“He will do his best to find the guilty party.”
Mrs. Kidmore-Young sighed heavily. “Good men,” she said. “Sometimes I wonder if it’s worth it.”
Phil stared at her, stunned.
“I see that I’ve shocked you. Nothing against your Mr. Atkins. I assume they’ve contacted the Fauks family. I would think that Isaac would be in Pittsburgh to break the news in person.”
“He may well be, but no one, including his business and his family, knows that for certain. He’s not in contact with them. If he’s somewhere else, whether guilty or innocent, he needs to communicate with Detective Sergeant Atkins. It’s only a matter of time—my guess is by tomorrow—before the headlines will announce that he’s missing and his fate will be in the hands of the masses. So if you know where he is…”
“I do not.”
“Or why he would run?”
“You don’t know that he’s run anywhere.”
“No, but we need to find him. What if he, also, has met with foul play?”
“No.” Mrs. Young clutched her hands together. A very pious gesture for a not-so-pious woman. She genuinely cared for Mr. Sheffield. Though from everything Phil had heard about him for the last two days, she didn’t see why.
A hard businessman, parsimonious and cold, if his wife was to be believed. An unhappy person, oppressed by guilt, who turned to other women for understanding, not at all a stellar recommendation. But a typical one.
“Mrs. Sheffield said it was his guilt not hers that had caused the cleft between them. What is he guilty of? And would he kill because of it?”
“What?”
“You must confide in me. I’m trying to solve the murder, and Mr. Sheffield’s disappearance makes him appear guilty. Are you shielding him because your affection for him makes you unable to judge?”
Mrs. Kidmore-Young laughed mirthlessly. “No. He, like all men, has his faults, but I don’t think he would kill.”
But anyone might if the circumstances were hellacious enough, thought Phil. “The business under his management is on the brink of failing. His wife blamed him for the deaths of their daughter and grandchild. Gwen Pratt said there were rumors at the time that Perry Fauks was the real father of Rachel’s baby.”
Mrs. Kidmore-Young was at war with herself. Phil could tell that. She liked the woman, but she had to push her into telling whatever secrets she knew. “What does he feel guilty about? Does it have anything to do with Perry Fauks?”
“I would never speak against my friend.”
“Very altruistic,” Phil said. “But what about justice? You’ve taken in these girls; what if something happened to them?”
“Perry Fauks was no innocent.”
At last they were coming to the point. Phil waited. It wouldn’t pay to push Mrs. Young too quickly. And she’d rather have her as friend than foe.
Mrs. Young had lowered her head as if she were praying, and perhaps having been a clergyman’s wife, she was. Asking for guidance perhaps? Phil was certain she knew something. So she waited quietly for Mrs. Young to come to her decision.
Finally she lifted her head. Looked Phil straight in the eye. But instead of an explanation, she asked Phil a question.
“Do you have children, Lady Dunbridge?”
Taken aback, Phil shook her head. “I—”
“No need to explain. Better to not bring children into a loveless marriage. I mean no offense.”
“None taken,” Phil said. “I was sold on what people used to call the ‘marriage mart.’ And though the phrase has gone out of style, the custom hasn’t.”
“A barbaric custom.” Mrs. Young took a deep breath. “Where to start. The Sheffields had one child, a daughter, Rachel. They doted on her. She made a very advantageous match, happily with a man whom she loved, and who loved her.
“They lived in South America because of his job with the government, but they visited New York several times a year. During those years Perry had come of age and was being groomed to take over the family business. But he was a wild boy as so many young men are these days, so the family would send him to New York each year for a few months to learn the business and some discipline.
“Since Isaac managed the trust, it fell to him to introduce Perry to the workings of things and prepare him to take over when he turned thirty. And to curtail his intemperate ways.
“Much of his time in New York, he stayed with the Sheffields, sometimes at the same time as Rachel and her husband…” Mrs. Young paused as if feeling a twinge of pain. “Sometimes Rachel came alone as she often did during the season, when it was summer in Buenos Aires and the heat became oppressive.”
Oh dear, thought Phil. She was pretty sure she knew where this was going.
“One day, Rachel wrote to say she was in the family way and she and her husband had decided to send her home for the duration of her confinement.” Mrs. Young smiled sadly. “You can imagine Isaac and Loretta were over the moon.
“The baby was born and all was well. At first.” She tilted her head back, closed her eyes, beseeching heaven? Or blaming it? “Then the talk began as it always does. Idle hands and malicious minds.
“And someone finally made the observation that Rachel had been in New York without her husband at the same time Perry Fauks was staying with the family. Exactly at the right time to have fathered the baby.
“It was utter rubbish, or at least should have been. But as you know, once a false idea takes hold it’s very hard to eradicate.”
It was a story Phil had heard many times before. “And was it a false idea?”
“I don’t know. Perry never confessed. I’m not sure they ever confronted him.
“The baby flourished, but Rachel didn’t. It had been a difficult birth as births so often are. Then the influenza struck.”
“And did they blame Perry for Rachel’s death?”
“Loretta blamed Isaac.”
“For introducing Fauks to the household?”
“No. Because he left town on business when Rachel was ill. He promised Loretta to call for a specialist before he left, but he was in a hurry to catch his train and left it to Perry to call. Perry should have called, said he called, but if he actually did call, it was too late.”
“But they might have died anyway.”
“Of course. But Loretta accused Perry of delaying on purpose.”
“So he wouldn’t have to clean up the mess,” Phil said. “And she blamed her husband for not doing it himself.”
“Not in words, but Isaac knows she blames him, and God help him, he blames himself.”
And if they both blamed Perry for besmirching their daughter and then being responsible for her early death and the death of their grandchild … They had the best of motives for wanting Perry dead.
Revenge.
And now Perry Fauks was dead and Isaac Sheffield was missing.
13
Daniel rang for a taxi and within a few minutes, Phil and Lily were traveling uptown.
“They liked me,” Lily said.
“Well, of course they did.”
“But they are smart ones.”
“The girls?”
Lily nodded.
“So is Mrs. Kidmore-Young. Did you find out anything useful?”
Lily looked away. “I…”
Sensing perhaps Lily had been having fun instead of investigating, Phil said, “I didn’t get much either. Did you at least have a little fun?”
Lily nodded. “They were playing a game and they let me join in. A guessing game.”
Phil felt a frisson of wariness. Perhaps Lily really was younger than she’d thought and perhaps Mrs. Young’s girls were a little more cunning?
“Mostly they talked about getting married.”
“Oh?” asked Phil. “Are any of them thinking about marriage?”
“Seems all the time. I asked if any young men came courting.” Lily paused to roll her eyes. “They all got real quiet. They’ve been told to keep mum, I’m sure. A
nd I didn’t want to push them.”
“And you did just right,” Phil told her. “They understand the importance of security.”
Lily nodded. “As do I.”
Neither of them said more, but Phil couldn’t help but wonder if that was Lily’s way of saying that Phil could count on her loyalty, or that she had reason to stay mum about herself and her past. Fascinating and a little daunting.
“I did say, sad like, that we didn’t get many visitors here. Well, we don’t … usually. And I asked them if they had parties and callers. And Penny, the one who came downstairs for me, said they didn’t either, and it could be very dreary.
“Then one of the other girls said, ‘We don’t but—’ And Penny told her to mind her manners and she shut up.”
Lily sighed. “Then we went back to playing that game.”
“Did you enjoy the game?”
Lily smiled. “I won.”
“Good for you. Now I’m going to drop you off at the hotel to finish packing our things and to see if Mr. Preswick has returned. I’m going to visit the Pratts. If I’m to finagle Lady Warwick an invitation, it would be more polite to do it in person.”
The taxi stopped at the entrance of the Plaza to let Lily off. Phil gave the driver the Pratts’ address and they drove away, Phil looking from side to side for anyone who might be watching their departure. Everything looked absolutely normal.
But not so at the Pratt mansion.
She rang the bell; it took a long minute before the door opened and Brinlow, looking a bit harried, said, “Good day, Lady Dunbridge.” He bowed, stepped back to let her enter. “The mistress is … If you’ll just come this way.”
“Is that you, Luther?” Gwen Pratt appeared at the top of the stairway. “Oh, Lady Dunbridge. Philomena.” She made a little nervous hand gesture, picked up her skirt, and hurried down to meet Phil.
“Thank goodness, you’re not Luther. Though I suppose he will have to be told, if we can’t find it before he comes home. How could I have done such a thing?
“I’ve misplaced my letter opener,” she explained. “Please forgive me if I sound like a witless ninny, but it’s very valuable. And priceless to me. Luther gave it to me as a wedding present, oh, twenty-five years ago.”
“Not at all. Why don’t I help you look?”
Gwen shot her a smile that was so grateful and unguarded that Phil thought she could really learn to like Gwen once they’d gotten a chance to know each other in normal times.
“Come upstairs to my sitting room.”
Gwen’s maid was looking under the cushions of a cretonne love seat, but she quickly straightened up and bobbed a curtsey. “Shall I leave you, madam?”
“No, no, Elva. Keep looking. I just can’t imagine where I left it.”
The maid went back to searching.
Gwen crossed over to the writing table and pulled open the drawer. “I always keep it in this drawer. But I’ve searched it three times already and it refuses to appear.” She shut the drawer again and threw up her hands. “I’m very careful normally not to leave it lying about. Not only is it very sharp if someone were to come upon it unawares, but its handle is encrusted in precious gems.”
That information gave Phil pause. A sharp blade, a gem found on the carpet where Perry Fauks might have been pushed down the laundry chute. The laundry chute just two or three doors down the hall from the sitting room.
A sudden frisson of anticipation sharpened Phil’s attention, but she held her tongue. Better not to raise the alarm. The missing letter opener might have nothing to do with Perry’s death. Then again …
“Perhaps if you describe it to me,” Phil said.
Gwen turned from the desk, sent a harried look around the room. “Luther found it on a trip to Austria.” She took a breath. “It originally belonged to the Tsar … of Russia. Not the most comfortable letter opener, the blade is too long, too sharp, and the handle is rather heavy, gold and inlaid with gems but as a token of…” She sighed, took a breath that ended in the slightest wheeze.
Elva stepped toward her mistress.
Gwen waved her away.
“Jewels, like rubies and sapphires and the like?” Phil asked.
“Yes, do you think it really was a theft that Perry interrupted?”
Phil chose her next words carefully. “Possibly. It could be worth a lot of money if it belonged to the Tsar.”
“Yes, yes, it did,” Gwen said. “It’s studded with three Imperial topaz. Luther told me this type of stone was only allowed to be worn by the Tsar and Tsarina.” She smiled reminiscently. “‘Fit for a queen,’ he said.”
Across the room, Elva knocked over a vase of cut mums.
“Sorry, madam,” she said as she hurriedly stuffed the flowers back in the vase and began sopping up the water with her apron.
“No matter, Elva. Have Barbara come finish drying the table; you run along and get a dry apron. And when you’ve done that, please go to the conservatory and set up my nebulizer. I don’t have time for the incense this morning.”
Elva lingered.
“Go on now, it was just an accident. We’re all a little not ourselves these days.”
Though Phil thought Elva was more so than the others. Was it the idea of a murderer on the loose, possibly among the household? Or was it that Elva understood something her mistress didn’t? If the opener was not just missing, but stolen, the first place they would look for it would be among the servants.
And Elva was the most likely candidate since she was Gwen’s lady’s maid and had access to her belongings. And if it turned out to be the murder weapon …
The coincidence was too much to ignore.
“I don’t know what’s gotten into her,” Gwen was saying. “She’s usually completely efficient. We’ll all be glad to get away to Long Island.”
“Perhaps you took it into another room,” Phil suggested, cutting into the momentary silence. “When was the last time you remember using it?”
“Let me see. Vincent sees to most of the mail down in the study. He usually brings my personal mail here for me to read, but with all the invitations and responses coming in, I might have taken it downstairs to the library.”
“Perhaps we should ask him, on the outside chance”—a slang phrase Phil had picked up at the racetrack—“that you left the opener there.”
Gwen’s breath became more labored with each step down the stairs.
“Would you rather rest? I can ask him if you don’t think it presumptuous of me.” Besides, she’d like to get a closer look at Mr. Wynn-Taylor. He was one of the members of the household with whom she’d had little commerce.
She left Gwen to Elva’s ministrations and went to interview the secretary.
Vincent Wynn-Taylor was sitting at the large kneehole desk, in Luther’s study, his dark head bent over an open accounts book. He looked up as Phil came into the room.
It was the first time that Phil was able to get a good look at him. The few times she had seen him, he was in a hurry, bent over his work, or that one brief interchange of looks with Agnes.
He was a striking young man, dark eyes beneath straight eyebrows, raised now in surprise, a rather large beaked nose that was more distinguished than caricature, and thin lips. Friends with Morris and Perry in their school days, and now working for Morris’s father.
He started to stand, but Phil waved him back down. “Don’t get up. Mrs. Pratt has lost her letter opener. She thought she might have brought it in here.”
“I haven’t seen it,” he said.
A little sharply, Phil thought. Perhaps he didn’t like to be interrupted while he worked. Especially with something as insignificant as a missing letter opener.
He did make a cursory glance around the desktop, rolled his chair back and pulled out the top drawer. “No, not here. Perhaps one of the maids misplaced it.”
Phil took a quick look around. “Thank you. I’m sure it will turn up.”
“Of course. If I do see it, I’
ll let Mrs. Pratt know immediately.”
Phil poked her head in to report to Gwen and found her sitting in a rattan chair, the nebulizer’s glass cup covering her nose and mouth.
Gwen removed the cup long enough to smile her thanks, but quickly returned it to her nose and mouth and inhaled deeply. It took a few seconds before her breathing became regular again. She attempted to take the mask away, but Elva held it to her nose.
“Another few minutes, ma’am.”
Gwen cast a helpless look toward Phil.
“Take your time. I’ll just go wait in the parlor.”
* * *
Luther, Godfrey, and Morris were all in the parlor, the two older men standing before the fireplace, drinks in hand, and Morris, as usual, sprawled in the armchair, a drink at his elbow.
Luther and Godfrey turned from the hearth as she entered. Morris uncurled from his chair, albeit slowly, as Luther strode toward her.
“Brinlow said you had arrived. Please come in.”
“I just came to see how Gwen was feeling and I didn’t realize it was so late,” Phil said and sat down on the sofa.
“Where is Gwen?”
“She’s in the conservatory. She was having a little difficulty breathing. Nothing serious, but using the nebulizer.”
“Brinlow didn’t tell me.”
“I dare say he wasn’t aware. We’ve been upstairs.”
“I see. If you’ll … Godfrey, perhaps you could pour Lady Dunbridge a sherry—or tea, would you prefer tea? If you’ll just excuse me.”
Phil watched him hurry from the room. How would it be, she wondered briefly, to have a husband who actually cared about you? Well, she would never find out. One husband was more than enough for her.
“Please, Lady Dunbridge, have a seat. You’ll have to forgive Luther. I’m afraid very much against custom, he’s still smitten with his wife. Will you have sherry? Or will you join us in a whiskey and soda or do you prefer gin?”
“Gin, please.” She couldn’t abide sherry, it reminded her of tedious afternoons at Dunbridge Castle.
Morris rolled his eyes and reached for a magazine from a stack on the table next to his elbow.
Tell Me No Lies Page 15
