Tell Me No Lies

by Shelley Noble

  “I’ve recovered enough. What was that? Something substituted for Gwen’s usual medicine?”

  Godfrey shook his head. “It’s the same medicine. Datura stramonium is used in these preparations. It’s very effective for asthma, but can be deadly. And in this case was.”

  “Datura…? What is it?”

  “A member of the nightshade family. Jimsonweed.”

  Phil nodded. “Devil’s snare … hallucinations … and death.” She shivered. “A mistake?”

  “The doses are carefully premeasured by the pharmacist and sealed in individual packets.

  “So someone had to have altered them. And if they did … there might be more?”

  Godfrey didn’t answer.

  “But why would someone want to hurt Gwen?” Phil frowned. “Or Elva?”

  “Lady Dunbridge. I work for the War Department. I am never called on to deal with individual murder.”

  Phil stared at him. Not one at a time, but wholesale killing? She blinked, recovered herself. “And?”

  “I think I have no recourse but to call Detective Sergeant Atkins.”

  “I agree, but even if you can reach him, will he be allowed to come? This isn’t his territory.”

  “I can reach him and they will allow it, if I say so. I don’t often trust the police in matters of delicacy, but I suppose in this case, I must. If you could rejoin the others, I’ll make it so.”

  Phil really wanted to hear those conversations, especially in light of what she’d just heard in the cottage. And now Godfrey had decided to call on someone he’d just dismissed. A man caught between two loyalties? It made her respect him for it. Still, she could never really trust him. She recognized a stronger power than hers when she saw it, and had no doubt he would use that power against her, or Atkins, or anyone whom he felt was a danger to his family or his country. She nodded her acceptance and left him to it.

  The others were gathered in the parlor where she’d left them. Gwen was sitting up, Luther on one side and Ruth on the other.

  Daisy was at the drinks console mixing cocktails.

  “I asked Tillis to bring tea and coffee,” she said when Phil joined her. “I for one could use something stronger. What on earth is going on?”

  “The maid is dead,” Phil said, making herself busy with glasses, mainly to deflect attention.

  “Accident?”

  “No. Godfrey is sending for the police.”

  “Good God, what a life you lead.” Daisy covered her mouth with her hand. “How heartless that sounds.”

  It did, but Phil couldn’t deny they were all relieved that it wasn’t Gwen lying beneath the cloth on the entry hall floor.

  “Where are Agnes and that crowd?” Phil asked.

  “The girls were close to hysterics, all three of them. I sent them into the card room and told Harry to keep them quiet and calm. He’s the only one with half a brain. The brother is useless. The other boy is…” She shrugged. “Useless. At least they’re being quiet.”

  Tea came. Ruth poured. Daisy and Phil and Luther opted for gin and tonic water. Godfrey didn’t return.

  After a while, Phil wandered into the card room. Morris sprawled—it seemed his favorite position—in a chair looking through a magazine. Newty sat in a window alcove flipping a coin and catching it. Harry was building a house of cards on the games table.

  The girls were absent.

  “Gone to powder their noses,” Harry said.

  Phil glanced at the back door. “Everyone is supposed to stay put until the police arrive.”

  He looked up, an ace of spades raised in his hand. “You know how girls are. They’ll be back.” He carefully placed the card on top of the house of cards he’d built. Looked up. “You don’t think they had anything to do with this?”

  “That isn’t the point. It’s important to keep the crime scene—oh, never mind.” Phil crossed the floor, opened a door, and found herself in a small octagon-shaped room, comfortable and private, with a window that overlooked a secluded formal garden behind the eastern walkway.

  The fog seemed to be lifting a bit and Phil saw Agnes Pratt standing near a stand of yew trees that formed a wall around the garden. And she wasn’t alone.

  Vincent Wynn-Taylor stood facing her, both his hands on her shoulders. A show of support or something more intimate? Two lovers or two co-conspirators.

  Phil was shocked at her own thoughts, but perhaps not as shocked as she should be.

  It was an age-old story, a young girl loves someone other than the one her parents had chosen for her. Isn’t that just what had happened to Phil?

  Only in Agnes’s case she’d been set free. Or had she and Vincent helped the situation along by conspiring to kill Agnes’s fiancé? Phil couldn’t see it. Agnes could have easily said no to Perry. Her parents doted on her, they would never make her marry someone she didn’t love. But would they welcome Vincent as Perry’s replacement?

  That would open a whole new set of motives. And add to Phil’s already growing list of possible suspects.

  And who knew when Atkins would arrive. They both thought Agnes had held something back when Atkins questioned her. Well, here was something she could do to expedite the investigation.

  A quick look around revealed a narrow arched door that led to a set of stairs down to the garden.

  Phil didn’t hesitate but strode through the geometric plantings to where Agnes and Vincent stood, oblivious to the fact she was fast approaching them.

  He was the first to see Phil and dropped his hands in sheer reaction.

  “Sorry,” he said. He jerked a nod toward Phil and hurried past her and into the house. She let him go. At the moment she just wanted to talk to Agnes.

  “I just wanted to get a bit of fresh air,” Agnes said.

  “Well, we’re not supposed to leave the parlor, but since we’re already here, I’ve been wanting to talk to you.”

  “I-I didn’t know that—we should get back.”

  “And we will,” Phil said. “But I’m worried that something troubles you.”

  Agnes shook her head, but already the tears were welling in her eyes.

  Phil tried not to roll hers. Honestly, the idea of this child committing, much less covering up, a murder was a stretch beyond her imagination.

  “What is it, Agnes?” Phil carefully modulated her voice to concern rather than inquisition.

  “It’s … nothing.”

  “Well, it must be something. Let’s sit over here and you can tell me. Sometimes it helps to tell someone outside your family or friends when you’re worried about something.”

  “Oh, Lady Dunbridge. I knew you would understand. Mama said you were a modern woman and though you hadn’t always made the best choices, you would never back down from a problem.”

  “Well, I have made some pretty stupid choices in my life,” Phil agreed. It was so lowering, that even this young thing knew about them. “Men problems?” she guessed.

  Agnes shrugged. “That but something else.”

  “Something with Perry?”

  “You can never tell.”

  “If it doesn’t have anything to do with Perry’s—and Elva’s—murder, I won’t.”

  “It doesn’t.” Agnes stopped, looked up. “Elva was murdered?”

  “It looks like it.”

  “Someone wanted to kill my mother? Are we all in danger?”

  “We don’t know, that’s why it’s important to stay close and to tell me anything that might be helpful or anything that has upset you.” Gads, this could take all day. And she needed to find out what was worrying Agnes before Atkins arrived and blundered manlike into the conversation.

  “I hated him,” Agnes blurted out.

  Taken aback, Phil asked, “Perry?”

  Agnes nodded. “He was so nice at first, handsome and rich and all the things a girl should want in a husband. Papa and Mama were both pleased that he showed me attentions.” She sniffed. “Too much attention.”

  “He did
n’t go further than making you feel uncomfortable, did he?”

  “He tried. All the time. He touched me in places that were—it was wrong. He said I was unnatural and that all the girls did it. Do they, Lady Dunbridge? Do all the girls let them … you know?”

  She did indeed. “It is something that you and only you can decide. It shouldn’t … uh…” She was not the person to give this lecture. “Do anything against your will. It should be something you both want.”

  “Well, I didn’t. Not with him.”

  With whom then? Phil wondered. Vincent Wynn-Taylor?

  “He tried. He’d stick his fingers in my bodice and rubbed his … against me. It was awful. He didn’t care about me at all.”

  Unlike someone else? Phil wondered. Should she ask and risk frightening Agnes? She had to risk it. “Someone like Vincent, who does?”

  Agnes blushed. “He’s a gentleman and has such lovely manners, and he cares what one thinks, and…” Her eyes, red-rimmed but sparkling blue, widened. “Perry was none of those things. He made my skin crawl. But I didn’t kill him.”

  “Do you know who did?”

  Agnes stared at her, then shook her head. “No. No. It wasn’t one of us. It couldn’t be.”

  “I’m afraid it might be. So you must tell me anything that you know.”

  “I don’t know anything.” The girl was trembling. “Except…”

  Phil squeezed her hand encouragingly. She was afraid to speak.

  “I know, at least I think, Maud did it. With Perry. I passed him in the hall one afternoon and he didn’t stop to do the things he usually tried with me. So I kept going and Maud was lying on her bed. Her dress was mussed, and she was crying. She tried to hide it, but when I pressed her, she said she loved him.

  “I think they’d been—anyway, she said if I didn’t want him, she did. And I said she couldn’t have him, because it was practically settled and my parents would be so disappointed. I couldn’t let them down. And she called me selfish. And oh how I wish I had just said, ‘Take him.’ But I didn’t. Now he’s dead. And someone tried to kill Mama. What’s happening to us?”

  Morris appeared at the door and came striding toward them. It was the fastest Phil had ever seen him move. “Aggie, Mama is worried. We couldn’t find you. But I should have known you’d be here.” He glanced at Phil. “And now you’ve upset everyone.”

  “I’m sorry,” Agnes said.

  “Well, get along then. No harm done.”

  Agnes pulled her hands from Phil’s and ran to the house.

  “You’ll have to forgive my sister, Lady Dunbridge. She’s as flighty as they come. Pay no attention to what she says. Mama will settle her down.”

  “What do you think she said?” Phil asked suddenly, looking at Morris in a new light. Maybe he wasn’t the lazy, uninterested person he’d been acting like.

  “Oh,” he said on a sigh. “I have no idea. She gets strange notions. Excuse me.” He strode after his sister.

  Phil crossed her arms against the chill air and watched him go. Something was amiss here.

  So far her inquiries had led her to business dealings. Could it be that she’d missed the signs of that lowest, according to Mr. X, motive for murder, passion?

  Well, she wouldn’t figure it out standing shivering in the garden. She returned to the house, where she checked on the card room denizens. Harry and Newty were exactly where she’d left them. Morris was back in his chair with his magazine as if he’d never left, and Effie and Maud had returned. She cautioned them all not to leave unless they told her or Godfrey, and she went into the parlor.

  Agnes was sitting with her mother, her head on Gwen’s shoulder, their hands clasped together.

  Everyone was there, except Godfrey. Did he think that being in the War Department meant he didn’t have to follow the rules of investigation? Of course he did. And he was probably right. He certainly wielded more power than any of them, including John Atkins and possibly more than her elusive Mr. X.

  Phil sat down in a chair near Daisy. She really needed to talk to Lily and Preswick. They might have insight into whether Elva was the intended victim and not just an innocent bystander.

  But she didn’t dare leave this group to their own devices. Any one of them might be the next victim. Or one of them might be the murderer and try to escape. She would have to trust her servants to proceed with their own investigations—which they no doubt were—and hope to heaven they were taking proper precautions for their own safety.

  * * *

  It was three hours before they heard the sound of an automobile stop in front of the house. The tenuous quiet of the group erupted into a fresh bout of jumpiness, tears, and general anxiety.

  Godfrey went to meet the newcomer. Phil heard several voices in the entry hall; one of them was John Atkins. He seemed to be giving orders. So he had brought men with him.

  Phil cautioned herself to stay seated. She knew Atkins wouldn’t appreciate her presence, and she didn’t want to cause any friction between the two men. Atkins was already chafing under Godfrey’s thumb. And she, and probably Atkins, knew that Godfrey would have no compunction about throwing Atkins out if he entered areas that Godfrey deigned off-limits. It still wasn’t clear what those limits were. Or why.

  There were things Atkins should know. She’d had plenty of time to think while she waited for his arrival. Time to try to put the pieces of this puzzle together. Tie what connections she could to Perry’s murder and Elva’s.

  Banking? Stock? Steel? Passion. A mare’s nest indeed.

  And where were Godfrey and Atkins? It didn’t take this long to say hello, there’s been a murder, here’s the body, and to return to the parlor with Atkins.

  Of course. It was because he wasn’t coming back to the parlor. He’d taken Atkins straight to the sitting room to view the evidence.

  Well, if they thought they could—

  The parlor door opened and Tillis stepped inside. “If you could join Mr. Bennington in the sitting room, Lady Dunbridge.”

  Well, that was more like it. Phil followed him out, careful not to look at the others. She didn’t know what they were thinking and she certainly didn’t want them to know her thoughts.

  Elva’s body was still lying just where they had dragged it. Tillis had covered it with a white linen cloth, perhaps a tablecloth. Phil tried not to look.

  The sitting room door was shut but the butler knocked and held it open.

  Phil had a sudden vision of him stepping inside and announcing a visit by the Countess of Dunbridge.

  “Thank you, Tillis. That will be all.”

  He bowed and left. Phil went inside and shut the door.

  The windows were open. The room was cold. There was the faint residual odor of stramonium and a stronger one of kerosene, which must have spilled when Godfrey knocked the vaporizer over. It was amazing that the whole room hadn’t gone up in flames. The vaporizer lay on its side on the table. The glass globe that protected the flame had rolled across the floor. The remains of the inhalant were spread like cigar ash on the table and onto the carpet.

  John Atkins knelt, studying the remains.

  Godfrey stood observing him from several feet away. “Ah, Lady Dunbridge.”

  Atkins turned his head, pushed to his feet, nodded. “Lady Dunbridge.”

  “Detective Sergeant.”

  “Mr. Bennington tells me you were first on the scene.”

  Phil frowned. Why so terse? He couldn’t be angry at her already.

  “Pure coincidence. We were helping Gwen down the hall when we heard this terrifying scream.” Phil glanced back at the closed door, picturing the body that lay beyond it.

  “Truly terrifying,” she repeated, trying to give him a sense of how awful that sound had been. “Elva must have been deeply hallucinating. She staggered out into the doorway, flailing her arms, her face contorted. It was horrible.” Phil couldn’t prevent a shudder.

  “You came in here?”

  “Well, of cours
e. Elva collapsed and fell back into the room. Godfrey ran to turn off the vaporizer. Then we pulled her into the hallway to get her away from the fumes. Unfortunately it was too late.

  “Just the little time it took to get her out—” She shuddered.

  He didn’t say anything, just frowned more deeply. Then he turned to Godfrey. “Did Elva always prepare and administer the stramonium to Mrs. Pratt?”

  “Yes, I believe so. But perhaps Luther could best answer that question.”

  “Most asthmatics use a nebulizer. That is considered the most efficient method.”

  Godfrey paused. “It seems that the case with the nebulizer in it was inadvertently left in Manhattan. The vaporizer was set up in the sitting room. Fortunately, Luther keeps a syringe and ampules of atropine in his valise that can be used for severe attacks.”

  “Why not go directly to the syringe if it is so effective?”

  “It’s my understanding that it is used only in the severest cases. Gwen hates the needles, and Luther hates hurting Gwen. So the vaporizer was the logical choice. And it isn’t uncommon for her to use it.

  “But Detective Sergeant, these doses are premeasured by the pharmacist. They must be very precise or…” Godfrey spread his hands. “A tragedy like this can happen.”

  “Where is the rest of this incense?”

  “I don’t know. Probably with the rest of the medicine. Ah, there is the case.” Godfrey started to get it.

  “Please don’t touch it,” Atkins said.

  “Yes, of course. I beg your pardon. Do you think there are more tainted doses?”

  More likely he wants to take fingerprints from it, thought Phil. Atkins might be tight-lipped about his proceedings, but Phil knew he was up to date in his methodology.

  “I will need to speak with Mrs. Pratt. If you will provide a comfortable space for her to answer some questions.”

  The two men eyed each other.

  Really, there was a murderer loose and they were fighting a turf war? In the most civil way, to be sure, but still …

  “I believe I saw a very nice little sitting room on my way to the garden,” Phil said.

  Both of the men’s heads snapped toward her.

  Had they forgotten she was there?