A Murderous Marriage

by Alyssa Maxwell

  Fox was right. One might suppose his tyrant of a cousin’s death had been the cause of Ernest’s newfound assurance, but then again, so could having gotten away with murder. An unaccounted-for detail remained, however, and Phoebe decided she had nothing to lose discussing it with her brother.

  “The blood on the railing is what convinced the police of Julia’s guilt. Since there was no wound of that sort on Gil’s body, they’ve deduced the source of the blood must have been his killer.”

  “Ernest might have just such a gash beneath his sleeve or somewhere.”

  “I don’t like to think it.”

  “You like to think it was Julia, then?”

  She raised her gaze to his to find it razor sharp with censure. “Of course I don’t. But I also don’t want to jump to conclusions in an effort to prove Julia’s innocence, and neither should you. We’re talking about lives here, Fox. Lives that can easily be destroyed. We can’t sacrifice one for another.”

  “I can,” he said so simply and readily Phoebe’s blood turned cold.

  She shook her head. “You only say that because you blame yourself for what’s happened.”

  “Rightly so.”

  “No, Fox. It wasn’t you. It was—” She stopped herself just in time from blaming their grandmother. Doing so wouldn’t help Fox make peace with himself or the circumstances the family found themselves in. She said, truthfully, “No one is to blame. Julia did what she thought she must do for herself and for all of us. Now we must do what we can for her. That is all.”

  She waited for some indication that he believed her, but none came. He stared down at his feet, frowning, his thoughts hidden from her. She wanted to shake him, as she often wished to shake everyone in her family, though if she were truthful, she supposed they often wished to shake her, as well.

  Nothing she could do or say would change his mind, for now. Fox must come to an understanding of these events on his own, and until then he would continue to blame and berate himself. That made her sad, while at the same time it strengthened her resolve to find the truth. Only one cure existed for this family’s woes: having Julia back among them.

  * * *

  Eva dropped several coins, given to her by Lady Phoebe for this purpose, into the calloused palm of the boatman they’d found at the end of the pier. Phoebe seemed completely at ease as she settled into the small boat. Eva, on the other hand, entertained serious reservations about this man. Decades of salt and sea had scored his face, while his toil at the oars of his skiff had left his back hunched and his legs stiff, resulting in an unsteady wobble when he walked. Or was that the consequence of the sharp spirits she smelled on his breath?

  Upon seeing the abrasion on Miss Townsend’s arm, Eva had realized they must return to the Georgiana yet again—the third time today. Lady Phoebe had agreed when Eva had told her about it. They must search all the staterooms for signs of blood, including the main one where Lady Julia had cut her hand.

  Of course, she hadn’t meant that they should go now, in the near middle of the night, and a dark night at that. Heavy clouds blanketed the stars, with the moon merely a wisp of light peeping out at random intervals. At least the wind was down and the waves were subdued. Eva nonetheless clutched her stomach as the boatman pushed away from the pier, and breathed in deeply to offset the rolling of the little craft over the swells.

  Lady Phoebe tapped the wooden seat beside her impatiently, a sound that grated on Eva’s nerves no matter how she tried to ignore it. Really, she had meant for them to go in the morning, but as soon as she and her mistress had compared their evening experiences, Phoebe had insisted they go immediately.

  Eva kept her eyes on the boatman, willing him to stay true to their course and not tip them into the next swell. A small reassurance came in the wavering reflections of the lights and the voices skittling over the water from other vessels. It might be late in her view, but vacationing yachters would be up for hours yet, enjoying their pâté and champagne and midnight suppers. She darted a gaze at the Georgiana, hoping its crew were not similarly engaged. It appeared not to be the case. But for the dim lanterns glowing every few yards along the main deck, all lay as dark as a ghost ship. The night deck steward would be making his rounds, and they hoped to avoid him. Hence traveling in a quiet rowboat and not a motor craft. If they did encounter him, they’d say they were once more there on behalf of Lady Julia, and Lady Phoebe would use her position to convince him to let them get on with their task.

  The boatman drew them up alongside the ladder on the starboard side, and for a moment Eva was filled with indignation that her lady should have to climb aboard like a common sailor. But what else had she expected? If she had wanted ease of boarding, they should have wired ahead of their arrival.

  Lady Phoebe showed no such qualms when it came to hitching her skirts and grabbing hold of the wooden rungs. Once assured of her lady’s balance, Eva turned to the boatman.

  “Wait here. Do not leave.”

  He stared blankly back at her.

  “Do you understand?”

  In lieu of a reply, he reached under the oilcloth heaped at his feet and drew out a bottle. With his thumb, he popped off the cork and settled back with a generous swig.

  Eva heaved a frustrated sigh. “Don’t get drunk and pass out, or you’ll forfeit the rest of your payment.”

  He shrugged.

  She turned away to climb the ladder, the drawstring bag she had brought thumping against her hip. Lady Phoebe had already reached the deck and now helped Eva over the side. They stood motionless and silent for a moment, listening for voices, footsteps, anything to alert them to the approach of the deck steward. Hearing nothing but the waves and the occasional burst of laughter from another boat, they headed inside, then made their way to the lower level.

  “This way,” Lady Phoebe said unnecessarily and entered the first stateroom they came to. Here Eva drew the electric torch out of her bag and switched it on.

  “We would have been able to see better in the daylight, my lady,” she couldn’t help pointing out.

  “We’ve already run the risk that these cabins have been scrubbed clean, in which case our coming will be of no help to Julia.” Lady Phoebe took the torch from Eva and shined it all around the room and then moved into the bathroom. “This is obviously Veronica’s room, and I detect no traces of blood anywhere.”

  They moved on, entering Sir Hugh’s stateroom next and then what appeared to be Miss Blair’s, with the same results. Lady Phoebe expressed her disappointment. “I had so hoped we might be able to shed doubt on Julia’s guilt, but I see nothing here. And I realize I’ve no idea where Curtis Mowbry’s berth might be.”

  “He mentioned it was a deck below the viscount’s, which would place it among those of the crew.”

  “And we can’t go down there, not now. All right, then, let’s take another look at Gil and Julia’s stateroom.”

  Once there, Lady Phoebe pointed the torch at the bloodstained area rug where the mirror had fallen and Lady Julia had cut her hand.

  Eva crouched. “There’s more blood there.” She pointed to dried droplets making a thin trail to the dresser, where the mirror’s frame and shards of glass rested.

  Lady Phoebe crouched beside her, then sat back on her haunches. “It looks to me as though Julia did most of her bleeding right here. I doubt she was unable to staunch the flow when she bandaged her wrist. Whoever left that blood on the deck rail had been freshly wounded, probably by Gil during their struggle. The only question remains, What did Gil use?”

  “If he had a weapon with him, it shows that he went outside knowing he would meet someone, rather than simply going for a walk, and that he felt the need to protect himself.” Eva shined the torch around the room. “Your sister might know if Lord Annondale kept weapons on board.”

  They helped each other to their feet. Then Lady Phoebe went still, her eyes widening and her mouth slowly opening. “The letter opener.”

  “My lady?”
r />   “Remember earlier, when we went through Gil’s office and I found the sealed invitations?”

  Eva nodded.

  Lady Phoebe continued. “I looked for a letter opener, but there wasn’t one. I wonder . . .”

  “Would a letter opener be sharp enough to cut flesh?”

  Lady Phoebe shrugged. “Possibly. Julia might know.”

  “Then I suggest we get back to Cowes, my lady, and go and see your sister first thing in the morning. We can tell the police of our findings.”

  “Do you think they’ll listen?” Lady Phoebe’s tone implied this was not so much a question as a statement. If the police refused to take them seriously, what hope for Lady Julia?

  “I cannot say. In the meantime, my lady, we should let the deck steward know we’re here and instruct him not to let anyone clean this room. We must convince the police to come back.”

  Lady Phoebe nodded.

  In the passageway, they didn’t bother masking their footsteps or their voices, yet when they emerged onto the deck, they detected no sign of the steward.

  “Let’s walk around,” Lady Phoebe suggested, indicating the port side. But they found no one there, either. “Do you suppose he retired for the night?”

  “Highly unlikely. He’d be sacked should he be caught. Then again, with the viscount gone, protocol is sure to be lax. Perhaps we should go below again and wake someone. It’s important the evidence we found not be disturbed.”

  “I only hope whomever we awaken doesn’t take us for a pair of thieves or pirates.” Lady Phoebe laughed nervously. They came around to the starboard side again, and she went to the railing and gazed down. “Eva, our boat is gone.”

  Eva hurried over and found herself gazing down into the black and quite empty waves. “Why on earth would he have left us, the fool? Oh, I knew going with him was a very bad idea, my lady. He was drunk and getting drunker.”

  “Perhaps he’ll be back. Perhaps he remembered something he needed to do back onshore.”

  Eva didn’t have the heart to express her thoughts about that possibility. “I think we’d better wake a crew member and wire over to the island for another boat. Embarrassing as that will be.”

  Lady Phoebe murmured her agreement. They started to turn away, but Lady Phoebe looked out over the water again and clutched the rail. “Look, someone is coming this way. Is it him?”

  Eva moved back beside her and attempted to make out the black outlines of the craft sliding noiselessly through the water. The type of craft was similar to theirs, but not quite. “I don’t think so. But whoever it is does seem to be coming to the Georgiana.” Her nape prickled a warning, and she grasped Lady Phoebe’s arm. “I think we should not be here on deck when they arrive. Let’s go back inside.”

  “And do what? Hide?”

  “Exactly that, until we know who it is.”

  * * *

  Phoebe refused to go farther than the main saloon, where she posted herself at a window. If someone climbed the ladder, she would see them before they saw her. But she wondered if they were being overcautious. “Perhaps one of the crew went ashore and is returning.”

  Eva shook her head. “I don’t think so. Whoever is in that boat out there is being too quiet, just as we were, though, I doubt their intentions are as honorable as ours.”

  “I doubt it, too.” A ripple of fear went through her, and she wished she had listened to Eva’s suggestion that they wait till morning and come here openly—and perhaps with a policeman in tow.

  “We should move elsewhere, my lady. We’re too vulnerable here.”

  “We’re fine,” Phoebe whispered back. “If we need to, we can make our way from here through to the aft section and exit back out to the deck. But shush. Whoever has arrived should reach the top of the ladder any moment.”

  “I don’t like this,” Eva murmured back.

  They waited for some minutes, and no one came scrambling over the side. They lingered another moment to be sure, but no one came.

  “That’s odd. I’m going for a look.” She started to move to the door, but Eva seized her wrist ungently.

  “I’ll go. Please stay here.”

  “Eva—” Too late, Eva hurried out the saloon door. Phoebe was left alone for less than a minute before the door reopened quietly and Eva slipped back in.

  “It’s most strange. There is a rowboat quite like the one we came in, except it’s not ours. There’s a man on board, and he appears simply to be waiting.”

  “For who? You needn’t answer that.” A sense of alarm grew. “Eva, someone else must be here—someone who shouldn’t be. I’ll wager whoever it is was dropped off earlier, before we came, and is now preparing to leave.”

  “And might pass through this very room on their way out.” Eva’s face mirrored Phoebe’s growing apprehension. They instinctively grasped hands. “We can’t just stand here like sitting ducks.”

  “But where to go? Whoever it is could be anywhere on board, could come from any direction.”

  The sound of a door swinging open and closed came from inside the dining room, and Phoebe realized someone had come up the service stairs from the galley. Her heart thudding, she tugged Eva toward the passageway where the main stairs were located. In the dark, the toe of her boot slammed into the leg of a table secured to the floor, and pain surged through her foot and up into her leg. She only just stifled a yelp, but not the thud of her stumbling gait.

  They pushed into the passageway, but they were not safe. Footsteps advanced across the saloon in their direction. “The stairs,” Eva hissed, and down they went again, releasing their grip on each other to use the hand railing to keep from falling. The footsteps continued their pursuit. Phoebe and Eva paused in the passageway at the bottom of the steps.

  Phoebe pressed her hands to her thighs as she leaned over to catch her breath. “Perhaps it’s merely the steward.”

  “The steward would have said something, demanded to know who we were.”

  “Right. Which way, then?” Phoebe made another snap decision. “Back into the stateroom.”

  They scrambled inside, but when Eva would have shut the door and flipped the lock, Phoebe shook her head. She went to the dresser and lifted the mirror’s frame. She needed two hands to support its weight, especially when she raised it high above her head. She positioned herself beside the open door. Eva did likewise on the other side, holding her torch aloft. If someone tried to accost them, he or she would receive a double trouncing.

  Phoebe sucked a breath into her lungs and held it. When a hulking shadow moved across the threshold, she steadied her trembling arms beneath the solid weight of the frame and prepared to thrust it downward onto the individual’s head.

  When she would have struck, a burst of light seared her eyes and rendered her blind. She stumbled beneath the weight of the frame, swung sightlessly downward, and then felt herself shoved backward, off her feet, and onto the floor on her back.

  “Got you!” a man’s gruff voice shouted.

  The overhead lights flashed on, and Phoebe, blinking and still half blind, groaned as she rolled from her back onto her side, and pushed upright on her hands.

  The voice spoke again, expressing no small amount of shock. “What the bloody blazes . . . ?”

  The figure of a man in a dark blue uniform with nautical epaulets and insignia wavered in front of Phoebe as she continued to blink away her befuddlement. He held a kind of club or constable’s nightstick, though his uniform and cap declared him part of the Georgiana’s crew and not of the Cowes police force. Behind him, Eva came forward, the torch raised. She swung it down on the man’s shoulder with a sharp thwack, and he cried out in pain.

  He spun around to confront his attacker, his own club raised to strike. Before he did, he must have made sense of the situation, for instead of striking, he let out a complaint. “What you’d go and do that for? And who the blazes are you?”

  “I’m Eva Huntford, and that’s what you get for knocking my lady off her fee
t, you swine.”

  “Well, what’s your lady doing on my boat and in the middle of the night?”

  Rather than answer, Eva pushed past him and helped Phoebe up. The man watched them with a perplexed expression that drew his snowy-white eyebrows together and caused his equally cottony mustache to twitch. His right hand rubbed at his left shoulder.

  Phoebe established her balance and released her hold on Eva. “I’m sorry to give you such a fright, sir. Are you all right?”

  Eva, she noticed, exhibited no such concern for the poor man but continued to stare him down with all the censure of a fiercely loyal lady’s maid.

  “I suppose I am,” he replied grudgingly. “But you’re not who I thought you’d be. I was following a man. How’d you two get here? Never mind. I might still get ’im.”

  He took off at a run, and Phoebe and Eva followed him up the main stairs and back to the saloon, and from there outside. He went to the railing and gazed out over the water. Phoebe and Eva flanked him.

  “Blast. He’s gotten away.”

  Phoebe curled her hands around the railing and craned her neck. “Eva, light the torch. Perhaps we can make out who it is.”

  Eva did as instructed, but the beam of light skimmed weakly across the tops of the waves and revealed nothing about the skiff or its occupants. Soon, they disappeared into the darkness, even as the splash and drip of their oars faded to silence.

  The crewman—or deck steward, as Phoebe now identified him—pushed away from the railing and turned. “Blast and damn.”

  “Watch your language,” Eva said sharply. She switched off the torch.

  “Who was he?” Phoebe asked.

  The steward shook his head. “Caught him prowling in the viscount’s office. Pushed past me rough like, knocked me down, but I was up and after him in no time. Followed him through the galley and up to the dining room. The next thing I know, it’s you two I’m after, and no sign of the bloke.”

  Phoebe exchanged a puzzled glance with Eva, then to the night steward said, “He must have come out through the saloon. That’s when we ran to the main stairs and went below. We thought it was him chasing us.”