“No luck?”
He turned to face me, pushing his fingers through his damp hair. “Not a dashed bit. The storm appears to have knocked out all of the connections.”
A sharp gust of rain whipped against the house as if to assert its power.
I frowned at the window. “And it would be nothing short of suicide to attempt to take a boat out in this wind.”
“Agreed.” His expression was grim. “Which means we shall have no outside help until the morning or this bloody storm abates, whichever comes first.”
My chest tightened in apprehension, but I forced a breath past it, unwilling to give in to my fears no matter how much I disliked being effectively trapped on this island.
“Verity, dear, do not tell me you mean to attempt to leave in this weather. I’m sure the ladies are sorry . . .” Walter’s words faltered as he drew up short at the sight of me and Max dripping all over his rug. His eyebrows lifted in astonishment as he glanced between us, trying to make sense of the sight before him.
It was Sam who managed to voice the question he must be thinking. “What’s happened?” he gasped, staring at us over Walter’s shoulder.
“Maybe we should all sit down,” Max suggested as Felix and Tom also crowded into the room, though perhaps “staggered” would have been a better word.
Both men had clearly consumed large quantities of liquor, for they could barely remain upright. Neither of them would be the least bit helpful, and I wanted nothing so much but to order them to go to bed. But I also knew that neither would be budged until they were told what all the excitement was about.
“Have the ladies retired?” I asked, as the men arranged themselves about the room, leaving the chair nearest to the fire for me.
“Yes.” Walter’s face was pale, but whether that was because he knew what was coming or only suspected, I didn’t know.
I watched him and the others closely as Max leaned back against the table that held the telephone, and delivered our news.
“Charlie is dead.”
Sam’s reaction was hardly notable, as his eyes merely widened in what appeared to be genuine shock. But the others’ proved more interesting. Walter flinched as if someone had jabbed him with the fireplace poker, draining the last vestiges of color from his face. For a moment, I thought he might faint. Felix, on the other hand, seemed more disgruntled than surprised. His brow lowered in a ferocious scowl that he turned on Tom as my childhood friend began to guffaw.
“Dead? You must be joking,” Tom wheezed between chortles.
“I’m afraid we’re quite serious,” Max replied, his voice tight with disapproval.
“But how would such a thing—”
“Was it another suicide?” Walter interrupted.
Max met his incredulous gaze, answering him with certainty. “No.”
Tom’s laughter abruptly stopped as he seemed to choke on it.
“Wait.” Felix sat forward. “Another suicide?!”
Max’s fingers tapped against the edge of the table beneath him as he turned to address Tom and Felix. “Jimmy was found earlier this morning. It appeared he had hung himself.” His gaze shifted to Walter. “Now we’re not so sure.”
Walter recoiled under the force of Max’s stare, but any words he might have wished to say were drowned out by the angry protests of Felix and Tom, who were both affronted they hadn’t been told.
“It was decided . . .” Max raised his voice even louder to be heard over the tumult. “IT WAS DECIDED that it would be best not to alarm the remainder of the guests with such dismal news. At least, not until the authorities had a chance to investigate.” He tipped his head at Walter. “What did they have to say about it?”
He shifted uncomfortably in his seat and glowered at his desk blotter. “Oh, er . . . well. Said it appeared rather open-and-shut.”
“Well, they may change their minds once we inform them of Charlie’s murder.”
“How did he die?” Sam ventured to ask.
Max paused, as if not wanting to say the words. “Shot through the chest. Looked to be close range.”
The men seemed to absorb this information with varying degrees of acceptance. Their having all served in the war, I supposed none of them was greatly impacted by the idea of someone being killed by a bullet. There were certainly worse ways to go, and they had witnessed them. Which only made reading their reactions all the more difficult.
“Shall I telephone the police then?” Walter asked, starting to rise from his chair.
Max shook his head. “Already tried. The connections are down. Because of the storm, I suspect.” He glanced over his shoulder at the telephone perched on the table behind him. “I tried to place a call earlier, and the lines were already dead. That’s why your butler suggested I try the one at the church, that it might still be operational.” He nodded his head in the direction of the center of the island. “That’s how we stumbled across Charlie. Dead in the middle of the nave.” His eyes flicked toward me. “If we hadn’t gone to try the telephone there, he wouldn’t have been found until tomorrow.”
“Then the matter will have to wait until the morning,” Walter said. His eyes gleamed with resolve. “And if the telephone connections are still not working, then we’ll fetch the police from the mainland ourselves in one of the boats.”
“It’s lucky you haven’t converted the entire castle to electricity yet, or we might be without lights as well,” Max remarked, his gaze narrowing on the steadily burning gas lamp on the desk.
“Yes, well, that’s part of the renovation plans, but costs a pretty penny, even with the cables already having been run for the telephones.”
“What of the ladies?” I murmured, speaking up for the first time. “Shouldn’t they be informed? After all . . .” I hesitated to say the words we were all thinking but must be said. “Someone is murdering our fellow guests. And it stands to reason, it could be one of us.” The others glanced at each other suspiciously as I persisted. “Don’t we want them to be on guard?”
Walter was the first to protest. “I . . . I don’t think that’s a good idea. And not just to spare Helen’s feelings,” he hastened to add.
“I don’t either,” Tom added in a dull voice, lifting his head from his hands. Our news seemed to have had the effect of a cold dunking, breaking through the jovial haze of his drunkenness. “If Nellie knew . . .” He sank his head back in his hands, as if unable to finish the thought.
Walter looked to Sam. “Mabel might be able to handle it. She was a nurse, after all. And heaven knows, she undoubtedly saw far worse things in the field hospital. But the other ladies would dissolve into hysterics.”
I frowned, thinking they gave the women far less credit than they deserved. Yes, I suspected Nellie would cause a scene, but only because she wanted the attention, not because she couldn’t handle the news. We had all lost loved ones in the war. We had all learned to bury our grief—admittedly some more than others—and carry on the best we could. The soldiers weren’t the only ones who’d suffered through the war. We all carried burdens and scars of some kind.
But their minds appeared to be made up, so I stewed in silence, deciding that if the situation became critical I would ignore their ridiculous sensibilities on the matter. I was certain Mabel would agree with me.
However, as annoying as their insistence on treating the other women with kid leather gloves was, that wasn’t the only thing that disturbed me. I couldn’t help but note they seemed to prefer to ignore the fact that one of us could be the killer. That, in fact, it was more than likely someone in this very room.
I’d swept their appearances when they entered the room, and I did so again now, but I could not tell whether any of them had been out in the pouring rain earlier. Of course, some time had passed since the murder must have taken place. They could have easily snuck back into the castle, changed clothes, dried their hair, and rejoined the others.
But maybe someone’s absence had been noted. Maybe there was a way
to trace everyone’s movements through the house after I’d stormed out of the parlor.
My gaze met Sam’s across the expanse of Walter’s desk, and he nodded almost imperceptibly, seeming to know without my saying a word what I was asking. Of the four men who had remained behind in the castle when Max and I ventured out, he was the one I most trusted to be able to give us straight responses.
So when we dispersed from Walter’s study, all casting wary glances at one another, I gravitated to Sam’s side. Max followed us wordlessly as we meandered toward the base of the right staircase, waiting for Felix and Tom to disappear out of hearing range. Walter had remained behind his desk, his shoulders slumped and his hands spread wide on the blotter, as if somehow they held answers for him.
“I know what you’re going to ask me,” Sam said in a hushed voice, darting one last glance over his shoulder to be sure we were alone. “But I’m afraid I don’t have any easy answers for you. I didn’t notice anyone acting guilty or even uneasy. They behaved more or less as I expected after that ridiculous bit of table-turning.”
“What of their whereabouts? Was anyone missing for a long period of time?” I asked.
He considered the matter and shook his head in frustration. “I don’t know. Everyone was coming and going. Several of the women retired soon after you left. First Tom’s wife and then a short time later Helen and Mabel. Though Mabel did pop back down after a bit to ask after you. I think she assumed you would be in your room.”
“What of the others?” Max pressed.
He frowned. “They all came and went at different intervals. I . . . I think Felix left before Helen and Mabel. Though Tom also disappeared for a time. And when Mabel pulled me aside, I wasn’t there to note who was coming and going. All I know is that when I returned to the parlor, Felix and Tom were there chatting with Helen’s two friends, but Walter had stepped out.” He huffed in frustration. “I’m sorry. This is no help at all, is it? I think the only people I can safely vouch for are Mabel and Helen’s young friends. None of them was gone long enough to fit the time when you suspect Charlie was murdered.” He paused to search our gazes. “You do think it happened sometime after the séance, correct?”
“I don’t know when else the killer would have had the opportunity,” Max replied. “Verity and I were with Charlie until about a quarter of an hour before dinner, and then we were all essentially together until Verity and I left the parlor.”
Except for Max, I couldn’t help but silently add.
While Sam and I were enduring Helen’s table-turning in order to keep everyone occupied, Max was supposed to be using the telephone. But he had been gone a rather long time. I wasn’t certain it had been long enough that he could have feasibly driven down to the church, murdered Charlie, and rushed back to change his clothes before rejoining us. The timing would have been awfully close, but it might have been just possible.
I glanced sideways up at Max as a cold lump settled in my stomach. I wanted to dismiss the idea as preposterous. If Max was the killer, I would have noticed something odd in his demeanor. Not to mention the fact that he need not have ever mentioned the other telephone at the church or his desire to see if it was working. He could have simply told me the connections to the telephones at the castle were down and left it at that. I would have been none the wiser. Why drag me out into the weather to stumble across Charlie’s body? It made no sense.
“What of their appearance?” Max was quizzing Sam. “Did anyone’s hair look damp? Did you notice if anyone had changed their clothes?”
Sam’s head turned to the side as he thought back on the evening. “Not that I can recall.” He inhaled swiftly. “Wait. Elsie did spill her drink on Tom’s coat at one point.” His face fell. “But he never left the room to change it.”
I smothered a sigh. So we were no nearer to answers than we were before. My gaze strayed toward the tall windows at the front of the foyer looking out on the sea. And from the sound of the wind, the storm was only intensifying.
* * *
Tired and chilled to the bone—both mentally and physically, as I’d yet to change from my wet garments—I hauled myself up the stairs toward my room. Max trailed along beside me, pressing a warm, reassuring hand to my back. Perhaps I shouldn’t have allowed him to escort me to my chamber, but under the circumstances, I was grateful for his steadying presence.
In any case, it turned out I had nothing to be wary of. I should have known Max would never presume anything except that I did not wish to traverse the shadowy corridors alone. At my door, I turned to thank him, but the misery etched in his eyes stopped my words.
Unable to help myself, I reached up to cup his cheek in my hand. The faint stubble that had begun to show at this late hour rasped my skin. “This is not your fault. This is not a battlefield, and you are not failing your men.”
His mouth creased into a humorless smile. “I wish I could believe that.” Then he withdrew my hand gently from his face, squeezing it. “Good night, Verity.”
He backed away a step, still gazing at me before turning to stride down the hall in the direction we had come. I couldn’t help wondering what it was exactly that he wished. That this wasn’t a battlefield, or that he wasn’t failing his men. Perhaps both.
Feeling the weight of the day and my restless sleep the night before, I pushed my door shut behind me and sagged against it. One of the maids had pulled the drapes and turned down the bed, leaving a single lamp on the writing desk burning. It was a welcoming sight after fumbling about in the dark at the church. Reaching up, I unbuttoned my mackintosh and allowed it to fall from my shoulders, grateful to be free of its confines, even though I missed its warmth. Chill air stole over my torso, making me shiver. I began to step away from the door, but then as an afterthought, reached back to turn the key, locking myself in.
Dragging my coat along behind me, I crossed toward the bed. But before I could take more than three steps, a pair of hands seized me from behind, hauling me back against a hard body.
CHAPTER 15
One hand pressed against my mouth, cutting off any chance of my screaming for help, while the other locked across my chest, trapping my arms like a vise. However, my assailant was clearly unaware that I had spent enough time in the Secret Service to know how to break free of such a hold without the use of my upper limbs.
I lifted my foot, bringing my heel crashing down on his instep. As he cursed and his grip slackened just that little bit, I leaned forward and then thrust my head back and upward into his chin. I would have preferred to hit something softer, but he was much too tall.
His hold broke as he cursed roundly. “Dash it, Verity! Are you trying to break my teeth?”
I whirled around and then backed away, staring wide-eyed, unable to accept what I was seeing.
I knew that voice. That face. They had haunted my nights and every waking hour since I’d received that cursed telegram. Since before that. Since he marched off to the front, leaving me to fret and worry over what was happening to him. Wondering whether he was alive and safe and warm and well-fed.
My legs gave out and I fell backward onto my bottom, still clambering, until my back came up against the footboard of the bed.
For a wild moment, I wondered if Helen had been right. Had we let his spirit out? Had he come to haunt me?
But then he lowered his hands from his mouth and moved slowly toward me, and I realized this was no spirit. He was real flesh and blood.
“How . . . You . . .” I stammered, unable to find my words as my husband kneeled before me repeating my name over and over again, like a benediction.
I scoured his face, studying each turn and crevice. The heaviness of his brow, the height of his cheekbones, the fullness of his lips. I lifted a trembling hand to touch his cheek, feeling its warmth, its suppleness.
“You . . . you’re alive?” I finally managed to gasp in bewilderment.
His deep blue eyes smiled down at me tenderly. “Yes.”
“You’re a
live,” I said more assertively, lifting my other hand to feel the coarseness of the dark stubble framing his jaw.
“Yes,” he repeated before leaning in to kiss me.
A swell of emotion rushed through me at the touch of his lips after believing I would never again feel his mouth on mine—caressing, tasting—and I choked on a sob. His scent surrounded me, at once invigorating and familiar, and yet somehow more earthy. I inhaled sharply, light-headed at all the sensations that filled me, and I gave myself over to them, unable to contain them. My body arched forward to touch every fiber of his, needing to know he was truly with me, needing to accept this wasn’t a dream.
“Oh, darling,” he murmured, brushing his thumbs against the tears that spilled down my cheeks. His voice was rougher than I remembered, but still the same tone that strummed across my nerves like a favorite melody.
“Sidney,” I said, pronouncing his name for the first time. “Is this real?”
“Yes, darling.”
That stubborn lock of dark curling hair had fallen over his brow, as it always insisted on doing, though this time it was much longer than usual. All of his hair was longer than usual. The dark brown wavy locks, which he kept trimmed and neatly combed, spilled down over his ears almost to his jaw. Had I been dreaming of him or even just imagining him, I never would have pictured him this way.
That realization jolted me out of my wondering stupor.
“You’re alive,” I repeated again.
His lips curled into a smile. “Yes, darling. We’ve already established that.”
I pushed against his chest, moving him off of me where we lay tangled on the floor, frantic to be free. The light in his eyes began to dim.
“Then why . . . why have I been led to believe you were dead for the last fifteen months?” I demanded, pushing up into a seated position against the baseboard and tugging my skirt back over my legs. “There was a telegram. And . . . and the casualty list in the newspapers.”
“Verity,” he began soothingly.
“Where have you been?!”
He held up his hands in a defensive gesture. “You have every right to be angry. But please let me explain.”
This Side of Murder Page 17
