A Murderous Marriage

by Alyssa Maxwell

  “Yes, it is.” She gave a sniff and squared her shoulders to let this man know she didn’t appreciate his sarcasm, and neither would she allow him to intimidate her. “I asked my sister, Lady Annondale, if she was certain of her choice in marrying Lord Annondale. And she assured me she was.”

  The man’s scrutiny shifted to Amelia. “Did you share your sister’s concerns for Lady Annondale’s decision?”

  Amelia raised her chin and peered down her nose at him, looking much like Grams when she wished to put some impertinent individual in his or her place. “Of course I did. What loving sister wouldn’t be concerned? One wants to be assured that one’s elder sister is going to be happy, and once the marriage has taken place, well, what’s done is done. We wished for Julia to have one last chance to change her mind, if she so wished.” The detective inspector opened his mouth to comment, but Amelia interrupted him. “As it happened, she did not wish to call off the wedding.”

  Admiration swelled in Phoebe. However delicate Amelia often seemed, she could summon the pluck of a lioness when she needed to.

  Detective Inspector Lewis hadn’t finished with them. “Didn’t your sister make a reference to her new husband not living much longer?”

  Amelia’s hand tightened until Phoebe’s fingers throbbed. Phoebe replied, “Julia is much younger than Gil—Lord Annondale. Of course she would anticipate outliving him.”

  “Yes, but did she not seem to imply the viscount would not live much longer?”

  “She implied no such thing.” Amelia’s voice rose in anger and left off on a wavering note. She swallowed and continued more quietly. “It was exactly as Phoebe just said. Julia simply knew she would likely outlive her husband. It’s a perfectly rational conclusion to draw, under the circumstances.”

  “Is it?” He compressed his lips, his eyes once more going narrow and shrewd. “And what exactly did you say to your sister, Lady Amelia? What realization did you make concerning your sister’s motive for marrying the Viscount Annondale?”

  “I . . . I don’t understand.”

  “Oh, I think you do, Lady Amelia.”

  Amelia’s trembling passed into Phoebe through their clasped hands. Phoebe firmed her grip, hoping to steady her younger sister, wishing she could reply for her. Even lie, if she must. But she knew the man sitting before them wouldn’t allow it. Every aspect of his being forbade anything but the truth, because he already knew the answer. He had heard it from the waitress.

  Blast and damn.

  “I . . . I . . .” Amelia continued to sputter, perplexity turning her face feverishly red.

  Phoebe couldn’t endure it another moment. “Tell him, Amellie. Just tell him the truth. It’s no good trying to hide anything, and indeed, there is nothing worth hiding. Julia is innocent of all blame in Gil’s death, as the police will soon discover.”

  Amelia turned to her, her face filled with such wretchedness Phoebe’s heart turned over. Amelia nodded and turned back to the detective inspector. “I realized, and I said, that Julia was marrying Gil for his money, so that after he passed away, she might marry as she chose.”

  Detective Inspector Lewis appeared to weigh this for an interminable moment, then asked, “And whom would she choose?”

  “Theo Leighton, Marquess of Allerton,” Amelia whispered miserably, and Phoebe felt as if a door had just slammed shut upon her family, trapping them in darkness.

  * * *

  The sight that greeted Eva in the hotel lobby heightened her sense of impending disaster. Besides Miss Tansley, who now occupied a settee, along with another woman in a service uniform, Eva recognized several of the yacht crew and staff, each of whom looked grim and avoided meeting her gaze. Apparently, Sergeant Davis had sent them over from the Georgiana for further questioning. Mildred Blair was among them, not sitting but standing at attention near the front desk, scanning the room at intervals and obviously missing no detail. As if someone had put her in charge and bade her make sure no one made their escape. She wondered if everyone present, Miss Blair especially, had already been questioned. No doubt they had. And no doubt Miss Blair had had plenty to say.

  With a sinking stomach, she also wondered what Miss Blair might have overheard between Lord and Lady Annondale last night. The woman seemed to have a knack for being in the right place at the wrong time, as if she had a sixth sense for trouble.

  She thought to approach Miss Blair and try to discover what kinds of questions the police had asked her, but then the photographer, too, caught her eye. Though she had exchanged few words with him thus far, she surmised she would find out more from him than she ever would from Mildred Blair. With a breath to steel her and banish the last of the light-headedness that had nearly overtaken her outside, she strolled as casually as her slightly trembling legs would convey her.

  Curtis Mowbry sat alone at the corner of a settee near a potted plant, smoking a cigarette. At Eva’s approach, he flicked the ash into the ashtray on the table beside him, stood, and greeted her politely.

  Eva gestured to the unoccupied side of the sofa. “May I, Mr. Mowbry?”

  “Please do.” He sat and then shifted slightly to make more room for her. “Are you waiting to be questioned, too?”

  “No, actually. No one has sent for me.” She settled beside him. Even sitting, he towered over her. “I suppose it’s because I wasn’t on the yacht when the—” She hesitated for a fraction of an instant and hoped he hadn’t noticed. “Accident occurred.”

  “Nor were some of the others here.” He gestured across the lobby with his chin. “That woman there—I’m told she’s on the waitstaff at the Squadron. And those over there . . .” He used the same method to point out four individuals, three men and a woman, whom Eva vaguely recognized. “They’re also from the Squadron. They were part of the catering team that supplied and served the food on the yacht.”

  Of course. She had passed them when she trekked through the galley yesterday. She felt a rising sense of alarm. “I wonder why they were called. They weren’t on board last night, were they?”

  Mr. Mowbry leaned to stub out his cigarette. “No, they’d all left by then. Apparently, the police wish to hear from everyone who came in contact at all with Lord and Lady Annondale. That’s why I was questioned.”

  “Oh, you already were.” Eva’s pulse raced with eagerness. “What did they want to know?”

  “I don’t know.” He shrugged one substantial shoulder. “Something about how the couple seemed to me. How they were behaving toward each other.” He gave a light laugh. “I told them quite frankly that when I’m working, I don’t notice such things. I see only through my camera lens—light and shadow, form, angles, and how they meld to form the whole. It’s all that matters to me.”

  “I see. And they asked nothing about last night, after the guests left?”

  “Actually, they did. Took me aback, really. How on earth am I supposed to know what Lord and Lady Annondale were doing after the guests left? As if it’s any of my business. It was their honeymoon night, for goodness’ sake. Besides, my quarters are a deck below theirs.”

  “So what did you do once the Georgiana quieted down?”

  He hesitated, taking her measure. “You ask a lot of questions, Miss Huntford.”

  “Sorry. It’s just all so distressing. Poor Lady Annondale, married and widowed in the same day. It seems so outlandish, like a dreadful novel.”

  “You’re Lady Annondale’s maid, yes?”

  “No, at least not anymore. I serve her younger sisters now. Her new maid is called Hetta.”

  He nodded and said dreamily, “She’s very beautiful, Lady Annondale.”

  “Yes, she is.” Her reply came out harsher than she’d intended, but his observation had brought back those queer sensations from yesterday, when Eva felt as though she were intruding on an illicit intimacy. And Lord Annondale had wished to fire Mr. Mowbry. He’d been jealous....

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that to be impertinent,” he said, as if having rea
d her mind. “I spoke purely as a professional. Lady Annondale possesses a singular symmetry to her face that begs to be photographed. I’m quite sure it’s nothing the average person would see, but when you deal with so many faces on a daily basis, you become aware of the subtleties of perfection, and how rare it is. I’ve experienced the same wonder photographing nature, as well. Have you ever heard of Lake Louise in Canada?”

  Puzzled, Eva shook her head.

  “It’s a magnificent spot in the Rocky Mountains. The lake itself is a startling emerald green, but it’s the mountains behind the lake, two massive peaks that form an almost perfectly symmetrical frame for the setting, that leave me in awe. It’s quite astounding. Miraculous, really.”

  Eva found she could do nothing but stare at him as his zeal filled her as though it were catching.

  He grinned broadly. “You think I’m balmy, don’t you?”

  “Not at all.” Whatever anger she had felt toward him melted away. She saw his attentions toward Lady Julia yesterday in a whole new light, not the reverence of a man beguiled by a woman, but by his subject, his art. “I think you’re enthusiastic in a way most people wish they could be. I think you love your work. And that makes you very lucky.”

  “Sometimes, very much so. Other times, I tear my hair out trying to get a decent shot. Like most of us, I work for a living, Miss Huntford, and if that means struggling to find the good side of a group of dour, prune-faced aristocrats at an event none of them wish to be attending, so be it.”

  Eva laughed. “I’m sure it can’t be that bad.”

  “You’d be surprised.” He fished in his coat pocket for his cigarette case and offered her a cigarette. When she shook her head no, he took one for himself and lit it. “You’re concerned about Lady Annondale, aren’t you?”

  “Concerned is putting it lightly.”

  He turned away to blow out a puff of smoke. “You don’t think she could have anything to do with her husband’s death, do you?”

  “Certainly not.” Again, she spoke more sharply than she’d intended, but he had struck an ominous chord. Lady Julia had come banging at her sisters’ door in the middle of the night, claiming she had seen a side to Gilbert Townsend she didn’t believe she could live with. Eva had never seen her so distraught, her self-assurance more shattered. Yet, within minutes, Lady Annondale had rediscovered her resolve and her determination to make her marriage work. By the time she had left to return to the yacht, the old Julia had reasserted herself, and though Eva had continued to worry about her, she had trusted that Lady Julia would, indeed, find a way to repair the damage with her husband.

  Had she been wrong? Deceived? Had Lady Julia’s calm façade hidden a desperation that led to . . . to . . .

  No. Violence could never be Lady Julia’s way. She was too civilized, too decent. Many people saw her as Lord Wroxly’s spoiled, selfish granddaughter, but Eva knew her better. The face she showed the world consisted of bravado and self-preservation. Deep at her core, where it mattered most, Julia Renshaw was a kind, compassionate individual.

  She shook her head. More composedly, she said, “Lady Annondale made it quite clear she was committed to this marriage. If some malevolence befell Lord Annondale, it was by a hand other than hers. Of that I am certain, Mr. Mowbry.”

  He held her gaze. “I believe you. I believe hers is a beauty that goes deeper than the flesh, rendering her incapable of wrongdoing.”

  Eva’s heart twisted. “You see that, too, Mr. Mowbry.”

  He seemed about to answer when a voice boomed through the lobby, silencing the quiet conversations.

  “You may all leave the hotel now and return to your own lodgings. Those of you who work on the Georgiana, you may return there.” The detective inspector stood at the entrance to the corridor that led to the hotel’s private offices. “However, none of you may leave Cowes until you are instructed that you may do so.”

  “What’s happening?” Eva murmured to no one in particular, gripped by a sense that something had changed, or was about to change, something both significant and horrible. Something in Mr. Lewis’s voice had made her insides run hot and then icy cold. Those assembled rose to their feet amid renewed conversation, including speculation about what the police had concluded. Mr. Lewis strode to the nearest lift.

  Mr. Mowbry crushed the butt of his cigarette in the ashtray. “I wonder if they’ve discovered something.”

  “Aren’t you leaving along with the rest?” Eva asked him, surprised he hadn’t followed the others outside.

  “I’m staying here rather than on the yacht. Miss Blair was able to secure me a room.”

  “I see . . .” Her gaze remained riveted on the lift door through which Detective Inspector Lewis had disappeared. She felt frozen to the settee, dreading his return and afraid to allow a thought to form about where he went, though she believed she knew.

  She noticed Miss Blair had also remained at her vantage point beside the main desk, and now she whispered a few words to the clerk, a man with small eyes and thin features, whose slicked hair gleamed excessively with tonic.

  Eva’s attention swerved sharply as Lady Phoebe and Lady Amelia emerged from the same corridor through which the detective inspector had entered the lobby. They looked pale, shaken. Phoebe spotted Eva and crossed the distance to her, Amelia at her heels. Eva stood as they approached her.

  “You were questioned,” she said rather than asked.

  They nodded.

  Phoebe said tightly, “He came at us relentlessly.”

  “If only I were capable of lying.” Amelia dabbed at her eyes with the back of her hand.

  Phoebe put an arm around her. “It would have done no good. Lying would only have made everything worse.”

  “Beastly man.” Amelia sniffled. “What do you suppose he’ll do next?”

  Before Eva could comment, the lift dinged, and the attendant opened the door and stepped out. The detective inspector came next and paused, waiting. Her nerves stretched taut, Eva craned her neck to see who might exit the car next. A foot came into view.

  A foot clad in buff kidskin, with a T-strap and a French heel. Lady Julia, her head high, her expression carefully indifferent, walked out of the lift with all the dignity of a queen. She was closely followed by Lord and Lady Wroxly and Viscount Foxwood.

  * * *

  After taking Amelia’s hand, Phoebe hurried across the lobby to her family. A nightmarish quality took hold of her, and a little voice inside her insisted this could not be happening. And yet it quite clearly was, though, thank goodness, she saw no sign of handcuffs or other restraints. The indignity would have been too much to bear for all of them. The detective inspector was speaking to Grampapa, whose eyes swam with tears, while Grams protested quietly but nonetheless adamantly. Julia stood staring straight ahead, as if present circumstances had nothing to do with her. And Fox . . .

  Fox looked as though he had been struck across the face. Not only had he broken out in an angry rash, his eyes glistened and his mouth hung open, as if he couldn’t quite catch his breath. Phoebe had never seen him like this. At least not since . . . since they’d gotten word three years ago that Papa had died.

  Amelia went straight to Grampapa’s side and took hold of his arm. Her eyes filled with tears as she fixed her gaze on Detective Inspector Lewis.

  Phoebe went to Julia. “What’s happening?”

  “Is it not obvious? The inspector here has drawn his conclusions, and I am to be charged.”

  Despite having already reached this conclusion, Phoebe felt as though a cement weight had been dropped on her heart. “He can’t be serious.”

  Julia emitted a small laugh. “He believes that when Gil and I argued, I broke the mirror in a rage and then went after Gil to push him overboard.” She fell silent, clutching the handle of her handbag with both hands, the bandage on one a glaring testament to her supposed guilt.

  “But the blood on the deck railing could have been Gil’s.”

  “They didn�
�t find a stab wound on the body,” Julia murmured between her clenched teeth.

  “This is absurd,” Grams was saying. She darted a glance around the lobby. Despite the absence of most of those who had been questioned, there were still a few hotel guests, not to mention wedding guests, lingering. Watching and listening. Grams flushed a color that rivaled Fox’s rash. But she went on speaking, as though undaunted. “She is our granddaughter. Her father, our son, was a war hero. She has never run afoul of the law in her life. Surely you cannot mean to—”

  “I’m sorry, Lady Wroxly, but I’ve no choice. Lady Annondale had plenty of motive, according to multiple sources, not to mention opportunity.”

  Plenty of motive. Phoebe wanted to scream her protests. Amelia fell to weeping against Grampapa’s shoulder, no doubt blaming herself for what she had been forced to reveal.

  “Release her into my recognizance, then.” Grampapa patted one of Amelia’s hands as he spoke, though Phoebe wasn’t sure who needed comforting more. Watching her grandfather felt akin to watching a ticking bomb, for she feared that at any moment dismay might cause him to collapse.

  Detective Inspector Lewis shook his dark head. “I can’t do that, either, my lord. Not in a murder case.”

  Grams took hold of the detective inspector’s upper arm and forcibly turned him to face her. “Do you hear yourself, young man? Murder? Lady Julia Renshaw—Viscountess Annondale? She married Gil Townsend of her own free will. She would not then turn around and . . . and . . . do what you’re suggesting she did.”

  Married Gil of her own free will. If only that were true, Phoebe thought desperately. If only there hadn’t been so many mitigating circumstances that drove Julia into this marriage. If only Grams had shown patience and put Julia’s needs first.

  No. Phoebe halted those thoughts. This wasn’t Grams’s fault, either. At least not deliberately. If Grams had pushed Julia toward marriage, it was because the changing world frightened her, because she saw her way of life slipping away and she herself didn’t know how to adapt. In her way, Grams was just as vulnerable as Grampapa, with his vicarious health. And she was just as distraught.