The Unaccompanied Widow

by Tracy Cooper-Posey

  With a feeling of relief, Adele strolled across the road to the park, a book in her pocket, a parasol in hand, and after walking the dappled paths for an hour or so, found herself a solitary bench beneath a tree and read.

  The peaceful afternoon was a relief after the stress of the last two days, and she returned to the hotel feeling mildly happier. She had the entire evening ahead of her to do nothing but read and forget that two days of trailing about behind the King and Queen lay ahead of her.

  As Adele crossed the cobbles to the wide footpath in front of the hotel, she saw a tall, slender man with white whiskers step down from a cab and cross the pavement at a smart clip, his silver-topped cane swinging.

  Adele did not call out to Pureton. There was a slight chance he was not here to find her and bring her back to the royal yacht. She would not remind him of her presence here in Dublin, if that was the case.

  Instead, she followed Pureton into the hotel at a discreet distance.

  The King’s Assistant Private Secretary paused in front of the desk. “Where is he?” he demanded of the clerk.

  The clerk gave a near-bow and pointed toward the stairs. “The next floor, my lord. To the right at the top of the stairs.”

  Adele moved up the stairs behind Pureton, struggling to keep up with his long-legged pace. The narrow stairs were extraordinarily busy compared to her arrival at the hotel. Footmen and gentlemen climbed up and down them at a great pace, brushing past her with murmured apologies.

  Her heart picked up speed. Who was the “he” of whom Pureton had demanded the location?

  She turned to the right at the top of the stairs, only a few paces behind Pureton. The corridor was much wider on this floor, with a thick, wall-to-wall carpet that didn’t quite hush the frantic conversations of a dozen people farther along. Clearly, this was where the “he” Pureton sought was to be found.

  Adele glided along the dove-grey carpet, keeping her chin up as if she had every right to be there. It was entirely possible she did have that right—and until she learned otherwise, she was making it her business. This was something Melville had drilled into her more than ounce.

  “You have a natural curiosity you must exploit, Lady Adele,” he’d told her. “There is no situation that is none of your business, anymore. Not until you’ve thoroughly established the matter is innocent.”

  A maid in a black uniform and white pinafore slumped upon a chair which had been placed on the other side of the corridor from the open door of one of the rooms. She had her cap in her hands and was steadily ruining its stiffness by wringing it and squeezing it. She was very upset, her round face red and her cheeks wet with tears. She sniffled, while one of the footmen inadequately patted her shoulder, and used the cap to dab at her eyes.

  Both of them stared into the open doorway. The view seemed to be upsetting the maid, which made Adele wonder why the footman didn’t move her chair out of the way of the view through the door or remove her from the scene altogether.

  She moved up to the girl’s other side and held out her handkerchief. “Here, my dear. Use this. The starch in your cap will just make your eyes hurt even more.”

  The girl looked up at her, blinking. Her eyes were very red. “Th-thank you,” she whispered and took the handkerchief.

  Adele glanced through the open door. The room was considerably larger than hers upon the third floor, and there were at least six men in it that she glimpsed through the door. Five of them were moving about the room, examining drawers and cupboards and the contents of a gentleman’s valise lying open upon a stand similar to the one holding Adele’s trunk.

  The sixth man lay upon the floor, his head turned toward the door, his cheek upon the polished floorboards. His eyes were open, showing true Celtic black, which matched his fine white skin and thick, black hair.

  Someone had slashed his belly open. The pool of blood stretched from his body to the door itself and was now soaking into the dove grey carpet of the hallway.

  Pureton made his way into the room around the wide puddle, stepping over the body to speak to one of the older of the men in the room in a soft voice.

  “Was it the blood in the carpet that made you check?” Adele asked the maid very softly.

  “Yes, m’m,” the maid replied. Her breath hitched. “He was just lying there…!”

  Adele gave her shoulder a squeeze. “How frightful for you. Was he still alive when you found him?”

  The footman gave her a sharp look. “Now see here—”

  But the maid’s eyes widened and fresh tears fell. “Oh, oh! Yes, he was! He begged me to fetch the doctor! Over and over. Then he…he…stopped.” She put her face in her hands. Her shoulders shook.

  Adele peered through the door, studying the men. At least one of them was an Irish police officer, one of the Garda, for he wore a black uniform and his helmet sat upon the end of the bed, which Adele could just glimpse at the edge of the doorway. He was speaking quietly to Pureton.

  Another man in a civilian suit searched through the drawers of a chest against the wall, his toes within an inch of the blood. He didn’t seem to notice the puddle. Clearly, someone accustomed to such sights. That would make him another type of policeman, Adele judged.

  He gave a soft sound as he pulled something out of the drawer. He turned and waved it, to catch the Chief Inspector’s attention. It looked like a very large stack of money.

  “How much?” the Chief Inspector said.

  The man thumbed through the crisp notes. “Five hundred pounds.”

  Five hundred? Adele could feel her jaw loosen in surprise.

  One of the six men in the room bent over the far edge of the puddle and turned the body onto its back with a grunt of effort. “Someone knew what they were doing,” he said, his tone conversational.

  “How’d that be?” the Chief Inspector asked, his brogue thick.

  “One blow, up high into the stomach cavity. Sliced the renal artery. That’s why all the blood. He bled to death in a matter of minutes.”

  The maid began to weep once more. Pureton frowned and looked toward the door. His gaze fell upon Adele.

  She stared back, not in the mood to smile politely.

  Pureton came toward the door, his expression no more pleased than hers. As he navigated the puddle, Adele’s attention was drawn to the stairs, thirty yards away. From them came the sound of men arguing. Or one man arguing, at any rate, his Irish brogue thick. The voice was drawing closer. Adele suspected the man was heading to this room.

  Pureton stepped out of the room with a long stride that put his foot beyond the expanding radius of blood soaking into the carpet and moved over to her. “This is no place for fainting women, Lady Adelaide. Return to your room.”

  “Who is the victim, Sir Godfrey? I don’t know his face.”

  “This is no concern of yours or that bobby of yours, I assure you.” Pureton’s voice was cold.

  The trouble on the stairs leapt in volume. From the corner of her eye, Adele saw a man step into the corridor from the stairs, surrounded by three footmen, all trying to get a grip on his arms.

  He shrugged them off with a mighty heave and pushed one of them aside. “‘tis me own brother! I’ve a right t’see! Naff off, the lot of ye!” He pulled his jacket back into place and stalked toward them. He was a tall man, a typical Black Irishman in looks and temperament. His black hair was thick, unruly curls, the dark eyes snapped fire as he bore down upon them. Adele imagined she could see steam trailing behind him.

  Pureton raised his hand as the Irishman came up to them. “This is a police matter, sir. You cannot go any further.”

  The man threw out an arm and pointed to the door. “That is my brother, sir. You’d deny me the view of ‘im?”

  Pureton hesitated.

  “If the King’s man won’t deny you, I must,” the Chief Inspector said, as he lunged over the soaked carpet in the doorway. “I can’t have ye messin’ up the investigation, Slane.”

  The man swayed to pe
er around the Chief Inspector. His face worked. “Dear God. Eilish…what damn fool thing did you get into?” He closed his eyes and turned away from the view.

  “Perhaps just a moment with the body, Chief Inspector McDermott?” Pureton said, his tone delicate.

  Chief Inspector McDermott smoothed both sides of his thick moustache. “‘fraid I can’t do that, Sir Godfrey. This man ‘ere,” and he nodded at the brother, “is Torin Slane. He’s a trouble-making Nationalist, a member of Sinn Féin and well known to the Garda—got heself arrested more than once.”

  “Nationalist, hmm?” Pureton said, shooting a disapproving look at Torin Slane.

  “What of it?” Slane demanded, his hand curling into a fist. “A man is dead, sir! My brother!”

  “Aye and the difference between you and your brother is night and day,” McDermott added. “Which is why I can’t let ye in.” He looked at Pureton. “‘e’s just as likely to tamper with t’ings, just to make our jobs harder. Devil beguiled his mother, that one.”

  Adele felt a little squeeze of surprise as she put together the names. Eilish Slane was an Irish Member of the British Parliament, the Member for Galway. He also happened to be one of the King’s favourite hunting companions and a constant guest at Balmoral. And now he had been murdered.

  “Oh, the King will not like this,” Adele murmured.

  Pureton glanced at her with an expression that said he’d forgotten she was there. “Make yourself useful, Lady Adelaide. Escort Mr. Slane to the dining room and…entertain him until the police are ready to question him. There’s a good woman.”

  The avuncular tone made Adele seethe. She gritted her jaws together.

  Torin Slane sent her a look of disbelief, then said to the two men, “I’ll not sit about, waiting upon your pleasure. I have better things to do!” He spun away.

  “We will have to question you, sir!” McDermott called after him.

  “Come and find me when you’re ready!” Slane slung over his shoulder. He turned down the stairs and disappeared.

  “Will he abscond?” Pureton asked.

  “He can’t,” McDermott said, sounding pleased. “Trinity College is open all summer. We can find him there when we need him, never fear.”

  Adele had heard enough. She followed Slane’s example and stalked along the corridor to the stairs, but climbed up them, rather than down. She shut her room door with a solid thump, which didn’t relieve her feelings.

  She walked about the small clear area at the end of the bed, trying to think. What would Melville do? What would Daniel do? But they were both men and wouldn’t have been rebuffed at the doorway in the first place.

  How could she learn more about this murder and establish that it was not the act of enemy agents, while Pureton denied her the most basic access to the facts?

  She was alone. It was up to her to figure this one out.

  BY BREAKFAST TIME THE NEXT morning, Adele still had no idea how she might deal with Pureton and McDermott. The Chief Inspector seemed to be of the same opinion about women as Pureton.

  She slept fitfully, despite a day of sea air, walking and sunlight, and rose with an aching body and thudding head. She desperately wanted tea and toast. She dressed hurriedly in a morning gown, descended to the ground floor and entered the dining room.

  She was shown to the table. “The morning papers, please,” she asked the waiter as she sat down.

  He looked astonished. “Newspapers, ma’am? You?”

  She tilted her head. “Yes, me. Chop-chop.”

  He hurried away, shaking his head, and brought a folded newspaper to her a few moments later. She glanced at it but did not take it. “That is yesterday’s Times,” she said. “I’ve read that already. Please bring today’s.”

  “We only ‘ave yesterday’s,” he replied. “We’re always a day behind ‘ere, on account of it being shipped across, see?”

  “You must have a daily newspaper here, surely?”

  “The Irish Times, ma’am, but…”

  “That will do. And I will have a pot of tea as soon as you can manage it.” She tried to smile charmingly at him but could only manage a grimace.

  Both the tea and the newspaper arrived at the same time, for which she was grateful. She ordered toast and jam and gratefully quaffed the first cupful of tea, then freshened her cup and turned to the newspaper.

  The death of Eilish Slane, MP, a family man with three children, was front page news. The newspaper offices must have worked all night to rebuild their pages to include the lengthy article, which she read with a great deal of interest. The beginning of the article spoke of his bereaved family, in Galway, and the misfortunate timing of his visit to Dublin, to coincide with the King’s visit.

  Adele’s toast went untouched as she moved onto the second page, her disbelief building.

  The newspaper had managed to interview a number of people, asking for their opinion about the well-known Irish politician’s death. A gentleman called O’Sullivan, who was named as a Nationalist, declared that the British had killed Slane to rid themselves of a troublesome MP, who was far too outspoken in support of Irish interests in Parliament.

  An “undisclosed” Englishman, on the other hand, stated that the murder was clearly the work of the Irish Nationalists, who didn’t like the fact that Mr. Slane was a conservative and a favourite of the Crown.

  The speculation continued for the length of the column and only at the top of the next column did the journalist get around to citing actual facts.

  Chief Inspector Cillian McDermott of the Pearse Street Garda Station indicated that the investigation into the death of Eilish Slane would continue, but that the evidence already collected suggested that nothing more sinister was at the bottom of the affair than that of a robbery gone wrong.

  Adele sat upright, and barely got her cup upon the saucer without a splash. Her heart raced as she re-read the offending paragraph.

  “Robbery, my eye,” she muttered and got to her feet.

  The waiter hurried over to her. “My lady?” He’d clearly learned who she was since delivering her toast and jam.

  She drummed her fingers upon the tablecloth, making up her mind. “I am returning to my room to get my things. Can you arrange for a cab for me, please?”

  “At once, my lady.” He dashed off.

  TRINITY COLLEGE, ADELE LEARNED, WAS the only college of the University of Ireland. It was a grand, grey Georgian building featuring arches and bell towers, cobblestones and large squares. She quickly became lost, and had to ask strangers for directions several times, but eventually found her way to a small office lined with books, notebooks, and the paraphernalia of a man preoccupied with thought.

  “He’ll be ‘long once his lecture is done,” the young lad who’d shown her in said.

  “He won’t mind me waiting in here?” she asked doubtfully.

  “‘tis naught elsewhere to wait,” he said with a shrug and shut the door.

  Adele settled in to wait.

  Over an hour later, she heard voices outside the door, then the door was pushed open. Torin Slane stepped in. He wore the same suit he had been wearing yesterday evening, but the tie was properly knotted this morning. The hair, though, was still unruly. Locks fell over his eyes as he took her in.

  He moved over to the bookcase and dropped the small pile of books he had been carrying upon the shelf.

  “I did not know you were a university professor,” Adele said. “Chief Inspector McDermott failed to add that to your character resume last night.”

  “Assistant professor during the summer sessions,” he corrected. “And I didn’t know you were the daughter of an earl, Lady Adelaide. Everyone failed to provide even your name, last night.”

  “I am Mrs. Becket now.”

  “Ah.” He leaned against the shelf, his black eyes glittering in the low light in the room. “The intricate insanity of the English peerage.”

  “I was born into it, Mr. Slane. I did not invent it.”

 
“My sympathies.”

  “And you must have mine, for the loss of your brother.”

  He drew in a sharp breath, but did not speak.

  “You have a wonderful collection of books, Mr. Slane.”

  “I see you have helped yourself to them.” He moved over to the desk and picked up a notebook.

  She held up the book she had been reading. “I wonder…may I borrow this one? I would like to finish it.”

  “I do not lend books which will never be returned.”

  “I am a fast reader, Mr. Slane. I will return it before I leave

  He tilted his head, his eyes narrowing. “That’s Gulliver’s Travels. No one reads Jonathan Swift quickly.”

  “I’ve read seven chapters while waiting for you.”

  He crossed his arms, the notebook beneath them. “Actually read? While waiting here?”

  “Well, I read A Modest Proposal first, but yes.”

  “You understand that Gulliver’s Travels is not a children’s tale?”

  “Hardly. He is very clever in how he criticizes society’s ills, all without saying so openly.” She lowered the book. “Perhaps that is a lesson you should take from the story yourself, Mr. Slane.”

  The man’s jaw worked.

  Adele gave him her best smile. “I meant no offense, Mr. Slane. I like books. All books. I came to them rather late in life, you see.”

  His gaze clashed with hers. “You like books,” he repeated heavily.

  “Yes, I do.”

  He moved to the door. “Come with me.”

  “Where are you taking me.”

  “You’ll see.”

  ADELE PAUSED JUST INSIDE THE door, her breath escaping her in a rush, as she lifted her chin to take in the grand room. The roof was enormously high and rounded over to form an arch than ran the length of the room, which was very long. On either side of the central hall were galleries running the length of it. All of it was made of mellow, gleaming polished wood. Beneath the galleries, and also on them, were bays of shelving containing…