Penny for Your Secrets, page 10
“Whatever the case, I know it’s a long shot.” Irene leaned toward me, grasping my hand. “But will you please look into it for me. I know it’s more likely than not that you won’t find anything, that maybe I’m clutching at straws. But I’ll feel better, I . . .” She swallowed before continuing. “I’ll feel like Esther will rest better if I know someone else inquired about it.” Her eyes pleaded with me. “Please, Verity.”
Faced with such a fraught entreaty, I couldn’t very well say no. Not when my dearest friend Daphne had sent her to me. Not when Irene was one of us. So I nodded.
Her shoulders slumped in relief. “Oh, thank you.” Her voice broke, and I worried that this, of all the things spoken between us, would make her dissolve in tears.
“I can’t promise anything,” I warned her.
“Of course,” she replied, dabbing at her eyes.
“But I’ll see what I can uncover.”
I felt my husband’s gaze on me, compelling me to look at him, but I kept my eyes locked with Irene’s. It was safer that way.
“Have her rooms been rented?” I asked.
“No, I paid the rent for another fortnight, just in case . . .” She didn’t finish that sentence, but it was clear she’d already been planning ahead.
“Then I’ll visit them tomorrow and have a look around.”
I gleaned several more details from Irene, as well as her address and how I might contact her, and then showed her to the door.
When I turned around, Sidney was hovering behind me. “Two inquiries in one day. My, aren’t we enterprising.”
There was no bite to his jest, but I felt my hackles begin to rise nonetheless. “Well, you heard her. I couldn’t very well refuse.”
His gaze softened. “Actually, you could have. And many would have. But I’m well aware that’s not your nature.” He arched his eyebrows. “Nor did I say you should have.”
My defensiveness began to dissolve in the face of such calm acceptance, though I didn’t know how to respond.
He stepped forward, wrapping his arms around my waist. “But I am saying that I’m not going to let you do this alone. Nor am I going to let your inclination to help and protect your friends beyond what is reasonable override your good sense.”
“I exercise good sense,” I protested.
“Usually,” he agreed. “But you’re also extremely loyal, and sometimes you place your dedication to others above your own safety.” That he was speaking of the events in Belgium, when we’d both almost been shot, incinerated, and blown up, all in the pursuit of assisting a friend, was obvious. “I’m not saying that’s a fault. But what kind of husband would I be if I didn’t insist you also look after yourself?”
I flushed. “Well, when you put it that way . . .” I could hardly argue with him.
His lips curled into a smile. “Now, let’s go find some dinner. Before someone else comes around asking you to solve a murder.”
CHAPTER 9
The calendar might have turned over into September a week before, but summer, it seemed, had no intention of relinquishing its hold on the British Isles. And a warmer summer, I could not remember. It was only mid-morning, and I could already feel sweat gathering at the back of my hairline as the sun beat down through the open window of the cab as it rounded Grosvenor Square.
I exhaled a sigh of relief when a welcome gust of wind rustled the charcoal gray serge of my skirt as I climbed out of the motorcar under the shade of the Ionic-columned portico of the Marquess of Rockham’s palatial mansion. Its white-gray façade of Portland stone shimmered in the light, while the drapes and curtains in the open windows on the upper floors billowed in the breeze. Here was one sign of the changes that Rockham’s death had wrought.
I remembered Ada complaining some months past how the marquess had despised open windows. He absolutely refused to allow the sashes to be thrown back, even on the most stifling of days. For a woman like Ada, who had spent half her childhood along the Côte d’Azur, breathing in the sea breezes, this had been torturous. But now that he was gone, she could do as she pleased. At least, until her stepson took possession of the property.
Having been so thoroughly entrenched in his former employer’s pocket, I doubted Deacon approved of this new development.
I glanced at the footman who had assisted me from my cab, wondering what the other servants thought. Dressed in a heavy, double-breasted coat, waistcoat, black tie, and trousers, I could only imagine how warm such attire must be in this weather. Surely the open windows were a welcome change.
The footman had noted me observing the windows and I smiled, not wanting him to think I objected. Not that it was any of my business either way, but members of society did have a tendency to think their opinion always mattered even when it didn’t.
“Am I the first caller this morning, or have you been turning them away in droves?” I quipped, as we climbed the steps to the door, careful to keep my face forward, lest any photographers be lurking in the square across the street.
At first, he didn’t seem to know how to respond. I judged him to be in his upper twenties—old enough to know better than to indulge in idle gossip, but still young enough to unbend a little. He followed the traditional mold of the best footmen, being tall, dark haired, and handsome, but not so handsome that a gentleman risked the females in his household falling in love with him upon first sight.
Once inside, I passed him my gloves and wide-brimmed hat, still waiting for him to reply. In the end, he chose not to answer my question directly, but still managed to communicate the answer.
“Her ladyship is not receiving visitors yet, but I can inquire.”
“If I know Ada, she’s still a slug-a-bed. No, there’s no need to wake her. Actually, you’re just the person I wished to speak with.”
“Me?” he stammered.
“Yes.” It had been a stroke of luck that Deacon had not been minding the door when I arrived, and I was not about to waste it. Not when he might forbid me from questioning the staff, or hover over us while I did. “I need to know if there was a footman on duty the night Lord Rockham was killed? I was led to believe Mr. Deacon had retired, but was anyone else left to mind the door?”
“Ah, no, ma’am,” he stammered a response. “Mr. Deacon informed us that since his lordship and her ladyship were already home, there was no need for one of us to remain on duty. We were all right tired from the party that evening, and none of us were about to question the chance to catch a bit of extra kip.”
His use of soldiers’ slang made me suspect he’d served some time at the front, like most men his age and fitness. It was also something of an indication of his comfort level in speaking with me, even if initially I’d caught him off guard.
“Was Mr. Deacon the first to find the body?” I spoke softly, lest someone overhear us. Namely Deacon himself.
“Several of us heard the gunshot. It’s not something you sleep through. Not after the war. But Mr. Deacon was the first to reach the study.”
“He went directly to that room?”
“Yes, ma’am. We could see a light was on beneath the door.”
“Did you see into the chamber?”
He shook his head. “Mr. Deacon wouldn’t allow anyone else into the room. Told me to get dressed and go fetch Scotland Yard. That’s how we knew his lordship had clicked it.”
Deacon’s insistence that the staff not trample all over the room and the evidence within was both admirable and suspicious. For if no one else was permitted to enter the study after him, what was to stop him from making changes to it?
“So you never saw into the room?” I confirmed.
“No.”
A door opened somewhere on the floor above us, and we both glanced toward the landing at the top of the stairs on the other side of the cavernous hall.
“But Maisie did.”
I glanced back at him in interest.
“She was at the head of the pack following Mr. Deacon. Would’ve gone in after him had he not stopped her.”
I noted this, determined to talk to this Maisie later. I was curious whether she’d seen enough to be able to either confirm or deny the butler’s description of the scene.
“Did you notice anything odd at the party? Other than Lady Rockham’s distasteful jest at dinner,” I qualified, the guarded look that entered his eyes plainly communicating what he was thinking of. “Any quarrels or glimpses of guests in places they shouldn’t be?”
He shrugged. “Nothing beyond the normal gin-soaked squabbling and canoodling.”
And almost every dinner party could claim those.
His eyes narrowed as he thought back. “But there was a gentleman who visited his lordship a few hours before the party. From the sounds of their raised voices they were arguing over something.”
“Do you know what?” I asked eagerly.
We could hear the sound of footsteps approaching from the rear of the house; then Deacon turned the corner. Catching sight of us, his footsteps checked before he strode more determinedly toward us.
“I couldn’t make it out,” the footman replied hastily. “But Mr. Deacon announced him, and he stayed nearby. I’d wager he heard some of it.”
Yes, but would he admit to it?
“One last question,” I murmured as the butler was bearing down on us. “The revolver. Does anyone know how it ended up in Lady Rockham’s chair at dinner?”
“No, ma’am.”
“William,” the butler intoned. “Lady Rockham has rung for a breakfast tray. See to it.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And after that, see to the silver. There are spots on it, and if you think I will allow such lax behavior just because his lordship is now deceased, you are sadly mistaken.”
A corner of the footman’s jaw leapt, but he responded evenly. “Yes, sir.”
I watched him walk off stiffly toward the door to the servants’ domain belowstairs, empathizing with his anger. There had been no reason for Deacon to speak to him that way in my presence. No reason other than to put the younger man in his place and perhaps punish him for speaking to me. If so, the butler had made a miscalculation, for I suspected William would be even more eager now to answer my questions about the household purely to spite Deacon.
The butler cast a gimlet glare over my appearance. “I’ll show you up to her ladyship.”
“Actually, I would rather speak with you first.”
My words halted him midturn and he swiveled back around to meet my gaze. “Of course,” he responded, though I could tell he would rather have declined.
I glanced to my right. “Let’s step in here, shall we.”
Deacon reluctantly moved forward to open the dining room door. As he did so, I glanced upward to catch two maids peering down from the landing above. They swiftly retreated, but not before I caught a glimpse of their curious faces.
The wood of the dining room table gleamed in the light spilling through the open windows. Outside I could hear traffic passing on the street, and the occasional burst of birdsong from the trees in the square. I strolled down the long table, trailing my hands idly over the backs of the chairs, while Deacon came to a halt at the foot of the table, his chin arched in the air. I’d chosen this room specifically, and he must have known it.
“I know you do not approve of Lady Rockham. In fact, I would say you outright despise her,” I said, nearly quoting Calliope. I hoped by being direct, he might be goaded into revealing something he otherwise wouldn’t. But I never expected him to be so forthcoming.
He sniffed. “Despise is too strong a word for the likes of Lady Rockham. She is an interloper and therefore unacceptable, but my feelings do not factor into the equation.”
I turned to stare at him as he made this speech, never once removing his gaze from the wall straight ahead. “You, Mr. Deacon, are a snob,” I said with a shake of my head. “And you’re lying.”
At this comment, he was startled into looking at me, and I arched my eyebrows in emphasis before resuming my saunter down the table.
“I hope you haven’t allowed your aversion to Lady Rockham to cloud your perceptions, or altered anything in your resolve to see her found guilty of her husband’s murder.”
“She is guilty of Lord Rockham’s murder.”
“Perhaps.” I glanced over my shoulder at him. “I’m willing to concede that’s possible. She had the means and the opportunity, as well as a potential motive.” I turned, placing my hands on the back of the chair before me to stare down the table at him. “But what if she didn’t? What if someone else killed Lord Rockham, and your determination to see Lady Rockham named the culprit allows them to get away with it.” I narrowed my eyes. “Or is that your intention?”
His head reared backward.
“Are you protecting someone? Perhaps even yourself?”
His eyes bulged with suppressed anger. “No, madam, I am not. Nor do I need to stand here and listen to this nonsense. I have already spoken with Scotland Yard and told them everything they need to know. You are meddling where—”
“Did you tell them about the gentleman who called upon his lordship the afternoon before the dinner party?”
He exhaled in frustration. “No, I did not. I did not believe his visit to be relevant.”
“Not relevant?” I stated in disbelief. “He argued with Lord Rockham just hours before he was murdered.”
“Yes, but it would have been impossible for him to shoot his lordship. He wasn’t even in the house.”
“The possibility or impossibility of such a thing is not for you to decide. That’s the job of Scotland Yard.”
He didn’t respond, simply scowled back at me, evidently believing his opinions were unassailable. It made me want to slap him.
“Who was he?”
His response was clipped. “I don’t know.”
“Come now, Mr. Deacon. You had to announce him, didn’t you?”
“He wouldn’t tell me.”
“And yet you still presented him to your employer?” I muttered doubtfully.
His hands twitched at his sides. “Lord Rockham heard me speaking with him. He recognized him and told me to show him in.”
I scrutinized him. His affront was genuine. He disliked the fact that his employer had intervened before he could force the visitor’s identity from him. But that didn’t mean he hadn’t discovered it later. Perhaps while he was eavesdropping on their conversation.
“Then what did he look like?”
He lifted his chin even higher, staring down his nose at me. “I didn’t notice.”
At this, I nearly lost my temper. Indeed, it took everything within me not to shriek back at him. But a butler as pompous as Deacon would never respond to such histrionics. That’s what Ada had never learned. Instead, I retreated deeper into icy disdain.
“You didn’t notice the appearance of a man who refused to tell you his name and then quarreled with your employer?” I allowed my gaze to flick over him scornfully. “I knew you were a punctilious prig, but I never took you to be inept.” I tilted my head. “Or are you becoming dodgy in your advanced age?”
His sharp features turned as rigid as stone. “I suppose he was of average height. Brown hair . . .”
I scoffed and turned away, not trusting anything he was describing to be accurate. Deacon either knew who the man was, or was being deliberately evasive about his appearance. I only hoped he was more forthcoming with Inspector Thoreau after I told him what I’d learned.
Regardless, it was evident that Deacon was unreliable and possibly pursuing his own vendetta. He would never tell me if another person was closeted with Rockham in his study when he retired, contrary to what he’d already told Scotland Yard. He would also never reveal to me if another guest had slipped into the dining room while they were making final preparations for the evening. Someone who might have placed the revolver in Ada’s chair.
So I decided to wash my hands of him, at least for the moment. There were more promising sources of information to be explored.
I swiveled to face the window, watching as a green Riley whipped by on the street below. “Send the other servants in to me in groups of two or three. Begin with the maids.”
When he didn’t comply, I turned my head to glare at him.
“You have no authority to speak to them,” he argued. “Nor to command me.”
If he thought this would naysay me, then he was mistaken. I had interrogated and overridden more recalcitrant suspects and witnesses during the war, and with far more perilous stakes.
I crossed my arms over my chest. “No, but Lady Rockham does. Shall I ask her ladyship to order the staff be sent up to her private parlor instead? I’m sure she would be more than happy to listen in on our conversations.” Though such a situation would not be ideal—for the servants might be more reluctant to share what they knew in front of the marchioness—I was prepared to go to Ada if Deacon persisted in defying my wishes.
The butler recognized he had been routed. At least temporarily. He dipped his head once and strode from the room, his spine bristling with fury. I had counted on the fact that Deacon would not wish to be forced into a confrontation with Ada that he could not win, and I was certain that only added fuel to his anger.
A few minutes later I was joined by a pair of maids. Neither of them was Maisie, and neither of the fretful girls was in any way helpful. But I hadn’t expected them to be. I knew the butler’s game. He would send up the servants who were the least likely to be able to provide me with pertinent information. Perhaps he hoped I would grow weary of the exercise and give up, but I suspected he had another ploy in mind.
My suspicions were proved correct when William the footman poked his head into the room as I was dismissing a second set of maids who knew nothing of use.
