Addie couldn’t utter her suspicion. It was just too awful to contemplate. “I don’t know. The numbers are at least going down with Roy Dean’s death.”
“And causing me no end of trouble. Deputy Commissioner Olive wants my head.”
“You really haven’t had much of a chance to make sense of things!”
“It’s three deaths, Lady Adelaide. My time is up. Theirs is.”
She could hear the frustration and regret in his voice. “I’m sure something will turn up soon.” She cleared her throat. “If it’s all right with you, I thought I’d pay a condolence call on Pip.”
“I was on my way there myself to speak to her parents.”
Addie leaped out of bed. “Right now?” A quick shower, a slap of lipstick, one of her leftover mourning dresses—it wouldn’t take her too long.
“Within the hour. I have some paperwork to finish up.”
“Goodness, did you ever get home last night?”
“No.”
“They have a flat on Curzon Street, right?” She and the Deans had shared a taxi the other night.
“Number 44.”
Addie felt shy suddenly. “Would you—will you come back to my flat for breakfast after? Or lunch, rather.”
There was another silence on the line. “I’m not sure that’s a good idea.”
“Well, a man once told me one has to eat sometime. We don’t have to talk about the case.”
“Let me think about it.”
Addie decided to think positively. Although, really, she should be in a panic. There was barely a crust of bread left in the house if he decided to come.
“See you shortly.” She hung the phone up, far too happy for the circumstances.
“What in hell are you playing at?” Rupert blocked the door to the bathroom, looking as fresh as a skilled undertaker could make him.
“Get out of my way, Rupert. I have to get ready.”
“You like the detective inspector, don’t you? I mean, like him.”
“What if I do?”
“I don’t want to see you hurt again.” He sounded sincere.
This kind, sincere Rupert was very hard for her to deal with.
“I won’t get hurt. And I won’t hurt anyone.”
“What about your little speech on British class problems? You don’t see the difficulty?”
“Why can’t Mr. Hunter be my friend?”
Rupert raised an eyebrow that she longed to tug down. “Don’t be naïve, pet. Imagine telling the dowager marchioness you had lunch alone in your flat with a policeman. This particular policeman.”
Addie didn’t want to hear another word and said so. She was distracted by a noise at the door, and went down the hall to investigate, leaving Rupert to stew in his prejudiced juices.
The opening door practically smacked her in the face.
“Beckett! Fitz!” She hardly knew which to hug first, but her dog decided for her as he knocked her down and began to thoroughly lick her face. The slobber mixed with happy tears. “What are you doing here?”
Beckett grinned. “Thought you might be missing me, Lady A. And they told me this little fiend has been moping around for months. Everyone’s well and all settled into Compton Chase. Your sister wanted to come back with me, but your ma put the kibosh on that.”
“What about Jack?”
“Oh, he’s busy in the garden.”
“I mean, how are things between you?” Addie asked, struggling to her feet with the wriggling dog in her arms.
“It won’t do him no harm to miss me some more.”
“No more worries about Jane?”
Beckett snapped her fingers. “Poof! Gone!”
Addie’s heart sank. “You don’t mean she’s quit service?” It was hell trying to staff Compton Chase, despite generous blandishments. There were many more professional opportunities for young women nowadays, and Addie didn’t begrudge the girls one bit for trying to advance themselves. But the huge house didn’t run itself. Addie could wield a duster if she had to, but it was not something she aspired to.
“Oh, no. She’s still there. She’s walking out with Fred Johnson from the Home Farm. He and that Josie quarreled and she’s got herself engaged to Phil Baird whose pa owns the new garage in the village.”
“There’s a new garage?” She knew about the old one. How many cars did her neighbors own now? Addie had been away too long.
If Inspector Hunter didn’t want her help, would she go home soon?
“I have to go out, Beckett, but I expect to be back shortly. Do you think you could throw something simple together for lunch for Mr. Hunter and me? You may have to order in some groceries.”
At least she wouldn’t be having lunch alone in her flat with a man—Beckett and Fitz would be there to chaperone.
And possibly Rupert too, damn him.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Mr. Dean looked so much like Roy that Addie was temporarily robbed of the comforting words she’d planned to say. He opened the door himself, as the Dean siblings had shared a service flat while they were in Town with no live-in servants. A small cluster of people were seated in the blandly-decorated narrow parlor, including Detective Inspector Hunter, who appeared weary to the bone as he rose at her entrance. His sergeant Bob Wells was with him, still alive after what Addie presumed had been a severe dressing-down about his conduct last night. She gave him an especially warm smile to make up for it.
Pip and her mother were in black, both pale. Addie was used to seeing Pip painted, but she wasn’t wearing a speck of makeup, and her short copper hair was flat and tucked behind her ears with bobby pins.
“I am so very sorry for your loss, Mr. and Mrs. Dean, Pip.” She sat and grasped Pip’s hand. Mrs. Dean shot her daughter a questioning look. “Let me introduce myself. I’m Lady Adelaide Compton. My younger sister Lady Cecilia Merrill and I have befriended your children recently, and she sends her condolences as well.” Or would, if she knew. So far, nothing had been in the papers, at least not in the first editions. Addie definitely didn’t need Cee back in town sniffing around and putting herself in danger.
Mr. Dean frowned. “Compton. Is your husband the famous flying ace?”
“He was, yes. He passed on a year ago.” But didn’t pass on quite far enough.
“Of course, that’s right. Terrible business, all this. The Detective Inspector over there is just finishing up. He tells us he has no idea who’d do such a thing to our boy.”
“He was always so full of life,” Mrs. Dean said in a weak voice. “I can’t believe he’s gone.”
“Nor can any of us. He was a lovely young man,” Addie said, hoping she wasn’t laying it on too thick. But under the circumstances, mourners didn’t want to hear anything negative about their loved ones. She’d heard a lot of happy lies when Rupert died, and hadn’t minded the prevarications. And really, she had nothing bad to say about Roy; she’d barely known him.
“I came by to offer Pip the use of my flat if she doesn’t want to be alone. I have a guest bedroom I’d be happy to have her stay in for as long as she likes.” This idea had come upon her in the taxi ride over, and on the whole, Addie didn’t think it was a bad one.
“That’s very kind of you,” Mr. Dean said. “But we’re taking her home to Brighton once our boy’s body is released and the police say we can leave. Some sea air will put roses back on those cheeks. And my wife can use the company.”
“Of course. I understand. I do hope you’ll stay in touch, Pip.”
The girl nodded. “I’d like that. But who knows when I’ll be back in London. Perhaps you and Viscount Waring can come to Brighton for a weekend when the weather is warmer.”
“Nothing but the best at our hotel,” Mr. Dean said. “You won’t be slumming, I assure you. We cater to an exclusive clientele such as yourselves. Lots of
lords and ladies. A prince or two, too.”
Addie was embarrassed for a number of reasons. “It sounds delightful. Is there anything I can arrange in Town for you before you go home?”
“We’ll muddle along. There’s a restaurant in the building for the tenants—we’ll get something sent up.”
Addie rose. “I’ll leave you to make your plans. Again, let me know if there’s anything I can do.”
“Thank you, Lady Adelaide. We’re touched by your concern.”
Mr. Hunter and Bob Wells stood up too. “Please know your son’s death is a priority at the Yard. We’ll be in touch if there’s any news.”
“See if you can kill any stories in the rags. Bad for business, don’t you know. ‘Hotelier’s heir poisoned.’ The punters will get it all mixed up and never come to the Seaside for fear the fish is off.”
Pip had shut her eyes at this bald statement, and Addie felt truly sorry for her. But everyone dealt with grief in their own way; who was she to judge?
Mr. Dean escorted them to the lift, his booming goodbyes echoing in the hallway. Addie stepped into the cage, and the policemen followed.
“I’m sorry if I got you into trouble last night, Sergeant Wells.”
“The guv’nor wasn’t happy, but I’m still here, my lady.” The man gave her a cheeky grin.
“Don’t count on my good nature again, Bob. Lady Adelaide, may I take you home? I have a squad car downstairs. You don’t mind, do you, Bob? Go home and get some sleep.”
“Not likely with little Joan teething twenty-five hours of the day. But I’ll try my best.”
“I’ll see you at nine sharp tomorrow.”
Bob saluted and ambled off.
“But it’s Sunday tomorrow!” Addie said.
“And until we solve this crime, just another day of the week for us.”
“I’ll say a prayer for you.” While Addie might be bored to near death at Compton St. Cuthbert’s with the annoying Reverend Rivers, the rector of the Grosvenor Chapel in South Audley Street was vastly more efficient in his sermonizing.
“Here we are.” Mr. Hunter guided her around the converted Crossley tender and opened the door. Addie slid in, holding fast to her skirt.
“What did you think of the Deans?” she asked as they motored down Curzon Street.
“It hasn’t really hit them yet. I expect once they get back to Brighton, things will fall apart, for Mr. Dean in particular.”
“I don’t know. His business may preoccupy him. He seems very…keen.”
“One can hope. To lose a son—to lose any child—is a terrible tragedy.”
Addie and Rupert had not been blessed with children, which she’d convinced herself was a lucky thing. But there were times—well, best not to dwell on what was never to be. She was quiet as they drove through Saturday shopping traffic, Mr. Hunter driving skillfully despite his exhaustion.
“You aren’t too tired for lunch, are you? Beckett got back this morning and she’s putting together something for us. Nothing fancy.” Beckett really wasn’t capable of fancy, but Addie valued her nonetheless.
“I’d kill for a good cup of coffee. The stuff at my office is rubbish.”
“I’m sure we can accommodate. You really were up all night?”
“Yes. When I called you, I was with the coroner. The Deans gave us permission by phone to perform the autopsy as quickly as possible.”
Addie shuddered. “I don’t know how you do it.”
“Someone has to.” He turned onto Mount Street and parked not too far from the entrance to her flat. Addie waited until he opened the door, not that she was some helpless female. But she knew Mr. Hunter liked to do everything by the book.
Beckett must have been waiting by the front window. She opened it, and Fitz escaped into the black and white marble hallway, turning in circles and yipping. Mr. Hunter bent to scratch him behind the ears, which earned him total devotion.
“This little fellow will cheer you up. Who’s a good boy, eh?”
Not really Fitz. But he hadn’t been here in Town long enough to cause mischief yet. “Do you have a dog, Mr. Hunter?”
“No. With my irregular schedule, it would be impossible. I don’t have access to a back garden like yours, either.”
“There’s the Mount Street Gardens down the street, too. Fitz is spoiled for choice.”
“Fitz is spoiled, period,” Beckett said fondly, joining in the ear-scratching.
“I trust you’ve managed to get lunch for us?”
“Of course, Lady A. Everything’s in the dining room. Help yourselves. I have silver to polish.”
So she had found Addie’s list. Nothing on it was too onerous. Addie was also grateful Beckett was giving them their privacy.
“Could you bring in a pot of coffee too?”
“Strong coffee, please. I need to get back to my office after lunch.” He gave Beckett a smile which rather weakened Addie’s knees.
“You won’t take the afternoon off?”
Mr. Hunter gave her a look which told her how foolish her idea was.
Beckett had set the table with Addie’s best china and crystal, but a large platter of thick roast beef sandwiches brought lunch back down to earth. Several bottles of beer were in the champagne cooler, and a pitcher of lemonade was on the sideboard.
“This looks perfect,” Mr. Hunter said. “I can’t remember the last time I ate real food.”
“At least you haven’t been forced to taste what passes for the Thieves’ Den midnight supper. Most undistinguished.”
“The whole place is undistinguished. I’d love to shut it down.”
Addie took a sip of lemonade and was gratified to see the inspector flip open the stopper from a bottle of beer. The man needed to unwind a little. She could apply powder under her eyes to diminish the dark smidges, but Mr. Hunter was not so fortunate. “Maybe you should until the murders get solved.”
“There are drawbacks. We feel the activity is pretty much contained to one location, apart from the anomaly at the Savoy. I have men undercover there now every night as well—quite an eye-opening experience for those innocent young lads who thought they were so street-savvy. And the press is cooperating so far, keeping the sensationalism down to a manageable level.”
“It’s still the same small group of revelers, isn’t it?” The Deans—well, now dead or almost gone—the prince and his cousin, Kit and Greg, Bunny Dunford and Lucy.
“Getting smaller by the week. The murderer must be pretty spooked by now, and perhaps that will lead to a mistake.”
They both chewed thoughtfully on what was excellent roast beef.
Addie carefully blotted her lips. “Is it at all possible that it’s someone outside that circle?”
“Becoming attached, are you? That could prove fatal, you know.” Mr. Hunter reached for another sandwich.
“No! It’s nothing like that.” It was exactly like that. Though she’d known most of these young people only a week, it was dreadful to believe one of them was a killer.
And as for Lucy—
Addie shut her eyes, wishing she could shut her mind as well.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Saturday evening
Addie had to admit that she was thrilled to bits that Beckett had returned and brought Fitz with her. She shouldn’t be so attached to a dog—or a killer—but Addie had truly missed him while she was away, and relieved that the little fellow seemed to remember her after so many months. Or at least associated her with food, as he begged for treats from her dinner plate, his brown eyes bright.
It was nice having someone else fix meals, too. Beckett wasn’t much of a cook, although those roast beef sandwiches had hit the spot earlier. Addie had gotten very tired of what passed for a “midnight supper” at the Thieves’ Den, and was ridiculously pleased with tinned tomato soup a
nd toasted cheese from her own kitchen.
She was staying in tonight, not only because Devenand Hunter had told her to. Roy Dean’s death had cast a pall on the little group, and all of Addie’s efforts to meet them this evening, together or separately, came to naught. She’d have to tell the inspector she wasn’t much use in the information gathering department, not that he wanted her to be involved anymore.
She couldn’t blame the young people for being frightened. Or suspicious of one another. It was clear to them that they’d all been present during the poisonings. One of them—or perhaps two—was likely guilty. As much as they wanted to blame the waiter Ted Boyce, or the bartender, or even Freddy Rinaldi himself, they were grasping at straws.
Addie took her dishes into the kitchen. The door to Beckett’s room was open, and she looked in to see the maid fiddling with her wireless.
“You may not be going out, Lady A, but we can always push the table away and dance right here!” The BBC broadcast entertainment from the Savoy nightly, not that Addie needed a reminder of that. It had only been a week since Cee had been poisoned there, and quite a lot had happened.
Too much, really.
“I’m much too lazy to foxtrot with you, Beckett.” Addie had changed into her trousers and a loose sweater and was nearly as comfortable in them as she would be in pajamas.
“I’ll dance as I do the dishes. It makes the time go faster, don’t it? Do you want me to put the dog out after I wash up?”
“No. I really should take him for a quick walk. He needs his exercise after all the treats he’s been slipped today.” In addition, Fitz had been the recipient of an entire leftover roast beef sandwich, stolen from the kitchen table before Beckett had a chance to wrap it. Addie grabbed her tam, camel hair coat, and Fitz’s leash from their hooks by the service door. The dog did his own dance as she snapped the leash on his collar.
The sky was already dark, but the streetlights were bright enough. There were a fair number of people out on a Saturday night, some dressed to the nines, others as casual as she was, with their own pets in tow. She headed for the Mount Street Gardens, in her opinion one of the loveliest little parks in London. Nothing was quite as good as tramping over her own green fields, but this came close.
Who's Sorry Now? Page 14
