Godfrey handed her a glass and sat on the sofa beside her. She didn’t want to talk in front of Morris, but the obnoxious young man refused to excuse himself. So she turned her shoulder to him.
Oh well, it wouldn’t be a secret for long anyway.
“I must tell you, Mr. Bennington.”
“Please call me Godfrey. I think we’ve all come way past the pleasantries.”
“Only if you call me Philomena.”
A groan came from the lump on the chair. “Does that go for me too, Lady D?”
“No, it does not,” Godfrey snapped. “If we’re keeping you from something…”
“Not at all.” Morris took a sip of his drink and turned the page.
“I think,” Phil said under her breath, “I should tell you. Gwen’s letter opener is missing. I think we should contact the police.”
“Over a…” He lowered his voice. “Over a missing letter opener?”
“A very expensive letter opener, and a very sharp one.” She decided not to tell him about the topaz until she’d talked with the detective sergeant.
Godfrey’s expression didn’t change and his eyes didn’t leave hers. He was probably a good card player, she thought, and a very manipulative businessman.
“Really, Lady Dun—Philomena, do you think that is necessary? It could be anywhere. Stuck in between the pages of a magazine, dropped behind a piece of furniture, fallen into a wastepaper basket. One of the girls might have borrowed it and forgotten to return it. The three of them have been getting so many invitations, it’s not an easy task to keep up with.”
“Yeah,” Morris added laconically. “Agnes is always borrowing things and not putting them back. You should ask her.”
So he was listening. Not as bored and uninterested as he appeared—or wanted to appear.
Godfrey made no attempt to appear uninterested. “Or do you mean—”
She tilted her head. First to remind him of Morris sitting across the room from them, and to let him know he was on the right track.
At that moment, the door opened and Luther stepped in. “She’s feeling much better and said if you would excuse her, Lady Dunbridge, she’ll just take a little rest in preparation for tomorrow’s drive.”
“Of course,” Phil said.
“She told me about the letter opener being missing. I’m sure it will turn up.”
“Perhaps,” Godfrey said. “But Lady Dunbridge thinks we should inform the police.”
“What on earth for? I’ll have the servants look while we’re at Foggy Acres.”
“Perhaps you might ask Detective Sergeant Atkins to oversee that search.”
“Why waste the poor man’s time?”
Godfrey and Phil both looked at him incredulously. Was he being intentionally obtuse or trying to deflect possible blame? Surely he wasn’t trying to protect his wife. Phil didn’t believe for a minute that Gwen had murdered Perry Fauks. She certainly wouldn’t be able to stuff him down the laundry chute by herself. Which means she would have needed help.
Phil pushed the thought aside and took a sip of her drink.
“Luther,” Godfrey said. “Don’t be obtuse. Lady Dunbridge, Philomena, thinks it might be the murder weapon.”
“Good Lord.” Luther sat down in the nearest chair. “It does have a wicked blade, but there must be dozens of such blades in the household.”
“The police have already searched the kitchens,” Godfrey explained.
Phil looked quickly over to him. How did he know that? She didn’t. Probably from the servants. She really needed to get Lily more involved. Perhaps at the country house. Why had she ever thought that having Lily speak only in Italian would be an aid in her investigation? Well, she would have to leave it to Lily to find a way.
Morris dropped his magazine on the table and stood. “Whose side are you on, Lady Dunbridge?”
“Morris,” Luther snapped.
“You invited her into this house and now it seems she’s poking her nose where it don’t belong.”
“Do you have something to hide, son?” Luther stood taller and Morris’s mouth dropped.
“Are you accusing me of killing Perry?”
“Of course not, but Lady Dunbridge has been kind enough to help us through this ordeal, and I don’t need this attitude from you.”
“I apologize, Father, and to you, Lady Dunbridge. I’ll just take myself off now. See what’s happening at the club. I won’t be in for dinner.”
“But you will be in for the trip to Foggy Acres.”
Morris bowed sharply and strode out of the room.
“I apologize for my son, Lady Dunbridge. I’d like to say he’s having growing pains, but he’s a grown man. One without much ambition, I’m afraid.”
“Everyone reacts differently to stress, Mr. Pratt. Those of us who can stay rational, must.”
“Yes.”
“Now I really must be going. I have a million things to do. I’ll just have Brinlow telephone for a taxi.” Phil rose.
Godfrey did, too. “Luther, why don’t you see to Gwen, I’ll see Lady Dunbridge out. No need for a taxi. My automobile is outside. I’ll have my driver take you home.”
The three of them walked into the foyer just as Gwen came out of the conservatory. She hurried toward Phil. “I just wanted to thank you for—”
The words were interrupted by a loud expletive, followed by Effie and Maud, already dressed in their fall coats, fleeing down the stairs.
Standing on the landing, Thomas Jeffrey shook his fist at them. “This is the last straw. I will not—will not—pay for any more of these shopping sprees. Do you understand? It ends now.”
A crash from down the hall as if someone had dropped glass. The girls didn’t stop but ran to the front door. Fortunately Brinlow was there to open it for them.
Thomas looked down, realized he had an audience. “Oh, I beg your pardon.”
“Really, Thomas,” Luther began. “Brawling on the stairway like a common—”
“I’m terribly sorry. Unforgivable. Girls. They’re enough to try a man’s soul.” He tried for a laugh. Failed miserably. “So sorry.” He backed away.
“I must apologize for Mr. Jeffrey’s outburst,” Luther said.
“An inexcusable breach of etiquette,” Godfrey added.
Gwen took Luther’s arm.
Phil hardly heard them. Beyond them, standing in the open doorway of the conservatory, was Elva, shards of glass strewn on the floor around her. She didn’t move but stared out at them, her face etched with shock, perhaps fear.
“What is wrong with that girl?” Luther snapped, his nerves obviously stretched.
Down the hall Elva crouched down and began to gather the glass in her apron.
“Well, no harm done,” Godfrey said. “And he’s right about those girls. They’re spoiled rotten. And don’t scold, Gwen. You know they are. But we mustn’t keep Lady Dunbridge standing in the hall. Brinlow.”
Godfrey took Phil’s coat from the butler and helped her on with it himself, then he walked her out to the auto, an impressive black Daimler.
“Families are complicated beasts,” he said. “Though I don’t suppose I need to tell you that.”
“No indeed,” Phil said. “I have one myself.”
He smiled.
He stopped her on the sidewalk. “These are trying times, and we all want what’s best, but you must pardon me if I’m a bit selfish. This is my goddaughter’s first season. I wouldn’t have it spoiled for anything.”
Even murder? Phil wondered.
“I won’t ask the police not to investigate, though I admit I may have the ear of the top echelons for the department and the city. I’m also an honest and just man, but I walk a thin line, Lady Dunbridge.”
“Oh?”
“Between trying to do what is right, and trying to do what is best for the common good.”
“Are they not the same?”
“Unfortunately not always. I will do what I can and what I feel is approp
riate. I will telephone Detective Sergeant Atkins and apprise him of the situation, and ask him to oversee the search while we are gone. It’s against my first inclination but I’ll do it, under the auspices of an inventory to see what the thief and murderer might have stolen.”
She nodded. She also would be talking to Atkins before she left and she thought Godfrey Bennington knew it.
“That being said, do you really think the murderer might be a member of the family?”
“I hope not,” Phil said, stressing the word. “But from what I’ve learned so far, I’m not convinced that it was a simple case of interrupted burglary. But that is for the police to discover.” She looked up. “Do you suspect someone?”
“None whatsoever.”
She didn’t believe him, so she made a stab.
“I don’t suppose you have any idea where Mr. Sheffield is?” Phil asked.
“Not at all. I just hope when he does turn up, he’ll be in a condition to tell us where he’s been.” He opened the automobile door for her. “Now on a lighter note. We will have the pleasure of your company at Foggy Acres this weekend.”
“Ah, that was another reason I dropped in today.”
“Don’t disappoint me, please.”
“I’m afraid I’m in a bit of a quandary at the moment. A friend of mine just arrived in the city from London and I promised to show her around this weekend.”
“Well, bring her, too. The more, the merrier.”
“That is very generous of you. I’m not sure she is prepared for a country weekend. She came for business.”
“That’s fine. We’re less formal than you would expect. I’ll put her on the guest list. What is her name? We have a man on duty at the front gates.”
“It’s the Countess of Warwick.”
“Daisy? Daisy Greville is in town? How did I miss that?”
“You’ve had other things on your mind,” Phil said, surprised at his sudden enthusiasm.
“Yes. Well, she must come, too. We’re old friends. Her husband, Brookie, and I go way back.”
Did they indeed?
And just how big was Godfrey’s place in all of this? Doting godfather and loyal friend, extraordinarily rich and by his own admission very powerful, connected to the War Department, and now a good friend of Daisy and her husband.
It was time to find out the exact nature of his business. And before she left town tomorrow. Perhaps Daisy could enlighten her.
“There won’t be too many women?” she said. A situation that could kill a house party faster than smoking chimneys and mice in the woodwork—or even a murder investigation.
“With Perry’s demise and Isaac not attending, we’re already short a man. Not to worry, I’ll have Luther bring Vincent along. And I do have a few friends in the area.”
I just bet you do, Phil thought.
“Where is she staying?”
“The Webster, I believe.”
“Then I’ll call her immediately. I hope she isn’t too busy with one of her cockamamie socialist events.” He shook his head. “Socialists.”
“I’m sure she would love to attend,” Phil said.
“Then if you would be so kind as to call her and add your pleas to mine … If she says yes, you’ll have no excuse not to come.” He kissed her hand. Probably to distract her from the fact that he seemed more enthusiastic about Daisy’s possible attendance than Phil’s.
“Two countesses at one weekend party. My neighbors will be green. I’ll dine on the coup for the rest of the season.”
Phil laughed. “My guess is your neighbors are already green and you have more invitations than you could possibly accept. But I will do my best not to disappoint you.”
“Good. Good. I plan to go out in advance, but the family will be glad to count you both among their party. They have quite a caravan of cars and carriages.”
“Thank you, but I have a few things that need to be done before I quit town. I’ll drive myself and Daisy out.”
“I’ll send over directions to your hotel. And have a carrier pick up your luggage and Daisy’s.”
“Thank you.” Phil climbed inside and he shut the door.
“À demain, Philomena.” He stood watching as she drove away.
Well, well, well, Phil thought as she returned to the Plaza. The coincidences were beginning to add up. Running into Daisy in the lobby of her own hotel. Daisy here to meet with Perry Fauks. Mr. X breaking into her room to tell her to invite Daisy to the country party. And now the host insisting they both come.
But could any of this shed light on the murder of Perry Fauks?
14
Traffic was always heavy this time of afternoon and Phil had plenty of time trying to piece together what she’d learned today. She ended up with more questions than answers, the foremost being why Godfrey and Mr. X were so insistent that Daisy attend the weekend in Long Island.
Did they both know something she didn’t know? Something to do with either Daisy’s socialism, which Phil had no intention of getting involved in, or her businesses, which Phil knew nothing about except that Daisy had planned to sell her mine to Perry Fauks.
And what about Vincent Wynn-Taylor? He seemed a hardworking, serious young man. Once friends with Morris Pratt and Perry, but no longer of their set. Phil wondered if he felt resentful that he had to work in a subservient position while the others seemed to have it all.
Morris Pratt was just the opposite, if appearance served, lethargic, jaded, arrogant, and rude. There was a scapegrace if ever Phil had known one, and she had—quite a few. But she could see no apparent reason for either of them to kill Perry.
When the auto finally came to a stop in front of the Plaza, Phil thanked the driver and took a minute to admire the vista of the park across the street—while her eyes scanned the sidewalk and street to see if there were any lurking shoeshine boys, journalists, or any other disguises that might be amusing to Mr. X. He obviously enjoyed his work, though why he would be keeping watch on the hotel, she couldn’t begin to guess. But if he was, there were a few questions she wanted to ask him.
She didn’t see anyone who might be he, but as she turned toward the entrance of the hotel, she did notice that the young newsboy, standing on his usual corner, was paying her an inordinate amount of attention. Perhaps he was daydreaming and his focus had landed unintentionally on Phil, but Mr. X—really, she had to find a better name for him—had used a boy to deliver a message before.
She waited for several automobiles and carriages to pass, then crossed the street to the park.
“Paper, miss?” The boy held out a folded copy of the afternoon edition of the Times.
“Are you being paid to watch me?” she asked, taking the paper. If he took off, then she’d have her answer. But the little urchin dragged his cap off his shaggy unwashed hair and grinned.
“This is my corner, but yes, ma’am. He said you needed somebody to watch your back. You being new here and all alone in the world.” He poked his chest with his thumb. “That’s me.”
“Well, I certainly feel better knowing that,” Phil said and handed him a penny. “And how do you report back to him?”
“Oh, I tell Clancy and he telephones out to the farm.”
The farm? “What farm?”
“Gorn, Holly Farm where they train the horses. Mr. Mullins says if I do good, he might give me a job out there.” He ended the statement with a shiver. Which might be from enthusiasm, but more probably because a gust of chill wind had just cut through the street, and his threadbare jacket was anything but warm.
This was probably just the kind of boy Daisy Greville wanted to help with all her socialist ideals.
Phil fished in her pocket and came out with a dime.
“Who is Clancy?”
“Just a guy where I stay,” he said, greedily eyeing the dime.
“And where is that?”
“Oh, down in the Tenderloin.”
All the way across town and the bastion of their nemesis and
the most dishonest policeman in town, Charles Becker, whom Bev Reynolds had nicknamed the Fireplug.
Treacherous environs and a long trek for a small boy. A trolley ride at least. Phil hoped that Bobby was paying him directly and that neither Clancy nor Becker was taking a cut.
“I can’t say no more. Mr. Mullins says you’re messing with people who are dangerous.”
“Why didn’t Mr. Mullins come tell me this himself?”
“He’s got a big race out at Aqueduct today so he’s kinda tied up.”
“When will he be available? I’ll telephone out to the farm.”
“He don’t want ya to call ’cause o’ ears, ya know?”
It took Phil a moment to understand. “Ears? If he’s afraid someone will listen in, the hotel is very discreet.”
The boy gave her a universally understood look of disbelief. “I don’t know about no fine hotel. But I do know about ears.”
Phil imagined he did.
“They do it all the time, them girls what put you through, from the switchboard thingy. They all listen in on conversations. Everybody knows it ain’t safe to say stuff over those machines. They’d sell anything for the right price.” He glanced greedily at the dime Phil still held. “You just count on me. I’m true blue.”
True blue with a cocky attitude. A perfect Artful Dodger in the making. No, not Dickens, but her own Fifty-Ninth Street Irregular. “Excellent. I’ll depend on you. Will Mr. Mullins be back at the stables tomorrow morning?”
“’Spect so. He likes to get the horses back to the farm as soon as they’re rested. That way nobody can do any funny business on ’em.”
Phil nodded. “Please let him know that I’m driving out to Long Island this weekend, and I’ll stop by the stables on my way.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
She handed him the dime; he dropped it in his cap and shoved the cap over his head.
“What’s your name?”
The boy frowned. “Just a friend.”
Phil smiled. Another cautious one. “Well, Just a Friend, thank you very much.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
A man had stopped to buy a paper and the boy turned from Phil to make the transaction. Phil could hear his high, thin voice hawking his papers as she crossed the street to the Plaza.
Tell Me No Lies Page 16
