Penny for Your Secrets, page 24
“Infantry?”
He nodded. “Took a bullet through his napper from a sniper and then was gassed in ’17.”
I cringed at the fellow’s rotten luck. Evidently the bullet to his face or head had not been fatal, but who knows how much damage it had done—both seen and unseen. And then to be gassed, likely by blistering, choking mustard gas, based on the date. His war had not been a pleasant one. It was no wonder if he’d struggled to recover.
“Had you seen him since the start of the war?” I asked, curious when he’d last encountered his friend.
“Once on the road to Albert. His company was headed up the line to the trenches while we were headed down it. We ordered our men to take their ease for a few moments so we could catch up.”
That must have been years ago.
As if he’d heard my silent thought, he murmured, “I should have gone to see him after I returned. I meant to.”
He didn’t make excuses for himself, even though he’d hardly been twiddling his thumbs. There had been a great deal of paperwork involved to bring him back to life, our marriage had been fractured and in very real danger of crumbling completely, and there had also been the intrigues that perpetuated to drop in my lap.
“What of his wife? Do you know anything about her?”
“Not much. I gathered their families had been old friends, so when they became engaged it wasn’t any great surprise. I met her at their wedding, and she was beautiful.” He shrugged one shoulder. “In the typical English rose kind of way. I would be surprised if she wasn’t still.”
What exactly he meant by that, I wasn’t sure. But I soon discovered.
The Rogerses lived in a lovely rambling cottage covered in trellises thick with ivy and flowering creepers at the southern edge of Guildford near the Surrey Hills. Close enough, in fact, to see the Anglo-Saxon towers of Guildford Castle and St. Mary’s Church rising over the trees in the distance. A taxicab delivered us from the station to the front garden, where a woman stood in a broad-brimmed hat pruning her bushes for the cooler autumn weather, which seemed to never come.
She glanced up as we approached, providing me my first glimpse of her smooth complexion and elfin features. Beneath the hat, her rich golden locks were fashioned into a type of chignon at the back of her neck. Her figure was tidy and trim, and showed to advantage even with a gardening apron tied over her black crepe dress.
This was a woman who valued her appearance, and would never let it go to ruin, even if she had to be ruthless about it. Daphne, who sometimes struggled to maintain as small a waist as she wished, would likely accuse her of banting—following the strict diet promoted by Victorian author William Banting. For my part, I had resigned myself to being unfashionably voluptuous, though my stomach didn’t run to fat and my legs were quite shapely thanks to sport. Truth be told, after enduring roasted oat chaff and pea shells as tea, sugared potato pulp in place of jam, and many other disagreeable substitutes during my time spent in the German-occupied territories during the war, I hadn’t the least desire to subsist on mineral water and Fat-Free BRAND’s Essence simply to achieve a slimmer figure.
Mrs. Rogers removed her gloves and strode forward to greet us. “May I help you?”
“My name is Sidney Kent,” he stated haltingly. “And this is my wife. I was a friend of your husband’s.”
I could tell from the look in her eyes she had already recognized us, but she merely replied, “Yes, I remember you. Won’t you come inside.”
We followed her up the path and in through the door. She gestured for us to proceed into a room on the left while she put away her things. Removing my gloves, I crossed toward the fireplace mantel, where a number of photographs were arranged. First a picture of Mrs. Rogers as a bright-eyed debutante, followed by a wedding portrait, and then Albert Rogers looking eager and handsome in his uniform. Though not as attractive as Sidney—and I was admittedly biased—Albert had not disappointed. He exuded confidence from every pore.
But that had been before the war. Before he’d taken a bullet to the head. How had he looked then?
The remaining photographs were of two children, a dimple-cheeked boy and a toddling girl with wispy curls. Children who could be heard even now chattering and thumping overhead.
Rather than joining me at the hearth, Sidney stood gazing out the window, as if he was already eager to escape. However, when Mrs. Rogers returned, he immediately turned and strode toward her, taking her hand. “My condolences on your loss. Albert was a good man. The best.”
Her answering smile was strained. “Thank you. I know he was quite fond of you,” she said as we sat on a floral chintz sofa and matching chair. “He spoke of you quite often in the last few months. He seemed to think it somewhat of a lark that you escaped the ‘jaws of death,’ as he called it, and tracked down those traitors.”
“Yes, well, we all do what we must,” he replied, tugging at the sleeves of his suitcoat.
Her gaze dipped to the floor at our feet. “Yes. Yes, indeed.”
I felt Sidney stiffen beside me as he realized she might have taken a different meaning from his words, given the fact Albert was suspected of committing suicide.
“I, too, am sorry for your loss,” I said, breaking the awkward silence that had fallen. “I wish I’d had the pleasure of meeting him.”
“Thank you.”
I glanced at the photographs. “You have two beautiful children. Is that them we hear playing?”
Just as I’d hoped, her face softened. “Yes, they are both rather fond of hobby horses, and this old house masks nothing.”
I smiled. “My mother couldn’t abide the sound of our clomping, so she had our nursery moved to the attics. Up there we had to keep moving in the winter or else catch our death of cold.”
“Their nurse will be bringing them down soon for their morning constitutional if you’d like to meet them.” She leaned forward, sharing a confidence. “They could use some practice in greeting adults properly.”
“That would be delightful,” I replied, hoping I didn’t speak out of turn. Sidney had fallen silent since his gaff, but he didn’t appear unduly strained. At least, no more than when we’d arrived. And he had always been comfortable around children.
Mrs. Rogers and I chatted a few minutes more before we heard the sounds of the children thumping and bumping down the stairs. She rose to her feet to step out and ask them to come meet us. The boy grinned broadly as she led him inside, offering us a rather grandiose, if wobbly bow, while his younger sister tried to hide behind him. She resisted all coaxing from her nanny to give us a curtsy, and I smiled, assuring her I had been the same way at the age of two. This was a lie, for my mother insisted I had never been shy or circumspect in my life, but under the circumstances, it was the right thing to say.
The little boy bounced on his heels, eying Sidney with intense interest. “Have you come to play with us? Granda gave me a new ball and I haven’t gotten to try it out yet.”
“Alby, dear. They haven’t come to play,” his mother cautioned. “They’re here to pay their respects to your father.”
“Oh.” His face crumpled with such disappointment that I felt my heart squeeze.
And then Sidney surprised me by leaning toward the boy. “Oh, but of course, we must give this new ball of yours a toss. I can’t think of anything your father would like better than for us to do so.”
Alby’s brow furrowed. “He couldn’t throw a ball with me before he died. He said it hurt too much.”
My heart clutched at the well of sadness contained in those simple words. I’m not sure I could have spoken, but Sidney seemed to know just what to say.
“Yes, well, I’m sure he wanted to more than anything,” he told him gently. “But the war took that from him. It took that from both of you, and I’m sorry for that.”
The boy studied his face. “Did you fight in the war?”
“I did.”
“Did you get hurt?”
“Yes, you just can’t see it because it’s hidden by my clothes,” he said in answer to Alby’s searching look. “And it won’t keep me from tossing a ball.”
His lips hitched into a small smile.
“Shall we?”
“Yes,” he exclaimed, grabbing Sidney’s hand and pulling him out the door ahead of his sister and their nanny.
I swallowed the lump that had gathered at the back of my throat, and turned toward Mrs. Rogers, who stood as still as a statue. The look on her face was an acute mixture of pain and grief, and I turned away, allowing her a measure of privacy as she struggled to master her emotions. When she was able, she rejoined me, sinking down onto the spot Sidney had vacated.
“I cannot begin to presume everything you have gone through,” I murmured. “But I understand it must have been hard.”
She clasped her hands tightly together in her lap. So tightly that the knuckles showed white. “There were times when I wished for death for him. His pain . . .” She broke off, inhaling a ragged breath. “It was . . . unpleasant. But I never meant it. Not really.” She glanced up at me, as if to see whether I understood. “But he was also so different. And I don’t mean his scars. He was different. I felt like I barely knew him.”
“The war changed them,” I answered quietly. “All of them, in one way or another.”
“Yes, but . . . when you looked in Sidney’s eyes after he returned, didn’t you still see him—the man you’d sent away after his last leave?”
I nodded.
She crossed her arms over her chest, cradling the opposite elbow in each hand. “It wasn’t that way with Albert. Not after he was shot. I looked into his eyes and saw a complete stranger.”
Her words left me cold. “My husband said he was shot in the head. Maybe it altered something in his brain.”
“That’s what the doctor said.” Her voice turned bitter. “And yet he was still deemed fit enough to send back to France.”
By early 1917, the British Army had been desperate for new recruits and conscription had begun. Any invalided soldier well enough to stand and fire a gun with any semblance of accuracy was shipped back as soon as possible.
“People blame me, you know,” she stated almost defiantly. “For not being there. For not stopping it.” But then her bravado abruptly faded. “And sometimes I wonder if they might be right. If somewhere inside I’d known what he intended. If I’d just grown too tired and weary to care.” She blinked her eyes, clearing her vision as she lifted her gaze to meet mine. “I guess I’ll never know.”
CHAPTER 22
Sunday dawned bright and warm, just like all the days before it; however, a welcome breeze also gusted over the city, cooling the perspiration before it could gather on one’s skin. Unfortunately, I had to resign myself to remaining indoors. The telegram I’d received from the Legrand sisters while we were in Guildford the day before had informed me they would telephone some time on Sunday. Words being an economy, apparently, the only other thing they had communicated was how anxious they were to speak with me.
Sidney slept late, having tossed and turned much of the night after waking from a nightmare he had refused to tell me about. His troubled slumber had disturbed mine as well, but it was Sadie’s day off, and I was worried I might sleep through the ringing of the telephone. Consequently, I was not the most patient of wives when Sidney rose and proceeded to stomp about the flat in a foul mood.
I’d thought perhaps his interaction with Mrs. Rogers and her children might help Sidney through whatever painful memories he was confronting, but it seemed to have only made him worse. Not only was he uncommunicative, he was sullen and angry, and rebuffed every effort I made to comfort or reassure him.
Eventually, my temper got the better of me and I ordered him to take his sour disposition elsewhere. But even after he’d stormed out of the flat, I couldn’t quell the uneasiness churning in the pit of my stomach. My conversation with Mrs. Rogers kept playing in my head. I was far from uncaring, but there were times when bitterness could describe my feelings toward the changes in Sidney. If we continued in this vein, how long would it be until that bitterness took root permanently? How long until I no longer cared?
I tried to occupy my thoughts, to focus on the facts of the case, but I mostly wandered about the flat, sunk in morose ponderings. When the telephone finally rang in the middle of the afternoon, I practically flung myself at it.
“This is Mrs. Kent,” I answered.
“Verity, darling. I thought you might come to see me today.”
My shoulders slumped at the sound of Ada’s voice. “Yes, well, I’ve been busy with the inquiry. In fact, I’m expecting a rather important telephone call, so if you . . .”
“Is it about my predicament?”
“I . . . Yes, it is.” If the two murders were somehow linked to the disappearance of the Zebrina’s crew, and I couldn’t know that for sure without speaking to the Legrands, then it was true. Even if I expected the call to answer more of my questions about Esther’s death than Rockham’s. “So if you wouldn’t mind . . .”
“I know about that angry visitor my husband received before the party,” she declared, interrupting me again.
“You do?”
“Of course. And I know that inspector tracked Calloway down.”
I was momentarily at a loss for words. “You know his name?”
She huffed. “Honestly, Verity. It’s as if you think I don’t know anything at all.”
I frowned. “That’s not true, Ada. But why didn’t you tell me any of this before? I came to call on you Friday.”
But she wasn’t listening to me, determined to continue with her rant. “Rockham never trusted Calloway, you know. He thought he was a filthy piker. So I bet he had a hand in his death. I bet Rockham threatened to fire him, and Calloway snuck in through the window later and killed him.”
“Hold on. Rockham told you he didn’t trust Calloway?”
“Yes.”
“He said those exact words?” I pressed, knowing full well from speaking with Calliope and Ada that the marquess never discussed such matters with his wives.
“Well, no,” she admitted. “But you’ve seen the way he looks at people. It’s easy to distinguish those he views with disdain.”
Yes, but disdain did not equal mistrust.
Suspicion stirred within me. “Has Ardmore been discussing the inquest with you?”
“What a silly question. Of course, he has. He’s already promised to help me hire the best barristers in the country to plead my case should the police be foolish enough to arrest me.”
My hands tightened around the telephone, infuriated by the duplicitousness of Ardmore. On the one hand, I strongly suspected him of exerting influence to squash any investigation into Rockham’s shipping interests, and on the other he was encouraging Ada to believe that was where the guilty party lay. And Ada, stupid Ada—who certainly should know better—was swallowing his every word.
But I hadn’t time to confront that right then. Not when I needed the telephone line to be clear. “I must go,” I bit out. “I’ll telephone as soon as I know something.”
Then before she could waylay me yet again, I rang off.
My and Ada’s conversation had been brief enough. If the Legrand sisters had tried to telephone then, I trusted they would try again. But as the hours inched later and later, and darkness crept over London, I had to acknowledge they were not going to telephone that day. I stood at the window, watching the colors bleed from the sky, feeling a sinking sensation in my stomach that mirrored the setting sun.
While I acknowledged there could be a perfectly harmless, rational explanation for why they’d failed to telephone, I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was very wrong. They had been anxious to speak with me. Anxious enough to spend the money to include a sentence communicating so. Why, then, would they fail to do so, unless something had prevented them?
I tried to explain as much to Sidney when he returned later that evening from wherever he’d been all day, but he suggested I was merely borrowing trouble. So I kept the rest of my worries and speculations to myself, not wanting to argue. Whether the cause was the sunshine or the enjoyment he’d derived from however he’d occupied his day, he’d returned in a calmer state of mind. He was still quiet, but at least he wasn’t brooding and snippy.
I rose early the following morning and left the flat before he had even woken. After dashing off another telegram to the Legrand sisters, I turned my steps toward the library, burying myself in stacks of old newspapers to glean all I could from them about the Zebrina incident. At ten o’clock, with an umbrella tucked under my arm, I set off through Waterloo Place and across The Mall to St. James’s Park.
The weather that day was not as auspicious as the one before. The sky was threatening rain, but for the moment the heavy, low-hanging clouds were jealously hoarding their treasures. Honeybees buzzed from flower to flower, an encouraging sign that the rain would not begin yet, for they always seemed to know when to expect such things before we humans did. One curious little chap even decided to get a closer look at my hat, and I gently shooed him away.
“He must think you’re sweet. But he doesn’t know you the way I do.”
I glanced up in shock, startled to see Captain Alec Xavier rising from a nearby bench, a newspaper folded in his hands and a sword pin affixed to his lapel. His whiskey brown eyes laughed at my astonishment.
“What are you doing here?” I demanded. “I thought they had you traipsing about Europe.”
He shrugged his left shoulder where he’d taken a bullet back in July. “I haven’t been cleared for active duty yet.”
“Yes, well, they probably would have by now if you’d stayed in Tourcoing, as Rose insisted, instead of accompanying us into the war-torn countryside with a furrow taken out of your flesh.” Within twenty-four hours, fever and infection had set in. Alec was lucky the doctors had been able to treat it before it grew worse.
“You needed me,” he replied unflappably.
