Who's Sorry Now?

by Maggie Robinson

  “I won’t keep you long. How did you find out Mary Frances Harmon’s address?”

  “I asked the right person.” She felt under no obligation to peach on Trix, and hoped she was bound for France right this minute.

  “Did you visit her yourself?”

  “No, of course not. That would have spooked her, wouldn’t it? Given her the opportunity to destroy evidence, as you were so worried about. Did you get what you were looking for?”

  “And a bit more. Mary Frances Harmon is dead. Strangled. What do you know about it?”

  Oh dear. Those spots danced before her eyes again. At least in her pajamas, she wouldn’t give Mr. Hunter a show when she slipped to the floor. No view of her lace knickers for him.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Dev had seen Lady Adelaide faint a few times before, so he wasn’t as distressed as he might have been. He shouted out to Beckett, then lifted the woman back to the sofa. Sitting beside her, he arranged her silk-clad limbs, and removed her spectacles. He should feel some shame for shocking her like that, but that wasn’t quite the emotion that roiled through him at present.

  She smelled delicious—Chanel No 5, if his nose was functioning. Her pale lashes fluttered, but her eyes remained closed. A small “v” of worry was etched between her neat eyebrows, and her lips were parted.

  Snow White waiting for a kiss.

  But not from him.

  “A cold washcloth, please, and strong, sweet tea, I think,” he told the maid. She rushed off, and he smoothed Lady Adelaide’s soft golden hair from her forehead. At this distance, Dev could have counted her freckles had he wanted to.

  He hoped she wasn’t ill. Or drunk—he seemed to remember she had difficulty holding her liquor. A frosted cocktail shaker rested on a tray on the table along with two half-full glasses, a bowl of nuts, and crackers topped with tiny shrimp in some kind of sauce. After the day he’d had, he was starving, so he ate one.

  “I’ll take care of her now, Inspector,” Miss Beckett said, wielding a dripping washcloth. “The kettle’s on in the kitchen. Would you be so kind as to make the tea?”

  Disappointed, Dev went to the small white tiled kitchen and waited for the whistle. Beckett had already shoved tea leaves in a flowered tea pot, and a matching mug with several spoons of sugar added sat on the enamel table.

  All very homely, quite a change from the last flat he’d visited. Mary Frances Harmon had been found sprawled out amongst her glittery ill-gotten goods. Robbery had apparently not been the motive, though it would be hard to tell what could possibly be missing from her vast share of the Dollies’ booty strewn throughout. There were coats made of every type of animal fur and clothes in the very latest fashion crammed in the closets, boxes of jewelry tipsily stacked on tables, some spilling their contents to the floor.

  Plenty of ammunition to play dress up. The Dollies were known for their good looks and sense of style—it was why they were able to get away with so much—male clerks were easily duped and distracted, poor saps. What she had planned to keep or to fence would always be a mystery.

  Her bathroom had been a veritable chemist’s shop. Whether she partook personally, Dev had found cocaine and morphia vials in her effects, as well as other drugs—of most interest to him, nicotine and digitalis. He’d ordered the lot taken off the premises to be stored under lock and key. However, there were no conveniently-labeled bottles of cyanide.

  He’d lost the opportunity to question her, not that he’d have gotten any straight answers. Brazen lies, especially before judges, often got the girls off with a mere warning. The Dollies worked in cells, and Dev did not know who had been in hers, although his men were looking for any records she might have kept.

  Had she made someone jealous? Perhaps she’d not divided the spoils equally. The finger marks at her throat had looked like those of a man, though. They’d have to round up as many of the Dollies’ male compatriots as they could find for a little chat.

  The kettle boiled, and Dev poured the scalding water in the pot. He felt at home in this spotless kitchen, even if he’d only been here two or three times. It was fully stocked with every amenity, a luxury few people could afford. Lady Adelaide kept two posh residences, both near perfect. As a hard-working stiff, he should feel some resentment, but was too tired to muster much feeling at all.

  He strained the tea and carried the mug into the drawing room. Lady Adelaide was sitting up, Beckett beside her, her face very pale.

  More opportunity to count those freckles.

  She licked her lips and took a sip of tea, then put it down. Her hands, he noticed, were shaking. “She’s really dead?”

  “Yes.”

  “Wh-when?”

  “The medical examiner thinks it happened somewhere between midnight and four a.m.”

  She suddenly looked more relaxed. “So it wasn’t because of me.”

  “Pardon?”

  “I didn’t know where she was then. I only told Bob. Sergeant Wells. And that was just before noon.”

  Yes. And Dev had moved immediately with his men, despite their doubt about Lady Adelaide’s reliability.

  No one in the neighborhood had seen or heard anything, or so they said. No one seemed particularly sorry that Mary Frances Harmon was dead, either. For so young a woman, she had been ruthless.

  One reaps what one sows.

  “Drink your tea, Lady A,” Beckett said soothingly.

  Lady Adelaide made a face, but did as instructed. She set the mug down again with the cocktail paraphernalia. “Did you think I killed her?” she asked.

  “Of course not,” Dev replied. Lady Adelaide was capable of a great many things, but he was sure murder wasn’t one of them.

  “I saw her last night. Spoke to her.”

  “And you pretended she was her cousin Trix?”

  Lady Adelaide nodded. “It seemed safer.”

  “Tell me again what transpired when you met in the park.” He’d been upset this morning, perhaps not paying total attention. Annoyed. Tired. Angry that she’d interfered. There was no excuse for how he’d treated her, however. Bob had given him a respectful amount of hell, and if Dev’s mother ever found out—

  He’d been raised to be a gentleman.

  Lady Adelaide put her glasses back on. “It was about nine or nine-thirty. I walked the dog. Let him off the lead for a bit while I sat down on a bench. Perhaps a dozen people were sitting and wandering about—it was a nice night, and I felt perfectly safe. There was a full moon and lots of stars, plus of course, the park is well-lit. I saw two young women a few benches away. I recognized Nadia immediately, and thought at first she was talking to Trix. I should have known Trix would be at work at that hour.” She took another sip of tea.

  “I walked up to them, since Fitz was being a nuisance. Nadia jumped up. She was very nervous, and seemed ‘caught in the act,’ if you will. I said something to Mary Frances about Roy Dean’s death, how everyone at the Thieves’ Den must be so upset, and she didn’t enlighten me as to who she really was. We hardly exchanged a handful of words. She asked Nadia for her ‘letter,’ and off she went.”

  “What was she wearing?”

  “A blond mink jacket with a white sequined dress beneath it. White silk shoes with a strap and a diamante buckle. Quite a lot of paste diamonds. But maybe they were real—she was a thief, wasn’t she? She positively gleamed under the lamplight. Like an angel. Ironic, isn’t it?”

  She was still wearing the dress when she was discovered, minus the fur coat and footwear. The police had found the shoes kicked off in a corner; presumably the coat was hanging in the closet with all the others. “Did she say where she was going?”

  “No. I spoke to Nadia for a few minutes after she left, and told her I knew that she hadn’t been meeting Trix but Mary Frances. Nadia said she was finished dealing with the girl, and that I should mind my own bu
siness.”

  Fat chance of that, which so far had worked in Dev’s favor, no matter where he thought Lady Adelaide should really be. Her observations had been astute, and somehow she had gotten Trix—for he was sure it was she—to divulge her cousin’s address.

  “You came straight home after you walked the dog?”

  “Yes. It had been a long day. I’d called all around earlier, trying to talk to the group of young people. Everyone said they were staying in out of respect for Roy. I went to bed before eleven—Beckett can vouch for me.”

  “I’m a light sleeper, sir. I’d know if Lady A left the flat and went out to murder some tart.”

  Dev almost laughed. “It looks like a visit to Miss Sanborn is in order. Just what this case needs—to offend some diplomat. Likely I’ll be shipped off to Australia.” Which might make for a pleasant change.

  “Surely not!” Lady Adelaide cried. “I’ll speak to someone in authority.”

  “That might cause more harm than good. Our relationship—our professional relationship—has been very unorthodox. While I’m grateful for your assistance, I really do have to insist that you step back. It’s gotten much more dangerous now. One can be choosy about where and what one drinks, but one cannot avoid a strangler.”

  “I have a gun, and I know how to use it. My papa taught me.”

  Dev stopped himself from rolling his eyes. Of course she did, and of course she would. “Again, more harm than good. It’s one thing to shoot at a tin can target, another at a human being, no matter how vile. I cannot tell a grown woman what to do, but I implore you to forget about all this and go home. I’ll somehow muddle on without you.” He gave her a rueful smile.

  “I’ll—I’ll think about it. I still have some shopping to do.”

  “I’d hate to think of you dying over a new dress.” He checked his watch. “I’d better stop by the Sanborns. Wish me luck.”

  “Can we get you anything before you go? Tea? Coffee?”

  “No, thank you. But I wouldn’t mind snaffling some of these shrimp things. That bacon roll was a long time ago.” And he’d never had a chance to finish it.

  “Of course.” She looked down at her ringless hands. “I have a confession to make.”

  He braced himself. “Oh, yes?”

  “After I left the Yard, I visited Freddy Rinaldi very briefly to ask where Trix was living. I found her at the Albert Hotel with the band leader, Ollie Johnson.”

  “Yes, I know. They’re getting married tomorrow, and leaving for Paris on the night train. I sent some men to bring them in for questioning a little while ago.”

  “You won’t find them. They decided to go this afternoon.” She drew a deep breath. “What if they killed Mary Frances?”

  Dev sighed. “You have been busy.” Trix had protected her cousin. Why would she kill her? But Johnson would probably do anything to protect Trix. Was the man cold-blooded enough to strangle a woman and then go chat up a detective inspector at Scotland Yard a few hours later? Dev would have to cable the Préfecture.

  Perhaps the poisonings and the murder of Mary Frances Harmon were unrelated. Dev felt a headache coming on, and it wasn’t only because he was hungry.

  Chapter Thirty

  Monday

  Addie had slept poorly, and was awake lying in her bed and staring at the Georgian medallion on the ceiling when the doorbell rang at seven-thirty. She heard Fitz’s defensive bark and Beckett’s footsteps hurtling down the hallway.

  She had an urge to put the blanket over her head. Anything at this hour couldn’t be good.

  The maid entered without knocking. “It’s Miss Sanborn, Lady A. She’s a right mess. Says the police have taken the prince away and it’s an emergency. Shall I tell her to go home? I’m barely awake.”

  “No! Give me five minutes. Fix her some breakfast or tea or something. When you wake up sufficiently.” Addie slid out of bed. She’d changed from her pretty silk lounging pajamas last night to the real thing, a cheerful yellow cotton top and drawstring pants which would have to do to greet her unexpected visitor in. After splashing cold water on her face and running a brush through her hair, Addie cleaned her teeth, put on her glasses, and joined her guest in the drawing room.

  Nadia sat on the couch, a cup of coffee and a plate of untouched toast before her. She had cried off any makeup she might have been wearing, and looked as if she’d gotten dressed in the dark. Wearing a striped jumper over a floral chiffon skirt, with knee socks and oxfords, she was not her usual elegant, composed self. “I didn’t know where else to turn. My father—oh! He’s so angry, and my mother has locked herself in her room, ruing the day she ever left Russia.” She blew her nose into one of Addie’s embroidered linen napkins. “You said you wanted to help.”

  “I will help, if I can. What has happened? Why don’t you start from the beginning? Everything, this time.”

  “Do you know that Mary Frances Harmon is dead?”

  Addie nodded.

  “The police think Andrei killed her.”

  Absurd. Addie had developed a tentative fondness for the young man. In his own stumbling way, he meant well. “Why?”

  “Because the idiot said he did! They came yesterday in the early evening to ask questions, and he confessed before they got very far. He insisted—insisted—that they arrest him. Inspector Hunter tried to reason with him, but it did no good. Then he said he poisoned Roy Dean and tried to kill your sister, too. It isn’t true! I know it isn’t! He was dancing with you when Lady Cecilia’s drink came. And it wasn’t even hers anyway. It was Kit’s, wasn’t it?”

  “Why would he confess if he wasn’t guilty?”

  Nadia wiped the tears from her cheeks with the palm of her hand. “Because he thinks I am. At least for killing Mary Frances. He knows things. We had an argument about her.”

  “I think I know things, too, Nadia. She sold you drugs and was blackmailing you, wasn’t she?” Addie asked softly.

  The girl nodded. “But I told you Saturday night, I was done. I told her, too. There would be no more money from me. I would have told my parents everything, but I didn’t get the chance before the police came.”

  “Are you all right?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “The after-effects when one weans oneself from drugs can be difficult and painful.” Addie had reason to know. Her friend Barbara had had a devil of a time, requiring professional nursing.

  “It was never like that. I only used a little cocaine, like everybody does, which made me happy while it lasted. God forbid I should be happy,” she said, bitter.

  “That’s not real happiness and you know it, Nadia. Have you told your parents?”

  “Yes. Everything. They are furious with me.”

  “Do they think Andrei is guilty?”

  “No. They blame me for his stupidity. If I had treated him right, blah blah blah.”

  Addie put a hand on the girl’s shoulder. “He loves you, Nadia.”

  “But why? I’m really awful to him sometimes. He drives me crazy.”

  “Who knows why we fall in love? It’s quite the mystery when we give our hearts up to hope. Do you object because it seems like an arranged marriage?”

  “It is an arranged marriage! My mother and her cousin cooked it up when we were both in the cradle. Of course, Russia was not supposed to fall. I was going to be a princess there.”

  Addie smiled, picturing Nadia in a tiara without the unfortunate argyle knee socks. “You’ll still be a princess.”

  “Only if we get Andrei out of jail.”

  “Let me see what I can do.”

  “You said you knew Inspector Hunter. Can you talk to him? I’m sure he’d listen to you.”

  Perhaps. “I can try.”

  “And do you know a good solicitor? Or do we need a barrister? I never can remember which is which.”


  Addie had excellent legal representation, but even better, she did have Devenand Hunter’s telephone numbers. This time she would make sure he answered her call.

  “Do your parents know where you are?”

  “No. I couldn’t sleep and have been walking around until I thought you might be awake.”

  “I want you to call them and tell them you are safe. Then you are going to drink that coffee and eat that toast. I will put you in a taxi once you’re done.”

  “Thank you, Lady Adelaide.” There was no trace of the cool, sophisticated young woman Addie was used to seeing.

  “Don’t thank me yet. Go on. The phone is right over there. I’ll give you privacy.”

  Addie went into the kitchen, where Beckett was reading one of the morning’s papers. A stack was under her elbow. Both she and Addie liked to be well-informed, so they had several delivered daily.

  “‘Death of a Dolly!’” Beckett read the headline with some relish. “It’s all over the news, and there’s even a photograph of handsome Mr. Hunter coming out of her criminal lair! Gosh, he takes a good picture.”

  Addie exercised some control by not asking to see it. She knew he would hate the attention.

  “Do any of the articles mention an arrest?”

  “Nope. Not even one of those ‘assisting with inquiries’ thingies. Mum’s the word.”

  Addie wondered how long that would last when a Russian prince was involved. He must love Nadia a great deal if he was willing to sacrifice his hard-won freedom.

  And be really stupid. Or at least massively confused.

  Unless he knew something about Nadia that Addie and the police didn’t.

  That was the trouble—Addie couldn’t see any of the remaining group involved in pre-meditated murder. The cunning to secure poison, the sleight-of-hand to contaminate the drinks, the ability to appear shocked and sick at the results—all of it described an evil stranger.