Murder Most Fair

by Anna Lee Huber

  I wondered if he knew. If he was aware of the motivations behind his election to the parish council and the way we all thought of him. Recalling his kind smile and the enthusiasm he’d exhibited when talking about his plans to entice more holidaymakers, I suspected not. But then, maybe he was just good at hiding it. After all, he’d been met with the same looks and comments all his life.

  Either way, I vowed to stop looking at Isaac as such a pitiful figure. He might have been dealt a bad hand, but he’d done his best with it. That was something to be admired.

  Violet and I enjoyed chatting for another hour until her father returned home, then she happily gave me a lift back to Brock House in his motorcar. She lifted her hand in a jaunty wave as she drove back down the drive. Tabitha came to greet me as I entered the courtyard, and I leaned down to scratch behind her ears before prodding her toward the house. I could see through the window above the entry that a lamp was lit in our bedchamber, and I wondered how Sidney had entertained himself that afternoon. I was headed toward the stairs to find out, when my mother called out to me from the drawing room.

  Stumbling to a stop, I took a calming breath before retracing my steps. “Yes, Mother?” I queried as I continued to remove my gloves, braced for another lecture.

  Perched on the sofa near the hearth, she removed a pair of gold-rimmed spectacles from her eyes and lifted the letter she’d been reading. “Grace will be returning from Everleigh Court on Friday. She’ll be arriving on the 4:15 train. I want you to collect her from the station.”

  It took me a moment longer than it should have to respond because my attention was still focused on the fact that my mother had been wearing eyeglasses after years of insisting she didn’t need them. When had that changed?

  It was a sharp and unexpected reminder of all that I’d missed in the last five years. Like Grace growing up. She was no longer eleven, but sixteen—a young lady traveling home from finishing school.

  My mother’s eyebrows arched, recalling me to the fact that she was still awaiting my response.

  “All right,” I finally stammered past the confusing swirl of emotions in my chest. For the first time, I found myself wondering if I’d lost more by staying away than by forcing myself to face Rob’s absence and death.

  “I’ll write to her then to inform her you’ll be there.”

  I nodded and turned to go, ignoring the puzzled furrow of her brow. I knew I was acting strange, but I couldn’t seem to help it. Not when I was struggling to comprehend this new and sudden aching sense of loss.

  As I rounded the landing and began to climb the second flight of stairs on silent feet, I heard low voices above me in the upper foyer near the entry to the servants’ stairs. I couldn’t make out what they were saying, but their sharp whispers indicated it wasn’t precisely a pleasant conversation. I craned my neck to see beyond the banister as my head grew level with the floor to discover Matilda standing over Bauer, pointing a finger in her face. However, contrary to what I’d expected, the girl did not cower, but glared fiercely back at the older maid, her hands clenched into fists by her side. So Tante Ilse’s little maid had more spunk in her than I’d realized. Good for her.

  “You mind your own matters,” Bauer retorted. “You know nothing.”

  “Oh, I know plenty. You think . . .” Matilda broke off at the sight of me, her narrowed eyes tightening further. “Just know that I see plenty,” she snapped before turning to disappear.

  Bauer’s gaze met my own, her features tight with residual anger. Before I could speak, she hurried away, a silver gown draped over her arm, undoubtedly for Tante Ilse. Clearly she didn’t wish to be reassured again, but perhaps it was time I had a discussion with Matilda.

  I opened the door to our bedchamber to find Sidney buttoning a crisp white shirt over his chest. Through the remaining gap I could see the dark whirls of his chest hair. The hair on his head was still damp, its unruly waves tamed, and I could smell the bay rum of his aftershave.

  Seeing him thus, in his bare feet with his shirt untucked, I was struck again by how intolerably handsome he was. Dropping my hat, gloves, and reticule on the bed, I crossed to him, arching up on my toes to kiss his lips.

  “And just what have you been up to?” I teased, trailing a finger along his freshly shaven jaw.

  “Freddy and I went for a hard gallop, and then spent an hour or so playing billiards.”

  “Hence the bath.” I tucked a stray hair back in place. “That’s nice,” I ruminated, and meant it. After all, he and Freddy had been close friends long before we began courting and then married. Yet they hadn’t spent much time together since the war broke out.

  Sidney’s lips quirked upward at one corner. “Just how many gin rickeys did you have this afternoon with Miss Capshaw?” he asked, having known of my plans to pay a call on her after my mother was finished with me.

  “Not enough to be considered incapacitated.” After all, I could still walk a straight line and my words weren’t slurred. “But probably one more than I should have,” I conceded. I smoothed my hands down the fine lawn of his shirt where it stretched over his broad chest. “Why? Are my cheeks flushed?” A curse of my auburn tresses.

  “A little. But you’re definitely more . . . pliant.”

  “Hmm,” I hummed in reply, studying his full lips. “Speaking of pliant, my mother asked me to collect my sister from the train station Friday afternoon.”

  “Then since we’ll be headed in that direction anyway, shall we make plans to visit that chap in Kendal earlier that day? The one Xavier tracked down for us?” The man who might hold answers about the bomb that had killed Brigadier General Bishop and most of his staff.

  “Yes, let’s,” I replied, my mood sobering. I sank down on the edge of the bed with a sigh. “Though I’m still not sure what, if anything, he can tell us.”

  “It’s worth asking.”

  “Of course.”

  I tipped over sideways, resting my head on my pillow, suddenly conscious of how tired I was. I hadn’t slept well since our arrival, my mind too conscious of what, or rather who was missing to slumber deeply. I might be sleeping in my childhood bedchamber, but everything felt different. I was different. And somewhere inside me I was still struggling to reconcile all of that.

  I slid my hand under the pillow to grasp it, only to encounter something. I stilled and then pushed myself upright.

  “What is it?” Sidney asked, noting my odd behavior.

  I pulled a folded piece of paper from beneath the pillow and lifted my gaze to meet his. I could tell from his expression that he hadn’t placed it there. A sinking feeling began in my stomach. Slowly opening it, I read the single line of stark text.

  I know what you did.

  My insides turned cold and I blinked, as if that might change the words. Sidney reached for the paper, and I allowed him to take it from my numb fingers while I turned the sentence over and over in my mind.

  Given our conversation in the billiards room the previous day, my first thought was naturally of the second deserter and Ardmore. But how could he have entered the house and found his way to our bedroom without being seen? There were six people in residence in the main house, and over a dozen servants coming and going throughout the day.

  Sidney lowered the paper, searching my face. “It must have been placed here while I was out riding.”

  “That makes sense.” For then they would have faced the smallest chance of being caught. “But they still took a helluva risk sneaking into the house.”

  “You’re thinking of the deserter?”

  “How can I not?”

  He nodded, looking at the paper once more. “Perhaps he had an accomplice.”

  I considered his words carefully. “Yes, that makes sense. A servant would have an excuse to be in and out of chambers. Particularly a maid.” I frowned, my suspicions immediately shifting to Matilda. I could well imagine her taking delight in seeing me accused of some wrongdoing.

  But her loyalty was to
my mother first and foremost, and I struggled to see her playing the part of accomplice to such a scheme. She would be more likely to take the note directly to Mother, along with whatever information the sender had conveyed to her.

  I shook my head, feeling anger rise within me. I snatched the note back from him, staring down at the words again. “What is this supposed to mean anyway? ‘I know what you did’?”

  “It is rather vague.”

  “It’s extremely vague. That could mean a hundred different things.” I turned the white paper over. “And there’s no other markings, no clue as to what they actually mean. And no direct threat.” Only the implied one.

  Sidney crossed his arms over his chest. “You think it’s bogus?”

  “I think taken alone it’s fishy.” I tossed the paper aside. “And why would you go to the risk of sneaking such a vague note into the house when you could get your entire message across, in a more thoroughly threatening manner, in a single letter.”

  “To keep you on edge.”

  My gaze lifted to his. “Maybe,” I conceded. “But I still say it’s all rather slapdash.”

  He sank down beside me on the bed. “Then I suppose there’s nothing for it but to wait and see.” Whether more notes appeared. Whether they took that risk.

  I nodded, still puzzling over it, trying to understand their motivations.

  “Hey!” He nudged his shoulder into mine. “Don’t fret over it. If this is a ploy by Ardmore, that’s exactly what he wants you to do.”

  “You’re right. I refuse to let this trouble me,” I stated firmly, though whether I could actually hold fast to that declaration remained to be seen. “What were we talking about before?”

  “My bathing, and your pliancy.” His midnight-blue eyes twinkled with roguish intent as he leaned toward me. All the better to distract me, I supposed.

  “Right.” My gaze fell to his lips again. “How long is it until dinner?”

  “Long enough.”

  CHAPTER 16

  Four days later, we arrived on the outskirts of Kendal shortly before midday. The journey had taken longer than expected due to the driving rain and gusty winds. It was a thoroughly dreich day, as the Scot who had been assigned to the desk next to mine at the Secret Service offices in Whitehall Court would say—wet, dismal, and dreary. I huddled inside my warm Donegal tweed coat and matching forest-green Torin-style side cap wondering if I might have been better off wearing my dowdy mackintosh.

  As I shifted position for perhaps the fourth time in the last five minutes, Sidney’s concentration darted from the road beyond the rain-splattered windscreen to me. “Nervous?” he asked, before taking another drag from his Turkish cigarette.

  “Yes.” I still didn’t know precisely what I was going to say to this man we were meeting.

  He stubbed out his fag and then reached over to touch my knee. “He must be a decent enough chap. Helped you out of that rubble, and stayed with you until after the shells stopped falling, and they could get you sent off to the hospital, didn’t he?”

  “He did. But remember he thought I was just a French refugee. What’s he going to say when he realizes that’s not the truth?”

  “He’ll probably be surprised, but I’ll be right beside you. My war-hero status should count for something,” he muttered wryly. “Is this the turn?”

  Having skirted around the base of the hill on which perched the ruins of Kendal Castle, its crumbling walls barely visible in the gloom, I could see we were now approaching the River Kent. “It should be.”

  We’d learned that Sergeant George Williams had worked as an auctioneer clerk before the war in a handsome whitewashed brick building east of the river. Though we were able to locate the address swiftly enough, I had misgivings we would find Williams inside, but hoped the staff might be able to tell us where we could track him down.

  Sidney parked along the curb a stone’s throw from the entrance, and held an umbrella over our heads as we dashed toward the door. Little good it did with the wind gusting the rain into our faces. He fumbled with the closure by the door while I attempted to brush the worst of the water from my clothes and repair my appearance. As such, I was the first to get a look at the man in a gray suit who strode through the door leading deeper into the office.

  Even though I had only seen Sergeant Williams covered in sweat and grime, a helmet crammed down on his head, I recognized him immediately. And when he spoke, it removed any lingering doubt.

  “Terrible weather we’re having,” he remarked in his mild Lancashire accent. “Not fit for . . .” He stumbled to a stop as his words dried up. His eyes scoured my features, clearly recognizing me, but unable to recall why.

  It was those eyes that so identified him. Not that they were particularly distinctive, being naught but a muddy shade of brown. But because they had looked so directly into my own as he’d screamed into my face, trying to get me to move from the spot where I’d been thrown from the explosion after he and his men had dug me out of the debris. My ears had still been ringing, and I’d been unable to hear what he’d said. And later, when we’d cowered in the makeshift trench nearby, our eyes locked with each other’s and his hand clutching mine, while shells continued to fall all around us.

  I watched his face now, bracing for the moment he realized who I was. It didn’t come to him straightaway. I supposed I’d been beaten up pretty badly the last time he’d seen me—covered in blood and dirt, my cheek swollen from a blow. In fact, he appeared to recognize Sidney first when he approached to stand beside me, from the photographs in the newspaper. Consequently, perhaps he also recognized me in that capacity first. But I could see his mind was still searching for the other context in which he knew me as he extended his hand to my husband.

  “Mr. Kent, a pleasure to meet you. How may I help you?”

  “Sergeant Williams, I presume?”

  If he was surprised we knew his name, he didn’t show it.

  “Lately with the Lancashire Fusiliers.”

  This made him straighten up and take more notice.

  “It’s my wife who needs your help, actually.”

  His eyes darted to me again, confusion shimmering in their depths.

  “Perhaps if you imagine me a little . . . ,” I began, only to break off as his eyes flared wide in shock.

  “You . . . ,” he gasped, stumbling back a step as his gaze flicked up and down over my appearance before homing in on my face once again. “You survived, then?”

  “Yes,” I replied. “In part, thanks to you.”

  Though my injuries had not been severe, they might have been much worse had he and his men not unearthed me from that rubble. Or had he not propelled me toward that makeshift trench. I hadn’t had the presence of mind to note which pile of debris I’d been buried under, but when the shelling ended and we’d emerged from the ditch, I could see that the shells had destroyed large swathes of the surrounding area.

  He blinked several times, his thoughts plainly struggling to catch up to the revelation of who I was. “But how . . . ? What . . . ? Why were you there?”

  I looked to Sidney for guidance, waiting on him to exert that war-hero status he’d alluded to.

  “Is there a place we can discuss this in private?” he asked.

  Williams appeared at first as if he would like to argue, but then he glanced behind him before shutting the door through which he’d entered. He gestured toward the desk to his left. “Miss Lacey is currently out, so I’m afraid I must monitor the door and telephone. But there are no scheduled appointments, so we shouldn’t be disturbed. Not on a day like this.”

  The auctioneer’s reception area was nicely appointed, if spare, with shelves filled with brochures and a number of ficus plants. Two comfortable leather chairs sat before a broad desk, with a row of file cabinets lining the walls behind, and a smaller escritoire situated in the corner bearing a typewriter concealed by a dark dust cover.

  “I know you must have a number of questions,” I began as w
e took our seats. “But unfortunately, I can’t answer most of them.”

  His mouth pinched.

  I glanced at Sidney. “However, I hope the fact that you are aware of who my husband is, that the strength of his reputation will in some part vouch for me.”

  His gaze bounced back and forth between us, seeming to weigh and assess us. That he held at least some measure of respect for my husband was obvious from the glint in his eyes. I could only presume he’d read all about Sidney’s dashing exploits during the end of the war, and how he’d captured and exposed a ring of traitors. The details had been splashed all over the newspapers when the story broke in June and just a month earlier when he’d received his Victoria Cross. Though Williams hadn’t seemed to have connected the wife on Sidney’s arm in those photographs with the woman he’d helped outside Bailleul, France, before now.

  He grudgingly conceded with a heavy sigh, “I suppose I can safely assume you weren’t actually a French refugee.”

  Though this wasn’t phrased as a question, he still seemed to expect an answer, but I couldn’t give him one, not so openly. After a moment he seemed to realize this. He turned his head to the side, swiping a hand over his mouth as he surveyed the deserted street outside the rain-lashed window. Nonetheless, I suspected his thoughts were really on a muddy road outside Bailleul in April 1918.

  “Why are you here, then?” he asked as he turned back to face me somewhat warily.

  “You were questioned after the incident?” I verified, trusting he knew what I was talking about without having to spell it out for him.

  “Yes, though I never heard if the matter was ever resolved.”

  “It wasn’t. Due to conflicting information and lack of evidence.”

  What there might have been had been destroyed or compromised by the shells that had fallen, and then the brief infiltration of the Germans into the area before the Allies had pushed them back for what proved to be the final time, and the prelude to the end of the war.