Beyond the Pale

by Sabrina Flynn

  “This agent has a way with people.”

  “Have you figured out where Monty was bunking?”

  “No, but I have an idea on how to find out. If you’re willing…”

  31

  Friends

  “Margaret,” Isobel hissed.

  The woman jerked in surprise, nearly dropping her teacup. Tall and sturdy, Margaret was better suited to a bicycle and riding bloomers than to the prim blouse and skirt she was wearing. Her broad shoulders always stretched her blouses in the wrong places.

  “Good Lord!” She glared at Isobel through a window and wiped the boiling liquid from her hand. “What on earth are you doing here?”

  “Visiting you.”

  Margaret gave her a look. “Do you have something against front doors?”

  “I do, as a matter of fact.”

  “Might as well come in.”

  “I swear your housekeeper has it in for me.”

  “She’s like that with everyone,” Margaret said. “She doesn’t want anyone disturbing my father.”

  “Hence the unorthodox entrance.” Isobel closed the door to the conservatory, and sat opposite her friend.

  Margaret usually took her books into that glass-encased patio to escape the mad rantings of her father. He was no longer in his right mind. And most days, Margaret had confided, he didn’t know who she was anymore. Doctors called it ‘brain congestion.’ They’d urged Margaret to put him in an asylum, but she refused. Even though she employed a nurse, the strain of caring for him took its toll.

  His illness disturbed Isobel—that one’s own mind could betray the body so thoroughly was a terrifying thought. Worse, the moments of lucidity that Margaret’s father sometimes had were filled with grief over his madness. He seemed to be mourning his own death.

  Isobel picked up a book from the table. “Carmilla. Scandalous.”

  “If you ever come across a case that involves vampirism, I’m your woman.”

  Isobel scoffed. “I’ll just bring in my mother. She keeps a ready supply of sharpened stakes under her bed.”

  “Really?” Margaret asked.

  The two women shared a look, then fell to laughing, until Margaret pushed a teacup towards Isobel. “You weren’t invited, so I’m not serving you. Why have you come?”

  “Can’t I visit a friend?” Isobel asked.

  “When hell freezes over,” Margaret quipped, then took a bite of a scone. “I haven’t seen you since your wedding.”

  “I’ve been rather busy…”

  “I know precisely what sort of friend you are—the splendid kind that doesn’t require any work. But I do love giving you a hard time of it.”

  Isobel flashed a grin as she helped herself to tea and scones. Margaret was studying her, eyes alight with curiosity. “How is married life?”

  Isobel gave a small smile. “I have no complaints.”

  “I saw the newspapers.”

  “Well, there is that,” she admitted. “But Riot was released yesterday—a reporter cleared up that mess.”

  Margaret leaned forward. “I’m talking about your agency being attacked. A gun fight? Dynamite? One of your agents killed. And that business with the murdered girl? Most women spend the months after their wedding on a wedding trip.”

  “We had one,” she defended.

  “For a week,” Margaret said. “Then you were nearly blown up, and your husband was beaten near to death. How is Atticus, by the way?”

  “Tired.”

  “What’s happened now?”

  “I thought you read the papers.”

  “I’m sure there’s more to it.” Margaret waited, while Isobel tore her scone into little pieces, considering how much to divulge.

  “You’re terrible, you know,” Margaret finally said. “Your life is more exciting than any book I could ever pick up.”

  “Oh, come now. That’s not true.” Isobel gestured at Carmilla. “I haven’t run into a single vampire yet.”

  “Do you know who killed your agent?”

  “The man who killed Mack is dead,” Isobel said. “But he was only a paid assassin. Whoever wants us dead is probably the same person who hired our ex-agent to kill us. Only now Monty is dead too.” She frowned at her scone.

  Margaret’s eyes widened. “What on earth?”

  “It’s complicated.”

  “Remind me not to work for you.”

  “Keep that to yourself, will you?”

  “I’ve learned not to repeat a thing you say, especially in proper company.” Margaret leaned forward. “If I was sure my married life would be as exciting as yours, I’d snag the first eligible man who asked.”

  “I could do with a little less excitement,” Isobel admitted.

  Margaret made a surprised sound. “You? Never.”

  Isobel took a sip of tea, and grimaced. “You and Riot,” she muttered. “Always tea…”

  “Put more sugar in it.”

  Isobel did so, but she doubted it would help.

  Margaret studied her friend. “You have had quite a year.”

  “My own doing.”

  “You’re not one to leave things alone. Just accept that.”

  “I only wish people would leave me and Riot alone.”

  “At the very least, you make for thrilling company.”

  “I’m happy to provide you with some amusement. Now I need your help.”

  “Oh, let me check my busy schedule.” Margaret made a show of consulting her book. “I’ll try my very best to fit you in.”

  “Do you know the Nobles?”

  “Mostly I know of them. I’ve met the sisters. Violet is good friends with the eldest, Imogen, then there’s Faith, and Helen, who’s twelve. They came to one of the Falcon’s Sunday luncheons.”

  The Falcons Bicycle Club hosted a number of parties in Carville that were attended by artists, authors, and political heavyweights. Margaret was one of their top riders.

  “Does this have anything to do with Dominic’s death?” Margaret asked over her teacup.

  “What have you heard?”

  “The obituary said he died in his bed from a heart condition, but there are rumors…”

  Isobel waited.

  “You’re not going to tell me anything, are you?”

  “I can’t. Professional discretion.”

  Margaret gave a little growl. “Despite the danger, I have half a mind to hire on with your agency.”

  As much as Isobel would enjoy Margaret’s company during an investigation (far more enjoyable than Matthew’s), she held back from urging her to hire on. Mack McCormick, lying dead on a slab from gut shot, was too fresh a memory. But danger wasn’t the only risk.

  There was frustation, too. The infuriating sting of injustice.

  John Sheel, eleven-years-old, smirking and gloating after trying to murder his brother, knowing his parents would protect him. Ella Spencer, who never had much of a chance in life, killed by a friend. And Madge Ryan, set to be hanged soon, while the men who’d ruined her life walked free.

  Isobel could never expose Margaret to those harsh realities.

  “It’s not all it’s cracked up to be,” Isobel said. The feeling in those words caught Margaret’s attention, and she sobered.

  “I imagine not.”

  The two women sat in comfortable silence as they finished their food, and when Margaret was through, she pushed aside her plate. “What do you want to know about the Nobles?”

  “Did you ever meet Dominic?”

  “Of course. I raced him once and beat him squarely. But he’s more keen on rowing than bicycling, so it wasn’t a fair race. Positively dreamy, and one of the most prized bachelors in San Francisco. From what I hear, the east coast, too. Heir to a fortune, handsome and single. Well. Was.” Margaret frowned at this last. “I do recall he wasn’t at all put out that a woman beat him in a race. Men usually cry foul and stomp away in a rage, or claim their ‘calves cramped up.’ It’s hilarious.”

  “What about the
mother and father?”

  “The father is typical of his set, I suppose. A ‘self-made’ man who’s intent on gathering a dragon’s hoard of gold.”

  “Literally?”

  “He struck it rich on a mine in Shasta early on, and more recently Colorado—his company, anyway.”

  “What’s he like?”

  Margaret shrugged. “I haven’t met him. Now Mrs. Noble… she’s in every moral society under the sun. From what I gathered at the luncheon where I met them, their daughters live a strict life. Not much freedom. The oldest, Imogen, is engaged to a fellow with money, so her father approved. I think it was arranged.”

  Isobel and Margaret shared a shudder. Margaret at the thought of being forced to marry, and Isobel at the thought of her own coerced marriage to Alex, even as short-lived as it was.

  “And how was Dominic treated?”

  “How sons are usually treated—given free rein to sow their wild oats.”

  “A cad?” Isobel asked.

  “The rumors say so, but I don’t know… I thought him a decent sort. Of course, no one ever flirts with me,” Margaret said, looking down at her hands. Rough from working with wood and stained with varnish, they were the hands of an athletic woman who liked to get them dirty.

  Margaret didn’t sound regretful, but rather relieved. With her father’s health in decline, she was spared the pressure of finding a husband and starting a family.

  “Really, if you want the juicy tidbits, you should speak with Violet. She gives old gossip-mongers a run for their money in that arena.”

  Isobel frowned. “But she’s good friends with Imogen. I can’t have her telling the eldest what I’m up to.”

  “What are you up to?”

  Isobel considered what she could tell Margaret. “Someone has hired me to investigate Dominic’s death, and I need to be careful. It could be dangerous.”

  “Was it murder?”

  Silence spoke volumes.

  Margaret eventually sighed in frustration. “Damn, Charlie. Not telling me is worse than telling me. I’m imagining all sorts of horrid things.”

  Isobel had first met Margaret during a case early that year and had introduced herself as Charlotte Bonnie. The nickname stuck.

  “But the words can’t come from my lips.”

  “Fine.” Margaret sighed. “I suppose you could befriend Imogen or Faith. Violet would make a better person to introduce you.”

  “I’m not sure a friendship is possible. Not as myself, at any rate. Even if I assume another identity as a society woman, I risk reporters recognizing me.” Not to mention Alex. From everything Katherine and Margaret had told her, Ian Noble sounded like the sort of man who would run with her ex-husband.

  “What else is there? Short of having me spy for you.”

  “Do you know if the household is hiring?”

  Margaret spit a mouthful of tea across the table. “You’re planning on passing for a cook or lady’s maid?”

  “I assume a household of that size—”

  Margaret started laughing herself silly.

  “No one ever notices the help,” Isobel tried again. “What is so amusing?”

  Margaret wiped tears from her eyes. “I was imagining you as a maid. Or a cook. You can’t even manage a proper egg.”

  “I can cook an egg.”

  “When you remember to eat.”

  “I was hoping you could write me a reference letter.”

  “You’re serious.”

  “Am I ever not?”

  Margaret considered her. “A letter from me wouldn’t matter. You need to speak with Violet.”

  “I wasn’t planning on telling Violet. That’s why I came to you.”

  “Yes, but I don’t know the family well enough.”

  Isobel frowned. “Can Violet be trusted with a secret?”

  “If it’s important. Yes.”

  “Violet it is, then.”

  “Up for a race to Carville?” Margaret asked with a glint in her eye. “I have a spare bicycle.”

  Isobel suppressed a sigh. After last night’s activities, the thought of straddling a bicycle seat made her wince. She may have been a little too vigorous with Riot. Would she ever be able to keep her hands off the man? Did she want to?

  There was nothing for it. Besides, if she were to keep up with Margaret, soreness would be the least of her worries. Margaret rode like the devil himself, and Isobel’s calves would be as hard as bricks by the end.

  As Isobel feared, her calves were close to cramping, the soreness between her legs had doubled, and worst of all, Margaret won. No surprise, but defeat still stung.

  Out of breath, she propped up her bicycle, and watched Margaret march into the clubhouse as if she’d only been out for a brisk walk.

  Isobel paused to take in the endless ocean. The salt air, the biting wind and churning waves. The water would be frigid. Just the thing her sore body needed.

  “You only lost by a little,” Margaret called from the doorway. “Don’t go throwing yourself into the ocean.”

  Reluctantly, Isobel followed her friend inside. The clubhouse was a retired streetcar with an interior resembling a Bedouin tent. Rugs, silks, and beaded curtains, with an array of paintings that bordered on lurid. But that tended to happen when artists frequented a clubhouse.

  Violet lounged on a large pillow in a loose blouse and riding bloomers that were daringly close to harem pants. She came there whenever her husband became boorish, which Margaret claimed was nearly every other day.

  Violet was pale, with hair so blonde it was nearly white, and she had wide, bored-looking eyes that made Isobel think there wasn’t much going on in the woman’s head. But Isobel knew better.

  Without so much as a glance from her book, Violet waved a hand as the two new arrivals walked past to wash up in a basin. The water was cold and felt like bliss on the back of Isobel’s neck.

  “You’d have me beat in no time if you trained every day, Charlie.”

  “But then you’d train harder, and you’d still beat me.”

  Margaret flashed a grin. She was also close to six feet tall, and had the advantage of longer legs and thighs like pillars.

  After washing up, the two women joined Violet in the main room, where Isobel plopped down on a plush cushion, and decided she might never get up again.

  “You know…” Violet mused without looking up. “Just once I’d like to read something where the heroine isn’t a mindless tit in a corset with heaving breasts.”

  “What are you reading?” Margaret asked.

  “It’s not for your virgin eyes,” Violet said.

  Margaret lunged across the room to snatch the book from Violet’s hand. “Rude!”

  “You’re a married woman. Why would you need this?” Margaret asked, settling on a settee with the book. Her brows shot up as she read a page.

  “Shows what you know,” Violet said with a sigh.

  Margaret’s eyes widened. “Good heavens. What is this?” She turned the book over, but kept a finger inside the pages to mark her place. “It doesn’t have a title.”

  “That’s because it’s scandalous.” Violet curled a finger around a tendril of pale hair. “You know, I once kept my corset laced for bed and started breathing seductively for Ambrose. Do you know what he did?”

  Both Margaret and Isobel waited.

  “He waved smelling salts under my nose.”

  “Practical of him,” Isobel said.

  Violet cocked her head. “Would your own husband be so practical?”

  “Depends,” Isobel said. “If I were in shock or not.”

  The two women gave a laugh, even though Isobel hadn’t been joking. Then Violet stretched to reach for a medicinal bottle of brandy. The clubhouse kept an entire trunk of medicine hidden under the floorboards.

  “Drink?”

  “Only water,” Isobel said.

  Violet poured her a glass with a look of sympathy.

  “Charlie needs your help,” Margaret b
lurted out. She had no tact.

  “Oh?” Violet asked.

  There was nothing for it. “I hear you’re acquainted with the Noble family.”

  “I am,” Violet said slowly. “I’m close with Imogen. Why do you ask?”

  “She’s investigating Dominic’s death.”

  “Margaret,” Isobel growled.

  Margaret smiled. “You’re welcome.”

  “The Noble family mustn’t know,” Isobel said. “It’s a delicate situation.”

  Violet breathed a sigh of relief, and sat up. “Finally, I can talk with someone.”

  “Margaret doesn’t know,” Isobel said.

  “You didn’t tell her?”

  “I was hired for my discretion as well as my mind,” Isobel stated.

  Violet nodded to herself, appearing to come to a decision. “That’s noteworthy, Isobel.” She looked to Margaret. “I know you’ll take it to the grave so… Dominic was murdered.”

  The announcement didn’t have quite the effect Violet was hoping for. Why else would a detective be hired to investigate a sudden death?

  “He was found,” Violet glanced at Isobel, “in the Nymphia.”

  “The Nymphia?” Margaret repeated, with a wrinkling of her nose.

  Violet glanced at her nails. “It’s terribly tragic. A shame, really. Imogen is beside herself. Her mother flew into a hysterical rage when she discovered her son died there. Imogen’s father decided to keep things quiet for the sake of the family’s reputation. I don’t blame him. Even Ambrose wouldn’t sink that low.”

  “That’s a horrible thing to say about your husband,” Margaret said.

  “Men will be men. Besides, his… diversions give me more freedom. Don’t you find that true, Isobel?”

  “I’d imagine so,” she said lightly.

  “Your husband is no different.” Violet said, knowingly. “Every woman thinks hers is the exception. Might as well embrace it early on. I do hate living with wool over my eyes.”

  Isobel didn’t contradict the woman; she needed Violet’s help. “I’ll brace myself for that eventuality.” As if Riot had the energy for dalliances on the side. “How is Imogen taking her brother’s death?”