A Murderous Marriage

by Alyssa Maxwell

  He opened his mouth to reply, then shut it. His eyes growing small and hard, he studied her, and she guessed he was weighing his odds of getting away with a lie. She smiled slightly—not a friendly smile but one that assured him she was more than used to his antics. He blew out a breath. “All right, yes. Someone has to look after you, don’t they? What were you and Sir Hugh talking about?”

  She decided not to dignify his first question with an answer and replied to the second. “Nothing that concerns you. If you follow me again, I’ll go right to Grampapa. Do you understand me?”

  She turned on her heel, but this time Fox reached out to stop her. “It does concern me, Phoebe. You know it does. You and Sir Hugh were deep in it—whatever it was. He’s been up to something that involves Julia, and I’ve a right to know what.”

  “Actually, whatever he’s been up to might have nothing at all to do with Julia.” Did she believe that? She wasn’t sure, but then again, anything that put Gil in danger also endangered her sister. She had wished to tell Eva about the conversation earlier, but there hadn’t been time, and now she had disappeared somewhere.

  Poor Fox was still blaming himself for Julia’s predicament. It distressed her to see him this way: agitated, uncertain, desperate to do . . . something. Just as she felt, and certainly he was just as frustrated.

  Tugging the lapel of his coat, she pulled him along into the nearby library. The reassuring scents of books and their leather bindings surrounded her, steadying her nerves. She took a good look around before she spoke, even leaning to see into the wingback chairs in the corners. “Good. It’s empty. Yes, Hugh and Gil were up to something that involved them with the wrong sort of people. He didn’t so much as tell me that, but I was able to surmise it for myself.”

  “Then go to the police.”

  “I can’t. I’ve got no proof, and he won’t talk to them.”

  “Not even to save Julia?” His voice rose nearly a full octave and cracked, something he had yet to outgrow, especially during times of stress.

  “At this point, Sir Hugh seems interested only in saving himself.”

  “Then call Owen. If anyone can find out the information, he can.” In his vehemence, he didn’t seem to notice that he’d clutched her hand in a decidedly uncharacteristic gesture. Then their physical contact apparently dawned on him, and he released her, as though she were something slimy and cold.

  Phoebe smiled, earnestly this time. “That’s exactly what I intend to do if you’d let me get on with it. Not that Owen doesn’t have his own concerns just now.”

  “Well . . . none of them can be as pressing as getting Julia out of jail. You’ll keep me informed of what he finds out, won’t you?”

  “I shouldn’t.”

  “Go on, Phoebe, don’t be like that. You know I want Julia released.”

  “Yes, I know. But I don’t want you involved.”

  “I can keep an eye on people.” He grew visibly in height; Phoebe noticed he stood slightly on his toes. “On Sir Hugh. And Ernest. I don’t trust him.”

  “You’ve made that perfectly clear.”

  Julia had said Miss Blair had called the meeting with the solicitor, but she might have done so at Ernest’s urging. Was he impatient to speed along his inheritance? Of course he was not to be trusted, but then, neither were several others—like Sir Hugh. But at this precise moment, Phoebe’s concern was for Fox and his obsession with blaming himself for Julia’s arrest, and for the very real possibility he might take it into his daft adolescent head to personally do something to remedy the situation. She’d seen that spark in his eye before. Typically, it preceded some nasty prank he intended playing on her or her sisters, and right now she’d far rather that than have him go off half-cocked and get himself hurt.

  If she couldn’t dissuade him of his self-blame, then perhaps she had better give him some occupation to keep him busy but safe. Bad enough Julia languished in a jail cell, with a murder trial hanging over her head. She didn’t think poor Grampapa could weather any further misfortune befalling his grandchildren, especially his heir.

  She resisted the temptation to tousle his hair, which in the past year had darkened from wheat blond to a shade bordering on russet gold, rather like her own. To do so wouldn’t please him one bit. She gave a decisive nod instead. “All right, Foxwood. Your job is to keep your eyes and ears open. But only inside this hotel. You are not to set foot outside to follow anyone, nor walk into a situation where you would be alone with them. Merely watch and listen. Make a note of who you see talking with whom. Anything beyond that, and I go straight to . . . to Grams.” She had almost said Grampapa yet on second thought had decided Grams would pose the greater threat to keep Fox in line.

  “I can go out to the terrace, can’t I?”

  She tried not to laugh but only just succeeded. How like him, always testing his boundaries. “Yes, I suppose the terrace can be allowed.” A figure passing by the doorway of the library caught her eye. “And now I’ve got things to do,” she said and hurried away.

  * * *

  “Hullo, Mr. Mowbry. How have you been keeping yourself occupied?” Eva stood behind the empty wicker chair opposite the one occupied by the photographer, and hoped he didn’t notice her effort to catch her breath after hurrying after him. His long legs were pulled up in front of him, and a stack of papers sat on his lap. The portfolio she’d seen him carrying leaned on the floor beside him, propped against the leg of his chair. He’d thrown his topcoat over the arm of the chair beside him and balanced his bowler on top of it.

  He looked up at her, at first blankly, then with a pleased expression. “Miss Huntford. Do sit.” He gestured at the empty seat, as she had known he would. She came around and lowered herself into it and leaned slightly forward. The stack on his lap, she now saw, was not papers at all but photographs.

  “What’s that you’ve got there? Are they from the wedding?”

  “Yes, as a matter of fact. I was able to use a darkroom at a local studio in town. I’ve been looking through them, searching for . . . Oh, I don’t know. I had a silly notion I might find a clue that could help Lady Annondale.”

  “Is that where you were coming from when I saw you cross the lobby just now?”

  He nodded absently, his gaze focused on the top photo. Then he turned the pile so the photographs faced her.

  The topmost was of Lady Julia on the church grounds, standing alone against the backdrop of cherry blossoms and blooming white hawthorn. She wasn’t looking at the camera but at some point beyond, into her future perhaps. She looked lovely and unaware that anything bad could happen to her. The angle of the lens spoke of a soft caress, renewing that sense in Eva that Mr. Mowbry’s photographs had somehow crossed an intimate line.

  He whisked the photo aside to reveal the next. This shot included Lord Annondale, yet all the focus again remained, inexplicably, on Julia. In a third picture, Phoebe and Amelia stood on either side of Julia, yet she might have been alone in the frame.

  Could a total stranger have captured her so entirely, as if he possessed her? Eva darted a glance up at him. He didn’t meet her gaze and seemed unaware that her focus had shifted.

  “I can’t help but wonder, Mr. Mowbry, how you came to be a photographer.”

  He paused while lighting a cigarette and held out the case to her in offering. She shook her head. “I learned the trade from an uncle of mine. Then, when I joined up and they discovered I knew my way around a tripod, I was assigned as an official military photographer.”

  “I didn’t know there was such a thing,” she said in surprise.

  “Oh, yes. Not that there weren’t also journalists running about, but my job was to keep official visual records, not to mention taking propaganda photos meant to reassure those back home the allies were winning, and to inspire young men to enlist.” He drew deeply on his cigarette. “The difference between the former and the latter is bloody chilling.” With a wince, he gritted his teeth. “Sorry, Miss Huntford. Excuse my lang
uage.”

  “No matter. How long were you there? On the Continent, I mean?”

  “I came home in early ’eighteen. The influenza, you know. And once I’d recovered, I was reassigned to a unit on home turf. Quite a relief it was, not having to go back.”

  “You were lucky.” She reached for several more photos and pretended to scan through them. “You’re very good at what you do, Mr. Mowbry. Why, it’s almost as if you knew Lady Annondale previously, the way you instinctively find her best angles.” She chose a photo randomly and held it up. “Or have you met previously?”

  “Have we met?” he repeated.

  Eva glanced at him over the photo and nodded.

  He took a drag off the cigarette and released a long, slow stream of smoke. “Well, not formally. I’m hired at the kinds of social events people like Lady Annondale attend. And, of course, I know of her—and the entire Renshaw family—by reputation.”

  “Yes, of course.” He sounded perfectly reasonable, and this would explain Lady Julia’s sense of recognition. “Odd thing, though. She feels almost certain she knows you.”

  “Does she?”

  “She does.”

  “Well, as I said, it could have been at any number of social events.”

  “Hmm . . . So then, have you found anything?”

  “Anything?”

  “Yes, in your pictures. Any clue that might help Lady Annondale?”

  “Er, no, not yet. Here.” With one hand, he dug some photos out from the bottom of the pile and passed them to her. “These are from the Georgiana. One supposes if there is anything, it will show up in these photos.”

  She shuffled through them and sighed. “They seem straightforward enough, don’t they?”

  “I’m afraid so.” He puffed on the cigarette and flicked the ash into the ashtray beside him.

  “Might I borrow these for a little while?” she asked on impulse. “I’m a second pair of eyes, a fresh pair, and perhaps if I studied them closely, I might notice something you haven’t. I promise I’ll be very careful with them.”

  “Of course you may. And don’t worry. They’re just prints. I have the negatives safely tucked away.” He leaned and tapped the portfolio beside him. When he straightened, he flinched slightly, just enough for Eva to notice.

  “Are you hurt, Mr. Mowbry?”

  “An old war wound,” he said with a wry chuckle. “Unfortunately, being a military photographer doesn’t exempt one from the occasional bullet or bit of shrapnel.”

  “I’m sorry to hear it.” She knew better than to dwell on it or show him the slightest emotion that might be interpreted as pity. He wouldn’t thank her for it; none of the men who’d come home permanently impaired welcomed anyone’s pity. They wanted only to be treated like whole men.

  She handed him back the photos from the church and then straightened the pile of those she intended to hold on to for the time being. She hadn’t the faintest idea what she might be looking for, but if nothing else, if she had more questions for Mr. Mowbry, returning the photos to him would provide her with the opportunity. He had explained his familiarity with Lady Julia, and thus her sense of familiarity with him, easily enough. Still . . . something about it made her wary.

  She gathered the photos to her bosom and stood. “Well, then, I’ll return these to you later.”

  “Tomorrow will be fine.” He slipped the remaining photographs into the portfolio and slid out a large envelope. Then he stood, as well. “Here. You can put them in this.” He handed her the envelope. “Perhaps we might meet for lunch tomorrow, and you may return them to me then.”

  Startled by the suggestion, Eva stammered a moment before finding her tongue. “I’d be happy to lunch with you tomorrow. I’ll be with Lady Annondale’s maid, Hetta. Have you met her?” Thank goodness for Hetta, she thought, for she had no desire to share a meal privately with any man other than Miles Brannock. If only he were here . . .

  “I believe I did. I’ll walk with you, Miss Huntford. I’m going up for now, as well.”

  When they’d entered the lift, the operator, his hand on the control lever, started the ascent with a jolt that shook the car. Eva reached out for the wall to steady herself. Mr. Mowbry stumbled, and when he righted himself, she glimpsed a trace of pain across his features. Her heart went out to him, as it did to so many veterans of the Great War whose injuries had yet to truly heal.

  * * *

  Phoebe used the hotel’s public phone to put her telephone call through to Owen, then waited in the lobby for the operator to make the connections through the exchange. It took some twenty minutes, but finally, the concierge came to tell her the call had gone through.

  She took a deep breath and lifted the earpiece. “Owen, I’m sorry to bother you.”

  “Phoebe, darling, it’s no bother. I’ve tried calling there, but I haven’t been able to get through. The exchanges have all been clogged. And no wonder.”

  “You’ve heard, then.”

  “Yes. Most of England has heard. I’m sorry to have to tell you that.”

  “Don’t be.” She switched the receiver to her other ear and leaned—or rather sagged—against the wall beside her. “I suppose I expected as much, but everything has happened so fast, it’s all such a horrible blur.”

  “How is Julia?”

  “Pretending to be strong. Terrified. And . . .”

  “Yes? And what?”

  “Owen, she’s blaming herself for Gil’s death. Not that she caused it directly, mind you, but she believes if she hadn’t married him, none of this would have happened.”

  “What the devil put that notion into her head?” He sounded almost angry.

  “Her guilt over marrying him. It was for his money—she admits as much. But, Owen, even that wasn’t her fault. She thought she had to.” Phoebe paused to steel herself for words of betrayal, but this was Owen, and if she couldn’t speak the truth with him, then she had no business contemplating a future with this man. “Grams has drilled it into her for years that she must marry for the good of Foxwood Hall, and that’s exactly what she did. Now she believes the fates or cosmic forces or what have you have conspired to serve up justice against her.”

  “Good God. Poor Julia. Look, I’ll leave this afternoon. I can be there by tonight, probably.”

  “That’s not why I rang you up. I need you to look into something. I had a chat with Sir Hugh earlier, and while he refused to offer any details, I’m fairly certain he and Gil had gotten mixed up with the wrong sort of people. They may have killed Gil and might still be after Hugh.”

  “Why doesn’t he go to the police?”

  She couldn’t help a brief laugh at hearing this question yet again. “Because I think he’s afraid of landing in prison himself.”

  “Ah. So he’s no innocent.”

  “Nor was Gil. After Hugh said what he did, he seemed very sorry to have mentioned it.”

  “He’d let Julia . . .”

  “Hang,” she said, finishing for him, and he swore under his breath. “Owen, we need your help—”

  “You needn’t say another word, other than to tell me exactly what you and he discussed.”

  CHAPTER 17

  Phoebe repeated the conversation she’d had with Hugh Fitzallen, including his denial that he had been on the Georgiana the night before last. When she had finished, Owen said, “Before the war, Gil’s manufacturing plants were producing automobile engines exclusively. During the war, he diversified into aeroplane engines.”

  “Could the root of their trouble be connected to the war?”

  “It wouldn’t surprise me. Price manipulations, political favors, illegal business dealings. In supplying the military with much-needed resources, Gil would have had the upper hand in demanding just about anything he wanted. Not to mention, during the war, and even before, there were gangs popping up in every major city in England, especially the industrial ones. Gil could have gotten mixed up somehow with one of them.”

  “But the war is
over. Why should any of that matter now?”

  “Europe isn’t settled, not by a long shot.”

  “What do you mean?”

  He paused, and she could almost see him shaking his head. “It isn’t common knowledge, but no one particularly won this war. Yes, technically we did, along with our allies, and now we’re sticking it to the Germans. What we’re really doing is stomping them underfoot . . . and making them angry. The same imbalances that existed before the war still exist now, and they’re festering . . .”

  “You’re frightening me, Owen.”

  “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to. I’m simply being truthful. These gangs I spoke of, some of them are political, at least in the scope of their dealings, not that they care in the end who does what as long as they profit. We’re talking about the nastiest sort of individuals. I really wish . . .”

  “Yes, but you know I’m not going to stop.”

  “I know. I’ll look into this and let you know what I find out, if anything. And don’t be surprised if I show up on your doorstep. I should never have left you there alone.”

  “I’m not alone. I’ve got my family and Eva with me. But I’ve got to go now. Something odd happened this morning. Gil’s solicitor arrived, supposedly for the reading of the will. Except there was no reading, because Gil made recent changes dependent upon whether or not Julia bears a child. An heir. The will is not to be read until we know for certain.”

  “Is it possible?”

  “Yes.”

  He made a low whistle.

  “And that sheds possible guilt on his sister, his cousin Ernest, and even his personal secretary, Mildred Blair. Seems Gil included her in his bequests, but her inheritance is dependent upon whether Julia produces a new heir, as is his sister, Veronica’s. The question remains whether any or all of them knew about the changes.”

  “And I suppose it’s your job to find out.”

  She recognized his tone of resigned acceptance and smiled, though he couldn’t see her. “That’s right, and that’s why I need to ring off. I have questions for the whole lot of them.”