A Murderous Marriage

by Alyssa Maxwell

  “And a certain young lady, if my eyes didn’t deceive me during the wedding.”

  “No, Hugh, your eyes didn’t deceive you.”

  “Well, I haven’t seen her yet this morning.”

  No, Phoebe thought. That was because she’d waited until Sir Hugh had become absorbed in some article or other before pulling her hat low and darting out to the table where she now sat.

  Sir Hugh gestured to the seat across from him and bade Owen to join him.

  Owen shook his head. “Not just now. There’s something I’d like to discuss with you. Privately.”

  “Sounds serious. Something to do with . . . well . . . with what happened?”

  “Not directly, no. Walk with me, Hugh.”

  Phoebe ducked behind her newspaper as Sir Hugh came uncertainly to his feet. She listened for their steps, which proceeded toward the stairway leading down to the roadway and the beach. Once she judged them to be near the bottom, she followed. On the pavement running parallel to the road, she fell into step beside them.

  “Good morning, gentlemen.”

  Hugh turned toward her with a start. “Lady Phoebe, good morning. Er . . . not to be rude, but I believe there is something Owen would like to discuss with me.”

  “Indeed yes,” she replied brightly. “We’d both like to speak with you. But not here. Let’s keep going until we reach the green.”

  “What is this about? I don’t appreciate being hoodwinked, you know. I’ve a mind to turn around and go back.” Sir Hugh dragged his feet.

  “I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” Owen told him. He continued strolling as though merely out for a pleasant morning walk along the seaside. “I’m prepared to help you if I can. However, if you won’t cooperate with us, you’ll sink on your own.”

  “You’re not making any sense.”

  “Don’t worry, Sir Hugh,” Phoebe said. She slipped her arm through Owen’s. “You’ll understand everything presently.” Along the Egypt Esplanade, they turned in at the park and tramped up the path to a secluded bench surrounded by trailing willows. “This will do.”

  “You two had better explain yourselves.”

  “Calm yourself, Hugh.” With Phoebe sitting to Hugh’s right, Owen flanked his other side. “And tell us what you know about the German Plot.”

  Hugh emitted a grunt and started to rise. Owen pressed him back down with a hand on his shoulder. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Come, Sir Hugh, you can do better than that.” Phoebe smiled sweetly. “Even I’ve heard of the German Plot. So don’t pretend ignorance.”

  “What I meant,” the man said after clearing his throat, “is I don’t know any more than the average person. I was in Ireland at the time, yes, but that doesn’t mean—”

  “Again, you can do better than that.” Owen took a stern tone. “I have it on good authority that you and Gil Townsend were very much in favor of punishing the so-called perpetrators.”

  “What of it? Traitors deserve to be punished.”

  “Very true.” Owen paused, his eyes narrow and assessing. Phoebe saw the anger behind them, the growing storm Owen was keeping at bay. “When there are traitors. But there weren’t, and I believe you were well aware of the fact. But you and the others used it to dispose of an inconvenience, namely, Irish opposition.”

  “That’s not true. Those men were no innocents. They—”

  “They might not have been innocent in the eyes of the British government, but they were not guilty of conspiring with the Germans, because no such plot ever existed. Now, in the midst of all that trouble and deception, something else interesting happened. Something involving an arsenal outside of Dublin.”

  Sir Hugh fell to coughing, and after a moment Owen pounded on his back. That only seemed to make Sir Hugh sputter more violently. Phoebe reached over and stilled Owen’s hand, and finally Sir Hugh’s ragged breathing subsided.

  “I’d say that struck a chord,” Owen wryly observed.

  “Why don’t you tell us what happened?” Phoebe encouraged in a gentle voice meant to counter Owen’s more severe manner.

  Sir Hugh stared across the empty park and shook his head. “You’ve no idea what you’re dealing with.”

  “I think we do,” Owen assured him. “We believe whoever else was mixed up in the theft probably murdered Gil and will come for you next. Staying silent won’t help you. Surely you must know that.”

  Still shaking his head, Sir Hugh released a long sigh. “You don’t understand. We rerouted that consignment from the thugs it was originally intended for. If we hadn’t, it might have been all-out war in Dublin, like the Easter Rising, but much, much worse.”

  “How selfless of you.” Owen scoffed, his upper lip curling. “Here’s what I believe happened. You double-crossed your Irish partners and then used the German Plot to get rid of them. That way you and Gil were able to keep all the profits for yourselves.”

  “That’s not true.”

  Owen ignored the protest. “But perhaps you didn’t get rid of everybody involved, and now one of them has popped up, intent on revenge. Or justice, from his perspective.”

  “You’ve no right making these accusations. You weren’t there. You don’t know.” Sir Hugh’s hands were shaking. He looked and sounded like a man backed into a corner. “I tell you, things might have gone much worse.”

  “Where did you send the weapons?” Phoebe touched his forearm as she spoke. Hugh gazed down at her hand and patted it once in a gesture so much like her grandfather’s she felt a tug at her heartstrings.

  But Sir Hugh didn’t deserve her sympathy, not for what he’d done in the past, nor for his determination now to allow Julia to pay for his misdeeds. Yet she saw beside her a broken man who finally perceived the end of the life he had been trying hard to preserve, for right or wrong. She knew something about that: she had seen it with her own grandparents, who had struggled every day since the war began to cling to the old ways—again, for right or wrong.

  “You and Gil sent those weapons to England. That much we know,” she said, while at the same time considering. “My guess is they went to one of Gil’s engine factories. And then they were sold on the black market. Is that correct?”

  “We did England a favor,” he replied.

  “In what way?” Owen demanded, his anger making itself heard. “Those guns weren’t returned to the British government or used in the war effort. You and Gil merely traded one sort of thug for another. But the result was the same—guns in the hands of men with no respect for life or decency.”

  Phoebe reached around Sir Hugh again to touch Owen’s wrist in warning. “That’s not helping. The question is, Who wanted revenge enough to come after the two of you now?”

  “I don’t know, and that’s the plain truth. If I had any inkling, don’t you think I’d go to the police?”

  “No, I don’t think.” Phoebe’s own anger rose, despite her intentions of keeping her temper in check. Her hands balled into fists. “You’re determined to save yourself while letting my sister hang. Yes, hang. You’ve no more conscience now than you did a year ago. Well, Owen and I aren’t about to let you get away with it.”

  “What are you going to do?” He appealed to Owen. “You said you were willing to help me.”

  “In so far as I can. But not at Julia Renshaw’s expense. Surely you can figure that out for yourself.”

  “Damned women,” Sir Hugh muttered into his necktie. “This all seemed to come about after the wedding announcement appeared in the society columns.”

  “So you’re blaming my sister for you getting your come-uppance.”

  Sir Hugh had no answer for that. He ruminated, his nostrils flared and his breathing audible.

  Owen slapped his thighs and pushed to his feet. With a hand, he helped Phoebe to hers. “Hugh, I highly encourage you to think about who might have followed you from Ireland. He somehow escaped being arrested at the time, which suggests he—”

  “Or she,” Pho
ebe put in.

  With a nod, Owen conceded her point. “Or she is able to move about anonymously, with little to no fear of discovery by the authorities. And that puts you in a vulnerable position, because you’ll never know from which quarter the attack might come. Then again, maybe you pushed Gil overboard and faked those threats sent to you. It’s altogether possible he double-crossed you when it came to those profits, and you decided to be rid of him.”

  “That’s absurd. How dare you?”

  “Oh, I dare. Think about it, Hugh. If you don’t wish to be implicated, then you’ll need to be more forthcoming about what happened in Ireland. But don’t take too long, because if you don’t cooperate in trying to identify this individual, I’m going to the police with everything we know. You’ll stay alive, but you’ll do so inside a prison cell.”

  With that, Owen offered Phoebe his arm. They started walking back toward the hotel, leaving Sir Hugh to follow or linger as he wished. The hurried footsteps behind them told her he had chosen the former, rather than be left behind on his own.

  CHAPTER 19

  Although Phoebe saw Sir Hugh several times throughout the rest of that day, he kept his distance. He seemed to be gathering people around him for the express purpose of avoiding another confrontation. If it wasn’t Veronica Townsend and her friend, Mrs. Seward, it was Mildred Blair or Ernie Shelton. Funny, he had never shown more than a passing interest in any of them before. Owen agreed he was dodging them, but reminded Phoebe he wasn’t going anywhere anytime soon. Perhaps Hugh would finally see the benefit of cooperating.

  When the Renshaw and Townsend parties arrived in the dining room that evening, Sir Hugh was not among them. Although no open animosity had been expressed between them, the two groups traded only polite discourse and were seated on different sides of the room. After the meal, Phoebe’s grandparents returned to their suite with Fox and Amelia, while she and Owen went out onto the terrace. About a dozen or so others sat scattered around the tables, enjoying the clear night. A few left their seats to descend the steps to the roadway and perhaps the beach. The temperature had risen during the day, and now a comfortable breeze skimmed off the Solent to stir Phoebe’s hair and caress her cheeks.

  “He’s most certainly been avoiding us,” she said as Owen held a chair for her at an occupied table.

  “Foolish of him. It’s to his benefit to speak with us.”

  “The same could be said for Julia.” Phoebe leaned back in her chair and sighed. “She acts as though Eva and I are trying to hurt her rather than help her. She seems determined to punish herself for marrying Gil. Doesn’t she realize what can happen to her?”

  Owen’s hand covered hers. “The truth might not have sunk in. It’s too unthinkable.”

  “I just wish—” She broke off as a scream emerged from somewhere beyond the terrace. “What on earth was that?”

  Owen’s head turned toward the steps at the sound of another scream. They both surged to their feet, as did the others around them. At a third scream, several men ran toward the steps, followed by the women, who huddled together at the stone railing while the men ran down.

  “What could that be?” one of the women cried.

  “Tom, do be careful,” another called down to her male companion. “Maybe you shouldn’t . . .”

  Owen shouldered his way through, with Phoebe at his heels. When they reached the steps, he turned, as if to speak, then shook his head and started down. Phoebe could only imagine he had been about to admonish her to remain with the other women, then realized the futility of such a suggestion.

  The roadway was empty of vehicles, so they ran across. The other men from the terrace had already reached the beach. Above the lapping of the waves, Phoebe could hear a woman sobbing and a man attempting to soothe her. Owen took her hand as they stepped onto the sand. The woman’s cries continued. Phoebe’s apprehensions grew. A small group stood clustered on the sand, staring at something at their feet. A man crouched, reaching out....

  Another man broke away from the rest and staggered toward Phoebe and Owen, as if drunk. Sand was kicked up from his faltering strides. Phoebe half feared he would collapse on them. Then the street lamps from the road illuminated his face. She recognized Ernie Shelton.

  He seemed not to see her and stumbled past. Phoebe turned about and reached out a hand to him. “Ernie. What’s happened?”

  “I . . . Phoebe? I d-don’t know. I don’t know.” He spoke while continuing to pick his way across the roadway. When he reached the steps, he half ran, half stumbled his way up, disappearing into darkness until he reached the lanterns at the top.

  Owen’s hand tightened around hers. He had obviously dismissed Ernie, his attention once more on the sand. His jaw was clenched; his expression, what she could make out of it, grim. A gentleman in evening attire was helping the distressed woman off the beach. When they came within a few feet of Phoebe and Owen, she realized they were both young, no older than she. They walked with their arms around each other, she leaning heavily against his side.

  “How could such a thing happen? Oh, Roger, it’s so dreadful, so horribly violent and—”

  “You mustn’t think about it, darling,” he soothed. “Let’s find your parents and . . .”They went across the road, and Phoebe heard no more.

  But their words echoed inside her. Horribly violent. Her stomach twisted. Her hand still in Owen’s, she started forward. She felt his resistance for an instant, before his feet moved, as well, and together they joined the circle of onlookers.

  A man whispered hoarsely, “Is he dead?”

  The older man crouching on the sand pushed to his feet and nodded. Phoebe’s breath hitched. Steeling herself, returning the fierce pressure of Owen’s grip, she forced herself to meet Sir Hugh’s empty stare.

  * * *

  “Stabbed,” Detective Inspector Lewis pronounced to the group assembled in the hotel’s meeting room. The main suspects were there: Veronica Townsend, Mildred Blair, and Ernie Shelton. Phoebe and Owen had also been asked—or rather ordered—to attend this meeting. Phoebe didn’t yet understand why Grams and Grampapa were also present. Sir Hugh, of course, was missing, his absence a glaring reminder that this was no social occasion. “In the chest,” the inspector went on relentlessly. “Through the heart. With this.”

  Mr. Lewis held up a knife some eight inches long, with a thick wooden handle. The double-edged tip identified the piece as a bowie knife.

  Mildred Blair paled, her reddened lips standing out in gaudy relief against her blanched skin. Veronica Townsend’s eyes opened wide. Amid the gasps from all around the table, Grams let out a muffled sound, not quite a cry but more than an audible breath. Ernie had been the first to find Sir Hugh’s body, Phoebe had since learned. He sat hunched over the table, with his forehead braced on his fists. He glanced up once and then retreated into his huddle. The rest looked dazed, shocked . . . but were they truly?

  Earlier, a host of policemen had swarmed the hotel and the beach, turning the headlamps of their vehicles onto the sand while they inspected the crime scene. In the glaring light the details had become stark and garish. Phoebe couldn’t erase the vision of Sir Hugh lying faceup, as if stargazing. If only she and Owen had been more adamant about talking to him again, instead of allowing him to sidestep them all afternoon, would he be alive now?

  “Can anyone identify this knife?” Mr. Lewis waved the blade in the air in an unnecessary gesture. He certainly had their attention.

  Mildred Blair’s mouth opened, but it was Veronica who spoke in a shaky voice. “It’s Gil’s. He brought it home from Pretoria.”

  “The Boer Wars, eh?” Mr. Lewis set the knife on the table before him. “We found no prints on it other than your brother’s, Miss Townsend. Whoever killed Sir Hugh must have been wearing gloves, which suggests premeditation. Miss Townsend, can you tell me what your brother used this knife for?”

  She shrugged. “It was a souvenir from his time in the army. He brought it with him everywhere. Tende
d to keep it on his desk, for some reason.”

  “The letter opener,” Phoebe blurted. In answer to the others’ puzzled expressions, she clarified, “There was no letter opener on Gil’s desk in his office on the yacht. He must have used that knife. And I’ll wager Gil had it with him when he went on deck that night. He must have expected some kind of confrontation and attempted to defend himself. And my guess is, he managed to wound his attacker before he was overcome and pushed overboard.” She turned an admittedly angry gaze on the inspector. “That would account for the blood on the railing. Not the gash on Julia’s hand, but the wound Gil inflicted before he died.”

  The door opened, and the photographer, Curtis Mowbry, shuffled in. Holding one of his cameras, he stopped short of the table, looking uncertain and ill at ease, his gaze darting from face to face, finally lighting on Mr. Lewis—and the knife, still held aloft. “I heard what happened. I was going down to the beach to see if my services might be needed, but I . . . er . . . received a message to come here instead . . .”

  “Yes, Mr. Mowbry,” the detective inspector said. “Do join us.”

  The photographer hesitated. “Was it as I heard? Is it Sir Hugh?”

  Mr. Lewis gestured rather emphatically at an empty chair. “Have a seat.”

  “Do my grandparents need to be here?” Phoebe asked him. “Surely you don’t think—”

  “I need all of you to be here,” the inspector snapped.

  This earned him a reproving glance from Grams, who didn’t suffer bad manners from anyone. But it was to Phoebe she spoke. “We wish to be here, Phoebe. Don’t you know what this means?”

  “That we’re all suspects,” Phoebe replied, half in sarcasm, half in fear of that being the truth.

  “Exactly.” Grams smiled triumphantly and said to Mr. Lewis, “And now you must release our granddaughter. It’s obvious she’s innocent. No one can commit murder from inside a jail cell.”

  “Not so fast,” he said.

  “Now, see here, young man.” Grampapa rarely raised his voice to anyone, but he did so now as he came to his feet. “You are to release my granddaughter at once. She is innocent, and this vile act tonight proves it. I will not permit her to remain in a jail cell another hour. Telephone your people immediately and tell them to let her go.” He turned to Grams. “You and I will go and collect her.”