Penny for Your Secrets, page 14
From the manner in which the corners of his eyes narrowed, I could tell he thought I was making a jab at him by unconsciously echoing his earlier response to my query about Nimble.
I swiveled around to face him. “She redacted words, sentences, sometimes entire paragraphs from her own journal.”
Sidney halted in the midst of removing his tie, his eyes reflecting the same bafflement I’d felt upon discovering this.
“She censored herself. And she did a thorough job of it, too,” I added, having already strained my eyes trying to read through the bold black slashes.
“So you can’t construe from the context what she might have been hiding?”
“In some instances, I can tell it’s a name or a location, but in others I haven’t any idea what she was censoring.” I turned to drop the puff on my vanity. “I also don’t understand why Irene didn’t mention this. She said she read her sister’s journals. Surely she didn’t miss the fact that this could be connected to her theory that her sister knew something that got her killed.”
He pulled his tie out of his collar and dropped it on the bed. “That is odd.”
“What’s more, I can tell there are letters missing from that box. Mrs. Worley said she received correspondence from her cousins in France, but there are none there.”
“Maybe she didn’t care enough to keep them,” he suggested as he shrugged out of his suitcoat.
“Not a single one?” I retorted doubtfully. “I don’t believe that for a second.” I popped the top off a tube of lip salve, staring at the soft rose color. I was daring enough to wear it, but not daring enough to choose bright red. “Which makes me wonder whether that was what the intruder was looking for. And he found them.”
“Unless Irene removed them.”
I glanced up to see Sidney staring at me in the mirror. “I’ll ask, but I already know she didn’t.”
He didn’t argue, probably because he knew I was right.
I set the lip salve aside for last and then began to finger-comb my waves, adding a jeweled headband across my forehead. I swiveled left and right, checking my hair from several angles. “If the letters were their aim, now the question becomes, why? Why would someone want those letters from her cousins? What could they possibly contain?” Ceasing my primping, I gazed solemnly at the contents of my vanity table. “And were the contents worth killing over?”
“Things rarely are,” was Sidney’s unexpected reply.
When I looked up it was to see he’d turned his face aside to gaze at the wall. The lines and hollows of his features were more pronounced in the light cast by the lamp, the weariness and guilt that I knew still weighed on him evident in the stoop of his shoulders. It was like the shadow cast on the wall behind him, ever haunting him, when awake and at rest.
I slid my feet beneath me and made to rise, but as if he sensed I was about to come to him, he inhaled a swift breath and cast me a smile.
“Best hurry. Or even Miss Merrick will arrive at the club before us.”
I knew he was avoiding speaking of things that I suspected it would be better he faced—if they could be faced at all—but now was not the time. Not when we were due in Grafton Street. So I let him change the subject without a fight, offering him a forced smile of my own. “You know she keeps insisting you call her Daphne, so why don’t you?”
He shrugged one shoulder, studying the buttons on his shirt as a real grin hovered at the corners of his mouth. “Perhaps I forget.”
I gave him a look that told him just what balderdash I thought that assertion. “I think you do it because it irks her.”
“Perhaps,” he hedged.
I shook my head. “Well, don’t keep it up for too long. You’ve never seen Daphne irked, and you don’t want to.”
“Oh, no. Will she cut me dead?” he proclaimed with mock sincerity.
“No.” I rose slowly from my bench and propped each foot there in turn to check my stockings and garters. “But if Daphne is irked, then I will be irked.” I cast him a coy smile from beneath my lashes. “And you don’t want me to be irked.” I gave the skirt of my chemise a little flip as I turned away from him.
“No, I don’t,” was his earnest reply.
I couldn’t help but laugh as I reached for my gown.
CHAPTER 13
True to his assertion, Sidney greeted Daphne by her given name when she came forward to welcome us as we skirted around the edge of Grafton’s dance floor toward the table where she and George sat along with a few of our other friends. From her high spirits and the flush of her peaches and cream complexion, I could tell she’d already indulged in a gin and tonic or two. Her blond hair bobbed about her face when she flashed me a grin of triumph, evidently believing Sidney now considered her a friend. Daphne had an insatiable need for everyone to like her—a very dangerous compulsion in a society as fickle as ours. So it was fortunate that she was also rather naïve, and sometimes remarkably thick when it came to her perceptions of others.
George Bentnick, on the other hand, was as rational and insightful as they came. A brilliant mathematician, he had worked in OB 40—Naval Intelligence’s code-breaking department—during the war and had yet to be demobbed. Though he said he expected it any day. All the wartime departments had scaled back, demobilizing most of the women, and even some men.
Catching my eye over Daphne’s shoulder, his eyebrows shot skyward, signaling, I suspected, that our friend was in top form tonight. She was perpetually trying to match him up with one girl or another, failing to grasp the obvious. That he wasn’t interested, and never would be, in the type of people she was parading before him.
I often marveled at the fact that two of my closest friends were so vastly different from each other. Even their looks were disparate. Daphne was all golden blond hair and limpid blue eyes, though her most arresting feature happened to be the pronounced hook in her nose. Meanwhile, George had his Indian grandmother to thank for his smooth caramel skin, brown eyes, and rich black hair. The only feature he seemed to have inherited from his mother’s side of the family were the tight curls restraining his hair.
I looped my arm through Daphne’s, guiding her away from George toward the opposite end of the table to greet some of our other friends, hoping perhaps she would direct her enthusiasm at them for a while. Fortuitously, Crispin was among them, and whether he’d intuited my designs, or merely was eager to spin a pretty girl about the floor, he leapt up to sweep Daphne into the mob of fox-trotters.
Though not as exclusive as the Embassy Club, Grafton Galleries on Grafton Street was one of the best nightclubs in all of London, and practically around the corner from Berkeley Square. It was also where I’d met Ada during the war, and where I knew she still preferred to spend her evenings, even though she could now gain admittance to the more exclusive Embassy Club. Because of this, it seemed the best place to begin in my quest for information.
The building had formerly housed an art gallery—hence its name—which had since moved to Bond Street. As such, the marble and white cornices and moldings around the ceiling were something to behold, but beyond that there wasn’t anything noteworthy about its décor. There were some who complained that Grafton’s was shabby, but in truth, it was difficult to compete with The Embassy’s violet and jade-green color palette and walls ranged with looking glasses.
In any case, at Grafton’s the real draws were the dancing and their performers, not seeing and being seen. The jazz bands they booked, mostly from America, were tip-top. And my friend, Etta Lorraine, always charmed the crowd with her rich, mesmerizing voice and teasing hips. Somehow Grafton’s had also stolen a march on the other clubs by landing the new dance duo Moss and Fontana for its midnight exhibition of ballroom and novelty dances. While I’d enjoyed seeing them demonstrate the shimmy and the tango, their elegant valse was truly a sight to see.
Having greeted the others, I retraced my steps to George, and pulled him out onto the dance floor, where we might have a modicum of privacy amid all the swirling, jazzing dancers to hold a conversation without interruption.
“You do realize it’s the gentleman who usually invites the lady out onto the floor,” he teased me.
“You did. I could see the idea forming in your head. I just saved you the effort of forming the words.”
A smile hovered on his lips. “I see. Well, then, what is it you want to know?”
“Who says I want to know anything?”
His expression turned chiding. “When you’re this determined for my company, you definitely want something.” He twirled me, waiting to continue until I was facing him again. “This is about Rockham, isn’t it?”
“This is why I like you. No beating around the bush.”
This smile was genuine. “Unlike Daphne, who only beats around the bush.”
“Which also has its uses,” I countered, thinking of the time Daphne had unwittingly distracted a major so I could return a report I’d stolen earlier from his dispatch case. “But that is not of the moment. The fact that I’m fairly certain Ada Rockham is innocent of murdering her husband is.”
“Fairly certain?”
I sighed. “Of course, you would latch on to those two words. I am trying to be impartial. And right now the facts are leading away from her.”
The band began to pick up the tempo, forcing us to move our feet faster.
“Where are they leading?”
“I don’t know. Not yet. But I wondered what you could tell me about Lord Ardmore.” I slipped the words in as nonchalantly as I could between breaths, hoping he would be too distracted to disapprove, but I should have known better.
He scowled.
“I know he has something to do with your job,” I pressed, knowing he would understand I meant Naval Intelligence. “And he’s Ada’s latest lover.”
“That doesn’t mean anything.”
“No, except Rockham seemed to imply he might know some of his secrets.”
George’s frown turned troubled, as he appeared to consider my words, but then he shook his head. “I know what you’re asking me, Ver, but I can’t. You know I can’t.”
“Nothing?”
“No.”
I nodded, having realized my questioning him was unlikely to yield results. George saw the world in a very black and white manner, and he took his oaths seriously. Sharing information about someone inside Naval Intelligence would be illegal and against his ethics. Even if I had still been an active agent of the Secret Service it was impossible, for the branches of military intelligence operated separately from Naval Intelligence, despite arbitrarily being lumped together recently under a new director by the Home Office. I valued his friendship too much to press him further on the matter, so I shifted targets.
“What of Ada, then?” I began to ask, but before I could elaborate, George interrupted me.
“You do know he’s watching us?”
“Who?”
“Ardmore?”
My back stiffened under his hand. I knew he felt it, but otherwise I didn’t react, allowing my experience to take over. “Where is he?”
George kept his eyes locked with mine. “Across the room. Near the entrance.”
“Please don’t tell me Ada is with him?” I murmured in misgiving.
“She’s not.”
I exhaled in relief. “Well, thank heaven for small miracles.”
I’d been worried she wouldn’t listen. She was one of the most stubborn people I’d ever met, after all. But perhaps this was a sign she wasn’t completely intractable.
While George and I twirled across the floor, I cast my gaze over his shoulder, catching a brief glimpse of Ardmore. He was no longer watching us, and he didn’t seem displeased or suspicious. But a man like him wouldn’t.
When the song ended, George seemed to brighten, as if he’d been released from prison.
I laughed. “Well, don’t look so pleased to be rid of me.”
He smiled. “If you wouldn’t insist on playing twenty questions, I wouldn’t.”
I shrugged one shoulder, knowing he wouldn’t really fault me for trying. He knew what I was and what I’d done during the war. Perhaps not all of it, but enough.
When I would have turned away, he surprised me by clasping my hand. “Be careful, Ver.” His gaze was earnest. “I know I say that entirely too much, but someone has to. And in this case, I’m not sure the person you’re trying to help is worth the effort.”
Before I could respond, an arm was thrown around my waist.
“Verity. Dollface. Tell me you saved the next dance for me.”
I looked up into the grinning mug of Dickie Bennett. Though he was reputed to be charming, and his features were undeniably handsome, I found the baronet’s son to be rather cloying and smarmy, and his hands had a tendency to wander where they shouldn’t. But he had been Ada’s lover before she took up with Rockham, and he might know something useful.
All the same, I cast a glance Sidney’s way, catching his eye at the same time I answered Dickie. “Of course.”
He pulled me onto the floor of twisting and shimmying bodies, wending our way farther into the center than I would have liked. Then he turned abruptly, drawing me into his arms closer than a gentleman should. One strategically missed dance step remedied that.
“Ouch!” he exclaimed. “Jeez, Ver. I seem to remember you bein’ a better dancer.”
“That, or you forgot how long my legs are,” I replied with a sharp smile, making sure he understood I wasn’t averse to using them.
One corner of his lip curled upward wryly. “Yeah, well, word has it you’re lookin’ into Lord Rockham’s murder.”
I arched my eyebrows, surprised, but not displeased, that he’d broached the very topic I wanted to discuss. “And if I am?”
He glanced to the side, much of his gaiety draining from his face. “Well, if you are, I might have some information for you.”
I waited for him to elaborate, refusing to be baited into confirming or denying my involvement.
“About Ada.”
When I still didn’t respond, he scowled, swinging us into the next step with more force than was necessary.
“Do you wanna know or don’t you?”
“You could tell Scotland Yard,” I murmured apathetically, continuing to toy with him.
However, this backfired, for his eyes sparked with malicious amusement. “Oh, I’m sure they’re already aware of it.”
Now I was intrigued, and he knew it.
“But it seems you’re not.” He leaned toward me. “What will you give me if I tell you?”
I felt my skin begin to flush with anger—the curse of my red hair and fair skin—and took a deep breath to calm my fury. “Careful, Dickie,” I enunciated, moderating my tone. “My husband is dancing just over your shoulder, and I don’t think he’d take kindly to you propositioning his wife.”
He glanced over his shoulder to find Sidney watching us over his dance partner’s head.
“I’m sure whatever you intended to tell me I can find out from someone else.” I began to pull away, but he jerked me back into his arms.
“All right, all right. The gold digger’s got a record,” he hissed.
“For doing what?”
“For nicking cigarettes.”
I cast him a withering glare. “And just how old was she? Ten?”
“And she was arrested for threatenin’ a dame with a shiv.”
I blinked in surprise. “She threatened someone with a knife?”
A smug expression spread across his face. “You didn’t know that, now, did ye?”
“Who did she threaten?”
“I don’t know. But I do know Rockham had the entire matter hushed up. Claimed it was some big misunderstanding.”
I eyed him skeptically, uncertain whether I believed him. After all, it was evident he still had a beef with Ada for dropping him for Rockham.
“You don’t believe me, ask Etta.” He nodded his head toward the stage, where she stood in the wings, waiting to perform.
Given how easy that would be for me to do, I felt that vague stirring of uneasiness again. I’d sensed Ada was keeping something from me. Could this be it? If so, she’d been a fool to attempt to conceal it. If Chief Inspector Thoreau was as thorough as his name and reputation proclaimed him to be, he’d already discovered it.
“Believe me. Ada is a bearcat,” Dickie sneered. “And not in all the good ways.”
I ignored this comment, simply wanting the dance to be over.
When the last trumpet blast sounded, I stepped away from Dickie’s obnoxious paws and was relieved to find Sidney at my side.
“You look like you could use a drink,” he leaned down to whisper as we joined the others in applauding Etta’s entrance to the stage. She waved to the audience, smiling in her saucy manner and swaying her hips to the beat as the band began to play “After You’ve Gone.” I much preferred Etta’s slightly up-tempo version to Marion Harris’s recording.
I turned into his arms. “The drink can wait. What I need is to dance with someone who doesn’t make my skin crawl.”
His smile turned sympathetic. “Well, I’m glad I fill the bill.”
I swatted his shoulder playfully, for he knew exactly how he made me feel, and the look in his eyes confirmed it. I moved closer, inhaling the musky scent of him and the sensation of being sheltered in his arms as he guided us around the floor and through the steps of the fox-trot. Sidney had always been a marvelous dancer, being naturally fleet of foot and attuned to the rhythm and flourishes of the music. I’d discovered these skills transferred to other undertakings, as well.
I’d planned to tell him what I’d learned, but the proximity of his body, the drive of the music, and the intimacy of the lyrics rendered me speechless. I had known the words to “After You’ve Gone,” had known they touched a little too closely on the difficulties in our marriage, but I hadn’t counted on Etta’s ability to bring them alive. My heart seemed to throb in time to the timbre of her voice.
“Miss Lorraine really is magnificent, isn’t she?” Sidney said, his voice sounding a tad hoarse.
