A Murderous Marriage

by Alyssa Maxwell

  “I’m terribly sorry,” the detective inspector was saying.

  Julia finally awakened from her trancelike state. “It’s all right. Grams, Grampapa, you mustn’t worry. Let the police do as they must. Eventually, they’ll discover the truth.” She hesitated, regarding her hand, and then tugged the glittering wedding ring from her finger. After pressing it into Grams’s palm, she met Detective Inspector Lewis’s gaze. “Shall we? There is no point in lingering any further.”

  “Julia, my darling girl.” Easing away from Amelia, Grampapa caught Julia’s shoulders and drew her to him. The overhead light flashed on the twin tracks of moisture scoring his cheeks, and a sob rose in Phoebe’s throat. Julia leaned into his chest, her cheek against his collar, and allowed him to enfold her for several seconds. Then she pulled away and straightened, kissed his and Grams’s cheeks, touched Amelia’s hair and Fox’s shoulder, traded a glance with Phoebe, and crossed the lobby to the street door.

  CHAPTER 8

  Phoebe watched, helpless, as her grandfather took several unsteady steps to follow Julia, his hand reaching out as if to stop her from leaving. Slowly, the arm descended to his side, and he simply stood, watching as the street door closed and blocked out the sight of Julia being assisted into the police vehicle.

  Grams went to him. “She’ll be all right, Archibald. The police will realize what a monstrous mistake they’ve made and will let her go.”

  “Good God, Maude, what if they don’t? What if . . .” His hand rose to his heart. Alarmed, Phoebe went to flank his other side.

  “You mustn’t worry. We all know Julia isn’t capable of—” She broke off before saying murder. They must not say it, especially not in Grampapa’s hearing. Behind her, Amelia sobbed quietly. Fox was still uncharacteristically silent. The entire lobby, too, had gone quiet as looks of pity surrounded the family. She resisted the temptation to tell them all to mind their business. “Come. Why don’t we all go upstairs?” she suggested, gently turning Grampapa away from the street door. She looked around until she found Eva. “Where is Hetta?”

  “I’ve no idea.” Like the rest of them, Eva was leached of color, and her voice was flat. “I’d have thought she was upstairs with your sister. I haven’t seen her in quite a long while.”

  “We haven’t seen her, either,” Grams said with a puzzled frown, which deepened as she, too, glanced around the lobby. Several of their onlookers flinched at Grams’s cold, blade-sharp gaze. “Phoebe’s right. Let’s go upstairs. Fox, Amelia, come along.”

  The five of them, along with Eva, piled back into the lift. The operator didn’t ask for their floor; he already knew where they were staying. He merely worked the lever to set the lift in motion. When he steadied the car and opened the door for them, Phoebe didn’t exit with her family.

  Eva hovered uncertainly beside her. “My lady?”

  From the corridor, four faces turned to her in confusion.

  Grams spoke first. “Phoebe, what are you doing? Come out of the lift.”

  “I need to speak to Julia.”

  “You can’t.” Grams took a step toward her but stopped before reentering the car. “You cannot go there, to the . . .” She trailed off, looking alarmed.

  “I have to, Grams.” She turned to her grandfather. “You know I have to. We can’t just leave this to the police, or you know what can happen. I don’t mean to upset you, and—”

  “Phoebe, come out of that car this instant,” Grams commanded in the tone that brooked no argument. “Eva, you too.”

  Eva didn’t move, but even without looking at her, Phoebe sensed her indecision.

  It was Grampapa who settled the matter. He pressed a palm to Phoebe’s cheek and said, “Go help your sister, and bring Eva with you.”

  It took some time for the desk clerk to summon a taxicab for them, and when it arrived, Phoebe gave the driver the address at Mill Hill and Birmingham Roads. The Cowes Police Station took up the entire corner, with entrances on both roads. She and Eva paused outside on the pavement, working up their courage, and then, with Phoebe leading, strode up the steps and in through the main entrance. There Phoebe’s bluster dissipated, not because she lost her nerve, but because Julia was still being taken into custody and could not yet have visitors.

  Taken into custody. The term made her feel ill. She and Eva took seats side by side on a wooden bench facing the main desk. She considered the irony of both their hotel and the police station having a front desk, of there being accommodations inside for those spending the night. She and her family and all the others at the hotel could leave anytime they liked. Not so Julia. There would be bars holding her in, and cement floors and walls and—

  How would her sister bear it?

  She slipped her hand into Eva’s and held on tight.

  The door leading into the station’s main room opened, and a constable beckoned to them. “Lady Phoebe, you may come in now.”

  She and Eva stood, and the man held out the flat of his hand. “Only one of you at a time.”

  “But . . .” Phoebe knew no argument could change police policy. With a nod at Eva, she followed the bobby along a series of corridors until they reached a locked and gated door. The clank of the man’s keys turning in the lock sent chills racing down her spine, and another shiver racked her as he locked the door behind them. She steeled herself for the sight of Julia—beautiful Julia—in a barred cell, but to her relief, the officer led her into a bare, utilitarian room that held a rectangular table and several hard wooden chairs.

  “Your sister will be along shortly. Make yourself comfortable.” With that, he left her. She sat, or rather perched, at the edge of one of the chairs. Making herself comfortable wasn’t possible; the very notion was ludicrous.

  She scanned the room, looking for ways in which she might be observed, but the walls appeared solid enough. She wondered whether Julia would be handcuffed or, worse, shackled. Did they do that to suspects within the police station? Would they do that to the Viscountess Annondale?

  The door opened abruptly, and Julia came in. To Phoebe’s vast relief, she bore no restraints of any kind and still wore the black ensemble of earlier today. The officer who brought her said, “Ten minutes,” and left them alone.

  “Phoebe, what on earth are you doing here?” Julia sat facing her. “Have you lost your mind, coming to a place like this? Supposing there had been reporters outside?” Her eyes widened. “Were there?”

  “Not that I noticed. But of course I’m here, Julia. I want to help you.”

  “It isn’t a good idea, not this time.” She shrugged a shoulder in her habitual way. “You’ll only be dragged down with me. Go home, Phoebe. And by home, I mean Little Barlow, not here. Take the rest of the family with you.”

  “Julia, we’re not going anywhere. We’re going to help you whether you like it or not.” Phoebe rested her forearms on the table and leaned farther forward. “Now, when you left the Georgiana last night, do you remember seeing anyone on deck other than a crew member? One of your guests perhaps?”

  “No, there was no one but the deck steward and his assistant, at least not that I saw. Who knows? Hugh might have been up somewhere or Veronica or even Miss Blair. Who can say? Phoebe, leave it alone. I’m innocent, and the police will confirm that.”

  “As the police would have confirmed that Vernon was innocent of Henry’s murder a year ago Christmas? What if I had left well enough alone then? An innocent man would have hanged.” The moment the words left her lips, she wished to recall them. Julia stiffened as if she’d been struck across the cheek. “Julia, I’m sorry . . .”

  She was treated to another shrug. “Do you think they would hang me? Just think of the scandal. The Earl of Wroxly’s granddaughter. My, it would sell heaps of newspapers.”

  “Don’t talk like that,” Phoebe said with a growing sense of horror. “Don’t make jokes.”

  Julia nonetheless laughed softly. “Isn’t it the biggest joke of all? Good heavens, who’d have thought my weddin
g would lead me here? I should have seen disaster coming, I suppose.”

  Tears burned the backs of Phoebe’s eyes, and she blinked furiously to prevent them falling. “What are you talking about?”

  “I should never have married Gil. You were right. You and Eva and Amelia. I didn’t love him. It all seemed so convenient and temporary, a way to have my cake and eventually eat it, too. It was wrong of me, and now I’m forced to pay the piper. There’s rather a poetic elegance to it all, isn’t there?” She sat back, looking infuriatingly calm, almost serene. Phoebe wanted to grab her by the shoulders and shake sense into her.

  “Stop it, Julia. You’re in serious trouble, and you must take it seriously.”

  “But I am, little sister. I cannot imagine anything more serious.” Her voice wavered, and suddenly Julia’s mask of composure slipped, revealing pure terror in her dark blue eyes—eyes that had typically held a practiced indifference since their father died. Now her beautiful features contorted.

  “Then please let me help you,” Phoebe pleaded. “Tell me everything about yesterday and last night. Gil’s sister was angry with him about this wedding. More than angry. She was furious.”

  “Yes, Veronica’s never taken a liking to me.” Julia sighed, all signs of desperation gone as quickly as they had come.

  “And Gil and Sir Hugh had some kind of argument, which Eva overheard, and—”

  “Oh, Phoebe, you’re always on the alert—you and Eva.” She shook her head sadly. “I don’t deserve your efforts. I’ve been positively swinish toward you these past several years.”

  “That doesn’t matter.”

  “There’s where you are wrong.” Julia smiled as though they were having an ordinary conversation over tea. “It all matters. Everything I’ve done, said, thought. I haven’t been the best of individuals. The universe has its ways of bringing things into balance.”

  Phoebe dropped her head between her hands and tugged at her hair. “What are you saying?”

  “I’m saying, go home and leave this to fate. I’ll be fine. You’ll see.” She came to her feet, signaling an end to Phoebe’s visit.

  Phoebe sprang out of her chair. “I’m not giving up on you.”

  She hurried around the table and caught Julia in her arms. For a long moment Julia’s arms remained at her sides. Then, slowly, they rose to embrace Phoebe, but all too briefly. Julia went to the door and knocked twice. It opened, and the same police officer who had brought her now led her away.

  Phoebe called after her, “I’ll have Hetta bring some of your things. We’ll have you out soon, I promise.”

  With tears in her eyes, she followed another man in uniform, whose image blurred as he brought her back out to Eva.

  * * *

  “So then, we begin with Veronica Townsend and Mildred Blair,” Lady Phoebe said when she and Eva returned to the hotel.

  After checking on Lord and Lady Wroxly, they’d gone to Lady Phoebe’s room to make plans. Amelia had soon joined them, and while Phoebe had looked as though she wished to send her younger sister elsewhere, she had forgone doing so. Instead she had admonished Amelia to be quiet and had sworn her to secrecy. Eva doubted the former would last long, but she had every confidence Amelia would adhere to the latter.

  “I’ll never forgive Miss Blair for insinuating the mirror could not have fallen off the wall when Gil stormed from the stateroom,” Lady Phoebe said. “The police believe Julia tore it down in a rage and threw it at Gil and then later pushed him overboard. And as for Veronica Townsend, she was clearly incensed by this wedding. At the time I overheard her conversation with her friend, I didn’t know whom she resented more, Julia or Gil.”

  “Maybe Miss Blair said what she did because she’s guilty,” Amelia suggested, earning her a look of rebuke from her sister. Eva smiled inwardly. She had known it wouldn’t be long before the youngest Renshaw sister decided to air her opinions. Still, she shook her head.

  “What would Miss Blair stand to gain from Lord Annondale’s death?” Any way Eva looked at it, she could find no benefit to Miss Blair from the viscount’s death. “Even if she and Lord Annondale were—” She broke off, about to say, “Having an affair,” as Lady Julia suspected, but not liking to in front of young Amelia. Lady Phoebe obviously caught her meaning, however, for she compressed her lips and nodded sagely.

  Perhaps Miss Blair had become so angry about the marriage, she’d argued with the viscount and things had turned violent. But that wasn’t something Eva cared to discuss in front of a sixteen-year-old girl. She went on, “Lord Annondale employed Miss Blair and, by all appearances, allowed her quite a lot of freedom in how she performed her duties. What will she do now?”

  “Perhaps that’s something we need to find out.” Lady Phoebe unhooked the gold bracelet around her wrist and set it on the night table between the beds. “Just because something isn’t obvious doesn’t mean it’s nonexistent. She might be entirely innocent, but I don’t believe for a moment that things happen on that yacht without her knowing about them. Mark my words, she has information.”

  “But how to get it from her?” Eva was all too eager to clear Lady Julia’s name. She and Lady Phoebe had worked well together in the past, with Lady Phoebe poking around among her set—the toffs, as Eva’s father called them—and Eva probing belowstairs. Now she feared their plans would go awry without a modification or two. “My lady, I have an idea. For some reason, Miss Blair seems to detest me.”

  “That’s rather a strong sentiment,” Lady Amelia pointed out.

  Eva explained, “Nonetheless, Miss Blair took an immediate dislike to both Hetta and me. She clearly considers us her inferiors, and I doubt very much she’ll even speak to me, much less confide. On the other hand, my lady, you might encounter a similar problem with Miss Townsend, who expressed an aversion to your sister and might transfer those sentiments to you, as a family member. I believe we’ll have better results if you approach Miss Blair and I ingratiate myself to Miss Townsend.”

  Phoebe grinned. “Eva, that’s brilliant. You’re right. Veronica Townsend was so bitter toward Julia, it’s quite possible she’d treat me in kind. But you . . . If you were to offer her both your services and your sympathetic ear, she might open up.” She shook her head slowly, obviously deep in thought. “Miss Blair is puzzling. I don’t so much mind her entertaining lofty ideas about herself. That speaks of ambition and self-esteem, both good things, in my opinion, though some of her behavior would give Grams the vapors. But I must say I do not like her looking down her nose at her peers and fellow service staff. It’s arrogance at its worst, and it tells of a selfish nature. There is something about her . . .”

  “Which makes her suspicious,” Amelia concluded with a satisfied air. “I still say you should consider her.”

  “Let’s not go jumping to conclusions and assigning blame randomly,” Phoebe warned her. “That’s what happened to Julia.”

  Amelia’s expression fell, and she bent her head to study the counterpane on her bed.

  “And let us not forget these ladies are merely a beginning.” Eva stood and crossed to the bathroom, where she leaned over the tub to turn on the taps. Lady Phoebe had been inside a jailhouse—a jailhouse—for heaven’s sake. She would want to cleanse away all traces of the experience and change into fresh clothing. Eva went back into the main room and opened the armoire. She took out an evening frock and laid it across the foot of Phoebe’s bed. “There is also Sir Hugh and whatever matter he and Lord Annondale had argued over during the reception.”

  “And Ernest Shelton,” Lady Phoebe reminded her. “Gil acted abominably toward him, and I believe it wasn’t the first time. Ernest is Gil’s cousin and heir, and a man with a respectable profession. Yet Gil treated him as if he were some sort of half-witted buffoon.”

  “It was horrid,” Amelia agreed. “It embarrassed me no end, so I can only imagine how Mr. Shelton felt. Though he did recover nicely and was quite charming with us afterward, wasn’t he, Phoebe?”

&
nbsp; Lady Phoebe nodded, but with a pensive look. “Still, he stood to lose a lot because of this marriage, namely, the inheritance he’d been counting on these many years. The prospect of Julia producing a new heir can’t have been a welcome one.”

  Eva counted on her fingers. “That throws suspicion on three people who were on board the Georgiana last night. Miss Townsend, Sir Hugh Fitzallen, and Ernest Shelton. In my opinion, Miss Blair is most likely innocent, but she might know something that could help your sister. Who else need we consider?”

  “What about the photographer?” Lady Phoebe cocked her head to the side. “He was on board last night. Though I can’t imagine why he should wish to murder Gil.”

  “Curtis Mowbry.” Eva perched beside Phoebe’s evening frock and traced her fingertip along the beaded neckline. “If you had asked me this morning, I’d have said I could imagine a reason.”

  “His flirtation with Julia,” Amelia said more sagely than her years should have allowed. “But surely he must know he could never be with a woman like Julia. Gil might have been jealous, but that doesn’t mean anything more would have come of it.”

  “Yet his attentions did seem awfully excessive at times,” Phoebe said.

  Amelia shook her head. “He’s probably that way with everyone. You know how artists are.”

  “You seem to have changed your mind about the man, Eva.” Phoebe removed her earrings and placed them beside her bracelet.

  “I sat with him in the lobby just before the police . . .” Once again, Eva trailed off, not liking to speak of Lady Julia’s arrest. “Anyway, he spoke of his work in artistic terms, about symmetry and perfection, and I realized it wasn’t your sister who enthralled him, but rather her potential as a photographic subject. He compared her to some mountains behind a lake in Canada.”

  “Then again, perhaps Gil confronted Mr. Mowbry and they fought, and Mr. Mowbry pushed him overboard—even accidentally.” Amelia’s suggestion came with rather too much enthusiasm for Eva’s liking, but then she turned serious. “You realize, there is one more person we haven’t considered.”