“It was no jest. Merely a statement of fact. Since I’ve been in Viscount Annondale’s employ, he has had no mishaps on board the Georgiana. Not even minor ones. One mustn’t make the mistake of believing Gil’s infirmity has rendered him vulnerable. He understands the sea and what it’s capable of. He respects it and knows exactly how to handle himself when out in the middle of it.”
“Excuse me.” Julia’s dark eyes narrowed. “Did you just call my husband by his first name?”
Miss Blair’s full lips, bright red and glistening, briefly pouted. “Forgive me, my lady. The viscount doesn’t always stand on ceremony with his employees.”
“Doesn’t he?” Anger emanated off Julia in waves; Phoebe sensed a storm waiting to break.
“No, he doesn’t.” Miss Blair smiled.
“Well, I do, and you’d do best to remember it.”
Miss Blair’s gaze drifted to Eva, and an ironic light came into her eyes. But she said only, “Yes, ma’am. Now, is there anything I can do for you?”
“The moment my husband is found, I want to be told.”
“Of course.” Voices could be heard from the saloon. Miss Blair unnecessarily announced, “Your guests are up, my lady. Do you wish me to ask the galley to send up a hot breakfast now, or will the scones and fruit do?”
Sir Hugh Fitzallen and Veronica Townsend strolled in together. Their chatter ceased when they beheld everyone else in the room.
“Well, then, good morning.” Miss Townsend crossed to the buffet and poured coffee. “I didn’t expect company this morning. Didn’t Gil say we were to sail at first light?”
“My sister came to see me off,” Julia replied in an indifferent manner.
“Isn’t that spiffing of her? Good morning, Phoebe.” Sir Hugh spoke brightly and flashed a broad smile. “And who is this lovely lady, might I ask? I’m sorry, I don’t remember you from yesterday. Did we meet?”
Poor Eva flushed at this attention paid her, and peeked up at Sir Hugh in some confusion, especially when he offered to shake her hand. Phoebe was about to explain when Miss Blair did it for her.
“It seems the viscount isn’t the only lenient employer. This is Lady Phoebe’s maid.”
Sir Hugh’s hand drifted back to his side. The way Miss Blair said maid, as if it were code for some catching disease, made Eva blush more furiously. Phoebe wanted to throttle the woman. But Miss Blair’s attention had already shifted.
“So then, my lady, hot breakfast or fruit and scones?”
Julia shook her head, frowning. “I don’t know. Ask them.”
“This is fine for me,” Sir Hugh said, using two fingers to brush at his neatly trimmed goatee. “Is Gil up yet?”
“I don’t require anything more,” Miss Townsend said in her grim manner and plopped a spoonful of fruit onto a plate. “But yes, where is Gil, and why on earth haven’t we sailed yet? The sooner we get on with this, the sooner I can return home and to life as usual.”
When Julia allowed their questions to go unanswered, Sir Hugh appealed to Miss Townsend. “I don’t remember Gil as a man who lies abed all morning. Indeed, during our army days, he was typically the first up in the camp. In Ireland, too. Have his habits changed as much as all that?”
Miss Townsend made a little hmm sound and rolled her eyes heavenward. “I suppose his wedding night has left him uncommonly weary.”
“Veronica, really. Manners, my dear.” Sir Hugh darted a glance at Julia, who remained intent on stirring her coffee and pretended not to have heard.
Miss Townsend shrugged, obviously indifferent to the consequences of her remarks.
Clearly, she was not happy to be on this voyage. But yesterday, when Eva had mentioned Julia’s grievance that both Sir Hugh and Miss Townsend were going along on the honeymoon voyage—odd enough, indeed—the reason for Miss Townsend being included was that Gil hadn’t the heart to leave her all alone at the family estate. By all appearances, however, Gil was doing his sister no favors.
As the pair seated themselves, Curtis Mowbry came into the room, a small box camera in hand. “Good morning, my lady. I’m surprised we haven’t sailed yet.” He set the camera on the table, before an empty chair, and went to the sideboard. He stared down at the offerings, selected a scone, and turned around. “I don’t suppose a body could get some eggs with perhaps a rasher of bacon?”
“I’ll go inform the galley.” Miss Blair retraced her steps to the pantry.
After pouring a cup of coffee, Mr. Mowbry returned to the table, where he noticed Eva. “Hello. I don’t believe we’ve met.”
“My lady, I should go below. Surely there is something I can help Hetta with,” Eva whispered beseechingly in Phoebe’s ear.
Phoebe nodded and mouthed, “Go.” Eva couldn’t seem to leave the room quickly enough.
The photographer folded his considerable length into his seat at the table and consumed half a scone in one bite. Chewing, he said, “Something about the salt air works up one’s appetite. I shall try not to eat you out of house and home when we hit the open waters, Lady Annondale.” He glanced around. “Is the viscount awake? He said he wished to speak with me this morning. He was rather terse about it last night. Done in from his long day, no doubt. I suppose he wishes to lay out the parameters for when and where on the vessel he’ll allow me to set up my camera.” He washed down the scone with a generous sip of coffee. “You needn’t worry, my lady. I’m the soul of discretion. You’ll hardly know I’m here, yet when we return home, I’ll present you with a record of your travels to treasure the rest of your life.”
Julia’s lips twitched into a tight smile. “I’m confident of that, Mr. Mowbry.” Again, Phoebe noted that she didn’t answer the question about whether Gil was awake. While Sir Hugh and Miss Townsend discussed the weather and the odds of smooth or choppy seas, Julia appeared to be studying Curtis Mowbry intently. Her brow furrowed. Suddenly, she said, “I meant to ask you yesterday, but in all the activity I simply forgot. You seem rather familiar. Have we met previously?”
“I don’t believe so, Lady Annondale. Although I’ve little doubt I might have photographed an event you attended.”
“Yes, yes . . .” Julia’s scrutiny lasted another moment before she looked away. “That must be it.”
She abruptly rose from the table and went to stare out one of the windows facing over the port side. Sky and water blended into a single tone of silvery blue, with a slightly darker line marking the horizon. When she lingered there, Phoebe went to join her. “Why don’t you come back to the hotel with me?”
“Why would I do that?” Julia replied absently.
“Because one could cut the tension here with a knife. Stay with the family until Gil turns up.” She moved closer and lowered her voice even more. “Let him come to you and make amends.”
“How do you know any of this is Gil’s fault?” Julia spoke in a monotone, thoroughly devoid of emotion. “Perhaps it’s mine.”
The pantry door swung open, and an elderly man in a dark suit, whom Phoebe recognized as Gil’s valet, came into the room. His face was pale and waxy, as if he had just suffered a fright. “My lady,” he said with a tremor in his voice, “there is cause for concern.”
Julia turned away from the window. “What is it, Collins?” She gasped, and her hand flew to her bosom.
Phoebe’s heart jolted as she realized what the valet carried—Gil’s prosthetic leg, its leather straps and buckles dangling.
“It was in the viscount’s dressing room. His crutches are missing. He would not have left the Georgiana in such a state. It is quite time to summon the police.”
* * *
“Did I understand you correctly, Lady Annondale? You said your husband left the vessel without his leg?” Police Sergeant Davis, as he had introduced himself, looked as though he were about to break into laughter; at least Eva judged as much by the bulging of his cheeks and the compression of his lips.
“You heard what her ladyship said,” she admonished him. “The visc
ount wears a prosthetic from the knee down. He lost his leg two decades ago, serving in the Boer Wars. It is no laughing matter, sir.”
They were in the small sitting room off the main saloon, where Viscount Annondale displayed his service medals and commendations as well as his yachting trophies. Eva hadn’t previously been here, and now her surroundings reinforced Miss Blair’s assertion that the viscount could not have simply fallen overboard—not if these awards and recognitions were worth the gilt gleaming proudly from within their frames.
The sergeant cleared his throat. “Forgive me, my lady. Your statement took me unawares, is all. No disrespect intended. Now, you say you last saw the viscount around 1:00 this morning?”
“Yes.”
“And where precisely was that?”
“Here, on the Georgiana. In our stateroom.”
“I see.” He jotted a note in his tablet. “What happened after that? Did you retire for the evening?”
“Gil—that is, my husband—left the stateroom.”
“And went where?”
Lady Julia sighed impatiently. “That’s just it. I don’t know.”
“Did he say anything when he left?”
Eva could see Lady Julia’s composure being chipped away with each question. Her color rose, and she fidgeted with the embroidered edge of her Chanel tunic. Eva also noticed she kept her wounded palm facing downward at all times. She set her own hand over Lady Julia’s jittery one, and it immediately stilled.
“He didn’t tell me where he was going, if that’s what you mean,” she said. “I assumed he was going out on deck for some air.”
“I see.”
“But perhaps he went into Cowes,” Lady Julia suggested.
“We’re looking into the possibility.” Sergeant Davis shifted his sights to Eva. “Do you have anything to add to Lady Annondale’s statement?”
“I’m here only at Lady Annondale’s request, for support.”
“I take it you’re her maid?”
“No, I serve her sisters. I was in Cowes last night.”
“So then you’ve nothing to add?” The man eyed her expectantly.
Eva’s insides froze. To say no would be a lie; to say yes and have to explain Lady Julia’s pounding on the hotel room door last night . . . Why, it might lead to the wrong impression. That perhaps Lady Julia somehow was to blame for her husband’s disappearance.
But that was ridiculous. No one had cried foul play. Eva was allowing her imagination to run away with her, basing present circumstances on past occurrences....
“What Eva isn’t telling you, Sergeant, is that last night my husband and I argued before he left our stateroom. And afterward, I had the deck steward row me ashore, where I went to speak with my sisters. Eva was there.”
“You and the viscount argued?” Sergeant Davis acquired a sudden interest that hadn’t appeared nearly so acute moments ago. “About what?”
Lady Julia’s fingers tightened around Eva’s hand. “It seems my husband was under the mistaken impression that our wedding photographer had been flirting with me.”
The policeman’s eyebrows surged. “And had he been?”
“Not to my knowledge.” Lady Julia pulled up indignantly.
“And to yours?” He shot this question at Eva.
“I . . . em . . . that is to say, it’s not my place to judge. I’m merely on hand to serve my ladies.”
“That didn’t answer the question, Miss . . . ?”
“Huntford,” she supplied and hoped he would end this line of questioning. Her hopes were dashed.
“Did you detect any flirtations between the photographer and Lady Annondale?”
“Certainly not on Lady Annondale’s part,” she replied truthfully. Beside her, Lady Julia stiffened. When the sergeant tapped his pencil and continued staring Eva down, she realized he would not relent until she answered the question. “As for the photographer, he did seem a bit preoccupied with posing her ladyship just so. He perhaps spent a bit more time with her than the others. But isn’t that natural, sir? She was the bride, after all.”
“Hmmm . . .”
After a knock on the door, another policeman poked his head in. “Sergeant, I think you’d better come and see this.”
Sergeant Davis looked annoyed. “I’ll be there presently.” He addressed Lady Julia again. “I have one more question, for now. Lady Annondale, what happened to your hand?”
* * *
The moment the sitting room door opened, Phoebe jumped up from the sofa in the saloon. The sergeant came out first and spoke to the constable who had just gone in to tell him something. She had tried to hear what it was, but their murmurs had been too quiet. They strode past her, and then Eva and Julia came out, looking grim. She jumped up and hurried over to them.
“What happened?”
“He asked me a lot of questions,” Julia said unhelpfully. She kept walking, and so did Eva.
“Where are you going?” Phoebe fell into step with them. “Where are they going?”
Julia sped her steps to keep up with the officers, who were now out on deck. “We’ll find out when we get there.”
They had not stopped to retrieve their coats, and a rigid wind hit them full on their faces and penetrated Phoebe’s wool and velvet-trimmed suit as they made their way outside. The door opened again behind them, and Miss Blair followed them out. Julia looked as though she were about to protest but gave a slight shake of her head and kept going. They rounded the main cabin to the port side. Far ahead now, the two men proceeded toward the stern. Another constable awaited them there, in the shadow of a lifeboat suspended from its hooks and cables.
Phoebe’s sense of foreboding grew with each step she took. The three policemen grouped themselves into a semicircle, seeming fascinated by something on the gunwale.
“Well, Sergeant, what have your men found?” Julia spoke with impatient authority, but Phoebe recognized bravado when she heard it.
Sergeant Davis’s mouth formed a severe line. “It looks like blood, my lady. Here.” He pointed to the railing. “And here.” He gestured at the deck.
“What on earth?” Julia rushed forward, only to stop short. At her feet, a dark stain marred the teak decking. Likewise, the same color splattered the railing. “It can’t be blood.”
Sergeant Davis tugged his cap lower over his brow. “Can’t it, my lady?”
Her head snapped up. “I . . . don’t know. Are you saying my husband might have met with an accident?”
“I’m saying any number of things, my lady. It could be your husband’s blood. It could be from a member of the crew.” He stared at Julia a moment, until his gaze dropped to her injured hand. Phoebe’s stomach gathered into a ball of misgiving, and she guessed at his next words. She was not incorrect. “What happened to your ladyship’s hand? I asked you inside, but you never answered me.”
Phoebe stepped up beside Julia and slipped her arm through hers. She derived comfort from Eva’s presence behind them and hoped Julia did, too. But it was Miss Blair who spoke next.
“I shall inquire, but I’m not aware of any member of the crew having injured him or herself since we boarded yesterday.”
“Yes, please do inquire, Miss Blair,” the man said, but rather perfunctorily, as if he didn’t expect results from that quarter. He returned his scrutiny to Julia.
“I cut my hand on a piece of broken mirror,” she said with a lift of her chin.
“And how did this mirror come to be broken, my lady?”
“It . . . fell from the wall. In our stateroom.”
The sergeant let a moment pass as he weighed this answer, then asked, “And how did this happen?”
Julia let out a huff, and Phoebe pressed a cautioning hand on her forearm. Julia said, “From the vibration of the door closing. Obviously, it hadn’t been hung very securely.”
“Oh, I doubt that very much, my lady,” Miss Blair said. “I personally supervised the refurbishing of the Georgiana when she was decommissioned
after the war. I assure you, everything was—and is—tip-top.”
Julia whirled to face her. “Haven’t you some inquiring to do with the crew?”
The corners of Miss Blair’s lips tilted upward. She gave a nod and turned on her heel.
“Can you show me this mirror, my lady?”
Julia hesitated, then nodded. “This way, Sergeant.”
Inside, Phoebe, Eva, and several members of the crew, including the yacht’s captain, were ushered into the dining room to await the sergeant’s and Julia’s return. No one spoke much, and not at all about what might have happened to Gil. The sergeant and Julia came in some ten minutes later, Julia looking pale and he looking bleak. Without a word, Julia took a seat across from Phoebe but didn’t meet her gaze.
Sir Hugh, Veronica Townsend, and Miss Blair also came in, followed by Curtis Mowbry, who had left his camera behind this time. He wore a puzzled expression but, without a word, crossed to lean against the sideboard.
The sergeant cleared his throat. “Did any one of you see Viscount Annondale without his prosthetic leg last night?”
Around the table, heads shook.
“My lady,” he continued, “the very last time you saw your husband, he was walking on two legs?”
She answered without hesitation. “Most assuredly.”
“Have any of you ever known the viscount to leave the vessel on his crutches?”
Again, heads shook.
The captain, his face covered in a heavy growth of beard, spoke up. “Lord Annondale is particular about not being seen without his leg. A matter of pride, it is. Only a most urgent matter would get him out from below deck on his crutches.”
The sergeant digested this information. “I’ve heard he’s an accomplished seaman, despite his disadvantage.”
“That’s right,” the captain agreed. “Never need to waste a moment’s worry about the viscount. If he thinks the seas are too rough for him, he stays within. Otherwise, he’s as sure of his footing as you or I.”
“He hasn’t been as well as usual, though.” This came from Sir Hugh. “Isn’t that so, Veronica?”
“A bit of a chest cold.” She compressed her lips, then said, “Another reason I thought this yachting honeymoon a daft idea. Sea air might be beneficial to the lungs, but really, dirty weather of this sort doesn’t do anyone a lick of good.”
A Murderous Marriage Page 8