Tell Me No Lies

by Shelley Noble

  Preswick nodded. “That’s an idea, my lady. Do you think Mrs. Pratt would be averse to our searching her dressing room?”

  “I think we should find out.” Phil started toward the door. Stopped. “Damnation. Gwen had dinner sent to her room. Luther joined her there. If he’s still there … Oh, never mind. Follow me and stay out of sight until I get rid of Luther. I’ll come to the door after I’ve explained to Gwen what we want to do.”

  They hurried single file down the servants’ stairs and back to the second floor. Preswick and Lily tucked themselves into a nearby closet and Phil scratched on Gwen’s door.

  Gwen was sitting on a small sofa, dressed in a yellow and light green wrapper, looking as fragile as the first bloom of spring. Luther sat beside her but he stood when Phil entered.

  “I just came to see how you were feeling.”

  “She is very upset and can’t be excited, Lady Dunbridge.”

  “Of course.”

  “Oh, Luther, I’m fine. Run along and have your port with the gentlemen. Philomena and I will have a nice visit.”

  “Gwen. Are you sure?”

  “Yes, my dear. Sometimes a woman just needs for things to be normal and I had an idea about the drapes I wanted to discuss with my dear friend.”

  Luther looked askance at his wife. Even Phil was momentarily nonplussed.

  But when he was gone, Gwen said, “How stupid. But it was the only thing I could think of at the moment. Sit down and tell me everything that has been happening. Luther thinks by not telling me anything, it will be better for me. I thought I might go mad if someone didn’t come tell me the latest news.”

  “We don’t have much time,” Phil said. “We—Detective Sergeant Atkins and myself, and my two servants, who are quite in the know—we think Elva must have seen or heard something the night of Perry’s murder. It’s the only scenario that makes sense.”

  “So the killer wasn’t after me?”

  “I don’t think so, but we will still take every precaution to keep you safe. But I need your permission to search your dressing room.”

  “My dressing room? What on earth for?”

  “We think Elva must have some evidence that she thought would keep her safe or else she would have come to you—or run away.”

  “But she didn’t.”

  “No,” said Phil, slightly distracted as another thought crossed her mind. “To keep herself safe or perhaps indulge in a little blackmail. Surely she hadn’t been so naïve to think that would make her safe. Once the killer knew she knew, it was only a matter of time. Oh Elva.”

  “Blackmail? She wasn’t like that.”

  “Well, we’re not sure, but since her room afforded no clues, the only other place she could have safely hidden something was—”

  “My dressing room,” Gwen said, sounding almost delighted. “I never go in there, nor anyone else.”

  “May we? Preswick and Lily are waiting outside.”

  “But of course. I’ll help if I can.”

  As soon as they were all assembled, they went into Gwen’s dressing room.

  It was rather sparsely furnished since she’d only been outfitted for a weekend visit.

  “Are you sure she brought it here and didn’t leave it in the city?”

  “She must have. Not having it at hand would rather defeat the purpose of having it. She would need to know it wouldn’t be found. And outside of a safety-deposit box, which would be difficult for her to get to with her work schedule, I think she would keep it somewhere she could keep an eye on it without worrying about someone finding it.”

  “What do you think it is?”

  “I’ll recognize it when we find it.” And Phil imagined Gwen would, too, if it turned out to be what she suspicioned.

  Preswick searched the furniture and wall coverings, carefully keeping his face averted while the women pulled out gowns, stockings, shoes, and undergarments.

  They unfolded and refolded. Shook skirts, felt in pockets. Opened handkerchief boxes and toiletry cases, lifted the rug. Gwen joined in with gusto, though Phil had to sit her down when the carpet set off a dance of dust motes that left her short of breath. From then on she watched from a chair in the doorway.

  “You’ll be our lookout,” Phil told her. She seemed very pleased with the role.

  Phil felt along the floor of the cupboard and pulled out a large tapestry bag. “What’s this?”

  “My needlepoint. Ruth gave it to me last Christmas. I really can’t stand needlepoint or knitting or any of those things. But I bring it out for show whenever she’s here. It wouldn’t do to hurt her feelings, poor thing.”

  Phil placed it on a chair and opened it up. Inside were skeins and skeins of yarn and a piece of canvas with a patch of small spaces filled in with tiny, uneven stitches. Not Gwen Pratt’s forte, to be sure. Phil shoved the frame back into the depths of the bag, felt around until her hand touched something hard. Cold. Metal. She pulled it out, and held it up.

  “It’s my letter opener!” Gwen exclaimed. “How on earth did it get in there?”

  “If I’m not mistaken,” Phil said, “it’s also our murder weapon.”

  Gwen gasped. Preswick and Lily hurried over to see.

  “Perry was killed with my letter opener?”

  “That appears to be the case,” Phil said.

  “Good heavens. But not by Elva? How could she?”

  “It seems unlikely unless she had an accomplice and surely they would have disposed of it in order not to garner any suspicion on themselves. I think she was either blackmailing someone else or using the threat of it to keep her safe.”

  Preswick took the opener from Phil. “Fingerprints, my lady.”

  Phil relinquished it without argument.

  “Hold it to the light, Mr. Preswick,” Lily said excitedly. Then her eyes widened as she realized what she had done; she broke into a spate of frantic Italian that even Phil couldn’t understand.

  “Yes, do, Preswick,” Phil said, hoping to draw attention from Lily’s sudden fluency in English.

  But Gwen had noticed. “My goodness, Lily. Your English has certainly improved in the last few days.” She cut a look toward Phil, more amused than angry, Phil was glad to see.

  “A quick learner,” she agreed. “Such an asset. Shall we continue?”

  They all gathered around the vanity table. Preswick held the letter opener under the light. And Lily and Phil and Gwen, who had left her post at the door, crowded around him to get a closer look.

  “Look there,” Lily said, pointing to the blade.

  Elva hadn’t bothered to try to clean it and the blade was still smeared with dried blood. And where the blade met the handle, a ring of crusted blood was embedded in the seam. And at the top of the jewel-encrusted handle a sliver of paper had been wrapped around the handle and tied with a piece of blue yarn.

  Phil could see something written on the outside, but letters were partially hidden by the yarn.

  Preswick looked at Phil. They should probably wait for the detective sergeant before they removed it. But Phil didn’t know where he was, possibly still driving to his friends’ house. They could telephone, but what if he hadn’t arrived? They would have to leave a message, then he would have to drive back.

  It was ridiculous. Phil slipped away and opened the tapestry bag, dumped the contents on the floor; among the yarn was a pair of small sewing scissors. She knew they’d be there. Every girl had had one of these bags at one time or another. Phil was happy to say she, at present, did not, and would not ever again.

  She took them back and with one snip the paper fell away to reveal the empty space where the Imperial topaz had been.

  Phil started to pick up the paper, but stopped. “Will you do the honors, Mr. Preswick?”

  Preswick pulled the cuffs of his gloves tighter, then carefully spread it out on the table. Phil and the others leaned over, beside themselves with anticipation.

  Finally, the answer lay before them. The initials VW-T.r />
  25

  “No,” Gwen said. “No.”

  “I think, Preswick, you should place that call to Detective Sergeant Atkins. Lily, help me get Mrs. Pratt back to her room.”

  “No, that isn’t necessary. I’m fine. But I just won’t believe that Vincent is a murderer. It’s true that he wasn’t able to continue living in the style of the other boys, but he works hard and without any recriminations.”

  “Recriminations?” Phil asked. “Why should he have recriminations?”

  “Oh, I don’t know the half of it. But it was some scheme these men are always getting into. Luther had introduced his father to a brokerage firm that appeared for all intents and purposes very legitimate. Luther certainly thought so. He invested in some funds, as well as Vincent’s father, and let’s see, Thomas, and Harry’s father…”

  “Godfrey?” Phil asked.

  Gwen’s lips pursed in concentration. “I don’t believe so, though I could be wrong. He prefers to own a thing outright. And plus there’s his work for the government. That keeps him in the know.”

  “So what happened?”

  Gwen sat down on the settee. “You’d have to ask Luther for details. I’m not sure. There are always so many deals going on in the life of a banker, most of which are all very hush-hush and most of which they just don’t want to bother our little heads with. As I recall, one of them found out about an impending disaster and they all pulled their money out. Except Leonard, Vincent’s father, was out of town and couldn’t be reached and by the time he was informed of the situation, it was too late.

  “Evidently these things happen. It didn’t ruin him, but that, with a series of other unfortunate events—his wife died a short while after that—well, he couldn’t recoup his losses. Seems he’d been growing increasingly in debt due to her treatments and some bad financial deals.

  “It was in no way Luther’s fault but he felt he had to do something for Vincent, so he asked him to become his secretary. He thought he might eventually work his way into finding him a position at the bank without him having to go up through the ranks, which would add insult to the humiliation his family endured.”

  A well-meaning intention, Phil thought, but which only served to increase his humiliation by putting him constantly around the others while he was no longer considered one of them.

  Things didn’t look good for Vincent. His initials inscribed with the murder weapon would be bad enough. But a lot of things were beginning to make sense.

  His pining for Agnes knowing he no longer had the means in which to attain her hand. Why he seemed uncomfortable around the others. Not only because of his position in the household but because of the history of their fathers. Morris’s disdain for him.

  It was bound to lead to resentment. And a case could be made that he’d just snapped. And taken it out on Perry Fauks. Because of Agnes. It must have been the last straw.

  Well, if Preswick had been able to contact John Atkins, they would find out soon enough.

  Phil and Gwen sat waiting for Preswick to return, the letter opener wrapped in one of Preswick’s blindingly clean handkerchiefs lying on the sofa between them.

  “You don’t think the detective sergeant will suspect me?” Gwen asked into the silence.

  Phil cut her a look. To her discredit, she had briefly considered Gwen as a suspect.

  “Did you kill him?” she asked.

  Gwen blinked several times. “Of course not. Why on earth would you even say such a thing?”

  Phil sighed. “I don’t know. The murder weapon belongs to you, and we found it in your needlepoint bag. Those are the kind of clues that policemen follow.”

  Gwen sucked in air.

  Phil moved closer. “Do not get upset. I was just getting the possibility out of the way. And I would prefer you not take any more of your asthma medication than absolutely necessary until we get back to town and you have a new supply.”

  Gwen nodded, took a slow breath, closed her eyes and concentrated on breathing.

  Phil concentrated on staying calm, not taking the investigation in hand and begin questioning Vincent herself. But she was not the expert that Atkins was, she was bound to make a hash of it. Still, it was infuriating not knowing.

  She fairly jumped from the sofa when Preswick returned. “Did you find him?”

  “No, my lady. His friends have not heard from him.”

  “Where is the man? What good is a telephone exchange if he’s not going to be there to answer it?”

  “I’m sure I couldn’t say, my lady.”

  “I know.” She sat back down. A frisson of unexpected anxiety swept through her as she imagined an automobile accident, a confrontation with the murderer, who managed to overpower him, or an ambush by same as he drove down the road.

  Which was absurd, she assured herself. All the possible suspects were here. And most likely sitting downstairs in the parlor, where she’d left Daisy entertaining them.

  “I think I should join the others.”

  “I’ll come with you,” Gwen said. “I can’t stand being out of the know.”

  Phil totally agreed. Leaving her alone would give her time to worry herself into another attack. Not to mention there was a killer still among them.

  With them all gathered in the parlor, Gwen would be safer. They all would be. And while they waited for Atkins to return, she would keep her eye on everyone.

  Phil stood, picked up the letter opener. She had no intention of letting it out of her sight again, but there was no place to hide it on her person. The silk of her gown was too thin to be of any use. There was only one choice. She picked up the loathsome tapestry bag, placed the opener on the bottom, then crammed the yarn and scissors back inside.

  Giving orders to Lily and Preswick to advise her as soon as they reached Atkins, and holding the bag close, Phil went downstairs with Gwen.

  The first thing Phil saw when they entered the parlor was Daisy’s tight smile. And the absence of Godfrey Bennington.

  “You owe me,” Daisy said under her breath when Phil reached her.

  “What’s been going on?”

  Daisy threw her head back and laughed like Phil had just told her an amusing story. “It’s like herding goldfish. This is the most peripatetic group of guests I’ve ever endured. They were not swayed by my discourse on workmen’s rights. And Ruth Jeffrey nixed any little tidbit that was of interest. Really, you’d think those girls of hers were still in the nursery.”

  Phil tittered out a laugh that must have sounded unconvincing, considering the look Daisy shot her.

  The doorbell rang, saving them from carrying on with their charade.

  Moments later Tillis opened the door. He didn’t bother to announce the visitors, for behind him stood John Atkins and Isaac Sheffield.

  “Thank you,” Atkins said. “I’ll take it from here.”

  The butler stepped aside and Atkins ushered Sheffield into the parlor. The detective sergeant was holding a pistol trained on the businessman.

  Atkins swiftly took in the room. “Where is Mr. Bennington?”

  “I’ll get him,” Daisy volunteered and hurried away.

  She returned less than a minute later with their host.

  “Good God, Atkins, what is the meaning of this? Where did you find him?” Then he saw the revolver. “Is that necessary?”

  Yes, thought Phil. I’d like to know, too. And where have you been all this time?

  Atkins tilted his head. He was still wearing his hat. He took it off and dropped it on the closest table, but he kept the revolver trained on Sheffield. “You must pardon the unorthodoxy of my visit, but there is only one of me.”

  Godfrey winced his acknowledgment.

  “He’s got it all wrong, Godfrey,” Sheffield pleaded.

  He was shivering so hard that his teeth clacked together, making the words come out in a stutter.

  “Get by the fire, man.” Godfrey exchanged looks with Atkins.

  “Go ahead,” Atkins said, and
lowered the gun.

  Sheffield hurried to the fire and stuck out his hands.

  Gwen crossed to the coffee table and felt the pot. Then she poured a cup of coffee and went to hand it to Isaac Sheffield.

  Phil started to move to stop her. She had no idea if Sheffield would take the cup or grab Gwen to hold as hostage.

  But Atkins had already moved. He took the cup from Gwen and handed it to Sheffield.

  Phil came up beside him. “How did you find him? Where was he?”

  Atkins looked around the room.

  For what? Phil wondered. To make sure everyone was there? Or was he looking for someone specific?

  Godfrey strode over to where Sheffield was standing. “Sit down, Isaac, and tell us what is going on here.”

  Sheffield looked around, sat down in a chair near the fireplace. “I was kidnapped.”

  Phil sucked in her breath. Ha. She’d been correct. She couldn’t help but cut a self-satisfied look at Atkins.

  He merely looked away.

  “Absurd,” Godfrey protested. “Why? By whom? Where did they take you? Why did they let you go?”

  “I don’t know who they were. Or where I was. I think they must have chloroformed me. When I woke up I was in a room somewhere. It was unfurnished except for a table and chairs. And the walls were stone. At first I thought it was a prison. But then I saw the windows were covered over by a thick material.”

  He took a shuddering breath, either from cold or memory. “There were three of them that I saw. One was stationed by the door. One stood in the corner out of my sight line, and one asked questions.”

  “Sounds like an interrogation,” Phil murmured, which earned her a sharp look from Atkins.

  “At first I thought they were thieves or might be holding me for ransom. But they merely wanted to question me about the situation with Fauks Copper, Coal and Steel, and several other trusts. They wanted to know if the company had invested in … I can’t even remember the name. I said no. They asked about Perry’s takeover attempt of this company, and if I had known about it.

  “I told them no, but they kept pressing me. Who set Perry up with funds? Who brokered the deal? I kept saying I didn’t know. I found out about Perry’s theft the day of the party. I don’t know if they believed me. I can hardly believe it myself. He had to have accomplices, but until I can do a thorough audit, I can’t know.