Tell Me No Lies

by Shelley Noble

  “Did it?”

  “No. Mainly it’s just an encumbrance. But no matter. You’ll just have to play along. At the moment, I’m more interested in hearing about you and Godfrey.”

  Phil considered a bowl of fresh strawberries. “He really didn’t know you were in town?”

  “I didn’t tell anyone but my lawyer I was coming. I’m desperate to get things done and in a hurry. I didn’t want to have my time eaten up by society.”

  “And yet here you are.”

  “Because neither you nor Godfrey would take no for an answer.”

  Nor would the enigmatic Mr. X. It was so infuriating. Couldn’t he at least have given her a hint as to what she was supposed to find out? And she felt a bit of a traitor to Daisy. Unless she was somehow involved in the murder, which seemed preposterous. How could a meeting to sell mines involve her in a murder when she’d just arrived?

  “Tell me about the two of you,” Phil said.

  Daisy smiled reminiscently. “It was a whirlwind affaire de coeur, and many years ago. Really he was quite amazing.” She looked at Phil under her lashes and over the tea table. “I expect he still is.

  “Brookie and Godfrey were friends. We were young, at least younger. But you know how quickly those kind of things run their course and burn out; thrown together at a party, a flirtation, a dalliance, one thing leads to another. Brookie went off to Africa for several weeks, Godfrey was staying at the Brown Hotel.”

  She smiled a sad, rueful smile. “I was quite smitten, we couldn’t get enough of each other, then he went back to the States. Brookie came home. And life went on. Godfrey got frightfully rich and, well, Brookie, you know how he is with money.”

  Alas, Phil did.

  “Everything Godfrey touched, like Midas, turned to gold. Every scheme poor Brookie tried seem to die on the vine. Take these Mexican mines. We haven’t seen a penny, though he did get some good butterflies out of it.”

  “He still collects butterflies?”

  “Yes, a barbaric hobby. Poor beautiful creatures.” Daisy shuddered. “But what about you, Phil? No affaires de coeur or any other kind since coming to America?”

  “Alas, no. But it’s only been six months or so, and I’ve been busy establishing myself.”

  “But it must be so expensive.”

  Phil smiled, not at all disarmed by Daisy’s wide-eyed innocent reaction. She was a master at eliciting information. “True, but at least I’m no longer tied to a philandering spendthrift of a husband who never let me have a dime. I make do.”

  “Well, I do like Brookie, and we rub along well enough by living our separate lives. If women didn’t have to cede all their possessions upon marriage…” She stopped, pursed her lips, an expression that couldn’t contain her mischief. “We wouldn’t be able to blame our losses on our husbands.”

  They both laughed.

  “Is it really as bad as that?” Phil asked.

  “Worse. I had to close my school for boys; other of my projects are tottering on the brink.”

  “And selling your mines to Perry Fauks was going to remedy that?”

  “It could have. That and reinvesting in his mergers.”

  And if she had she might be worse than broke today. And if that was true … Phil had to remind herself Daisy hadn’t arrived until after Perry’s death.

  “Daisy, when did you arrive in New York?”

  “Last Saturday, for all the good it did me.”

  Saturday. The day of the Pratts’ ball. Hours before Perry’s murder. Phil shook herself—she no more thought Daisy killed Perry than she had, but could her arrival have set things in motion? She didn’t see how.

  “I’d also planned to speak with some prominent socialists, one in particular who runs a socialist newspaper in Philadelphia. I’ve been wanting to start a socialist newspaper if I could just raise the funds. I think I could reach more people that way. Well, it’s academic now.”

  “Daisy, I wouldn’t despair. Bobby says that it is a bad time to invest in the stock market.”

  “Bobby? That odd ex-boxer at the farm?”

  “Yes. He tends to have the latest on-dit in the criminal and quasi-legal world.”

  “And Mr. Fauks was doing something illegal? Phil?”

  “I have no idea, but evidently there are a lot of shady dealings with stocks and bonds, something I’m not really versed in.”

  Could it be that? A falling-out among thieves? But who were the thieves? “I just know that some investors have lost everything. Maybe you should consider asking Godfrey for advice.”

  “I would never sully our friendship by asking for money.”

  “That’s not what I meant. I’m sure he is more able to put you in contact with a better advisor than Perry Fauks. From everything people have said, Fauks was an immature young man being groomed to take over the family business but not allowed much say in the day-to-day operations.

  “If they gave him an investment to work on, it would hardly be one to make or lose a great fortune.”

  “Lord, now what am I to do? I did call the office but no one there seemed to know of any investment that Perry worked on. In fact, they seemed very surprised and said that Perry was not in charge of investments and offered to put me in touch with their manager, Mr. Sheffield.”

  “Whose whereabouts are unknown,” Phil said. Except by Godfrey Bennington. And perhaps even he didn’t know where Sheffield was at this moment.

  “Do you think he’s involved in Mr. Fauks’s death?”

  “Sheffield? I don’t know, but I believe the police want to question him.” And Phil certainly did.

  Daisy slumped back on the chaise. “He was my last hope. I might as well go home.”

  “What about the speeches you planned?”

  “I was hoping to present some talks to prominent socialist groups, but not one of them wanted to talk to me. It’s so lowering—not even the socialists like me.”

  “Don’t despair, Daisy. You’ll figure something out. Women always do.” Or perish, Phil thought but didn’t share that with Daisy. “Actually, that’s not such a bad idea. Why don’t you do a lecture tour in the States?”

  “You think people want to hear an English countess talking about socialism?” Daisy asked, brightening.

  “No, my dear, I don’t. But they’ll pay good money to hear the latest society gossip. As Daisy Greville you wouldn’t have much clout, but as the Countess of Warwick … I bet they’d flock to the lecture halls. You could probably fill Carnegie Hall.”

  “Take money for gossip? It seems so sordid.”

  Phil burst out laughing. “Why not? You’ll be fulfilling a need; what you do with that money is up to you.”

  “Hmmm. I’ll give it some thought. But enough about my problems. What about you? I want to hear everything you’ve been up to since you arrived.” Daisy poured herself another cup of tea. “Everything.”

  Phil told her about spending the summer in Newport. “They’ve transported entire French châteaux, Italian villas, English country seats and plunked them down at the sea shore.”

  The sailing.

  “Floating palaces to rival those of Europe. And the scandal that goes with them.”

  The parties.

  “Mamie Fish is the most eccentric character. She gives outrageous dinner parties at her Newport mansion Crossways. Invites everyone and then insults them all evening. She’s one of the most popular hostesses in town.

  “Mrs. Alfred Vanderbilt, on the other hand, very high in the instep. She gave an alfresco luncheon at Oakland Farm. Very rustic. By far the most attended of the season.

  “It was fun but not exciting. Everyone complained that it was a lackluster season because everyone was feeling the pinch of the stock market crisis. And that was before all this banking nonsense even happened.”

  Phil rattled on, giving just enough scandalous tidbits to keep Daisy from asking any more questions about the murder investigation.

  “Oh, how I envy you your youth and ener
gy,” Daisy said, looking over the sandwiches.

  Phil laughed. “You’re in your prime.”

  “I have a good twenty years on you, my dear. And recently I’ve been feeling each of them more than the one before.”

  Phil could think of nothing to say. She had no intention of being broke and at the mercy of others in twenty years. Which meant she’d better start earning her keep now.

  Lily appeared in the doorway. “My—” She stopped mid-curtsey. “Signora. E ora di vestirsi per cena.” She finished the curtsey.

  Daisy trilled a laugh. “Famous. Buon pomeriggio, Lily.”

  Lily bobbed another curtsey and cut a look toward her mistress.

  Phil stood. “Goodness, is it that late? Shall we meet back here and go downstairs together?”

  “But of course,” Daisy said. “We will be doubly impressive that way. Godfrey has a wonderful sense of humor. He’ll love it. I’m so glad you talked me into coming. Grazie, mia cara amica.”

  * * *

  So down they went, Countess of Dunbridge and Countess of Warwick, Phil in a gown of iridescent teal with an over jacket of fine soutache embroidery, and Daisy in a crenellated gold crepe, with taffeta florets and wide-ribboned waist. Pausing at the top of the wide stairs until Godfrey, who was welcoming three new arrivals, turned and saw them.

  The look on his face, even though Phil knew most of it was meant for Daisy, was very gratifying.

  They took their time coming down the stairs, arm in arm, careful not to step on each other’s hems, a feat learned from many years of deportment lessons.

  “Ah, you both look beautiful beyond compare.” Godfrey bowed seriously then turned to his guests.

  “May I introduce Ambassador and Mrs. Whitelaw Reid.”

  “A pleasure.” Phil nodded and shook hands.

  “I’ve had the pleasure of meeting the ambassador and his wife,” said Daisy. “How do you do?”

  The ambassador smiled. His wife did too, a bit tightly, Phil thought.

  “And this is my neighbor Maximillian Rosarian.”

  Maximillian bowed, managing to look attentive and charming at the same time without offending either one of the countesses by not taking either of their hands. “An honor to meet you both. And please, just Max. Imagine burdening an infant with such a cumbersome name.”

  Perhaps, thought Phil. She smiled and tried to take in every detail of this charming gentleman’s presence. He was, as some female novelists might write, devilishly handsome. Dark chestnut hair, lively brown eyes, tall enough to be a good dance partner, and … She didn’t know him.

  No flicker of recognition. A charming twinkle in his eye, but not the twinkle she was looking for. Surely she would be able to recognize her elusive … dare she call him colleague—no matter what his disguise. And yet she didn’t.

  Godfrey was the perfect host, congenial to all, but an entity unto himself. Assured of his position in the world and powerful enough to keep it. Then Phil thought of him in furtive conversation with Isaac Sheffield in the park and wondered just how far that power extended.

  He gestured them through an arch into the parlor. As Phil turned to go, she managed to lean close enough to Max to smell the faint residual hint of his pipe tobacco. Not the one Mr. X smoked.

  But this could also be a ruse to deceive her as he had done by giving his cigarette to one of the newsies. But why?

  Wouldn’t it be better to work together sharing information? She didn’t even know what information she was after. Was she here merely to support Gwen as she’d said, to make certain that Daisy attended, or to catch a killer or more?

  And then it occurred to her that this subterfuge and unwillingness to share might be a part of her training.

  But really, how could you enjoy yourself if you were constantly on the lookout for evidence that might or might not be clues, following trails that might lead nowhere.

  She had to admit that this was more nerve-racking than dealing with the straightforward John Atkins. It was gratifying to know that even though they locked horns on occasion—actually on most occasions—she always knew where he stood. It was secure. Gratifying, but not as titillating as always being off balance with her elusive Mr. X.

  Gwen glided toward them, looking fully rested and resplendent in a mauve and pearl gown of tiered Belgian lace.

  The young people—how that phrase disconcerted her—were gathered near the windows where the reflections of lanterns in the garden created fireflies of color in the night.

  It was a huge room with high ceilings and outfitted in English antiques and oriental carpets. Tapestries hung on the walls and life-sized statues were situated among the furnishings like extra guests.

  A hand-painted screen covered the large marble fireplace, unneeded because of the central heating system. A momentary chill skittered across Phil’s arms as the memory of freezing at dinner in Dunbridge Castle reared its head. She quickly pushed it aside.

  Ah, the luxury of modern life. She would never go back.

  They were immediately served champagne and Godfrey left them to welcome more guests.

  Phil made small talk with Ambassador Reid and his wife, all the while keeping one eye on Maximillian Rosarian. After the briefest of attentions, he had moved to the far side of the room to say hello to Agnes and the others and Phil was reminded of the night she’d first seen the elusive mystery man. He’d kept his distance that night, too.

  More guests arrived and more introductions were made. Ruth came downstairs on the arm of her husband, Thomas, back a day early.

  “Ruth must be happy to have Mr. Jeffrey back in time for dinner,” Phil said to Gwen.

  “Actually, Philomena, I don’t think I’ve seen Ruth happy since she married Thomas. Hopefully something good will come of this. She’s hoping that Thomas will be appointed as attaché to the ambassador.”

  “Indeed,” Phil said.

  Gwen pursed her lips. “Ah, here is Colonel Baiole.” Gwen introduced Phil to a spritely-looking older gentleman, with a shock of white hair that refused to be tamed by pomade and a full white mustache that curled at the ends.

  He bowed and held out a palsied hand, cool and bony. It reminded Phil of long-ago visits with her grandfather, a dim memory that nonetheless seemed very real. And just a little sad.

  Then she looked more closely as he bent over to kiss her fingers. Could he possibly be Mr. X? She couldn’t keep calling him Mr. X—Aloysius? Lochinvar? He was a master of disguise. It was possible. Actors changed their looks and personas from one role to the other. Colonel Baiole was just the kind of character he would enjoy.

  The conversation was lively and soon the room was filled with the crème de la crème of Long Island society. As quickly as glasses were emptied, a waiter appeared to take them away, and another appeared just as quickly with fresh ones.

  Phil soon lost count. She took a new glass from the waiter who had appeared at her elbow. While she sipped, she looked for the whereabouts of Max Rosarian. Of course, she couldn’t see him, hidden away, perhaps intentionally, by the other guests. And when they sat down at dinner, she and Daisy were placed on either side of Godfrey, and Gwen, who was acting as hostess, had Max and the ambassador at the opposite end of the table.

  The dinner was not only delicious but well orchestrated so that the stock market, the banking crisis, and the murder were meticulously avoided. Gossip abounded but nothing of import as far as Phil could tell.

  But after dinner, when Agnes and her cousins and friends had removed to the card room, and the men had joined the ladies in the parlor, they just could not resist speculating about the morrow’s shoot.

  But it was talk of the balloon ascension that roused Phil’s interest. Godfrey was in his element. A side that she hadn’t expected.

  “You must forgive me,” Godfrey said in a quiet moment and finding himself beside Phil. “Air travel is the future. And whoever masters the skies will master the world.”

  “Goodness,” Phil exclaimed. “Do you want t
o master the world?”

  He smiled, an expression rife with more than one meaning. “Perhaps, just my little corner of it.”

  She nodded.

  “Fog’s set in,” said Luther, looking out the window and drawing everyone’s attention to the clouds of lamb’s wool settling over the lawn. It was decided that those who were driving should be leaving for home and they all assembled in the foyer to say good night.

  “Godfrey, if it doesn’t clear off by morning,” said Max, “you’d better come up to my place for your birds.”

  “I thought you were leaving tomorrow for London?” Ambassador Reid said.

  “Actually I’m leaving tonight for the city docks, but I’ll alert my groundsman to set up for you. I’ve seen quite a few coveys, but I haven’t had time to go out even once and the season is almost done. I’ll be glad to thin out the flocks, so help yourself.”

  “When do you plan to return?” Phil asked.

  “Soon, I hope. Unfortunately I’ll miss Godfrey’s balloon ascension. And hopefully, opening night at the opera.”

  “Oh, Max,” Gwen said.

  He laughed. “Philistine that I am. But if all goes well, I’ll see you before Christmas.”

  He turned to Phil. “You’ve had such a crush around you all evening, Lady Dunbridge, I’m afraid poor man that I am, I couldn’t have the pleasure of getting to know you better.”

  He bowed over Phil’s hand. “We will have to wait to further what I hope will be a better acquaintance until I return.”

  Phil tilted her head slightly in acknowledgment. If this was Mr. X he was laying it on a bit too thick.

  Nonetheless, she’d leave a light on in her bedroom tonight. If he really was leaving, there might be important intelligence she needed to know.

  “Max!” Thomas Jeffrey was hurrying down the hall from the back of the house. Phil had noticed that he’d not returned with the men after dinner, but had forgotten all about him. He’d been steadily emptying his champagne glass all evening and if Phil had wondered about his absence, which she hadn’t, she would have supposed he was passed out on a couch somewhere out of sight.

  Max tilted his head. “Yes?”