“My goodness, he’s not what I expected,” said Gwen.
“No,” agreed Phil. One didn’t expect the hero of a dime novel Western to arrive at your door on Fifth Avenue wearing an immaculate Chesterfield overcoat and suede fedora.
“The first time I met him I thought he was a vagrant. He was doing something they call ‘undercover’ work and was quite disreputable looking.”
“Hard to imagine,” Gwen said with appreciation.
Indeed it was.
So when Mr. Pratt did his throat clearing and ushered the detective into the room, they were quite ready to meet him.
“My dear, this is Detective Sergeant John Atkins. He’s here about poor Perry’s accident.”
Mrs. Pratt immediately dropped her side of the drapery and hurried forward, stretching out her hand to the policeman’s.
Americans never ceased to amaze Phil. In England, Atkins would have used the tradesman’s entrance and wouldn’t be greeted with anything but disdain. But here was Gwendolyn Pratt, welcoming him and drawing him farther into the room.
Atkins took Gwen’s hand but his eyes only briefly left Phil’s. She smiled slightly. He was surprised and not pleased.
She’d had the advantage of knowledge of his arrival; still, in the brief moment when Phil finally looked up from her piece of fabric, she was struck speechless. He’d shed his overcoat and was wearing a sack suit of thinly striped gray wool. If she’d met him in public she would have thought him a gentleman.
Well, he was, but by manners, not of class.
“You are acquainted with Lady Dunbridge, I believe.” Luther Pratt’s words fell into what Phil hoped wasn’t a cavernous silence. Heavens, the man was handsome. If only he wasn’t such a Puritan.
“Of course,” Phil said, coming forward, also extending her hand.
Atkins nodded formally. “Lady Dunbridge.”
He touched and dropped her hand. Well, what had she expected. Certainly not How delightful to see you again.
He turned to Mrs. Pratt. “I’ll try to disrupt your household as little as possible. Mr. Pratt, perhaps if we could…” He let the sentence trail off but gestured to the door and the two men left the room.
Phil stared after them in consternation. She hadn’t been expecting a warm welcome. And she hadn’t really expected him to embrace the idea of her being involved in his case. But surely he must know her being here was not coincidence.
People died at parties all the time. But they weren’t deliberately stabbed then shoved down a laundry chute. And the Countess of Dunbridge had never just happened to arrive for a social call in time to view the body the next morning.
She took one look at the closed door and nodded to Gwen. “Excuse me, I’ll be back forthwith.” She opened the door only to find another suited gentleman. At first she thought it was one of the young men from the party last night, then realized he was standing guard at the door. Well, the department had gone all out this morning. Not a uniform in sight. The detective sergeant got kudos for discretion.
“Sorry, ma’am. I was told to have everyone stay put, I mean where they were.”
“Facilities,” she said with a giggle.
“Oh, yes, of course.” He blushed and waved his hand in a vague direction and let her run up the stairs. As soon as she was on the next floor she ran down the hall to the back servants’ staircase and ran down again.
She was quite out of breath when she reached the kitchen level. And slightly disoriented. The kitchen was straight ahead, to her left what looked like a pantry and a panel of buzzers. She turned in the opposite direction, saw two maids hurrying toward her carrying a big tub between them. They saw her and froze. Then curtseyed out of sheer surprise, knocking into each other and sloshing water on the floor.
“Which way is the laundry room?”
They stared openmouthed at her, then one of them quirked her head to the left and Phil sped past them.
The door was closed.
In for a penny. She turned the doorknob; it jiggled but didn’t move. He’d locked himself inside. She stood with her hands on her hips and wondered if she could finagle a key from cook’s hands. There was a better way that she had been practicing, though she might not be quite up to snuff.
She felt in her coiffure until she found a suitable hairpin. Twisted it according to Lily’s instructions—clever maid that she was—then knelt by the keyhole and slid the hairpin into the opening.
As she moved the pin inside the lock, the most amazing thing happened. The doorknob began to turn of its own accord.
Speechless, Phil watched the door crack open and a small hand beckon her in. She didn’t hesitate, but held her skirts to her side and squeezed through the opening. She was immediately grabbed by the wrist and pulled down to the ground, until she squatted eye level with her ingenious lady’s maid.
How? she mouthed.
Lily wagged her finger and crept over to the nearest laundry cart. Lady Dunbridge duckwalked behind her, thinking what her mother would do if she could see her now. Fortunately Lady Hathaway couldn’t abide sea travel. Phil was quite safe from her strictures here.
She and Lily peered over the edge of the cart and could just see John Atkins moving behind a curtain of lace, silhouetted by the light of the window like a tableau vivant at the theatre.
Lily motioned her to follow and disappeared around the side of the laundry cart. But when Phil reached the opening between the carts, she was stopped by a pair of brown leather dress shoes. And the woolen-clad legs that were wearing them.
Her head lifted. He seemed extraordinarily tall even for him.
She smiled up at him and offered her hand, which he ignored. She stood on her own power and managed to recapture a bit of her normal aplomb.
“Detective Sergeant.”
His expression didn’t change. “How did you get in here?”
“Through the door, of course.”
“I locked it.” His eyes narrowed. “Please tell me you haven’t read any treatises on lock picking during your social whirlwind this summer.”
How did he know about her summer? Was he just surmising or was he keeping tabs on her? Not for her charming self, she was sure.
She shrugged innocently and tried not to look where Lily was crouched behind the laundry cart.
He pointed to the door. “Out.”
“Detective Sergeant Atkins. One doesn’t order a countess out.” Phil swept past him and stopped at the body. Perry Fauks was lying on his stomach where they had left him.
“I suppose you have already drawn your own conclusions about the incident.”
“Well, yes. Of a sort. He must have been stabbed with some sort of narrow knife. A stiletto perhaps.” But not Lily’s, Phil added to herself. For once they couldn’t be suspected of wrongdoing. Just nosiness.
“At first I thought he’d had a tragic accident trying to escape from an angry husband.”
“In the laundry room?”
“No, before he … You do know how he was found?”
“Mr. Pratt said the maids found him early this morning.”
“And told you they laid him out, then while I was here, turned him over to show me the wound? It’s the only way I knew he’d been stabbed. It wasn’t obvious the way he was laid out. Until then I’d only noticed he hadn’t struggled on his way down, because I would never have interfered in a crime scene.”
One eyebrow raised, then lowered to a frown. “His way down? His way down where?”
“Detective Sergeant. What did Mr. Pratt tell you?”
“He just said he’d been found by the maids, then left me here while he telephoned the next of kin.”
Phil sighed. “Perhaps he wanted you to form your own conclusions.”
“Or save his own skin,” Atkins said.
“I suspect he was more worried about money and another Wall Street panic than being accused of murder.”
“Their priorities,” Atkins said, and the edge in his voice was unmistakable. “Be
tter to hide and dissimulate than go for the truth.”
“We are but mortals, Detective Sergeant.”
“Sometimes I wonder,” he said under his breath. “So how was he discovered?”
She knew it chafed him to have to ask. And he could have waited and demanded the truth from Pratt or Bennington. Did that mean he was relenting just a little toward her?
“Perry Fauks was found in the laundry chute. They had to pull him out and when they realized he was quite dead, they laid him out and put a sheet over him. Hopefully that’s all they did. But they are certainly circumspect.”
“They?”
“Mr. Pratt and his friend Mr. Bennington.”
“Godfrey Bennington?”
“Yes, do you know him?”
“Of him.”
“May I ask why? I just met him last night at the Pratts’ ball. He seems very self-assured. Is he someone important? I don’t remember coming across his name before. And you don’t exactly ask someone his business in the middle of a Viennese waltz. He isn’t a criminal, is he?”
“Depends on your philosophy. He has ties to the War Department.”
4
“That’s the same as the War Office in England?” Phil said the obvious just to give her mind a minute to absorb the information about Godfrey Bennington.
Godfrey had ties to the War Department. He made money from war. Phil had never been political minded, but she wasn’t unfamiliar with men who were, and who weren’t squeamish about profiting from the spoils of fighting, and it had always seemed particularly distasteful.
“I’ve done all I can here without the coroner. I’ll accompany you upstairs, where you will stay while I begin the search of the house.”
“I only saw the one man upstairs. Where are the others?”
“There are no others. I was denied a team. Now I know why.”
“Secrecy. Reputation. National security?”
“Perhaps.” He dipped his head, signaling her to go. They both knew it was about more than discretion. If things turned sour for the participants, pointed to the wrong person as suspect, they might insist on it not coming out at all. They might even try to discredit Atkins.
Lady Dunbridge was not about to let that happen.
“What about the man who was posted on the door of the parlor?”
“He’s on loan from central. One man, who has the superintendent’s ear. And the super has his eyes and ears in return.”
“You can’t trust him.”
“Not at all.”
“You can trust me.”
“Can I?”
“Yes. Besides, what choice do you have? You can’t possibly do this by yourself and you don’t dare alert anyone on the force about what has happened here. The country has just narrowly avoided a disastrous financial crisis. Can you imagine if this were to get out so close on the heels of that event?”
“All too well, Lady Dunbridge.” His eyes narrowed. “Just why are you here?”
She hardly knew what she was doing here. Only that they—whoever “they” were—expected her to do something. But the War Department. She had to confess she felt slightly out of her depth. But that had never stopped her before, and she had no intention of giving up now.
“I was helping my dear friend Gwen decide on the best pattern to use for her new parlor drapes. That’s what we were doing when you arrived.”
“I didn’t see any pattern books.”
“We were merely in the theoretical stage—what colors best accent the wardrobe of the lady of the house, what fabric wears well and what would clash with the furnishings. You know the kind of thing.”
“Can’t say that I do. I’ll have to take your word for it. I had no idea you had expertise in the decorative arts.”
“I have expertise in many things.”
“I have no doubt of that, Lady Dunbridge. And I don’t believe for a minute you are here to discuss drapes. I don’t know how you managed to insinuate yourself into the situation, but you need to bow out.”
“I was invited and I’m staying to help my friends. I can help you. I’ve told Luther to keep the servants away.”
“I’ll see to them.”
“They won’t allow you to question all the family members. There are young ladies in the house.”
“I’ll ask Mrs. Pratt to accompany them.”
“She’s sickly and not up to the task.”
His jaw tightened at each answer. If he didn’t give in soon, she might be inclined to worry about the longevity of his teeth.
“You’ll have to have someone to watch your back.”
“I realize that, Lady Dunbridge.”
“And help you search for the missing stiletto.”
“How did you … I suppose you’ve been reading Gross’s Criminal Investigation again.”
“He is the expert in the field of—”
“I know who he is and I’m certain he would say that you have no business interfering in police business. Now let’s go.” He took her by the elbow, but stopped by the laundry cart. “You too, Lily.”
Slowly Lily rose to her full almost five feet. Lifted her nose in the air. And stalked past him to the door.
“How did you know she was there?” Phil demanded as he steered her out of the room.
“I’m the detective.” He locked the door behind them.
Luther Pratt was just coming out of his office when they reached the ground floor. “Ah, Lady Dunbridge, you too? Come into the study.”
He ushered them into a dark-paneled room of wall-to-wall bookshelves, filled with books old and new.
“Well?” Luther Pratt gestured to chairs as an afterthought. Phil started to sit, but realized Atkins had not moved. She kept her feet. She had no intention of having two bellicose men towering over her and not listening to a word she might say.
“There is really no reason for us to bother Lady Dunbridge with the details of this event,” Atkins said at his suavest and most insulting.
She glared at him, but it was Pratt who after a quick panicked expression pulled himself together and said, “It was Lady Dunbridge who insisted that I call for you personally.”
The detective sergeant’s focus shifted to Phil with a light raise of one eyebrow. “Was it?” he asked drily.
“Yes, for your expertise.” Phil smiled. “And your discretion.”
“And I must insist she stay.”
“Mr. Pratt, the fewer people involved in this investigation the better. There is no reason Lady Dunbridge need be involved at all.”
“She’s a big support to my wife, who is very upset over this. It was her heart’s desire that our daughter, Agnes, and poor Perry would … she is distraught, not to mention Agnes. I don’t know how she will take this.”
“I will have to speak with both of them.”
“What? Not possible. They know nothing of what happened. None of us do. It must have been some kind of prank gone wrong.”
Phil shot Atkins an I-told-you-so look.
“Mr. Pratt. The deceased, Perry Fauks, was stabbed to death. There will be an investigation. With or without your cooperation.”
He was bluffing—he was one “snitch” away from being pulled from the case. And that snitch was probably standing outside with his ear to the door.
“So it’s best that you advise your family to cooperate,” he continued.
Pratt darted a look at Phil.
She smiled reassuringly. “And they will be glad to, Detective Sergeant. Not to worry, Luther.” She used his Christian name as emphasis. It worked—at least with Pratt.
“I’ll see that they are not harassed.” She snapped a smile at Atkins.
The slightest tightening of his nostrils. The detective sergeant was not in the mood to be trifled with today. She didn’t blame him. Someone had cut off a young man in the prime of life.
“You said he was a guest in the house. I’ll need to see his room.”
Pratt nodded.
“And anywhere else
he might have gone late last night. When was the last anyone saw of him?”
“I-I don’t know. I suppose it was Isaac Sheffield. When he left he said he’d had—” Pratt clamped down on the last word.
“He’d had what?” Atkins asked.
“Nothing, nothing, just had a few words.”
The detective’s jaw tightened. “What kind of words?”
“I don’t know. Something about the business. Perry was being groomed to take over soon. Isaac is his New York manager, an old family friend. They occasionally butted heads. But nothing that would … no, not possible.”
“Is Isaac Sheffield also staying with you?”
“No. Isaac lives with his wife on Park Avenue. Very well-respected businessman.”
“I’d like you to gather whoever is in the house this morning. In the parlor, perhaps? I’ll need to ascertain Fauks’s movements of last night.”
“Is this really necessary? I’m not sure the girls are even awake. I believe Godfrey is in the dining room with my son, Morris. And as for the Jeffreys, I believe they were going out for a drive through Central Park this morning. They’re fresh-air enthusiasts.”
Atkins had taken out his pencil and was busily writing names down in his notebook, but finally looked up. “How many are there?”
“That’s all at the moment.”
“And the Jeffreys are…?”
“My sister-in-law and her husband.”
“When are they expected to return?”
“I don’t know. My wife may, but please don’t bother her. Her health is fragile and this has already been a strain.”
“I will see whoever is here directly, and the others when they return. At the moment, I’d like to talk to Mr. Fauks’s valet.”
“Yes, of course.” Pratt pressed the call buzzer and as if that wasn’t enough, stepped into the hallway. “Brinlow!” he bellowed, before coming back to his desk.
The butler appeared a minute later, out of breath and still adjusting his jacket.
“Sir.”
“Sorry if I’ve interrupted your lunch. Ask Mr. Kelly to come to the library. Detective Sergeant Atkins would like to speak with him.”
Tell Me No Lies Page 4
