A Pretty Deceit

by Anna Lee Huber

  * * *

  “Why are we here again?” Sidney murmured.

  I shushed him, peering up at the darkened terrace from our place concealed behind a line of hedges running north to south along the boundary separating the east garden from the west. The night was still and the sky cloudless, illuminated by a round harvest moon that cast a silvery light over everything. But without the cloud cover, the temperatures had plummeted, making even my fur-lined coat and hat inadequate against the chill. With the heat of my husband’s large frame at my back, the wait was bearable, but he was not so content.

  “It seems to me, the least you could do is tell me why I’m standing out here freezing.” He stamped his feet, glancing about him as he pulled up the collar of his trench coat. “I put up with enough of this sort of thing during the war.”

  “Wait and see.”

  He leaned forward to drawl in my ear. “You know, I fancy the staff has a rather cheery fire going in our chamber by now. Perhaps I could . . .”

  I pressed my hand to his lips, quieting him as a shadow disengaged from the terrace.

  He grumbled something about my not properly appreciating his seduction technique and then fell silent, catching sight of the same thing I had. The shadow solidified into a figure, which pattered lightly down the steps and then hurried across the raised walk toward the west. Without a word, I moved to follow and Sidney kept pace with me, guiding me around a lawn sprinkler when I would have tripped over it.

  The figure paused as it reached the ha-ha, and turned to look behind them, perhaps unaware that the bright moonlight illuminated them. I could tell now that I had been right. Miss Musselwhite was perturbed, and intent on something. The question was what?

  As she leaped down from the ha-ha and set off down the path leading into the west park, I was inclined to believe it had something to do with her brother-in-law. Had he known something? Had he told her? Perhaps he’d even concealed it.

  In the open park, Sidney and I had to hang back a fair distance so as not to be seen in the moonlight or heard crunching through the fallen leaves underfoot, and once or twice, I feared we’d lost her. But then we picked up her scent again, both literally and figuratively, for she smelled of lavender and vanilla—the bouquet of scents my aunt preferred. It would waft to us faintly on the night breeze, softened by the earthy aromas of the autumn forest. Realizing she was headed deep into the park, I slid my hand into my pocket, grateful for the heft of the Webley pistol tucked there. I had no desire to be taken unawares without a weapon should it be needed.

  She was moving in the direction of the airfield, albeit hesitantly, as if perhaps she had not passed this way often, or if ever, at night. I was beginning to wonder if she was making for the airfield itself, when we peered around a tree to find her speaking with two men in a clearing. The first was Captain Willoughby—I recognized him immediately—while the second was unknown to me, though he wore an RFC uniform. From the appearance of her posture, she was wary and not at all comfortable in their presence. When one of them reached out to touch her, she sidestepped, though she seemed careful not to offend and just as careful to keep both of them in her line of sight.

  What the devil was she doing with Willoughby?

  CHAPTER 25

  I had little time to contemplate more than this before one of the men again tried to grab her, more determinedly this time. They were too far away for us to hear what they were saying, and there was no way we could approach and remain concealed. But given the men’s evident aggression, I decided there was only one thing to do.

  I strode forward, moving swiftly and soundlessly enough to catch the end of what Miss Musselwhite was saying.

  “. . . don’t know where it is. I keep telling you this. I tried looking. . . .” Her desperate voice broke off at the sound of our approach and she whirled to the side. Her wide, frightened eyes fixed on my face above all the others, and I felt the urge to reach out and comfort her.

  “Ah, Mr. and Mrs. Kent, how good of you to join us,” Captain Willoughby proclaimed as if he were interrupted during clandestine meetings in the woods every evening.

  “Captain.” I nodded, not bothering to remove my hands from my pockets to greet him properly. I had no intention of stepping any closer to him than I needed to. My gaze shifted to the man standing at his right in question.

  If ever a stare could be termed disrespectful, this pucker-mouthed fellow’s would be it. It was mocking and insolent, and yet there was a sharp edge I did not trust. “Dodgy” was I believe how Opal described him, and I understood what she meant. Understood why he gave her a funny feeling in the pit of her stomach, as well.

  “Allow me to introduce Lieutenant Smith,” Willoughby said, confirming my suspicions.

  Sidney joined me in scrutinizing his motley uniform, which appeared to be made up of more pieces of army gear than anything else. “Lately of the RFC?” he queried almost scornfully.

  “The Royal Fusiliers,” he replied, a glint of challenge in his eyes.

  Before I could ask why on earth a Royal Fusilier from the army would be detailed to an RAF station after the war, Willoughby caught Miss Musselwhite off guard, wrapping an arm about her waist and pulling her close.

  “I’m afraid you interrupted us in the midst of a bit of a lovers’ tiff,” he declared jocularly.

  She turned to look at him, opening her mouth as if to argue, but snapped it shut as he squeezed her even tighter. Obviously it was a warning.

  “I was told you had been stepping out with Minnie Spanswick,” I contested.

  “Minnie?” He laughed. “Good heavens, no. She was a lively girl, and always ready for a bit of fun, but there was nothing serious between us.” He nodded at his friend. “Met Lieutenant Smith more often than she did me.”

  “And half the other chaps up at the airfield, as well,” Smith implied with a leer.

  “I see,” I replied in a clipped tone. The degree of Minnie’s promiscuity did not interest me at the moment, though it always infuriated me when men cast aspersions on women they’d been happy to use for their own ends, eager to disregard why they were so desperate for their affections in the first place. What did interest me was why Captain Willoughby was so intent on distancing himself from her.

  His mouth twisted in scorn. “Really, Mrs. Kent. You sound just like that inspector from Scotland Yard who came to see me this evening. I don’t know where he, or you, got the notion that I cared for Minnie beyond an evening’s fun.” He huffed a laugh. “Or had even the slightest notion of setting her up in London.” Miss Musselwhite managed to wriggle from his grasp as he shook his head derisively and then sighed. “Look, I’m sorry the poor girl was killed, but I had nothing to do with it.” His eyes slid toward the lady’s maid. “I doubt anyone at the airfield did.”

  Miss Musselwhite stepped back from him as if she’d been slapped.

  And then Willoughby seemed to turn the screw a little tighter. “Perhaps Mr. Green killed her.”

  Her hands clenched at her sides, her body practically shaking with the desire to refute this. But most curious of all, she did not.

  “Say he did,” Sidney agreed doubtfully. “Who killed Mr. Green, then?”

  He shrugged. “His wife, maybe. Perhaps she thought they were having an affair.”

  Back to this again, were we.

  I studied his carefree manner, the deliberate casualness of his movements, and felt certain he was not as unaffected by Minnie’s death as he seemed. He was lying about something, but at times something shifted in his demeanor that made me wonder if he was telling partial truths.

  On the other hand, I had no trouble believing what little Lieutenant Smith had conveyed with his facial expressions. He had not cared one jot for Minnie, and he didn’t care if I knew it.

  “Well, whatever the state of your relationship with Miss Musselwhite, I suggest you allow us to escort her back to the house now.” Sidney’s voice brooked no challenge, and Willoughby didn’t give it to him.

&nbs
p; “Of course. I would be grateful.”

  The maid stepped forward reluctantly.

  “One never knows what might happen in these woods,” Willoughby added as we turned to go, and it sounded distinctly like a threat. “They’re a dark and haunted place. Or so the locals tell me.”

  His voice rang with hollow laugher as Sidney and I hurried Miss Musselwhite away. Had it not been for what he viewed as his gentlemanly duty to protect both of us, I suspected my husband would have challenged Willoughby’s statement. As it was, I was glad he hadn’t. Not when two bodies had already been found in this park.

  As if by unspoken agreement, we all walked in silence, attuned to the sound of any pursuit. When the trees around us began to thin, and the hulk of Littlemote House could be seen ahead of us, glinting in the moonlight, I finally ventured to speak.

  “Why were you out there? How do you know Captain Willoughby?”

  “You heard him,” she replied tightly, her voice breaking as she tried to force an air of levity. “We’re lovers.”

  “Please, don’t insult us by expecting us to believe such a load of eyewash.”

  She seemed startled by the vehemence in my voice, and well she should be.

  “You are not lovers. And need I remind you, we would not be here investigating now if it were not for your insistence that your sister is innocent of killing her husband. And yet, back there, you allowed Captain Willoughby to baldly state that very thing without a word of denial.”

  She crossed her arms over her chest and lowered her head as if in shame.

  “What hold does he have over you?” I asked more gently.

  “Nothing.”

  “It’s obvious he must be threatening you in some way.”

  “No . . . no, he’s not,” her voice rose with agitation.

  “Then what couldn’t you find that he wanted you to?” I asked, referring to the words we’d heard her say as we rushed forward. “Has it anything to do with what your sister claimed Mr. Green found? What he believed would help them.”

  She shook her head, refusing to answer.

  “Miss Musselwhite, we can help you.”

  But still she wouldn’t speak. It made me so frustrated, I wanted to shake her.

  “Did you know your brother-in-law wished to speak with me?” Sidney suddenly asked in an even voice.

  This, it seemed, had somehow managed to penetrate through her haze of distress, for she stared up at him.

  “Before he was killed, he told the chauffeur he was anxious to speak with me on my return. Do you know what it was about?”

  It took her a moment to formulate a response, and when she did, it was a simple no. But by the hesitation and inflection, it was obvious that it was a yes. Evidently, she wasn’t ready to share the truth, but perhaps by Sidney planting that fact in her brain—that knowledge that Mr. Green had intended to confide something in him—it might work on her in the interim. Maybe then the truth would come to light.

  * * *

  I woke to the sound of screaming. It took me a moment to realize it was my own.

  I sank my head into my hands, resting my elbows on my knees as my heart continued to pound. Each beat sent a sickening surge of blood through my veins, making me want to crawl out of my skin. One glance to the side told me Sidney was not in bed with me. Lifting my head, I saw he was seated in the shadows across the room.

  I felt ashamed and exposed knowing he’d been sitting there watching me, and then I realized why he hadn’t spoken. It was the same reason I hesitated to say anything when he was in the grips of one of his nightmares, or pacing the drawing room, trying to outdistance the memories. Sometimes it was difficult to tell when a dream ended, whether a person was in the present or the past, and if speaking might pull them from it or momentarily force them deeper in.

  I’d heard stories of returning soldiers waking in the middle of the night to find themselves choking their wives, convinced that they were the enemy. While Sidney had never done anything like that, I had felt the instinct for violence pulsing through his muscles as he struggled in his sleep. Which was why I’d decided not to question his tendency to leap from bed, to distance himself from me whenever he woke from a nightmare. He was simply doing what he thought best, to protect me, even from himself.

  I inhaled a ragged breath, feeling my heart rate begin to slow.

  “They’re growing worse,” he said.

  “I know.” Though it was the same dream every time, it was growing more intense. “I don’t know what to do.” My voice rasped as I spoke, raw from shouting. “It’s like I’m looking for something.”

  He rose from his chair. “You already know Scott was there.”

  “Yes.”

  “Isn’t that it, then?”

  I began to search my brain, but I balked at willingly returning to the memory. “I don’t think so. If it was, why would it keep getting more vivid?” I pressed a hand to the side of my matted hair. “It’s like this itch in my brain, but I just can’t scratch it.”

  “It will come to you.”

  “Will it?” I looked up as he came to a stop beside the bed. It was then that I noticed he was wearing no shirt, and my chest tightened anew as my eyes became riveted to the scars from his bullet wound—the wound that nearly killed him. Then I became engrossed by something altogether different as the taut definition of the muscles in his abdomen rippled as he climbed into bed beside me. Sidney had always possessed an impressive physique, but war and the trials that followed had whittled away any softness.

  “Yes, it has to.”

  My gaze lifted to his worried one. The implication was clear. If it didn’t, I might drive myself mad. I didn’t have an answer to that, so I changed the subject.

  “Aren’t you chilled?” I asked, shivering in the night air as the sweat on my skin cooled.

  “Yes, but it helps me think more clearly.”

  “About?”

  His mouth softened into a smile. “Many things.” He wrapped his arm around me and pulled me back down into the covers beside him. “None of which I’m going to discuss tonight.”

  I pressed my hand against his jaw, feeling the dark stubble against my palm, and searched his beloved face. So many secrets, so much pain was locked inside him, and I hadn’t the key to release it. I wasn’t certain I even had the right. That knowledge constricted my heart.

  His smile took on a roguish twist. “Are you in need of a distraction?”

  “Yes,” I murmured, already feeling my body melting into his as his mouth lowered to my neck.

  “Always happy to be of service.”

  * * *

  I had respected Chief Inspector Thoreau from the moment I met him in the morning room of the Marquess of Rockham’s palatial Grosvenor Square mansion, and my regard and appreciation for his fierce intelligence had only grown over the weeks that followed. But my fondness grew exponentially the moment I walked into the room at the Hungerford Constabulary where Mrs. Green was now being held. Not only was it not the cold, open room divided by steel bars, but it contained some semblance of comfort in the form of thick blankets, a table and chairs, and a separate bathroom. For all that she was accused of killing her husband, in my opinion—and apparently Thoreau’s—the evidence thus far was wanting, and her painful period of sobering up punishment enough, at the moment.

  I sat across the table from her, relieved to see her gaze was steady and lucid, though she still seemed to be suffering from periods of chills evidenced from the blanket draped around her shoulders that she clutched together before her almost like a shield.

  The pleasantries dispensed with, I decided to come straight to the point. “Mrs. Green, do you know who killed your husband?”

  She looked up from where she’d been staring at the table between us to shake her head. “No, I wish to God I did!” Her voice broke, and I realized her placidity was a thin fa-çade. That she was struggling not to shatter. “Maybe someone from work?”

  “Did he discuss his work at the
estate with you?”

  “No, not that I remember.” She heaved a shamed breath. “Not that I remember much of anything.”

  “But you did remember he was going back to the estate that night to search for something,” I prompted. “You told us he’d found something he thought might help you. Something he might have had to dig to get.”

  “Yes.” Her eyes widened. “He was almost obsessed with it, determined that this would be the way he could set things right. For me. For all of us.” She sniffed, tears coming to her eyes.

  “Do you know what it was that he found?”

  She shook her head, swiping at her cheeks.

  “Then do you know where he might have hidden it? Please, it might be important.”

  “No, I . . . I wish I did. I’m sorry.” She began to sob, her head bowed.

  I sat quietly with her, not knowing what to say, and yet not wanting to leave her alone. Not when her pain and grief were so immense.

  “It’s my fault,” she gasped. “If I’d been stronger, if I hadn’t started drinking, none of this would have happened.”

  “Mrs. Green, you are not the only woman who picked up a bottle,” I told her. “Or the only woman to become lost in it.”

  She blinked up at me through her tears.

  “The world tells us we must be composed, that we must manage it all and manage our fears. That it’s on us that the men must rely to bolster them for the war they must fight, and comfort them when they return from it.” I inhaled a swift breath, struggling now to contain my own emotions. “But who bolsters us for the fight we wage at home against despair? Who comforts us when it all becomes too much, or the man who returns to us is not the same as the one who left?” I offered her a tight smile. “There’s sympathy for those who mourn the dead, but little left to go around for the rest of us.”