted to be free of her.”

  I pondered Bradmore’s situation. It didn’t paint him in a favorable light. “I don’t know how much cognac he’d need to convince himself Miss Teskey was a desirable match—at the time, that is. He had no real prospects of his own, and Miss Teskey had a blood connection to the Romanovs, one of the crowned heads of Europe. It’s possible he expected her father to provide her with a fortune, allowing him to lead a life of leisure.”

  “Then he learned her father might not approve.” Hetty’s tone made it clear she didn’t.

  “And his own prospects improved.” I tsked. “There’s a name for men like that.”

  “Cad,” Hetty muttered.

  “I was thinking opportunist, but I can’t argue with cad. What about you, George?” I was stunned to see he’d consumed the small mountain of food he’d piled on his plate. Mrs. Thompson should be satisfied that we’d done justice to her meal.

  He took a sip of his wine and followed my gaze. “I haven’t eaten since this morning, what with running after Irena’s things, then taking charge of Bradmore, then . . . Well, you’re aware of everything that happened this afternoon.”

  “Yes, yes. Please eat as much as you like, but tell me if you consider Bradmore as Miss Teskey’s murderer.”

  “He didn’t strike me as that desperate. He’d barely spoken to her and had no reason to suppose she’d refuse him a divorce.”

  “But what if she did?” Hetty asked.

  “He told me he’d start divorce proceedings, regardless. He might have a case for abandonment.”

  “From where I sit,” she said, “it looks more as if he abandoned her.”

  “He left at her urging, then corresponded with her until she disappeared.” George tapped his fork against his plate to emphasize each point. “He would have preferred that she just go along with the divorce, but if she didn’t, he was prepared to take a legal path. He had no reason to murder her.”

  “Now that you’ve pled his case,” I said, “please tell me you can do the same for us. From Delaney’s point of view, we would be the next most likely suspects.”

  “Not once Bradmore tells him that we all knew Irena was his wife.”

  Hetty frowned. “This is rather perplexing. We know none of us murdered her. If Bradmore didn’t, either, then who did? Are you certain those letters don’t exist?”

  “Certain? Not at all. I just wouldn’t be surprised if they existed only in Irena’s head. But you make a good point. If not us, then who?”

  “I fear it was Bradmore.” I told them what Jenny had told me about seeing Miss Teskey go through the library and out the door to the garden. “She said it was somewhere around noon, and according to Mrs. Thompson, that’s when Bradmore called.”

  George frowned. “I thought she refused to see him.”

  “She did, but she then left her room for the garden, where she obviously came across someone. Bradmore was nearby.”

  “And because the gate was unlocked, it would appear she let the killer in,” Hetty said. “If it wasn’t Bradmore, it must have been someone else she knew.”

  George leaned on the table and rested his chin on his open palm. “I don’t know Bradmore very well, but I’d wager my last shilling he had no intention of killing her.” He straightened. “And he would have required some intent. Irena was strangled with a rope or cord. He would have had to bring it with him.”

  “Perhaps she wore a scarf,” I suggested.

  “I didn’t bring her a scarf from her hotel room, and it’s not as if he could have found something in the garden. You didn’t have rope lying around, did you?”

  I envisioned my garden. “There was nothing like that. But Bradmore did have something with him. He could have used his necktie.”

  Aunt Hetty brightened at the idea, but George drew in a breath and rubbed his hand over his eyes. “He might have done, but then we must make one of two assumptions.” He held up his index finger. “Bradmore came here planning to strangle the girl and so removed his necktie before meeting her.”

  I pondered the possibility. “That sounds unlikely. As you said, he hadn’t really had a chance to speak with her about the divorce. She might have agreed to it. I would have thought he murdered her in the heat of anger.”

  “All right, let’s say he didn’t come prepared. He spoke with her. She wouldn’t agree to the divorce. He became angry, positively enraged. Is that more or less how you envision it?”

  I eyed him suspiciously. “More or less.”

  “In that case, you have to assume that while his rage is bubbling up, Irena is patiently waiting for him to untie and remove his neckwear.” He pantomimed struggling to a ridiculous degree to remove his own, while pretending to choke for good measure. “This is something of a complicated knot, you know. Doesn’t just slip open.”

  “Fine. I see your point. You may cease with your theatrics.”

  “I found it rather amusing,” Hetty said, earning her a warm smile from George. “But here is another possibility for your consideration.” She raised her brows suggestively. “What if she removed his tie? What if he asked her again for a divorce, and she tried to change his mind by seducing him? A few kisses, some sweet nothings whispered into his ear, she removes his tie . . . Well, I’m sure you can envision it for yourselves.”

  “I can envision it perfectly,” I said. “Two people shivering on a damp wooden bench on a cold November afternoon, in what is essentially a stranger’s garden.” I shivered at the image and glanced at George, who stared at Hetty as if he’d never seen her before.

  “Perhaps that was a bad idea,” she said, poking at a roasted potato on her plate.

  I turned to George. “It’s possible Bradmore left, defeated, and, after some thought, decided to come back and murder her.”

  “In that case, we’re back to imagining he’s a cold-blooded killer, and I find that hard to believe.”

  “It sounds as though you simply don’t think Bradmore is guilty of this crime.” I pushe
d my plate away and came to my feet. “But if he didn’t do it, then someone else had to enter the garden and strangle her. Probably right after he left. She had no wrap, so I doubt she planned to stay out there very long. Mr. Bradmore might well be the last person to have seen her alive. I think you should speak to him.”

  George studied me over the rim of his wineglass. “You just suggested he might be a cold-blooded killer, and you want me to pay a call on him?”

  “You just declared that he’s not.”

  “I only said it was hard to believe.” He set down his glass and came to his feet. “But for you, my dear, I’ll talk to him.”

  I gave him a smile. “You aren’t fooling me. You’re as eager as I am to find out what he knows. And if he has an alibi.” We both knew if Bradmore had an alibi, we would come under much greater scrutiny.

  “Clearly, I’ve become predictable. I also hope speaking with Bradmore will help to fix her time of death. With any luck, that could exonerate all of us.” He reached into his pocket, retrieved a card, and gave it a glance.

  “Bradmore’s calling card?”

  He nodded. “Complete with his direction, so I’ll take my leave of you ladies and go there now.”

  “Shall I go with you?” My curiosity in the matter was overwhelming. I’d hate to wait for information until he returned.

  “I’d prefer that you look about her room and through the things I brought over this morning.” He shrugged. “Perhaps I missed something.”

  I sighed. “Very well.”

  “Wait just a moment.” Hetty had been quietly observing the conversation, but now she squirmed and fidgeted, as if she were uneasy. “I’m not sure this is such a grand idea. Didn’t the inspector tell us all to stay put?”

  “No, no,” I said. “He only meant we shouldn’t leave town.”

  Hetty narrowed her eyes. “Is that so?”

  “I’m sure he’d like us to stay put, Mrs. Chesney, but he has no power to make us do so. At least not until we interfere with his investigation.”

  “Isn’t that precisely what you’re doing?”

  “No.” We answered in unison, both looking at her, aghast. George and I had investigated a few crimes together, but while Aunt Hetty had occasionally provided information or assisted here and there, she had never fully taken part. She also had only a vague idea of George’s expertise in this field.