“Yes, that is I in a nutshell,” Addie said, keeping a straight face with difficulty. Soon she’d be plucking whiskers from her chin and tucking heating pads behind her back. Buying canes and orthopedic shoes.
“May we offer you some lunch? We’ve just finished, but I’m sure Cook can whip something up.”
“No, no, I had a late breakfast, but thank you. I wonder if I might speak to Nadia and the prince alone, Sir Digby.”
“Of course! I need to get back to Whitehall anyhow. No rest for the wicked, eh? One thing after the other. Cyprus, you know. Lots to do before the first of May. Well, I’m off. You two behave.” Sir Digby gave Addie a wink and left them alone.
“Please to sit,” the prince said. “I feel such shame I must grovel at feet.”
Addie dropped into one of the velvet chairs, hoping Andrei wouldn’t fall down on the rug. She was relieved when the cousins settled on the sofa. “Don’t be silly. You were only trying to protect Nadia.”
“I told him I can take care of myself.”
“Ha! If so, that witch Mary Frances would not have gotten fingers in you.”
“Well, that’s over now. Unless she comes back to haunt me.”
Uh oh. Stranger things had happened, as Addie well knew. “I must ask you questions, and you must be truthful. Did you know where Mary Frances lived?”
Nadia shook her head. “We always met at the Thieves’ Den, and then that once in the park where you saw us.”
“No,” Andrei said. “Was not my type.”
“But you like blondes,” Nadia teased, fluffing her own pale hair.
“I like you. And Lady Adelaide. But not in that way,” Andrei said to Addie quickly. “No offense.”
“None taken. Did you know any of her friends, Nadia?”
“I saw her with a big table of girls at the club regularly, but never met any of them.”
Inspector Hunter could quiz Mr. Rinaldi about that, if he’d answer. Maybe one of them decided Mary Frances had to go. Addie had not decided whether she thought the girl’s death had anything to do with the poisonings—it was all terribly complicated. She didn’t know how the police kept everything straight.
“Will you be going back to the Thieves’ Den? I know your father doesn’t approve.”
Nadia clasped Andrei’s hand. “No. We’ll be spending our nights right here, playing cards or something.”
“I teach her how to play Svoyi Koziri. No luck, all strategy.” Andrei beat his chest with his free hand. “There is something wrong with friends. I feel it.”
“What do you mean?”
“Your sister. Roy. That boy Tommy. Is prank? Too—what is word—coincidence. We all there, every time. I do not wish to sit with Kit or Greg or Bunny or Lucy. Maybe even Pip. One is killer.”
“Andrei! How can you say such a thing?”
“I say because is true. Is not me. Is not you. Is one of them.”
“But not Pip! She wouldn’t kill her own brother! I’ve known her since we were at school together.”
“People change. Countries change. One cannot depend on anything.”
Such a bleak outlook, but more or less true, thought Addie. If Andrei was trying to cast suspicion on the others, he was doing a damn good job.
But maybe that’s what he meant to do. He might not have been involved with Mary Frances, but it didn’t mean he wasn’t the St. Petersburg Poisoner.
“I saw Pip earlier. They’re going home tomorrow. The funeral is on Friday.”
“We should go, Andrei. How is she?”
“Tired. Sad.” Infatuated. Addie rose, and Andrei hopped up like the gentleman he was supposed to be, and brought Nadia with him. “Well, I came to check up on you both, and thank you for the roses. They’re lovely.”
“Pink. See? I remember.” Andrei grinned.
“Andrei starts his new job on Monday,” Nadia said with a note of pride in her voice. “At the RRRA. The Russian Refugees Relief Association,” she clarified.
“Oh?”
“Finally I have something worthy. To work with my people. Raise money. There is still much to be done after all these years. Nadia will help too.”
“That sounds excellent! Congratulations.”
“For three years, I drug my feet at finding work. Princes do not work in my country, you know. But I want Nadia to be proud of me.” The two exchanged a look.
More wedding bells. Addie felt a bit like a fairy godmother.
The rain was coming down harder, but Addie decided the short walk from Grosvenor Square to Mount Street would do her good. She avoided most puddles and managed not to get into an umbrella war with the other pedestrians. London rain smelled different from country rain—sharper, far less wholesome—and she felt a deep longing for Compton Chase.
She let herself into the flat, endured Fitz’s jumping, and took off her wet shoes while Beckett gave her a phone call report from a little notepad. The florist again, Millie Avery wondering how Cee was, her personal shopper at Harrods, Angela Shipman next door, an appeal from the Red Cross, and Lord Marbury, Lucy’s father.
“The Earl of Marbury? What does he want?”
“He didn’t say, Lady A. He was calling from a public place—there was so much noise I could barely understand him. I told him you’d be back by teatime—I hope that was all right.”
“Of course. I hope Lady Lucy is all right.” She had not spoken to the girl since she strutted out of the police station early Saturday morning. Addie couldn’t call the earl back; he’d not left a number.
She changed into another pair of silk pajamas and helped Beckett assemble and eat a quick late lunch. Then she methodically called everyone back. The florist was still worried that Addie would inform Lord Waring of the mix-up. He was a valued customer, whether he stopped in when he was in Town or telephoned from the country. Addie assured the woman her lips were zipped, and happily accepted a future bribe of free flowers of her choice. Addie gave Millie Compton Chase’s telephone exchange so she could find out how Cee was for herself. She agreed to look over the clothing that her shopper would be sending over—not that she needed another stitch—and rang Angela, who wasn’t in, thank goodness, for Addie was rather tired of hearing how annoyed Angela was with her husband Ernest. She pledged fifty pounds to the Red Cross, and sent Beckett to the post box with a check.
“Alone at last,” Addie said to Fitz, as she flopped down on the couch, wondering where Rupert was.
And then the doorbell rang.
Chapter Thirty-Three
The Earl of Marbury might once have stood taller, but he was stooped now, shorter than his daughter. Shriveled. Wizened. And all sorts of other diminishing words Dev could think of without a thesaurus handy. One good gust of wind, and he looked like he might be blown over.
Dev could understand why, after now knowing the history of the family. Considering his heirs were dead, his wife in permanent mourning, his estate razed, and his fortune sadly depleted, standing up straight was the least of the man’s concerns.
“Please, my lord, sit down,” Dev said, after shaking the man’s trembling hand. “Tell me how I can help you.”
Lady Adelaide had been insistent that he come right over to Mount Street as quickly as he could. It was now nearing six o’clock, and Dev had been looking forward to finally going home.
A full complement of tea things were on the low drawing room table, but nothing had been touched. Dev’s stomach rebelled in protest, but he couldn’t help himself to sustenance until he knew what the current crisis was.
“Maybe I’m being foolish,” the earl began, his voice as reedy as his body. “I didn’t think to call the authorities in, but Lady Adelaide persuaded me to at least talk to you.”
“She can be very persuasive. Tell me what’s wrong.”
Lady Adelaide had been brief and to the point on the phon
e: Lady Lucy Archibald was missing.
“I know young people today do as they please, but my Lucy has been devoted to her mother since her brothers died. I don’t think she’d elope or any such thing without telling us.”
Dev’s impression of Lady Lucy was a little different. She had been cold and cutting during their interviews, as if no mortal had any right to question her about anything. Alas, Dev was altogether too mortal, and had too many questions. Her answers had been evasive and sly, and it would not surprise him at all to discover she was at the heart of this mess.
All the arrows pointed to her.
“How long has she been missing?”
The earl raked a hand through his thinning gray hair. “This will sound dreadful, but I’m not sure. She told her mother Sunday after church that she was feeling ill, and didn’t want any lunch or dinner. With so many late nights, it wasn’t a surprise—she’s been burning the candle at both ends. She taped a note to her door, asking that she not be disturbed as she wanted to sleep in on Monday. We of course obeyed her wishes. She’d been looking a touch peaky, my wife thought, and if she noticed, it must have been true.”
“Does your wife have vision problems?”
“No, no, nothing like that. Marian—that’s my wife—isn’t well herself. Is…is a bit of a hypochondriac, if I may be so bald. Her doctor gives her pills for her nerves. A quack, in my opinion, though the pills do seem to work most of the time. But they make her somewhat vague. She loses track of thoughts. Time. She sleeps a great deal, and has turned to God when she is awake. Lucy is very good with her and manages the household as best she can. She reads the Bible to Marian for hours on end.”
No wonder Lady Lucy wanted to go out dancing and drinking every night. Dev busily rearranged his previous opinion, though the arrows remained stubbornly pointed.
“Anyway, yesterday morning I went to a rare book auction in Bath by train. Not as a buyer, mind, but as a seller. I had two lots up, and they did very well, praise God, to borrow my wife’s words. I stayed at the Abbey Hotel and had dinner with some friends, other collectors. It’s a sort of fraternity, though I don’t participate much anymore.”
Marbury rose and shuffled to the drawing room window, where rain continued to splatter. “I had a famous library at one point—fortunately the most valuable books were housed in Town rather than in Gloucestershire, or they would have been lost in the fire. Don’t let anyone tell you that you can’t eat books—they’ve been our mainstay for years. Bless my father and his father before him for having such a discerning eye.” His finger traced a racing raindrop. “I got home at midday. We have a girl who comes in for a few hours Tuesdays and Fridays to do some cooking and light housekeeping. She went in to check on Lucy—the note was still on the door, you see—and found the bed made and no trace of my daughter.”
“Your wife didn’t realize she left the house?” Dev asked.
The earl’s face mottled. “No, Inspector. Marian didn’t leave her bed. If she wondered where Lucy was, it was only fleeting. The cleaning girl thinks my wife had gone without lunch or dinner yesterday. Marian was so hungry she ate two breakfasts.”
“There was no other note? Any suitcases missing?”
“Nothing like that. Everything seemed to be in order in her room—I asked the girl before she left, not that she knows every pair of shoes or dress Lucy owns. Her suitcase is still in the closet. Once I realized what happened, I tried to call around to some of Lucy’s friends.” He reached into his pocket and passed a scribbled note card to Dev.
It was a very short list. There were rings around some names, presumably those he was unable to reach. “I wondered if she’d gone out dancing and then spent the night with one of them. It wouldn’t be like her, but then if she had too much giggle water, as you young people say, I could understand it. She’s still young, too young to be bogged down with the care of her mother. I couldn’t reach half of them, and then I thought of Lady Adelaide.”
“But for all you know, she may have left Sunday.”
The earl covered his eyes. “Oh, God, that’s true. She could have left the flat by way of the kitchen service door. We would have seen her otherwise.”
Dev wrote a few key phrases in his notebook, and tucked the card in the back. “Did she know you were going to Bath?”
“I think so. I mean, I told her last week, but she doesn’t always pay full attention. Like her mother,” he said with some bitterness.
Dev felt a well of sympathy for the man. He was the paterfamilias of what, exactly? His sons were dead. His wife was a difficult invalid and his daughter had finally rebelled. “Do you know if Lady Lucy had any money tucked away?”
“Ha. What an amusing question. No, and she didn’t have any ancestral jewels to pawn. I did that long ago.”
“What about Bunny?” Lady Adelaide asked.
“Who?”
“Bernard Dunford. Do you know him, my lord?”
“Lucy doesn’t bring her friends around much. But she has mentioned him. Marian thought she might like him.”
Dev was sure that would be news to young Dunford.
The earl turned to Lady Adelaide. “This Dunford—is he our sort?” There was too much hope in his voice. Dev, being definitely not their “sort,” said nothing.
“Yes, Lord Marbury. His father isn’t titled, but he is quite well-to-do. A very old family. I know nothing objectionable about them or him, and I believe he is fond of her.”
“A light at the end of the tunnel, perhaps.” He sighed. “We couldn’t afford a splashy come-out for Lucy five years ago, you know. It wouldn’t have looked right anyhow, with so many dead or ill. Marian’s sister helped, but the girl didn’t take. Lucy’s not one for suffering fools gladly and developed a reputation. She’s…blunt. It will take a special fellow to appreciate her.”
Or someone deaf and desperate.
“Did you call Mr. Dunford?”
“Of course not!” the earl spluttered. “I didn’t imagine Lucy to be with some man. She’s not like that.”
Dev had everyone’s telephone numbers in his notebook. He headed to the phone on the sideboard.
“What are you doing?”
“Don’t worry, sir. I won’t announce to Dunford that Lady Lucy’s run off. I’ll be discreet.”
“Maybe she’s been kidnapped,” the earl mumbled. “That would make more sense than her just up and leaving.”
After Marbury’s grim description of his daughter’s life, Dev thought it was a wonder she hadn’t disappeared before.
Dunford, like many young men of means before him, had a suite at the Albany. The phone trilled endlessly, but no one picked up.
“He’s not answering. Lady Adelaide, do you know if he has a manservant?”
She looked apologetic. “I don’t. I’ve really not had a chance to talk to him. We spoke a little early Saturday morning after—” She glanced at Lord Marbury, who was no doubt in ignorance about Roy Dean’s death—“the dancing party, and the only unusual thing I know is that he doesn’t like to drive.”
Odd, that. Most young men of Dev’s acquaintance were keen to get behind the wheel.
Lord Marbury returned to the sofa. “I’ll take a whisky if you have it, Lady Adelaide. My nerves are shot.”
“Of course. Inspector, please help yourself to some tea and sandwiches.”
Dev didn’t have to be asked twice. He was absolutely starving, although he did feel some guilt eating in front of the earl, who resembled a morose basset hound at the moment.
Lady Adelaide went to the drinks cart and came back with a glass full of deeply brown liquid. She poured her own tea, and nibbled on a cucumber sandwich.
“What would you like us to do, my lord? If you file a formal complaint, we can report your daughter as a missing person, assuming she left on Sunday.”
“No. No official police invo
lvement. Nothing public. I don’t want her name in the newspapers and her picture hanging in every precinct. She’ll never find a husband then.”
Dev had an idea she was going to have quite a lot of trouble in that department anyway.
The earl was agitated. “You must swear to me that you’ll keep all this confidential. You—you’re a gentleman, aren’t you, even if you are a…policeman.”
“My word of honor, for what it’s worth,” Dev said quietly, wondering what word Archibald was really reaching for.
“We can speak quietly to her friends and see if they know anything,” Addie said. “How she was feeling. What she was thinking. Maybe she just needed to get away by herself for a little while to clear her head.”
Dev said, “You mentioned an aunt. Could she have gone to her?”
“Charlotte died last year. Left Marian nothing, when she knew it could have helped.” Archibald was more than halfway through with his drink already. Dev knew people of his “sort” never discussed money. They usually didn’t need to.
“Does Lady Lucy have any interests or hobbies?” he asked.
“Doesn’t really have time for ’em now. Devoted to the care of her mother, which, believe me, is a full-time job. She used to like to paint when she was a girl. Water colors. We even had them framed, but they’re gone. Burnt. She goes to the National Gallery every now and then.”
It was unlikely that Lady Lucy had holed up there overnight amongst the Rembrandts.
“And she used to ride. Remember, Lady Adelaide? No one could beat her—she was the best rider in the county even when she was still in pigtails. A natural seat, and firm hands that could tame anything. It broke her heart—and mine too—when I sold the last of the horses.”
Who's Sorry Now? Page 20
