Tell Me No Lies

by Shelley Noble

  “That’s a horrible thing to say.”

  “I don’t care, she’s glad he’s dead. I hate her. She’s ruined everything. I want to go home.”

  “You’re being a spoiled brat. Why don’t you show some concern for someone other than yourself for a change.”

  “You don’t know anything. So just shut up.”

  “Fine, be that way.” Footsteps across the floor.

  Phil retreated into the shadows of the staircase.

  Running steps. The doorknob rattling and Phil had just enough time to duck behind the curved staircase as Effie stepped into the foyer.

  Maud followed her out. “If you knew what I know…”

  Effie stopped and turned toward her sister. Phil eased out from her hiding place.

  “What do you know?”

  “Shh. I can’t tell.”

  “Fine. Then don’t. I’m sure I don’t care.” The swirl of Effie’s hem as she turned to leave.

  “Where are you going?”

  “Back to the others.”

  “My life is over.”

  “Oh please. Stop being so dramatic, Perry Fauks didn’t even know you existed.”

  “He did, too. He said he wanted to marry me, not Agnes.”

  “Don’t talk so loud.” Effie pulled Maud behind the stairs. Two more steps and one of them would see Phil. She didn’t want to interrupt their talk, but she was stuck between them and the wall—the wall and a narrow door.

  One of the coat closets, most likely. She turned the handle and squeezed inside, leaving the opening just wide enough to see through.

  Effie pulled Maud closer. They were now hidden from anyone coming into the foyer, but they were directly in Phil’s line of sight.

  Maud’s hands covered her face as she sobbed.

  Effie grabbed her by the shoulders and shook her. “I hope you didn’t give away anything you shouldn’t. You’ll be ruined for sure.”

  Phil couldn’t hear the answer if there was one.

  “He’d never have married you. You’re not rich enough.” Effie huffed an exasperated breath. “You are so dense. He didn’t want to marry you. He just wanted what he could get for free.”

  “That’s not true.”

  “True. Besides, Mama and Papa would never allow it. I heard them talking. Papa was really angry. He told Mama he’d never let Perry marry either of us, that Perry had a reputation and he couldn’t be trusted. And she agreed that it wouldn’t do even if he weren’t almost engaged to Agnes.”

  “That’s not true. Mama and Papa would jump at the chance of either of us marrying a fortune.”

  Effie just shook her head.

  Maud looked up, stopped crying. “They were arguing? When?”

  “Never mind, I shouldn’t have told you. Forget what I said.”

  “When?”

  “The night of the party. I had run upstairs for my wrap and they were in the hallway.”

  Maud’s expression changed from self-absorption to fear. “You were upstairs that night? Did you hear anything?”

  “I just told you.”

  “I mean anything else?”

  “No. What else would I hear?”

  “Nothing … nothing.” Maud was moving toward hysteria. “You don’t think that … that Papa killed him?”

  “Of course not. How asinine. You really think our father would kill someone to keep them from marrying you? You’re the most self-centered person on earth.”

  “Then why is Perry dead?”

  “His valet killed him. Maybe Perry caught him stealing something. Maybe Perry tried to stop him. I don’t know. And neither do you, Miss Know-it-all.” Effie turned and huffed away in a swirl of taffeta skirt.

  Now if Maud would just leave, so would Phil.

  What she’d just overheard—Maud’s accusations that Agnes had killed Perry, the argument between Thomas and Ruth Effie had overheard, Maud afraid her father might have killed him—sounded like the typical overreaction of two competitive sisters, the hope of one, and the exasperation of the other. Phil remembered a few overwrought fights with her own sisters.

  This latest argument at least had served to convince Phil of two things. Maud was playing a dangerous game with her reputation, and Agnes had given up all pretense of grief over Perry’s demise.

  * * *

  Lunch was served late to accommodate the dispirited shooters. “Couldn’t see the loaders much less any grouse or pigeons,” Luther said, but smiled at his wife. “So you’re stuck with us for the rest of the afternoon.”

  Morris, Harry, and Newty had taken a car over to the nearest town looking for fun. Maud claimed a headache and stayed in her room. Vincent sat next to Gwen, upright and concentrating on his food. Agnes and Effie seemed particularly quiet.

  It fell to Gwen, who was definitely having trouble breathing, Daisy, and Phil to keep the conversation going. Luther tried to hold up his end, but Godfrey, normally the perfect host, seemed preoccupied. And when a telegram arrived during the fruit course, he excused himself, apologizing, “Alas, business that will not wait.” He bowed himself out of the room.

  By the time coffee had been served, it was evident that Gwen was in distress.

  Luther looked concerned. “My dear, shall I call for Elva to set up the nebulizer?”

  Gwen waved him off. “It was just a momentary spasm. I’m much better now. No need to be alarmed. I’ll just take some of my lozenges.” She turned to Phil and Daisy. “I have these little attacks off and on throughout the day sometimes when the weather is like this.”

  After lunch, Agnes and Effie cajoled Vincent into a game of cards. To which Luther gave his full approval. “Have some fun, my boy, no work for us today. For myself, I think I’ll adjourn to Godfrey’s commendable library.”

  “Where he will nap the afternoon away,” said Gwen, with obvious affection.

  The women retired to their own rooms. Phil had no intention of napping, but she would use the time to summon her servants to a council of investigation.

  But before she reached the top of the stairs she heard the sound of a motorcar, the front door opened, and the three young men came inside.

  “Hey ho,” Harry exclaimed. “Couldn’t find our way to the main road, barely found our way back. Never seen it like this before.” They shrugged out of their driving coats and shoved them at the butler, who took them with barely a curl of his lip.

  “Where are the girls?”

  “I believe Miss Agnes and Miss Effie are in the game room.”

  “Tillis. We’re starving, could you have cook bring us some sandwiches and beer?”

  The butler bowed and departed beneath his load of coats.

  Phil found Daisy stretched out on the chaise in their sitting room. Phil didn’t feel like sitting. She crossed to the French doors and looked out at the fog. “Godfrey looked preoccupied during lunch.”

  Daisy looked up. “He did. Something to do with those balloons that we saw over at Bev’s farm.”

  “What does he do with balloons exactly?” Phil asked. “Bobby said the government was doing tests, something about collecting data on the weather.”

  Daisy shrugged. “He’s always been an aeronautical buff. Even helped finance some of the test flights of those brothers that built those flying machines.”

  “The Wright brothers.”

  “Those are the ones. Now he’s pressuring them to create a prototype for the War Department. I think that’s why he’s so against me getting involved with socialists. He’s such an establishment man. I don’t know why he doesn’t understand that when you make conditions better for workers, you make conditions better for everyone.”

  “Hmm,” Phil answered, only half listening; she’d seen movement on the terrace below. Someone was moving through the fog.

  Godfrey had warned everyone about going out in the fog. Who would do such a thing now? It was impossible to tell who it was as the figure moved across in and out of the fog. Phil saw a shoulder, a hat, a raincoat. The figure wa
s moving quickly toward the brick pathway that Godfrey had used to return her to the house earlier in the day.

  He turned around as if someone had called him, or he was making sure he wasn’t followed, and for a split second, Phil saw his face.

  Godfrey Bennington was taking the same path he’d warned her about. He disappeared for a moment, then a sickly yellow light appeared in the mist. He’d brought a torch. The man was up to something.

  And Phil was going to find out what that was.

  With Lily and Preswick both downstairs, she didn’t dare wait to have her warm coat brought up. She ran into her dressing room, pulled on a shawl over her day dress, and ran down the stairs.

  She let herself out the door to the terrace and into blindness. She stood for a moment on the wet flagstones, trying to orient herself. She knew she had walked straight out the door, but already her sense of direction faltered. She would have to pay extreme attention to where she was going.

  She could only see an occasional shape in front of her. Earlier that day, in the sunlight, the area had been a confection of lawns, gardens, and woods. Now it was a menacing, unrecognizable terrain, straight out of a gothic horror story.

  But this was the twentieth century and Phil was no damsel in distress.

  She made a precise right turn, walking as fast as her thin-soled shoes and lack of visibility allowed. The bricks were slippery with condensation, and Phil let out a sigh of relief when her hand touched the thick pillar that denoted an opening to the wide brick walk. She peered ahead but could find no light in the unrelenting gray.

  But she was certain he’d come this way. She trailed her fingers along the top of the short balustrade, using it to guide her. And if necessary it would guide her back.

  The salty air was acidic in her nose and on her tongue. The balustrade ended. She knew she had come to one of the paths that led to the gardens. Tried to remember how many such openings she had passed that afternoon on her way back from her walk. But she had been paying attention to Godfrey and hadn’t used all her faculties to good use. What kind of detective was she?

  She stopped, strained to hear any sound in the dense fog. Was that a footfall on the walkway? If he had turned onto the grass, he wouldn’t make a sound in this weather. He had warned her to stay away from the lake, had trundled her away when she ran into him this morning.

  But was it her safety that really concerned him, or did he have another reason for keeping her away? He was on his way there now, she was certain.

  She sidestepped, groping for the other side of the opening. When her hand touched cold stone again, she hurried on.

  She came to the next opening in the wall. Was this it? She took a step—into air. Landed with a thud several inches below the walkway. She’d come to the stairs.

  She held on to the railing and descended while the fog swirled around her. She was concentrating so intently that she almost missed the little yellow ball of light that bounced in and out of the fog. He must be going around the lake. To the house she’d seen earlier?

  And for the first time since deciding to follow him, she wondered what on earth she would say if she did catch up to him. What if this was just an ordinary visit to a friend? Under the cloak of a heavy fog? If it was innocent, why not have gone there this morning before the fog had settled in?

  Foggy Acres indeed. She’d laughed at the name as they’d driven up to the mansion the day before. She was no longer laughing.

  She reached flat ground. The earth was spongy. It took a frightening amount of time to feel for the solid stone of the path. She had to pay attention. If she veered from the path she might succumb to the same fate as the groundskeeper’s boy.

  She shuffled along, staying on the path, as she searched for the little bouncing light, but fog tended to turn light back in on itself, leaving it as an indistinct glow at best and a phantom decoy at worst.

  It was moving erratically. Not in a straight line. Phil tried to plot the points of light and not be beguiled into running straight toward the latest appearance. By now she was sure the lake was between them.

  Her shawl became heavy and damp around her shoulders. Once she snagged it on a branch or a bramble and spent valuable time pulling it free while trying not to become disoriented or losing sight of her quarry.

  What could be so important that Godfrey would go out in this weather? Then she saw it, hovering in the air. A flare of a large rectangular light that swallowed the smaller one whole. And then they both disappeared. It took several seconds for Phil to realize it wasn’t magic but the house in the woods. Someone had opened the door to let Godfrey in.

  And shut her out.

  Something wailed. A night creature, her brain said. Still, she turned and ran—straight into a man, his hand held over his head. Phil raised her arms to ward off the blow, but she was too astonished to run. She sucked in her breath, but nothing happened. Slowly she lowered her arms. Stepped a little closer. Felt a cold stone foot, an ankle, a calf. She didn’t bother to feel farther. She was too weak with relief.

  A statue. One of the many that adorned the grounds.

  Phil let out her breath.

  And was grabbed from behind.

  “Don’t scream,” he whispered.

  “What are you doing here?” she whispered back.

  Mr. X breathed out a laugh. “I imagine the same thing you are.”

  “Whose side are you on?” Ridiculous as the situation seemed, she really needed to know that he was on the side of justice.

  “You have to ask? Can you find your way back to the house?”

  She shook her head.

  He blew out breath. “Does that mean, no you’re lost or—”

  “No, I’m not leaving.”

  A finger appeared two inches from her face.

  “Don’t tell me what to do.”

  “Then be quiet.”

  Voices inside the cottage suddenly grew louder. An argument.

  Without speaking, the two of them inched forward. The Countess of Dunbridge and an unknown accomplice. The light turned out to be a casement window, and they pressed into it.

  They were standing so close that Phil could feel the contours of his body. No heavy coat to impede his actions—wasn’t he cold? Or could he be the devil incarnate as she sometimes suspected.

  Concentrate.

  Godfrey was standing at a table. A man was seated with an empty plate and a bottle of wine in front of him. A stack of papers and a briefcase lay at his feet.

  Dark thinning hair, brilliantined to his skull. Phil had seen that face just this past morning on the front page of The New York Times. And in the park.

  “Isaac Sheffield,” she whispered.

  Mr. X. nodded.

  “Did you know where he was?”

  “Shh.”

  She moved.

  He grabbed her arm. “Where are you going?” he said in her ear.

  “To find out what this is all about.”

  Godfrey’s head snapped toward the window. Almost as if he’d heard them. Which he couldn’t have—they’d been whispering.

  He turned toward the door.

  Phil stepped back right into her partner in crime.

  “Sorry, my dear, you’re on your own.” He pressed something small and hard and cold into her hand.

  She looked down at it. A pistol?

  “What?” She looked up just in time to see him disappear into the fog. She heard a crack as if someone had knocked on a door. She just hoped it hadn’t been his head on a tree.

  The front door opened and Godfrey stepped out.

  What was she supposed to do? Shoot him? She didn’t even know that the pistol was loaded.

  So she did what any self-respecting countess caught eavesdropping would do. She took the offensive.

  She marched around to meet Godfrey face-to-face.

  “Ah, Lady Dunbridge. Of course. I should have expected this,” he said.

  Phil swore he was smiling.

  Her blood ran cold.
Maybe she was as silly as any of those poor distressed damsels in novels.

  “I suppose you want to know what’s going on.”

  “I would indeed. Beginning with why you are harboring a possible murderer.”

  “Very well. Come inside.”

  She managed to slip the pistol into the pocket of her skirt before allowing Godfrey to escort her to the door.

  Isaac Sheffield looked haggard and afraid. But he jumped to his feet when Phil and Godfrey entered the room.

  Introductions were made. Sheffield shook her hand. It was totally absurd. If she hadn’t just put her pistol away, she would hold him at gunpoint and march him straight to John Atkins.

  Unfortunately it was two men against one countess and John Atkins was miles away.

  21

  “I didn’t kill him,” Isaac Sheffield said. “I didn’t kill him, but I could have. After what he did.” He cast a furious look toward Godfrey.

  Was this simply a case of revenge for his dead daughter and grandchild? Why wait until the party of his friends, where he was most likely to be caught? It didn’t make sense. Unless something had happened that made him finally snap.

  Phil felt for him. She had no children of her own, probably wouldn’t, she was past twenty-five and a widow. But she could sympathize; just not enough to condone murder.

  “You have to give me time.”

  For what? Phil wondered.

  “I remember you from the party, Lady Dunbridge. I don’t expect you to understand any of this. You’ve probably never had to worry about the lives of thousands of people and the fate of a nation.”

  Was he making some excuse for his actions? “I assure you I have been responsible for hundreds of people who depended on the earl’s estates for their livelihood. But I don’t see what that has to do with Perry Fauks’s murder.”

  Again he looked at Godfrey. “I don’t even understand why she is here.” Sheffield rubbed his face with both hands. A man at his wit’s end.

  “It’s rather academic, Isaac.”

  Phil couldn’t agree more. “I think Mr. Sheffield needs to tell his story, whatever it is, to the police.”

  “I can’t. Godfrey, you know that. It will create another panic. One that may destroy more than a few trusts.”