She reached for the lamp, but a hand appeared out of the darkness to clamp over her wrist, halting her progress.
“Why don’t you want me to see you?”
He didn’t answer.
Emboldened, she said, “Are you still dressed as a shoeshine boy?” She couldn’t help but gloat a little. She’d spotted him; it was only natural that he should visit her tonight.
“Tsk, tsk, Countess. You should know better. I wasn’t the shoeshine boy.”
“But he—ugh, you gave him a cigarette and he smoked it.”
He chuckled in the darkness.
It sent a tingle through her limbs.
“I was one of the journalists bear-baiting your friend, the other countess.”
“Daisy? She’s not under suspicion, is she?”
“Everyone is under suspicion. You might get her an invitation to the shoot this weekend.”
“You know about the shoot? Do you know where Isaac Sheffield is?”
“I’m hoping you’ll find out.”
“Will you be there?”
“Perhaps. And now alas, I must leave you. But soon. I’ll—” He didn’t finish his sentence, but moved in quickly enough to kiss her, full on the lips.
The man could kiss, and while she was still recovering, he disappeared into the dark.
* * *
Phil couldn’t very well follow him out the window, if that was the way he’d come. It was a favorite method of his. She didn’t even bother to run to the door, chase him down the hall. Tomorrow, she would ask Egbert or the other elevator operators if they’d seen her visitor. Of course they would say no.
And then she realized something else. He’d smelled like soap. He’d made sure she followed the pipe scent on the newspaper boy and he’d outwitted her.
So he had changed the rules. No matter. She could keep up … somehow. And why was he playing with her? She thought she was supposed to be helping him.
Unless they weren’t really working for the same side.
12
Morning came all too soon. Phil waved away Lily’s suggestion of breakfast in bed, and got up.
Lily proceeded to brush Phil’s hair until it shone with red highlights. She obviously had been reading the latest fashion magazines, because when she was finished, waves rode upward from Phil’s temples to be pulled into a loose coil at the back of her head.
Phil decided on one of the new walking dresses she’d ordered from Paris for the fall. A smoky gray messaline silk with a Gibson collar, a tucked net yoke with gilt buttons down the front.
Phil lifted her arms. The sleeves were fitted and tucked but gave her ample range of movement. She turned in a circle; the skirt was full, but unlined. It might be a bit drafty in cold weather but it wouldn’t slow her down.
She smiled, remembering a day when that thought would have held a very different connotation than it did today. And yet hope sprang eternal. There was no man in her bed as yet, but that could change … and very soon.
“Very nice. I think I’ll be able to make it through without changing until tea time. Really, how did I change clothes five or six times a day in England. What a hideous waste of time.”
She strode down the hall to the small butler’s pantry that served as office and makeshift kitchen when needed. Breakfast had arrived via those remarkable dumbwaiters, and she sat down at the table, which was already set up with pens and papers and a copy of the morning newspapers.
Preswick served, then cracked the top off her soft-boiled egg. He would have stood at her shoulder until she finished but she waved him to one of the other chairs. “Sit, both of you. I suppose you’ve breakfasted already. But do pour coffee for yourselves.”
“We’re quite sated,” Preswick said for both of them. “Lily, you may be seated.”
Lily pulled out a chair, sat down, and waited for Preswick to position himself in the chair opposite, before she reached for a tablet and pen.
Phil took a moment to sip coffee, a morning habit she’d picked up from Bev Reynolds and immediately adopted into her own household, such that it was.
She reached for a piece of toast and dunked it in the egg, took a bite. “Let’s see what the papers have to say.” She opened the first of two newspapers that were folded on the table at her elbow.
“‘Valet Wanted for Questioning in Fauks Heir Death.’” Phil put the paper down. “I suppose this was inevitable, though I wonder if the information is being fed purposely to the journalists. So far they are several days behind where the actual investigation is.
“Will they question Isaac Sheffield’s whereabouts tomorrow?” Phil put down the paper. “I think I’ll pay another visit to Mrs. Kidmore-Young.” Seeing the blank faces of her servants, she realized she hadn’t apprised them of her visit to the clergyman’s widow with the detective sergeant yesterday.
“She’s the widow of a distinguished clergyman who runs a house of assignation, though our lips are sealed. Sheffield seems to be a personal friend of hers. She was not forthcoming yesterday. Perhaps without the strong arm of the law sitting across from her she’ll be more cooperative.
“Now there are a few things I need the two of you to do today.
“The Countess of Warwick came to New York to do business with Mr. Fauks. They were to meet yesterday in the tearoom, which would be a logical place to meet. However, obviously he didn’t come. She didn’t know about Mr. Sheffield at all. She planned to sell Fauks her copper mine and invest in some scheme of his. Harry Cleeves, who was a friend of Perry’s, also mentioned Perry’s ‘scheme.’ It might be purely coincidental, but between the banking panic and the stock market volatility, I don’t think we should leave any possibility unconsidered.
“Preswick, see if you can discreetly ask around and find out what the scheme was. And how Isaac Sheffield is involved. And if this Heinze and Morse have anything to do with it.”
“Yes, my lady. If you will not need my services here this afternoon,” said Preswick, in his most butler-like voice, “I may be able to find out some information down in the business district.”
“Excellent.” What he meant was he’d make the rounds of the pubs listening to the gossip of the clerks who were taking their lunch.
There were definitely advantages to having a butler who was versed in the stories of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle’s famous detective, who as it happened was a master of disguise like her Mr. X. Really she had a good mind to give it a try sometime.
“What shall I do?” Lily asked.
“You will stay here and prepare my wardrobe for a weekend in the country. Several walking skirts, the gold silk chiffon for evening, and the rose, and call round to Eglantine’s. Tell Madam I’ll need a sporting outfit appropriate for a weekend shoot. Though I have no intention of shooting grouse or anything else.”
Lily’s face fell.
“I’m sorry, my dear, but we must be prepared. We’ll be taking the Packard, so have our touring coats cleaned and pressed.”
“What ar-r-re you going to do … my lady?” Lily asked. She was not happy to be left with the domestic arrangements. Phil didn’t blame her, but someone had to do it, and that was her job.
On the other hand … “Though perhaps you should come with me to Mrs. Young’s house. She has several girls whom she saved ‘from the streets,’ if you know what I mean.”
“Of course I do,” Lily said, her eyes downcast.
“Perhaps we could finagle a way for you to get to know some of them while I’m visiting. I’ll tell Mrs. Young that I saved you from a similar fate—”
“But you didn’t. I wasn’t—”
“Of course you weren’t. You were valiantly fighting off a passel of burly customs officials. And you were winning, too.”
Lily’s eyes flashed and she grinned. “I was, wasn’t I?”
“Which is nothing a young woman should brag about,” Preswick reminded her, though there was a tiny bit of respect and affection beneath his words.
What an interesting situation
her household was, Phil thought. And she wouldn’t have it any other way.
“But I must have Mrs. Kidmore-Young believe that I’ve brought you for a lesson in humility.”
Lily’s face became so abject that Phil did laugh out loud. “But subtly, Lily.”
“But of course, my-y-y lady.” Lily hopped up from her chair. “And while you are finishing your breakfast, I will call Madam Eglantine to order your shooting dress.” She bobbed a curtsey and fairly skipped out of the room. Maybe her maid was even younger than she thought.
Phil exchanged a look with Preswick, who was trying very hard to hold his countenance. But she was happy to see that life in America was affecting even her loyal, stodgy, die-for-her butler. She thought he was actually beginning to enjoy this new life.
There was one thing she hadn’t mentioned to either of them. And she probably should. That was her visit from her mysterious … patron? She didn’t think so. Having a patron would be too much like being a kept woman, which she had been occasionally, and didn’t like overmuch.
Colleague? They didn’t exactly share information. And being colleagues was a little too businesslike.
Rival detective? Now there was something to get her blood racing. And the trio, no, the triumvirate of Mr. X, Detective Sergeant Atkins, and her—though she was the only one who knew it—would be unstoppable.
She popped the last bite of toast into her mouth. She would tell them tonight. Before she might be visited by him again. She really wouldn’t want Lily to slit his throat or even for Preswick to engage him in fisticuffs, if they came upon him without warning.
* * *
An hour later, after a brief difference of opinion about which hat the countess should wear, Preswick, dressed not in his butler uniform, but in a tweed cutaway suit, his bowler hat tucked under his arm, saw the two of them downstairs to the taxi stand. Lily won out and Phil agreed to the new small platter hat, festooned with satin rosettes and embellished on each side with brown and black natural bird wings. And for the first time in her life, Phil thought about where those ornamental wings had come from.
“Are you sure you won’t take a taxi?” Phil asked Preswick.
“Thank you, my lady, but I prefer the autobus. Pick up the tenor of the times, so to speak.”
Listening for what people were talking about. He’d have his ear out for how much of a stir the death of Perry Fauks was making on the populace.
He waved them off, and Phil immediately turned to Lily, who looked very sweet in her fall coat and her simplest fall hat, black felt adorned with braid and a simple silk flower at the side. They’d bought it for just such an occasion.
“You look charming,” Phil said encouragingly. The coat had been more expensive than the modiste had thought proper for a maid, but she was a lady’s maid to a countess. It was befitting that she should dress a little better. Besides, she’d been delighted. How could Phil say no.
They arrived at the Thirty-Seventh Street brownstone within a few minutes. “Ready?”
“Yes, my lady,” Lily said primly.
“Then into the fray, my dear.”
They stepped out of the taxi. Preswick had very astutely given Lily the fare. Really, Phil made a mental note to herself to start carrying more ready money, especially coins for fares and ices and such, in her purse.
They ascended the steps and were greeted by the same butler.
“Good morning, Daniel. I’ve come to see Mrs. Kidmore-Young.” She smiled disarmingly. “I do hope she’s receiving this morning. I’ve brought my maid.”
He looked down from his towering height. Lily briefly cast shy eyes up at him before quickly lowering them.
He stood back and let them into the foyer. “You may wait here while I see if she is at home.”
“That won’t be necessary, Daniel,” Mrs. Kidmore-Young said from the staircase. “You may take their coats.” She tipped her head toward Phil. “If the countess is making a long visit.”
Phil hoped she was indeed. Lily unbuttoned her coat in a fashion befitting her position. After a quick look about, Lily handed Phil’s coat to the butler, letting him know with a look that she noticed there wasn’t a footman.
Lily was always astounding Phil, not just with her ability to absorb the vast amounts of information handed down by Preswick about servant rules, but her agility in reacting to every situation. Something Phil herself knew you learned out of necessity.
But where had Lily learned hers?
Mrs. Young saw them into a second parlor, a sunny room at the back of the house where a fireplace was banked low and was surrounded by several comfortable-looking chairs. A newspaper lay on a side table next to one of them.
With walls painted in a light yellow, it seemed less ponderous than the visitors’ parlor.
“And this young woman is…” Mrs. Young began.
“My maid. It’s an interesting story actually.”
Mrs. Young gestured to the chairs in front of the fireplace.
Lily stood where she was.
“Sit down, child. There are some magazines on that table over there that might interest you.”
Lily quickly looked around and sat down at a round table covered with books and magazines.
“This is our personal parlor, for me and my girls, all my girls.”
She and Phil sat down. Mrs. Young rested her elbow on the chair arm. “Now tell me, Lady Dunbridge, to what do I owe the honor of a second visit?”
“Several reasons actually,” Phil said, reassessing the woman. She was all business this morning with very little of the warmth Phil had seen when she was talking about “her girls” the day before.
“First of all, I wanted Lily to see other girls who were able through help to see a better life.”
“And is not Lily appreciative of her place in your household?”
Phil immediately felt contrite. And that wasn’t good. She could bluff her way through this, but she suddenly didn’t want to. But she did need information that might be had from Mrs. Young. And she realized that she wanted Lily to meet other girls her age. Maybe what she really wanted was to find out more about Lily.
“Of course she is.” Phil leaned forward. “I don’t believe she was raised to be a maid. Actually, I just found her.” She told Mrs. Kidmore-Young of finding Lily on the docks. “We don’t live an orthodox life here, as I’m sure you can understand. And I thought it would be nice for Lily to have some contact, no, friendships with people more her own age.”
“And how old is she?”
“I have no idea. Nor do I know her real name nor where she comes from.”
“Can she talk?”
“Of course she can talk.” And was happy to do it. “She just won’t talk about herself, and I have stopped asking. We rub along quite well.”
“It seems to me she holds the ace in the deck of your relationship.”
Phil thought about it. “Is that an ecclesiastical metaphor?”
For the first time Mrs. Young’s face lit with amusement. “Oh Lord, Henry would roll in his grave. And I say let him.”
She rang the same type of dinner bell as she’d used before and it occurred to Phil that the house had not been modernized. Another example of either her husband’s sole attention to God or to her own indifference.
Daniel entered the room.
“Ask Penny to come down, please.”
He left and Mrs. Young turned to Phil. “As you can see we also do not have an orthodox household. Penny is my oldest daughter. I’ll ask her to introduce Lily to the others, if you think she will go with her. But, Lady Dunbridge, I will not have her questioning them about what goes on in this house. They won’t tell her. The underside of our way of life is that it must be kept secret. All our lives depend on it.”
“I understand and so does Lily.”
Mrs. Young raised her eyebrows. “Are you sure?”
“Most definitely. Our way of life also depends on secrecy.”
“You intrigue me. And I’m n
ot quite sure why you were here in the company of the police yesterday. It could be very bad for your reputation.”
“True, but I’ve found myself embroiled in unusual circumstances since the day I arrived in your city.”
“Yes, the Reynolds affair, so I’ve heard.”
“Well, I seem to be in a similar situation with the death of Perry Fauks. Mr. Pratt thinks I can be helpful as a support to his wife.”
“I dare say Gwendolyn Pratt is not so helpless as she appears.”
“To tell you the truth I agree with you,” Phil said.
The door to the parlor opened and a young woman stepped into the room. She looked just as her mother must have looked at her age. And Phil adjusted her impression of Mrs. Young as being older; if this was her eldest, she couldn’t be more than forty.
“May I introduce my daughter Penelope. Penny, this is the Countess of Dunbridge. And this is Lily, who would like to meet your sisters.”
The girl curtseyed and took Lily away.
As soon as they were gone, Mrs. Young said, “Now, for the real reason you are here. I will not divulge the lady’s name.”
“I really don’t care about who she is, unless she was with Sheffield after the Pratts’ ball.”
The two women eyed each other speculatively.
“Mrs. Kidmore-Young, I understand your need for privacy, so I will tell you something in the strictest confidence. Mr. Fauks was murdered.” She took a moment for her statement to sink in. “That is one of the reasons the police wish to find Mr. Sheffield.”
“He wouldn’t murder Perry Fauks, if that’s what you’re thinking.”
“Perhaps that’s a judgment you can make. I unfortunately don’t know the man. And if you do know his whereabouts, it would behoove you to tell me.”
“Why?” she said shortly. “So they can have a convenient arrest?”
“I assure you, Detective Sergeant Atkins is not that kind of man.”
“So I’ve heard. But he’s not calling the shots, as they say, is he?”
Mrs. Kidmore-Young had her there. There were powerful men impeding his search for the truth. But it was a way of life for him.
Tell Me No Lies Page 14
