by M C Beaton
Kitty shook her head.
“Good. I will travel down with you to ease any strain you may feel being alone with your husband.”
Kitty smiled at the way Lady Mainwaring could discount a whole army of servants and consider that she would be “alone.” But Lady Mainwaring, although she was a kind mistress, noticed her well-trained servants about as much as she did her furniture.
By evening, Kitty returned to her town house, feeling much calmer. At two in the morning, she heard her husband returning but he passed her bedroom en route to his own, without even pausing.
CHAPTER EIGHT
The Thackerays’ house at Cowes was nautical to a fault: telescopes bristled at the windows; dinner was announced by a ship’s bell instead of a gong; arriving guests were “piped aboard”; the Union Jack was hoisted up the flagpole in the garden every morning by Mr. Thackeray; and the water closet was referred to as “the head.”
Looking more like Tweedledum and Tweedledee than ever, Mr. and Mrs. Thackeray were dressed in almost identical sailor suits except that hers had a skirt. The house was almost inevitably called “Davy Jones’s Locker” and every liquid served in it from whiskey to tea was referred to as grog.
The Baron and Baroness were told to “walk about a bit and get their sea legs” which they interpreted to mean that they should retire to their rooms to change. It was with no little embarrassment that the pair discovered they had been allocated the same bedroom. Kitty eyed the large double bed as if it were some peculiar instrument of torture. While her husband went to remove a large pair of lobsters from the foot of it and send them off to their rightful place in the kitchens, Kitty looked out of the window.
The sun sparkled on the Solent and Peter, moving to his wife’s side, pointed out King Edward’s yacht, the Victoria and Albert, tacking across the blue water. The couple had been able to chat easily on the train, encouraged by Emily Mainwaring who had kept up a steady flow of light conversation to cover any awkward moments of silence.
“We’re going sailing on the Thackerays’ schooner this afternoon, if you feel up to it,” said Peter. “But do remember to go to the… well… water closet before you leave. The Royal Yacht Club doesn’t have any facilities for ladies. Trousers are definitely forbidden so you will need to wear a skirt.”
Kitty began to feel happy again. “I’m very excited, Peter,” she exclaimed. “I’ve never been on a yacht be—”
She broke off and stared down into the driveway, her face turning white and tense. Being helped down from a carriage by the “Bishop of Zanzibar” was Veronica Jackson. All Kitty’s miserable memories of her previous visit to the Thackerays came back and she burst into tears.
Peter drew her over to the bed and sat down beside her. He took her hands away gently, from her face. “Kitty, I’ve told you I love you and I mean it. Veronica means nothing to me.”
“She’s here, isn’t she?” sobbed Kitty. “And she’s got that terrible young man with her.”
“Who, Cyril Lawton? He’s a bit of a silly chump, that’s all.”
Kitty told her husband for the first time about Cyril’s impersonation of the “Bishop” and her confession. Peter groaned and gathered her closer. “I’m a beast. I never thought that picture meant so much to you. I must have been drunk out of my skull. Kitty, we’re going to stick very close together on this visit. Do you hear me? No one is going to play nasty practical jokes on you and no one is going to try to murder you, and Veronica Jackson is not going to come between us.”
She looked up at him anxiously, hoping to believe him. He hugged her close. “Just trust me, Kitty. Dry your eyes. That’s my girl. Now give me a kiss.”
She raised her tear-stained face to his, smiling tremulously. As he bent his head, there was a loud banging at the door. “Hurry up in there. All aboard that’s going aboard!”
They got to their feet and looked at each other. Peter gave her a quick kiss. “We’d better go. Let’s get changed quickly.” He started to throw off his clothes until he caught his wife’s anxious look and retreated to the privacy of the bathroom. With a feeling of dressing for a masquerade, Kitty put on a white sailor jacket and white shirt. By the time she had perched a jaunty sailor hat on her head, her husband was ready.
They met Cyril Lawton, the “Bishop,” at the top of the stairs. “Cyril, my dear, dear chap,” said the Baron, grasping Cyril’s arm in a warm grip. “Do step along to my room for a minute so I can have a word with you. Go on downstairs and wait for me, Kitty.” The protesting Cyril was dragged off along the corridor.
Veronica Jackson was waiting with the rest of the party and Kitty noticed, with a sinking heart, that Veronica was wearing exactly the same outfit.
“Really, I must fire that dressmaker of mine,” announced Veronica. “She seems to be handing out her toiles to every little nobody.”
“Obviously,” said Kitty sweetly. “Since she gave one to you.”
Before Veronica could reply, Peter Chesworth arrived with Cyril in tow. Cyril had a huge purple bruise forming under his right eye and explained to the anxious guests that he had tripped and fallen against the bedpost. Ignoring Veronica, Peter walked forward and put an arm around his wife’s waist He gave her a slight hug and in reply to the unspoken question in her eyes, gave her a mocking wink. Kitty burst out laughing; she knew how Cyril had received his bruise. The couple walked out into the sunshine and Veronica’s eyes bored into their backs.
Once they were aboard the Thackerays’ schooner, Kitty sank back against the cushions in the bow with her husband’s arm around her and gave a sigh of pure pleasure. Nothing else seemed real except the presence of her husband, and Veronica buzzed away on the corner of her vision like an angry wasp.
“Your mama and Lady Henley are coming to join us this evening,” said Peter lazily, as the schooner cut across the blue waters of the Solent like an arrow, with the crew doing all the work and Mr. Thackeray running around taking all the credit.
“What does Lady Henley do when the Thackerays play practical jokes?” asked Kitty.
“She doesn’t even notice them,” said her husband. “Last summer she was here and they did the bladder-under-the-plate trick of theirs at dinner. She kept on eating regardless, chasing her plate all over the table like a foxhound hot on the scent. Then she simply picked up the plate and ate from her lap.”
Kitty laughed and her husband kissed her cheek. “I’m just going off to have a word with Thackeray. He knows some chap who’s selling off farm machinery, cheap. You’ll be all right, won’t you?”
“What on earth could happen to me here?” Kitty laughed. “Off you go.”
Oblivious of the curious stares of the rest of the guests, he kissed his wife—a thoroughly unfashionable piece of behavior—and went off whistling.
Veronica Jackson thought at that moment that she would die from hate. So she was to be cast off in favor of this young girl in the very way her husband had abandoned her for the American heiress. Well, Peter Chesworth was not going to have his cake and eat it. Through eyes dimmed with fury, Veronica saw Kitty’s slim figure standing by the rail. She took a quick look around. No one was looking.
Kitty was watching the water sparkling in the wake of the schooner. She was absolutely and completely happy. “I shall remember this moment until the day I die,” she thought—and then screamed. A ferocious shove sent her flying over the rail and into the icy water. She flailed her arms and choked and screamed again, seeing the schooner disappearing rapidly like a toy boat in the distance, then there was a roaring in her ears and she began to sink.
“I will not die, I will not die!” she thought fiercely. She thrashed her arms blindly and for one blessed moment took a gulp of sweet, fresh air and saw the white and scarlet of a cork lifebuoy floating a few yards away.
Kitty could not swim but, summoning all her strength and trying to push the blind panic from her mind, she flailed her arms in front of her, trying to copy the motions of the swimmers she had seen in the Ser
pentine. Inch by inch she drew closer and, just when she felt she would die from sheer exhaustion as she thrashed about in her water-logged clothes, the lifebuoy was suddenly against her face and she put her arms tightly around it and held on for dear life.
Then the schooner seemed to reappear suddenly and hove to and a small boat put out from it. One minute she was gasping and struggling in the water and the next, it seemed, she was lying in her husband’s arms in the dingy. Kitty gave him one scared look and fainted.
Veronica Jackson’s attempt on Kitty’s life had been seen by Mrs. Thackeray who had sounded the alarm. Kicking, biting, screaming, and appealing to Peter for help, Veronica had been locked in the cabin while Mr. Thackeray ran from side to side of his vessel, letting off every lifebuoy on the schooner and sending them bobbing back across the water in the direction of Kitty. Peter Chesworth set out in the dingy, cursing the oarsmen to greater efforts, his eyes watering with the strain of trying to spot his wife in the glittering water.
At last he saw her, clinging to the lifebuoy on the crest of a wave, and he sent up a silent prayer of thanks. When she was hauled aboard, he clutched her to him and swore to himself that he would get her to the safety of Reamington Hall as soon as possible and never let her out of his sight again.
The silent party made their way ashore and across the lawns of the Royal Yacht Club. Scandal must be avoided at all costs. Imprisoned between two burly members of the crew, Veronica was hustled into a closed carriage. She was to be locked in her room until it was decided what to do with her. Kitty, who had recovered consciousness, was also hustled to her room to await the doctor. She was feeling absolutely exhausted and waived the sedative that the doctor tried to give her.
Peter Chesworth looked in on his sleeping wife and then went downstairs to where the much-flustered Thackerays told him in unison that there was a detective from Scotland Yard waiting for him in the study.
Then they both stood amazed as the Baron merely said, “Thank God,” and went into the study and closed the door on their astonished faces.
Mr. Albert Grange got to his feet. “It seems as if I’ve arrived at the right moment, my Lord, but I’m very surprised to learn the identity of the lady.”
Peter Chesworth sat down heavily and sighed. “I find it hard to believe myself,” he said. “It doesn’t explain the peculiar behavior of the servants at our town house. In fact, apart from the last attempt, none of the previous ones seem to fit in with what I know of Mrs. Jackson’s character. Although, I’m beginning to wonder if I know her at all. I don’t want to press charges and make a lot of unnecessary scandal but I want to make sure that my wife is going to be safe.” Peter Chesworth shook his head. “Perhaps after you have a word with Mrs. Jackson, we can decide on the best course of action.”
“I would like to try something if I may, my Lord,” said Mr. Grange. “I would like to gather everyone together who has been close to your wife, namely, yourself, Lady Mainwaring, Lady Henley, Mrs. Harrison, and, of course, Mrs. Jackson.”
“Very well,” said the Baron ringing the bell.
One by one, the ladies assembled in the study, eyeing the little detective nervously. Veronica Jackson looked completely crumpled, all her flamboyance gone.
“Now then, ladies and my Lord,” began the detective, and then paused as he heard a timid knock at the door. He opened it and Kitty stood on the threshold.
“My dear,” said Peter crossing to her side, “I’m sure this is all going to be too much for you.”
“Let her stay,” said Mr. Grange. “If her Ladyship shows signs of being unwell, we can ring for help.”
Mr. Grange produced his notebook. “Now then, Mrs. Jackson. You tried to kill Baroness Reamington this afternoon. But there were previous attempts on her life.” He listed the snakes, the broken balcony, and the attempt at Sloane Square underground station.
Veronica stared at him in horror. “I had nothing to do with it,” she screamed. “Yes, I pushed her off the yacht because—because—you wanted her dead, Peter.”
“What rubbish is this?” snapped the Baron.
“But you did,” wailed Veronica, now thoroughly terrified. “You came to me on her wedding night. You spent it with me. You said if she were dead you would have all her money and be able to marry me. Me!” She stabbed a finger at her bosom and looked wildly around the room.
Kitty stumbled to her feet and made blind groping motions toward the door.
“Kitty!” pleaded her husband. He held her arm and she stared down at his hand and then collapsed to the floor in a dead faint.
“This is ridiculous!” expostulated Peter. “My wife is at the end of her tether. I’ll just carry her to her room.”
The detective rang the bell. “Sit down, my Lord.” There was a note of steel in his voice and his eyes held Peter’s. He waited until the butler had arranged for Kitty to be carried back to her room and then addressed the group.
“I will see Mrs. Jackson and Lord Chesworth alone,” said the detective, holding the door open for the others.
Mrs. Harrison suddenly sprang to life, “Murderer!” she screamed and flung herself on Peter Chesworth and tried to rake his face with her nails. With surprising strength, Lady Henley pulled her off. Mrs. Harrison burst into noisy tears and was led from the room.
“Now, my Lord,” said Mr. Grange in a grim voice. He signaled to a policeman by the door who took out his notebook.
“Oh, put that away just now,” said Peter wearily. “This is going to be hard enough for me to talk about without that great oaf writing down every word I say.”
“All right, then,” said the detective. “Begin at the beginning.”
And Peter Chesworth did, leaving nothing out, while Veronica Jackson sat as if turned to stone. Everyone—the detective, the policeman, and Veronica—were aware that they were hearing an honest confession of a man’s growing love for his wife.
“I have no alibi for Hadsea because obviously someone was hired to saw through the balcony,” said Peter. “But I have a definite alibi for the time she was at the underground station.”
“Someone could have been hired on that occasion as well,” said the detective. “But I’ll tell you something, my Lord. I believe you and this lady here. But someone is trying to kill your wife. For the moment, Mrs. Jackson has made one attempt and it’s up to your wife whether she wishes to press charges or not.
“In any case, I am taking you both back to London with me. I want whoever it is to be convinced that you both have been found guilty.”
“What good will that do?” said Peter. “And who will be here to protect her? You’re taking me away and leaving my wife with her murderer.”
“Exactly, my Lord. Your wife will be well guarded at all times. I will have two good plainclothesmen introduced into the staff here and they will watch every step she takes. This is the one way we will get the murderer to show himself—or herself.”
Emily Mainwaring found Kitty standing by the window of her bedroom watching the party leaving for London in the driveway below. In the light of the carriage lamps, her husband’s white face looked up toward her bedroom. She turned from the window and flung herself on the bed, crying as if her heart would break.
“He didn’t do it. I just know he didn’t do it,” said Emily Mainwaring over and over again, patting Kitty in an ineffectual way on the shoulder.
“It doesn’t matter what he’s done,” sobbed Kitty. “He’s with her. They planned it all between them. She said so. And you should have seen the look on Peter’s face.”
“Nonsense!” said Emily stoutly. “I just know it was Veronica all along. But you’re safe now, anyway. Are you going to press charges?”
“Yes—no. Oh, I don’t know. I wish I were dead,” wailed Kitty. “I don’t want to stay here with all these—all these—tickey people.”
“You shall no more,” said a voice from the doorway. It was Lady Henley, a massive shadow in the darkening room. She lumbered forward. “Your mama ask
ed me to get you out of this. I’ve a little place along the coast. You can potter about a bit and get your nerves in order and Emily can tell your husband where to find you… if you think that’s wise.”
Kitty thought of all the people downstairs, the Thackerays with their silly jokes, Cyril Lawton who had heard her “confession,” and the rest of the guests all knowing that her husband had been having an affair with Veronica Jackson. Still she hesitated.
“I also thought you ought to know, Henry Dwight-Hammond has just driven up in that motorcar of his,” said Lady Henley.
That clinched it. “I’ll go,” said Kitty wearily. “But don’t tell my husband. I need time to think.”
Mr. Albert Grange was thinking much the same thing as he turned the key in the door of his cozy home in Fulham. He needed time to think.
Veronica Jackson had been warned not to leave town and a policeman had been, stationed outside her house. The same applied to Lord Chesworth. Albert Grange kissed his wife and followed her into the bright kitchen with a frown on his face. His wife, Amy, sighed. For the hundredth time, she wished her husband had a normal job like some of the other neighbors’ husbands. For years Albert had been telling her that he would take their savings out of the bank and buy a snug little pub in the country, but there always seemed to be one more case that he must solve—and then one more. So for the hundredth time, she laid the table, poured her husband a glass of beer, and said, “Why don’t you talk about it, love?”
Albert sipped his beer and began with a weary sigh, to outline the case to his wife. “On the face of it,” he said, after he had finished his summary, “it should be a conspiracy between my lord and Mrs. Jackson. But I swear the man is honestly in love with his wife. On the other hand, I’m sure it’s one of these here creem passionellies.”
His wife kissed him on the nose. “Now then, Albert Grange, I think you’re getting carried away by love in high society. You always were one for telling me that once you got out of the working classes, money was the biggest motive.”
