Penny for Your Secrets, page 32
The two of them shook hands, and I climbed into the rear seat of the motorcar, allowing them the space to confer quietly. For all the things I had seen as a Secret Service agent, I knew there were things I would never be privy to. Things that these two honorable officers would understand without either of them having to say a word. Whether they didn’t know it, or simply wouldn’t admit it, they needed each other. I was wise enough and strong enough to see that now. If I were to help either of them heal, I couldn’t do it alone. But together, perhaps, we all could.
Unfortunately, as much as I would have liked to remain on the Isle of Wight indefinitely, we still had Rockham’s murder to solve, as well as the pieces of the Zebrina mystery to finish putting together. That would require us returning to London. Our remaining answers lay there.
I said as much when we returned to Nettlestone just before midday.
“Yes, I think you’re right,” Sidney agreed, resting his arms along the top rail of the paddock.
Here in this sheltered spot, the wind did not blow so cold, and a handsome young filly we had been admiring had made a game of trotting toward us as Sidney coaxed her near, but never closer than fingertips reach, before darting away again. We could tell how much enjoyment she was deriving from this teasing as she tossed her dark mane, and we couldn’t help but laugh at her antics.
“We need to track down Flossie Hawkins and convince her tell us what she knows,” he said, offering the filly a carrot Max had retrieved from the barn.
“I can’t help but be worried for her. Whoever is behind all this, Ardmore or someone else, has shown a propensity for tying up loose ends and silencing those whose knowledge could threaten him. And Flossie is most certainly a loose end.”
I could only hope that Thoreau had been able to locate her and lock her up somewhere safe, because the alternative was not a welcome thought.
Max, who had been silent through this exchange, surprised me by addressing the elephant in the room I had not yet been willing to broach. “Do you think my father was a loose end, as well?”
Sidney and I both turned to look at him. I could tell what it had cost him to venture such a question in such a detached voice, and I decided there was nothing for it but to be honest. He wouldn’t appreciate us holding back. Not when he was already entertaining suspicions.
“I don’t know,” I admitted softly. “But I confess, I wondered the same thing.”
His eyes lifted to meet mine, and I could see they were stark with shadows.
“Did you have any suspicions about your father’s death before we came here?” Sidney asked as the filly, who had noted his distraction, reached forward to snatch the carrot from his hand before dancing away.
“Actually . . . yes.” He frowned, before adding tentatively, “I think I always have. But I kept telling myself I had no reason to be. That it was probably a normal reaction to feel when the death is so sudden and unexpected.”
I stepped forward to stand next to Sidney, facing Max more fully. “How did he die?”
“A heart attack. At least, that’s what his physician said. He was sixty-four. And his valet said he’d been complaining of some chest pains only a week before.”
But that did not mean the event had been natural. I knew there were poisons that could mimic or even bring on a heart attack. It was possible he’d been helped along to his ultimate demise. Of course, it was also just as possible we were grasping at straws, and everything was exactly as it had seemed—a normal heart attack.
“There was no post mortem, I assume?”
He shook his head. “The war was still on, and there didn’t seem to be any reason for one. There was a delay in the correspondence, and I wasn’t even notified until two days later.”
A tiny furrow formed between Sidney’s eyes, echoing my own consternation. Max had been posted to battalion headquarters by then, which had their own telephones and telegraph capabilities. There was no reason it should have taken two days to notify him—the earl’s son and heir—of his father’s death, even if there had been a delay.
“I also received a letter from my father a few weeks before he passed.” Max’s thumbs rapped against the fence rail in agitation. “He said there was something important he wished to discuss with me on my next leave. That he was going to be doing everything in his power to make that happen sooner rather than later.”
I shared a speaking look with Sidney. “But he didn’t tell you what it was about? Not even a hint?”
“No.” Max strained against the rail, his shoulders tightening beneath his gray tweed suit. “I’ve been racking my brain ever since, trying to figure out what it could have been.” His gaze shifted to meet ours in turn. “I wonder if it could have been this.”
I turned to stare out over the fields, where some of the older horses galloped in the crisp morning air. It was all decidedly odd, and also vaguely ominous. Had the late earl intended to tell his son something about the Zebrina affair? Had he been murdered before he could do so?
And was it too late to uncover the truth? It had been almost a year since Max’s father had died.
Sidney offered Max one of the Turkish cigarettes stored in his battered silver case—the one I had given him before he left for the Western Front—and both men stood smoking, their eyes narrowed in thought.
“Perhaps there’s something in my father’s files. The ones at my father’s office in Parliament.”
I noticed he still called it his father’s office, even though it was now his. His father might have been one of the most prominent figures in Parliament, but Max had little interest in politics, and had been hesitant to take up his father’s seat in the House of Lords. In time, I knew that would change. Max was too conscious of the duty he owed his country not to take some part in government, no matter how small.
“I’ve gone through all his papers here and at the London townhouse. And there were many.” His expression turned long-suffering. “My father had a tendency to keep meticulous notes, about everything. So I’d hoped there might be some mention of what he wished to tell me. But I haven’t found it, or any mention of this smuggling business. Though maybe that last part isn’t so strange. After all, my father was far from stupid, and they evidently wanted no trail.” He inhaled a long drag from his fag and stared down at the glowing tip.
“But it bothers you nonetheless,” I guessed.
He nodded. “It’s simply not like him. He was nothing if not a creature of habit, and that included recording everything.” He grimaced. “Even his conversations with the men he’d essentially bribed and extorted to have me transferred out of the trenches after my shoulder injury.”
It was evident how much this move by his father still bothered him.
“I’d thought he would wish to keep anything of a sensitive nature at one of his homes, but perhaps it’s in the boxes of things from Parliament. I’ve been hesitant to dive into those, but now that there’s a reason, I’ll have to make it a priority.”
“Who else had access to your father’s papers?” Sidney leaned against the fence, and now that he was paying no attention to her, the coquettish little filly had decided to creep up and nuzzle the back of his neck with her nose. “Oh, now you’ll let me touch you, you little minx,” he crooned, stubbing his cigarette out on the ground and reaching out a hand to run it down her neck.
Max’s lips curled in a brief smile at his horse’s ploy. “There was a few months’ delay before I was demobbed and able to return to deal with them and other matters. But the steward here and my solicitor in London quite properly locked the desks and file cabinets, and even the study doors, in order to keep everything secure until I could contend with it. They’re both good men. I have no reason to doubt their assertions.”
“Anyone else?”
“My sister, I suppose. But I trust her implicitly.”
In other words, if someone had removed or tampered with some of the late earl’s papers, it had either been done before the doors were locked, or someone Max trusted had done so later. But once again, we were merely speculating.
“I’m sorry I don’t have anything more definitive to offer you,” Max murmured, misunderstanding the source of the look of frustration that had flashed across my face.
“Oh, no, Max,” I hastened to reassure him, stepping forward to touch his arm. “It’s not that. And I’m terribly sorry that we should be adding to your worries over your father. I know this can’t have been easy for you.”
He shook his head. “Don’t worry about that. Truthfully . . .” He exhaled a heavy breath. “I’m rather relieved to have someone to share this with. I considered contacting you about it half a dozen times, but then I decided I was being foolish.” His gaze shifted between me and Sidney. “And then, of course, I didn’t want to interfere.”
My lips compressed into a tight smile, understanding what he meant. “Well, we will see this through, wherever it leads.” I glanced at Sidney, pleased to see him nodding so decisively. “But it will take conclusive proof in order to convince anyone to do anything about it. As my contact with the Secret Service has already pointed out, no one in the government will want word of this hackneyed plot of your father’s and Rockham’s leaking out. And that means anything surrounding it will also be hushed up. Unless we can prove, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that someone”—and by someone, I was speaking of Ardmore—“contrived to murder two peers of the realm, a crew of English sailors, and, at the very least, was responsible for enabling the situation where an honorable Englishwoman was killed.”
Both men looked as daunted as I felt by the entire situation, but hopefully deep in their guts they felt the same burning anger I did that Ardmore should have been able to get away with all this, and no one had been the wiser. I also admitted to feeling a slice of fear that he might have done so before, and would do so again in the future, if he was allowed to go unchecked. That could not happen.
Max was the first to speak. “Well, then, I suppose we should roll up our sleeves and set to work. Did you wish to catch the next ferry back to Portsmouth?”
“I think that would be best,” I admitted, feeling a pressing urge to return to London.
He pushed away from the fence. “The sooner the better. There’s murmurs that there may be a railroad workers’ strike brewing.”
“Heavens!” If the railroads stopped, then so would food and coal distribution, and just as cooler temperatures had set in.
He nodded grimly. “And if that happens, some of the other industries’ unions might revolt, and we could have a full-scale general strike on our hands.”
Hearing this, I started to realize Max wasn’t as unaware or disinterested in the running of the country’s welfare as he might seem, or as out of touch as his residing on the Isle of Wight might make him appear.
“I’ll follow you to London as swiftly as I may,” he added at last.
But before he could lead us toward the house, I halted him with a hand on his arm. “Take care, Max. If Lord Ardmore is behind all of this, if he’s managed to do all that he’s done thus far without anyone noticing, then he’s certainly being kept apprised of my movements. Sooner or later he’s going to realize you’re helping us. If he should fear what you might know . . .” My fingers tightened around his sleeve in alarm.
“Have no fear, Verity,” he assured me. “I’ll take precautions.”
By this, I suspected he meant the same thing as my husband—carrying a pistol. I could only pray that would be enough, for them both.
CHAPTER 29
Due to a number of delays, we did not reach our flat in Berkeley Square until after ten o’clock. On many days, that was about the time we actually set out for our evening on the town, but days of travel and early mornings had exhausted us. The very thought of sliding my feet into a pair of dancing shoes made me want to crumple to the floor.
Fortunately, there was nothing that couldn’t wait for the morning, and Nimble was there ready to greet us at the door, since Sidney had telephoned from the Isle of Wight to let him know we were returning. The marvelous young man swept my things from my arms and soon had both Sidney and I settled before a crackling fire with a warm cup of tea and a plate of sandwiches Sadie had prepared for us before she left for the evening. At that moment, I think we were both exceedingly pleased to have a live-in servant again, no matter the loss of some of our privacy. I truly did need to find myself a maid at the first opportunity.
I thumbed through the stack of messages and correspondence Nimble brought in to me. Ignoring much of it for the moment, I scanned the notes from George and Ada, both of whom I’d telephoned before departing the island. George relayed a message from Chief Inspector Thoreau, stating he would call upon us the next morning. Given the fact he’d been cautioned not to interact with us, this surprised me, but I suspected there would be a reason.
The message from Ada was far more vexing. She thanked me for finally remembering her, and remarked that it was evident where my priorities lay. Then she told me I could call on her tomorrow, but no earlier than noon for she would undoubtedly be out late. I would have rolled my eyes at her childish behavior had I not been so furious at her obstinacy. Here, I had been trying to aid her, and nearly at every turn she had become determined to thwart me.
I knew Ardmore was partly to blame for this, whispering in her ear like a forked serpent, but he could not be blamed for all. Ada was a grown woman. If she wanted to play the fool, that was on her.
Seeing my furious expression, Sidney asked what had so irritated me. I passed him the message, staring into the flames in the hearth as he read.
He sighed and shook his head. “Why are you attempting to help this woman? Why are you even her friend?”
The arguments I would have made a week ago did not spring so readily to my lips; however, I did make a token attempt to explain her behavior. “I realize she’s under a great amount of strain. And who knows what nonsense Ardmore has told her about me.”
“Cut line, Ver! What rubbish. Strain or no strain, she’s treated you terribly.” He wadded the missive into a tight ball and hurled it into the fire. “Truth be told, I’m not certain she isn’t guilty of the crime.”
I watched the paper as it crumpled and slowly turned to ash. “Truth be told, I’m not certain either,” I admitted softly, finally putting into words the worry I’d been carrying with me ever since Thoreau had told us they might never be able to successfully prosecute the case.
His head reared back in shock. “You’re not?”
I shook my head.
“Then why do you keep investigating?”
I turned to look at him. “Because I don’t want it to be her. I don’t want to have to admit a woman I called my friend is capable of such a thing.” I closed my eyes tightly. “Because I don’t want to accept that she duped me, and lied to me, and used me for her own ends.”
Sidney’s hand stole into mine where it rested on the sofa between us.
I inhaled a ragged breath, blinking open my eyes. “And because if she did do it, I don’t think it was initially her idea. I think Ardmore instigated it. Becoming her lover, sowing the seeds of discontent, suggesting she might be better off without Rockham, and the only way to be truly rid of him was death.” I narrowed my eyes. “She said something once: ‘He was supposed to handle it.’ And although she tried to brush it off as something else, I couldn’t help but think maybe Ardmore was supposed to arrange the murder, but when he didn’t, she took matters into her own hands.”
“So you’ve been hoping connecting Ardmore to the Zebrina incident would connect him to Rockham’s death?”
“Yes, but I’ve also been hoping it would present us with another possible triggerman, another possible way Rockham was shot. So I wouldn’t have to face the fact that my investigating for her might have enabled her to get away with it.”
He squeezed my hand. “That’s not your fault. Deacon is the one who tampered with the evidence and lied to the police.”
I turned to him jadedly. “Yes, but his tampering and lies might not have come to light, at least not in the same manner, had I not interfered. It isn’t a comforting thought to think that I was used in such a way.”
He fell silent, contemplating the truth of those words, an unintended echo of the guilt he also carried. His thumb brushed over the back of my hand in soothing strokes. “What are you going to do?” he asked a few minutes later.
I inhaled a deep breath, firming my resolve. “Find out the truth.” I narrowed my eyes. “Even if I have to trick her into giving it to me.”
* * *
“Dead?” I repeated rather stupidly as I blinked at Chief Inspector Thoreau in astonishment.
“I’m afraid so.” His sympathetic expression communicated he understood how much I wished this to be otherwise. “Miss Flossie Hawkins was found in the doorway of St. Anne’s Church two nights past, apparently dead of an overdose of cocaine.”
I pressed a hand to my forehead and rose from my seat to cross toward the window. Below, I could see the spot where I had spoken with Flossie just a little over a week ago. I’d noted then that she might have indulged in the drug, but an overdose? It all seemed rather too convenient.
“There was a suicide note tucked into the pocket of her dress confessing to the murder of Esther Shaw. She claimed she was searching through her things for something to steal when Miss Shaw came home suddenly. She knocked her over the head so that she could escape, but swears she never meant to kill her. That it was an accident. She tossed the room and opened the window, hoping to throw suspicion off her. And it worked. At first.”
Until Esther’s half sister, Irene, had asked me to look into the matter.
“How nice and neat,” I drawled sarcastically, before swiveling to face the inspector where he perched across from my husband on one of our emeraldine sofas. “But then why didn’t she take anything from Miss Shaw’s room?” Except the letters, which Sidney and I knew had been her real target. “And why did she run? Why not take her life in her own rooms rather than flee?”
