Sam and Max shared a pained look.
This time Sam was the first one to find his voice. “He was part of the raiding party who went out into No Man’s Land with my brother. And one of the men who reported back that Ben had been killed.”
* * *
We were all silent during our bicycle ride back to the castle, and made certain the hound followed us. For my part, I had no desire to share my morose ponderings, or the fact that I couldn’t help but wonder if Sam had played a part in Jimmy’s death. I already knew from overhearing Jimmy’s heated conversation with Walter that Sam’s presence here had upset him. Was it because he’d felt guilty about how Sam’s brother had died during that trench raid? If so, I could hardly lay any blame at Sam’s door.
Unless Sam had prodded him over the edge.
Though his shock at seeing them had appeared genuine, he seemed the likeliest person to have sent that Field Service Postcard and piece of burnt cork to Jimmy. But why? Had he suspected Jimmy of foul play? Is that what the card meant when it said Ben had been stabbed in the back?
I frowned in frustration. I couldn’t possibly know what had really happened during that trench raid.
My gaze slid toward the man pedaling beside me. But Max might know.
If he had been these men’s commanding officer at the time, or even if he’d already been promoted on to HQ, he might have heard something about the incident. From the manner in which he’d behaved inside that pottery, I suspected he wasn’t taking Jimmy’s apparent suicide at face value either. Perhaps he would be progressive enough to share his thoughts with me.
Having taken the most direct route down the main road that sliced through the center of the island, we reached the castle faster than I’d anticipated. However, more than an hour had still passed since we’d set out from the house. The morning was well advanced, and a number of people were seated outside under the shade of the terrace sipping coffee and nursing cigarettes. We hadn’t discussed how the situation should be handled, but we all seemed to be in silent agreement that Walter should be told first, so that a telephone call could be placed to the proper authorities on the mainland. So when Helen reached a hand up to shade her eyes to observe us as we crossed the lawn toward the terrace steps, we all pasted on fake smiles.
“Now where have the four of you been at such an ungodly hour?” she demanded to know, her eyes smiling as if at a jest.
“Just out for a bicycle tour of the island,” Mabel replied, patting her arm as we passed.
Helen’s eyes dipped to examine each of us in our dusty attire. “How industrious of you.”
“Yes, well, I’m certain I positively reek for my trouble. I simply must go change before I rejoin you, darling,” Mabel declared, pulling her blouse away from her neck to waft air down it.
She waved us off. “Of course.”
The four of us trailed into the house, moving toward the breakfast room, where we thought to find Walter. However, we intercepted him only just coming down the stairs. His slow, methodical plod and the rap of his cane were immediately identifiable.
“Hullo, there,” he greeted us. “Chumley told me you’d taken some of the bicycles out. Did you enjoy your ride?”
“Walter, we need to speak with you,” Max told him. “Privately.”
The seriousness of his tone and the somber expressions on each of our faces must have communicated our earnestness, for Walter’s good cheer vanished. “Of course. How about my study?”
We followed him into a room not far from the main foyer. Unlike the rest of the castle, this room had not seen any recent refurbishments. Faded Chinese silk wallpaper hung on the walls next to heavy Victorian drapes and overlarge pieces of oak furniture. The air smelled strongly of old cigar smoke and worn leather. It didn’t take much deductive skill to recognize that was because this room was Walter’s domain, and so Helen had not been allowed to put her stamp on it. Yet. But I had little faith in his ability to keep her from making changes here once she was finished elsewhere.
Mabel and I settled into the two shabby, but comfortable chairs across from Walter’s desk while Max fetched a pair of wooden ladder-back chairs from the corner. Sam ignored his proffered chair in favor of leaning against the sideboard, where he poured himself a generous drink and then downed it.
Walter eyed him warily. “Now, what’s this all about?”
“Walter, you should have a seat,” Max suggested, taking the lead of the conversation.
I was content to let him do so, for it allowed me to focus on Walter’s reaction, as well as the fidgeting of the others. Our host appeared sincerely stunned by the news of Jimmy’s death. With each detail, he seemed to sink deeper into the chair behind his desk, as if the weight of our news was too heavy for him to remain upright. But when Max showed him the Field Service Postcard and the piece of burnt cork we’d found in Jimmy’s pocket, he abruptly straightened and his expression turned stony.
“But this makes little sense,” he remarked, almost woodenly. His eyes flicked toward Sam. “Your brother was killed by enemy fire. Taken out by a sniper when he was caught under the flare of the very lights the Germans sent up. I was there when the raiding party returned to the trenches. I remember how shaken up several of the men were. We had to give them an extra ration of rum.”
“How many men did they lose?” I asked in sympathy.
“Well . . . er . . . just the one,” Walter stammered. “Lieutenant Gerard. But they were pinned down by sniper fire for some time. I gathered it was quite a hellish ordeal. It’s a miracle that more of the men weren’t hit.”
“What’s to be done about Jimmy, then?” Sam interjected, undoubtedly not wanting to hear any more about the night his brother had died. I supposed he’d heard all the particulars before.
Walter glanced almost regretfully toward the telephone sitting on a table in the corner. “Well, I suppose we must contact the authorities. And I’ll dispatch some servants down to the old pottery to handle the body.” His gaze turned to me and Mabel. “I must ask. Have you told anyone else about this yet?”
Mabel and I shared a look of mutual feminine annoyance that he should assume we would be the ones to blab about our gruesome discovery.
“No, we haven’t,” she replied flatly.
Walter regarded each of us anxiously. “Then may I ask that you all keep this matter quiet for the time being?”
I frowned, having difficulty accepting the insensitivity of his request. And from the silence of the others, I suspected they felt the same.
“You think me callous.” Our host grimaced. “And perhaps you’re correct. But Helen has so been looking forward to hosting this party. It’s her first as mistress here. I don’t want Jimmy’s suicide, sad though it may be, to overshadow the festivities.” When still no one replied, Walter’s brow furrowed as he reached out and began to roll a fountain pen back and forth over the blotter on his desk. “I mean, it’s not as if this is any great shock to those of us who knew him. It was only a matter of time before he tried again.”
That might have been true, but I couldn’t help but feel uneasy. Another attempt might have been imminent, but why on earth had he chosen to end it all at a house party? Even if that postcard and cork had prompted him to do it—prodding at a secret or a failing he just couldn’t live with—why not wait until he had returned home? Had it truly been so unbearable?
Or had he been afraid that at home no one would find him? That no one would even notice he was gone?
I realized I knew almost nothing about what Jimmy’s life had been like, whether he’d lived alone or with some sort of family. Perhaps there had been nothing and no one to fill his days. Nothing but the bitterness I had sensed festering in him. Though, in truth, if he’d been determined to kill himself at this house party, I would have expected him to do it in a more conspicuous place. One final effort to make us all feel guilty for our determined frivolity. But that’s not what he’d done. Instead, he’d taken himself to a remote part of the island, w
here none of us might have thought to look, before ending it all.
We all reluctantly agreed to keep Jimmy’s death a secret, though my reasoning for doing so did not align with Walter’s. I was far more interested in seeing how the others behaved now that he was gone, and whether any of them would display a guilty conscience.
I was contemplating this as we departed Walter’s study to return to our rooms to change when Chumley, the butler, approached me.
“Miss Kent,” he inquired. “This arrived for you in the post.”
I stared down at the pale white letter resting on the silver tray he held out toward me, feeling a sense of dread overtake me. I knew it was too much to hope that my friend Daphne had written to pester me about her errand a second time, and I could think of no one else who would post a message to me here. Which meant it was probably from my mysterious correspondent.
Swallowing my trepidation, I forced myself to take the letter from the tray. “Thank you.”
My voice and movements were stiff and tense, but I couldn’t seem to disguise them as I should. Looking up, I found Max observing me. But before he could comment, I hurried away, scurrying up the staircase to my assigned chamber.
Once the door was safely shut behind me, only then did I dare to tear open the envelope and extract the simple typewritten card.
Trust no one.
CHAPTER 9
The day being so sunny and warm, Helen declared we should all go out on Walter’s yacht for a picnic and a dip in the sea. So we set out across the harbor and around the headland out into the English Channel, sailing along the coast to some sheltered cove that our hostess assured us was absolutely charming.
Having eaten little for breakfast and taken that long bicycle tour of the island, I soon followed my stomach’s rumblings inside to the galley, where the food had been laid out for us to serve ourselves whenever we wished. But rather than fill a plate and rejoin the others above deck, I elected to stand at the table, popping crudités into my mouth and enjoying a moment of solitude.
Anger had always made me hungry. There was nothing like a righteous fury to send me straight to the pantry to devour everything in sight. And I was definitely irate now. If my mystery correspondent had stood before me at the moment, I would have given him a piece of my mind, and thrown in a few curse words for good measure. Words so foul, Sidney had never even heard me use them.
How dare he . . . whoever he was! He’d dragged me to this party on the pretense he had information to share with me in person, in private, and then instead proceeded to leave me obscure little notes and a coded missive I was supposed to decipher. He expected me to trust his word, and yet he refused to reveal himself.
I was fed up with this little game! “And so it begins.” “Trust no one.” What on earth did any of that even mean? Was he worried I would confide in someone else and ruin his amusement?!
I shoved another Canapés à l’Amiral in my mouth, chewing while I stewed.
For a brief moment, I’d considered pleading a thick head and remaining behind. The prospect of affecting a carefree attitude after everything that had happened this morning—after receiving that blasted note—had simply seemed too daunting. I also wanted to search the house for any typewriters that might possibly have been used to compose these messages, but even had I found one, there were no distinguishing marks on the cards or in the type to tell me whether it had been the one used. Plus, there was no telling how long the yacht would be gone, and I would miss a prime opportunity to chat with and observe the other guests, and perhaps find out once and for all who was tormenting me and why.
So I’d reluctantly joined the party aboard the boat, hoping to regain my good humor. But everyone’s false cheer only irritated me further. That one may smile, and smile, and be a villain. Only Charlie seemed at all troubled, and that was out of concern for Jimmy’s absence. We’d been forced to lie and tell everyone he was feeling ill. Seeing the worry in Charlie’s eyes, I’d felt rotten for not telling him the truth, little comfort though that might have given him.
I had just selected another vol-au-vent, this one filled with savory chicken, when Walter strolled into the galley. His limp seemed less pronounced, but that might have been because of the morphia I suspected he had dosed himself with since our revelation in his study. His pupils were dilated and the brackets of pain around his mouth had all but disappeared.
“Ah, Verity,” he proclaimed. “Enjoying our cook’s delicacies, I see.”
“Yes, they’re quite good,” I remarked, taking another bite.
Walter sank down on one of the benches. “Yes, he’s a Frenchman. And you know how serious they are about their food.”
I smiled tightly, dropping my gaze to examine the rest of the selections. I’d expected Walter to demur his wife’s suggestion that we take the yacht out, but apparently he wasn’t concerned about keeping the authorities waiting when they came to retrieve Jimmy’s body. They were certain to have questions for us, or at least for the men. In my experience, they tended to think females needed to be shielded from such sordid matters as much as possible.
“That reminds me,” Walter suddenly declared. “I do believe I owe you an apology.”
My ears perked up, and I found myself holding my breath, wondering if my mystery correspondent was about to reveal himself. “Oh?”
He grimaced sheepishly. “Yes, I was quite indiscreet about your wartime service at dinner last night, wasn’t I?”
I exhaled in disappointment and then rallied myself, anxious to hear more. “Yes, I wondered about that.” I frowned, trying to deduce how much he knew without revealing more. “How did you know?”
He reached out to pick up one of the little tea sandwiches. “Sidney let it slip one evening while we were both deep in our cups.”
“Sidney told you?” I repeated, trying to come to terms with this revelation.
Walter nodded, chewing a bite of his sandwich. “But I’m sure”—he swallowed—“he regretted it as soon as he did. Told me to keep it close to the vest, and all that.”
I watched as he took another bite of his food, sorting through the implications, wondering how Sidney had known . . . whatever he had known. Had I slipped up? Had I inadvertently given myself away? I couldn’t recall ever doing or saying anything that would reveal the true nature of my wartime work. I’d been so careful. But then, this was Sidney. He’d had the rather potent ability to make me forget myself at times.
So perhaps I had betrayed myself. But when? How long had Sidney known?
“Do you remember when this was that he told you?” I remarked as casually as I could manage while reaching out to select a warm grape.
But something in my voice must have given me away, for Walter glanced up from his absorption with the spread of food before him. His eyes softened with understanding. “You never told him, did you?”
I considered denying it, but it seemed silly to do so when it seemed he already knew. So I shook my head.
He reached across the table to pat my hand. “I wouldn’t let it trouble you, Ver. Sidney could flush out anything. That’s why the men all called him ‘the ferret.’ They quickly learned they couldn’t gas Ole Captain Kent. Chances were he already knew the truth.” His eyes turned to the side, as if seeing something I couldn’t see. “Nothing got past him,” he murmured almost to himself.
“And yet he couldn’t see ahead to know that his company would be separated from the rest of the battalion on the Somme,” I risked mentioning, curious whether Walter could tell me more about that day.
His gaze lifted to meet mine, but I wasn’t sure he was actually seeing me. “Yes, well, that wasn’t his fault. No one expected him to be a soothsayer. Though, he seemed to think so.”
“What of the others? Maybe there were some who blamed him.”
“No, no,” Walter muttered forcefully, shaking his head. “None of the men blamed him. We all knew he’d done what he could to relieve us.”
But as adamant as he insisted
this was true, I wasn’t so sure. And I didn’t think he was as certain as he wished me to believe either. I was Sidney’s widow after all. He wasn’t likely to tell me the truth, especially if it wasn’t complimentary.
Tom chose that rather inopportune moment to enter the galley, preventing me from asking Walter about the odd guest list. His strident voice told me he’d already indulged in a number of cocktails above deck. “There you two are. Keeping all the food to yourselves?” He draped an arm lazily around my shoulders and scooped up a pair of Lobster Rissoles with his other hand before popping them one by one into his mouth.
Max followed more sedately, his gaze immediately searching mine out. From the hesitancy of his movements I suspected he’d guessed their interruption wasn’t exactly welcome.
“We’re about to drop anchor,” Tom told us around his mouthful of food. “And Helen wants us all to go for a swim.”
I arched one eyebrow. “Even Nellie?”
“Well, no.” He smirked. “As usual, she’s refusing.” A mischievous glimmer entered his eyes. “But you might be able to convince her. After all, you were the one who coaxed her into climbing Hardraw Scar.”
I crossed my arms over my chest and swiveled to stare at him in incredulity. “Where she got stuck and had to be carried down on Rob’s back? She complained for weeks that I had been trying to kill her.”
“Yes, well, she still listened.” He studied the spread of food, carefully selecting another canapé. “Never liked to be shown up by you.”
That wasn’t how I remembered it, but I didn’t debate the issue. Instead, I joined the others up on deck, doing my best to help cajole Nellie into joining us, though I knew she would decline, if for no other reason than just to be contrary.
Walter’s crew had sailed us into a sun-drenched cove surrounded by tall white cliffs. The water there lapped gently against the rock face, where it had worn away at the smooth surface for centuries, if not millennia. A short distance out to sea stood a pillar of the same white stone, which at some point had broken away from the rest of the coastline. The men promptly made it a challenge to swim out to it and back. Even Walter and Tom struck out at first, but they pulled up short a few hundred yards out, perhaps recognizing their wounded legs might not withstand the strain of going so far.
This Side of Murder Page 10
