Tell Me No Lies

by Shelley Noble

  “I explained this, and cooperated even though I didn’t know who they were; I still don’t know. But they kept asking me questions, it seemed like for hours, then suddenly I was in the auto again. I don’t remember anything until they dumped me in the woods near the cottage.

  “So I made my way back there to find Detective Sergeant Atkins waiting for me.”

  Phil’s mouth dropped open in a most unladylike fashion. “You were waiting for him? What happened to your friend? We’ve been telephoning you for the last hour. No wonder they didn’t know where you were.”

  Atkins shrugged.

  She turned a scowl on Godfrey. “I suppose you’re responsible for that.”

  “Yes, I’m afraid a bit of subterfuge on my part. I caught the detective sergeant as he was leaving and asked him to stay at the cottage in case we needed him. I felt things might be coming to a head and that the sooner he and Isaac sat down together the sooner we might reach a resolution.”

  “That’s all fine and good, but while you two were engaging in subterfuge, we found the murder weapon.” Phil looked down at the tapestry bag that she now clutched with both hands across her middle. She really didn’t want to be the one to do this, but she didn’t have a choice.

  “The murder weapon?” Atkins asked.

  “Yes,” Phil said. “And the murderer … maybe.” She put down the tapestry bag, reached down to the bottom, and pulled out the letter opener.

  She could feel the room grow even quieter as everyone leaned in to try to get a look.

  She turned to the reading table that held Sheffield’s used coffee cup. Pushed it aside, and placed the opener on the table. Gestured for Atkins to unwrap it. But Atkins’s eyes were scanning the guests. Alert. Intense. Ready to grab whoever made a move to run?

  “Shall I unwrap it?” Phil asked.

  He nodded once, slowly. “Carefully.”

  She didn’t comment. She lifted the edges of the handkerchief, unrolled the opener from the folds until the handkerchief lay flat on the table and the paper lay open beside it, the initials plain to see.

  Atkins glanced down. Zeroed in on Vincent Wynn-Taylor, who had been sitting with Agnes on the settee when the detective sergeant and Sheffield had entered, but who was now standing by the French doors to the terrace.

  Ready to make a run for it?

  Phil edged toward him. Atkins made a minute gesture that held her back. He turned to Vincent.

  “Mr. Vincent Wynn-Taylor, I am taking you into custody for questioning about the murder of Percival Fauks.”

  Vincent bolted for the door. Godfrey was on him in the blink of an eye and dragged him back into the room, flicked him into a chair.

  Goodness, Phil thought, for a middle-aged government official he was certainly quick on his feet.

  Atkins stepped forward, blocking any idea of escape.

  “I didn’t do it,” Vincent mumbled.

  “Then perhaps, Mr. Wynn-Taylor, you will tell us who did.”

  26

  Vincent ran both hands through his hair. “I don’t know.” But his glance flicked toward Agnes. Phil saw it and she was certain Atkins did too.

  “Then why are your initials written on this piece of paper?”

  There was a communal gasp.

  Except from Agnes, who froze as she reached toward Vincent, leaving one hand outstretched, her fingers gracefully curved like an enchanted princess, though perhaps not so enchanted now.

  “I don’t know, but I didn’t kill him.”

  “Mr. Wynn-Taylor,” Atkins prompted, stepping slightly so that he sheltered Vincent from the stares of the others.

  Phil understood what he was doing. It was the same maneuver used in ballrooms and soirées across England to give your confidant the illusion of confidentiality. It sometimes worked in society. Here, the spectators merely moved over to get a better view.

  “Go on.”

  “I went upstairs—for something. And there he was, lying there. On the floor in the hallway. The letter opener was still in his back. He was dead.” Vincent’s voice cracked on a sob.

  “And?” Atkins didn’t miss a beat. He wasn’t about to let the man recover his wits.

  “And I shoved him down the laundry chute.”

  Another collective gasp. A high-pitched cry from Agnes and she threw herself at her mother. Gwen staggered back under the impact and they both ended sitting on the sofa together.

  “The letter opener must have fallen out when I did. I was in such a hurry, so afraid someone would come, I wasn’t thinking straight, but I didn’t kill him.”

  “If you didn’t kill him, why didn’t you sound the alarm? Why try to hide the body?”

  “Because I panicked.”

  “Oh come now, Mr. Wynn-Taylor. I don’t believe that for a second. If you panicked, it was either because you did kill him, or you saw who did and wanted to protect them. Who would that person be, Mr. Wynn-Taylor?”

  “I swear I didn’t see anyone.”

  “But you were afraid someone did it. Who was it? A member of the family?”

  Agnes started to protest, but Gwen pulled her back and held her with both arms.

  “Someone you cared about and were afraid would be blamed.”

  “No. No. I did it. Okay? It was me. I did it.” Vincent hung his head.

  “Now let me get this straight. You didn’t kill him. But now you say you did kill him.”

  “No. Yes. I killed him.”

  “You know, Mr. Wynn-Taylor, if I didn’t know better I would think you were trying to obstruct my investigation of this case, actually two cases. Did you kill Elva Wilson, too?”

  It was the first time Phil had heard Elva’s last name and it made her death all the more poignant and sad.

  “No … I mean…” Vincent slumped back in the chair.

  “But you must have. I think she was blackmailing you for the murder of Fauks. And you, being of a diabolical turn of mind, devised a plan to get rid of her that wouldn’t point to you.”

  “No!” Vincent said as if it was something he couldn’t contemplate even now, much less plan in advance. And Phil was inclined to believe that this was the first time he’d even thought this far.

  But the detective sergeant plowed on. “You were responsible for picking up Mrs. Pratt’s medicine from the pharmacy. You could easily alter the dose before handing it over to Elva. You were taking an awful chance.

  “What if it had killed Mrs. Pratt as well? What if…” He swung around to take in the others. His eyes alighted on one person. “Agnes … had been in the room.”

  “No!” cried Vincent at the same time as Agnes yelled, “You’re wrong!”

  Atkins turned back to Vincent like nothing had happened.

  “Is that the way it happened? You killed two people in the house where you were employed and where you had other emotional ties?”

  Vincent stood. Atkins pushed him back down.

  “If you don’t tell me exactly what happened, I’ll have to arrest you. Take you to the station and if it turns out that you aren’t the killer, that man … or woman, will still be free, and these people—that particular person—will still not be safe. Because I will continue to investigate until I get to the bottom of this. So why don’t you tell me the truth.”

  “I killed them. I killed them both,” Vincent said in a flat unearthly voice.

  “Why?”

  “I-I was angry.”

  Atkins caught Phil’s eye. It was barely long enough to register, but she knew where he was going.

  “Why were you angry? Why did you suddenly feel the need to murder Mr. Fauks in the middle of a ball where anyone might walk by and see you?”

  Vincent just shook his head, refused to even look up.

  “Shall I guess?”

  “No! Perry had this scheme that he wanted me to invest in. Said it was a sure thing. He wanted to take over some company, he had a contract lined up with a big organization.”

  “And did you invest?”

/>   Vincent shook his head. “It was tempting. He said I could more than double my money, I wouldn’t have to work for Mr. Pratt anymore. Could be my own man. A real man,” he said in lower tones.

  “Sounds like a good deal. And yet you weren’t interested? Even though it might make you rich. Rich enough, say, to rival him for Miss Pratt’s affections?”

  Another head shake. “No, my father lost everything we had because of bad investments. I swore that would never happen to me.”

  “That’s enough, Atkins,” roared Luther. “Leave the man alone. If he did it, he did it. And I’m sorry for it. Was your life so awful to risk everything to get away from us?”

  “No, sir, not at all. I love my job and I—” Vincent’s voice cracked.

  “Oh, Vincent!”

  Agnes broke away from Gwen and threw herself at Vincent’s feet. “Tell them you didn’t do it. Tell them.”

  Atkins’s eyes rolled heavenward. “Tell us what, Miss Pratt? That you killed Perry Fauks?”

  Phil would be inclined to laugh if the stakes weren’t so high.

  Agnes stopped wringing her hands and stared at him. “Me? I didn’t kill Perry.”

  “No, I don’t believe you did. But I think Vincent thinks you might have.”

  Agnes turned back to Vincent? “You thought it was me?”

  Vincent didn’t answer, but his Adam’s apple jerked spasmodically.

  “How could you think that?”

  “He deserved it, if you did.”

  “Agnes?” Gwen said.

  “I’m sorry, Mama. I hated Perry. He was awful. I had a fight with him that night. But I didn’t kill him. I wouldn’t kill anybody.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “I didn’t want to disappoint you.”

  The detective sergeant’s jaw tightened. “If we could please contain ourselves for a few moments longer.”

  Phil forced herself not to look at him. Or Daisy. It was all rather over the top, and she was afraid they might succumb to a fit of laughter, which would be embarrassingly not tonish. And she suddenly realized that this was a family who cared deeply about one another and for whom she did have a certain affection. That was not something to be taken lightly.

  “So, Mr. Wynn-Taylor, could you tell us why you thought Miss Pratt had murdered him?”

  “He was lying across the hall from her room.”

  “And so you concluded that she must have killed him.”

  Vincent was silent.

  “What other rooms are in that wing of the corridor?” Atkins looked around for a dry eye. “Mr. Pratt?”

  “Well, let’s see. There’s my room and dressing room at the front of the house. Gwen’s room, dressing room, and sitting room. Agnes’s room and dressing room. One guest room where Effie and Maud are staying.”

  Surely, Atkins already knew this. He hardly seemed to listen to Luther’s recitation. He’s looking for a reaction, she realized. An unconscious recognition of guilt. A “dead giveaway,” as Bobby Mullins might say. Fascinating.

  Agnes’s room was right across from the laundry chute, so it made sense that Vincent suspected the worst. But the killer could have dragged the body from any of those rooms to the laundry chute in an attempt to mislead. Or had been frightened away before he could get rid of the body.

  Atkins turned back to Vincent, leaving Phil no wiser to what he was thinking. “Thank you. Now, if you’ve pulled yourself together, Mr. Wynn-Taylor, could you please recount the rest of the events of that evening.”

  Vincent started as if he’d been goosed.

  “Why did you go upstairs in the first place?” Phil interjected impatiently.

  Her interruption received the frown she admitted it deserved.

  But Agnes answered. “Don’t try to protect me anymore, Vincent. I’m not guilty and I can take care of myself.” She smiled up at him, her eyes adoring.

  Phil looked away. Had she ever been that young and naïve? Of course she had—before the Earl of Dunbridge.

  On that thought, Phil promised herself to be more sympathetic to young girls in the future.

  Vincent straightened in his chair. “I saw him talking to her downstairs. I could tell she was uncomfortable, but he took her elbow and practically forced her up the stairs. She wouldn’t have gone, but I think she didn’t want to cause a scene.”

  Agnes nodded, looked from Phil to Atkins. “I told you how he was. I didn’t tell you that night he made me go up the stairs with him. I saw Uncle Thomas and Mr. Sheffield coming out of Papa’s study and I didn’t want to cause a scene in front of them, so I went with him. But when we got there he tried to—tried to, right there in the hall.

  “He was acting crazy. Not like usual when he got like that, but crazy, desperate almost. He scared me. I shoved him away and ran to my room and locked the door.”

  “Oh, my poor child,” Gwen cried. “I had no idea. We would never have had something like that happen to you.”

  “Why not, Mama? You heard the rumors about Mr. Sheffield’s daughter. Even I had.”

  “I had of course. But I thought it was just grief talking. Sometimes when you can’t explain bad things it’s natural to try to blame someone else. Isaac, I’m sorry. So sorry.”

  Sheffield, whom Phil had completely forgotten, looked up from where he was sitting. “You’re not to blame, Gwen. No one is, but myself for being blind to Perry until it was too late.”

  “But why didn’t you tell us?”

  “I did many times, but as you say, everyone thought it was just the ramblings of a grief-stricken, guilty father.”

  Everyone but Mrs. Ida Kidmore-Young, Phil thought. No wonder Isaac Sheffield chose to spend his time with her rather than with his wife, who would rather blame Isaac than face the truth. They had both been wrong about Perry Fauks.

  “If everyone will save your apologies until we’ve come to the end of this, I would appreciate it. Now tell me what happened next.”

  Vincent straightened. “I meant to go after them and stop Perry, but Mr. Sheffield stopped to ask where Mr. Pratt was, I told him I thought he was in the ballroom, and he asked me to go find him. I did, and I accompanied him back to Mr. Sheffield. They went back to the study, and I realized that neither Agnes nor Perry had returned downstairs. I was terribly worried, so I ran up to the second floor.”

  “And?”

  “And there he was, Perry, lying on the ground. He was dead and the letter opener was sticking out of his back. It was right across from Agnes’s room. I panicked. I didn’t know what to do, just that he couldn’t be found there. Then I saw the laundry chute and I opened it and shoved him inside.”

  “Oh Vincent,” Agnes said softly and lay her head on his knee.

  “Then a door opened across the hall and I ran like hell in the opposite direction.”

  “What did you do next? Your clothes must have been mussed. Blood perhaps had gotten on your shirt when you moved the body.”

  “On the cuffs and I didn’t have a change of clothes. I was just very careful and went home soon afterward. It was late, around two, I think, and no one thought it odd when I left because I had work the following day.”

  “And the shirt?”

  “Gone into a trash bin on my way to the pharmacy the next morning.”

  “And the letter opener? How did the letter opener end up in this bag along with your initials?”

  “I assumed it had gone down the chute with Perry. It was shoved in to the hilt. It never occurred to me that it had fallen out. I heard the door and I ran. Then next day when I brought Mrs. Pratt’s medicine from the pharmacy, Elva said she had found it and she knew what I did.

  “I told her I didn’t kill him, that I was trying to protect—I was trying to prevent scandal. But she didn’t believe me.

  “I asked outright, ‘Did you see me kill him?’

  “And she said, ‘No, but I heard you arguing.’

  “But it wasn’t me. I was downstairs, looking for Mr. Pratt. When I finally got up
stairs Perry was already dead.”

  “And how long was it between the time Agnes and Perry went upstairs until the time you followed?”

  Vincent pushed his fingers through his hair. “I don’t know. Five, ten minutes. The ballroom was crowded and it took a few minutes to find Mr. Pratt.”

  “And Mr. Sheffield was waiting in the hall for you to return?”

  “Yes. He and Mr. Pratt went down to the study and when I went up the stairs Perry was dead.”

  Atkins looked at Sheffield for confirmation.

  “Yes, I stood right there until Vincent returned with Luther.”

  Back to Vincent. Phil could almost see the detective sergeant’s mind working. “She tried to blackmail you.”

  “Not at first. She was very loyal to the family and to her mistress. She was glad to have Agnes out from Perry’s clutches, so she said nothing.”

  “But that changed?”

  “Yes, a couple of days later, she came to me. Demanded money. Said she had to get away and that she would exchange the letter opener for five hundred dollars. I didn’t have that kind of cash. I tried to reason with her. And suddenly we were all coming out here and there was no time to find out what had changed.”

  “She had to get away. Those were her words?”

  “Yes. I thought it was odd because she always seemed very happy here. She’d been with Mrs. Pratt a long time, before I came, certainly.”

  “Yes,” interjected Gwen. “She’d been with me since Agnes was little, close to fifteen years. I can’t believe she would want to leave.”

  “I don’t think she wanted to,” Vincent said. “I think she was afraid, but I was so wrapped up in my own worries, I didn’t pay enough attention to her. If I had—”

  “You would have been able to save her?” Atkins finished.

  Vincent shrugged. “I might have been able to do something.”

  “If you had told us the truth to begin with you most certainly would have.”

  Vincent’s head snapped back. Agnes burst into a new spate of tears. Even Phil blinked at Atkins’s response.

  Atkins turned to face the group. “You all heard Mr. Wynn-Taylor’s story. Do any of you have anything to add? Or to contradict?”