Ask Me No Questions

by Shelley Noble

Bev would need her support when the gossip became brutal, as it was sure to do.

  She’d known Bev since they were girls at the same finishing school in Paris. Had it really been ten years ago? Phil had adored Bev’s American bravado and had introduced her to Paris society. As young girls, they weren’t invited to the adult soirees and balls, so together they discovered the Parisian demimonde.

  Now Bev was but a pale memory of that girl, and Phil didn’t have the heart to desert her.

  No one was even guarding Reggie’s body. They were too busy trying to keep the onlookers at bay. The crowd was becoming more voluble by the moment, calling for the arrest of someone, anyone, the mistress or the wife, either one of them would do, or both.

  Philomena didn’t for a minute think Bev killed Reggie, though as far as she was concerned she had every right to. Everyone had affairs, but good breeding insisted on discretion. Reggie flaunted his, made headlines with them, while Bev sat humiliated at home. But how to make certain suspicion didn’t fall on his wife?

  “Ugh!” Philomena pulled her skirt back, eased herself out from the restless crowd, and slipped past the distracted policeman who was trying to contain them.

  She was immediately accosted by two more men in uniforms. “Sorry, miss, you can’t come no closer.”

  “I’m a friend of the family. Are you sure he’s dead?”

  “Well…”

  “You should call for a doctor immediately! He might still be saved!” She warbled this out, clasping her hands together to her bosom like a heroine in a play put on during a country house weekend.

  “Is there a doctor here?” one of the policeman shouted, swiveling his head.

  “Are you daft, man?” jeered a bruiser leaning over his handcart. “He’s a goner for sure. Just look at him.”

  The group surged forward. The police pushed them back.

  A clerk in a bowler hat craned his neck to see. “Oughtn’ya go see? Maybe he ain’t dead.”

  “If I say he’s dead—” The bruiser knocked the man’s hat to the ground. When he leaned down to pick it up, another man punched the bruiser in the jaw. He fell back, dominoing into the people behind him.

  It was a match in a tinderbox. Others took up the cudgels, the remaining policemen rushed to help, and Philomena hurried to the auto to get a better look inside.

  The Florodora girl had been removed—or had removed herself. Now both doors were open. Reggie lay alone across the leather seat as if he’d fallen asleep or, more likely, passed out in a drunken stupor. He didn’t appear to be breathing, though truth be told, she’d only said that to distract the guards.

  Philomena inched a little closer, peered at the backseat, scrutinized the floor. If he’d shot himself, what happened to the pistol? She saw no evidence of one, not in Reggie’s hand or anywhere in the enclosed space. Had the Florodora girl shot him? Did she still have the pistol? Or was she disposing of it while they all stood around doing nothing?

  Then she spied a small black handbag lying on the floor in the far corner. She might be able to reach it if … She leaned into the auto, felt along the floorboards, shuddered when her arm brushed against Reggie’s lifeless leg. She stretched out her hand … just a little farther. A large hand appeared before hers.

  Philomena gasped, snatched her hand back, and glanced up to find a pair of glinting black eyes staring back at her. A man crouched at the other side of the automobile. Their eyes locked over Reggie’s body, then abruptly the man stood, ducked his head, and melted into the crowd.

  “Wai—!”

  Before she could react, she was grabbed from behind, fingers encircling her waist, and she was yanked backward out of the automobile.

  A fine situation for the Countess of Dunbridge.

  As soon as her feet touched the ground, she whirled around with her Parisian reticule swinging. She had to stifle a yelp of surprise when her wrist was gripped, stopping both her bag and her person in their rotation, and she came face to chest with her would-be assailant.

  “Pardon me, madam, but you have no business here. This is a crime scene, if you will kindly step back.”

  Philomena did step back, but out of surprise and disgust. The man was filthy and he towered over her. He wore a drab, wrinkled Mackintosh and a slouch hat pulled down on his forehead, leaving nothing of his face visible but a morning-after beard. He looked absolutely disreputable, but he was barking orders at her with the authority of the Lord Chamberlain.

  “Just who are you, sir?” she demanded, gathering what aplomb she could manage. Where were all those policemen who had just been milling about when she needed one?

  “I was about to ask you the same.”

  She took another cautious step back. “Are you with the police?”

  He reached inside his Mackintosh with a dirty scraped hand and pulled out a metallic shield. “I’m Detective Sergeant John Atkins.”

  Considering the state of his hands, she decided to forgo good manners and didn’t offer hers. “I’m Lady Dunbridge…”

  “So I’ve been told,” he said drily as he returned his shield to his pocket. “And may I ask what you are doing here?”

  “I just arrived on the SS Oceanic from Southampton to visit my friend Mrs. Reynolds. And I would be quite grateful if I were allowed to take her home. Her husband is dead and she’s naturally in shock.”

  He motioned her away from the crowd. “I have a few questions.”

  “Which she’ll be glad to answer once she’s recovered. Shall we say tomorrow morning? I doubt she will be receiving visitors.” She smiled condescendingly. “Ten o’clock? Thank you. You’re very kind.” She didn’t give him time to answer, but called out, “Bentley, help your mistress back to the carriage. I’ll join you shortly.”

  She turned back to Detective Sergeant Atkins. “Before you begin your inquiries, I think you should know there was a man who was taking an inordinate interest in the scene. I believe he was going to steal a handbag from the automobile, before I interrupted him.”

  “Handbag?”

  “Yes, black, with a lovely confection of sequins and onyx.”

  “A handbag in the auto? A man? Where?”

  “In the far corner on the floor. He was standing on the other side of the automobile. Over there.” She pointed back to the auto, and when the detective turned to look, she took the opportunity to slip away.

  2

  Lily and Preswick were waiting by the Reynoldses’ carriage. Bentley quickly ordered the footman to hire a cab and accompany them and the baggage to the brownstone. Then he fairly pushed the two ladies into the carriage.

  “Whew,” Philomena said as the door closed on them. She reached across Bevvy, who had collapsed against the seat, and pulled the curtains shut as the carriage jolted forward.

  “But we can’t just leave him there,” Bev moaned.

  “I’m afraid we don’t have a choice.”

  “But what are they going to do with him? And what about the touring auto?”

  “I don’t have the slightest idea.”

  “We should go back.” Bev reached to alert the coachman.

  Philomena grasped her sleeve. “And stand there for however long they take with people pointing at you and crying, ‘She did it!’? Newspaper reporters are probably already on their way, with their photographic equipment.”

  Bev moaned louder.

  “I’m sure the automobile and Reggie’s body will be fine. And we can expect to see that policeman first thing tomorrow morning, if not before.”

  “What policeman?”

  “Well, he said he was a policeman, a detective of some sort; he wasn’t wearing a uniform and he was disgustingly dirty.” And if he didn’t look any cleaner in the morning, Philomena would have the servants turn him away.

  “Oh, no. Do I have to talk to him?”

  “He’ll have questions. And you are Reggie’s wife, though I suppose under the circumstance, the past tense would be more apropos.”

  “Why would Reggie shoot h
imself? He had a horse running at Belmont next week. A big race. It must be that awful woman. She must have killed him in a jealous rage. That detective should be talking to her.”

  “I’m sure he is,” Phil said soothingly. “But since no one knows for certain and you were standing over the body, it would behoove you to stay calm. And hope for a verdict of suicide or murder by persons unknown.”

  “Verdict? It won’t go to court, will it?”

  “Hush. I have no idea. Though I do think you should ring up your solicitor when we get to the brownstone.”

  “My solicitor? I’m not sure we have one.”

  “Everyone has a solicitor, or at least a man of affairs.”

  “No, they don’t.”

  “Well, I’m sure Reggie does—did. And I know your father must. Hopefully his services won’t be required.”

  Philomena ardently hoped they wouldn’t. From a purely selfish standpoint, she couldn’t afford to stay out of society for the length of a trial. Lily and Preswick were dependent on her, and she couldn’t depend on Bevvy’s generosity or her introductions, because Bev would now be in mourning for months.

  Philomena was just out of her own mourning period, eighteen tedious months of it. And she hadn’t even liked her husband, even if he was the Earl of Dunbridge. She’d gotten a title but little else from that arrangement.

  Bev had scrunched up against the opposite side of the carriage and rested her head against the squabs. Her eyes were closed. At least she’d stopped crying and Philomena left her alone.

  She sat staring straight ahead in the semidarkness of the carriage. She was dying to catch a glimpse of the city—she hadn’t visited since before her marriage—but she didn’t know if they’d been followed and she certainly didn’t want to end up on the pages of a scandal sheet.

  The carriage stopped after an interminable amount of time.

  “Are we there?” Bev asked, rousing herself and managing to look beautiful and ravaged at the same time.

  After a prolonged wait, the door opened and Bentley let down the steps. Two footmen ran down the brownstone steps to trundle them into the house. Philomena didn’t even have time to notice the neighborhood or the residence, just that it was made of brown rectangular stones, hence the term “brownstone,” she surmised. So no marble palace for the Reynoldses.

  A bit of a disappointment, but no matter.

  A butler stood by the open door. Bev’s maid was waiting with the smelling salts. Bentley must have alerted the household before he let them out of the carriage. A good man, Bentley. Philomena would give him a substantial tip when she said adieu, which might be sooner than she expected, considering the circumstances.

  Bev waved the maid aside. “Go away, Elmira. I don’t need smelling salts. What I need is a cocktail. Tuttle?”

  The butler bowed, followed Philomena and Bev into the parlor, and shut the double doors behind them.

  “I suppose you’ve heard the ghastly news,” Bev said.

  “Yes, madam. Bentley informed us, and on behalf of the entire household, may I offer you our profound condolences.”

  “Thank you. Do we have ice?”

  “Yes, madam.” He went about making drinks.

  Philomena pulled the pins from her hat and tossed it on the sofa next to her. She found Bev staring at her.

  “Is something wrong?”

  “No, I’m just always amazed at your hair. The color is so … so … Remember Monsieur André the drawing master said you looked like you’d stepped straight from a Titian painting.”

  “Monsieur was drunk most of the time, or he would have noticed that my hair is mostly mahogany and only hints at his favorite Titian red in the sunlight.”

  “I think he was in love with you.”

  Philomena puffed a French expletive. “I think he was in love with having all the young girls dote on him.”

  “He was definitely that.”

  Bev was silent until Tuttle had handed them glasses and left—reluctantly, Philomena thought—the room.

  “They all think I killed him.”

  Philomena almost choked on her drink. She looked over the rim of her glass and perused her friend’s face. Should she pooh-pooh the idea or be honest? Best to get it over with. “Did you?”

  “Good heavens, Phil, how could you even think that?”

  “I don’t really, but you didn’t answer my question.”

  “How could I kill him? I loved him.” Bev paused and took a healthy gulp of her martini. Sighed. “I loved him, but I didn’t much like him anymore. We still had some fun, when he wasn’t out carousing with Miss Potts.”

  “The woman in the auto with him?”

  Bev nodded. “Mimi LaPonte. Real name Mildred Potts. A chorus girl from a variety show.

  “Ugh! It’s all so awful and I’m so glad to see you. You look wonderful. And out of mourning at last.” She sniffed. “I’ve made such grand plans for your entertainment. What on earth was Reggie thinking of to get offed at a time like this.” Bev dabbed her handkerchief to her nose. “Oh, Lord, some friends are coming over for pretheater drinks. We thought an evening at the variety would be entertaining. There’s the Langham ball on Friday and the opera. And the races, of course.”

  Bev emptied her glass. “I suppose we’ll have to cancel tonight’s get-together. But how will we reach them all? Tuttle, I need Tuttle.”

  Philomena found the bell and rang for the butler.

  “Why don’t you let Tuttle and me take care of the guest list and you go upstairs for a rest?”

  “What? Oh, no, I need another martini.”

  The butler appeared in the doorway. Without pausing, he crossed the room and made another round of drinks.

  As they waited for him to finish, Philomena leaned over to her friend. “You should ring up your solicitor before your second martini.”

  Bev shook her head. “You said we have until tomorrow.”

  “I can’t be certain. I told the police officer you would receive him in the morning.”

  “Tuttle, do we have a solicitor?” Bev asked as she took a martini from the tray.

  “Of course, madam, but I’ve taken the liberty to telephone your cousin Freddy. He might be more useful at this point than the solicitor.”

  Bev’s teeth clinked against the martini glass. “Do you think so? Freddy?”

  “Yes, madam, at this juncture. Though I will ask Mr. Brangle to come to you tomorrow if you wish.”

  “You’re right, of course, Tuttle. Thank you. But the guests for this evening?”

  “Mr. Freddy said he would take care of it. And that he would visit you around six o’clock. He isn’t able to get away from meetings before that.”

  “Yes, well. Thank you, Tuttle, that will be all.”

  “Who is Freddy?” Philomena asked as soon as Tuttle left the room.

  “Reggie’s cousin. He’s some pooh-bah at City Hall. Totally dissipated, which is what happens if you hang around Reggie for any length of time. But he’s a dear old thing.” Her voice caught. “Freddy will know what to do.”

  With their second drinks in hand, the two women grew silent and Philomena looked at her surroundings. It was an odd assortment of old family furniture, she guessed, mixed with newer pieces, several lovely japonais lacquer pieces, artwork ranging from what appeared to be a Gainsborough to several rather naughty pen-and-inks. There was the usual Turkey carpet on the floor and an electric chandelier overhead. It all felt vaguely modern and yet … displaced.

  “I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised that Reggie met his end violently. You should see some of the characters he hung out with. And the women, and the way he spent money.”

  Philomena remembered Reggie as mildly charming, but already looking a bit worse for wear when she’d met him last year at Ascot, where he had a horse running. Not a hunting man, Reggie was a racing man, and evidently had the stables to prove it.

  “He just bought that new touring auto. First of all his friends, he said. That was Reggie for
you, fast drinking, fast driving, fast living. He did everything fast.” Bev sighed. “Even during the times he should be going slow … If you know what I mean.”

  Philomena spluttered into her drink. “I believe I do.”

  “The big nitwit didn’t get that some things require attention, not a hell-bent-for-leather gallop to the finish line.”

  “I wonder if Miss Potts felt the same way.”

  “She’d better. That would be the last straw.”

  Philomena could sympathize with both women. She’d had a few lovers whom she would have gladly murdered for their lack of prowess where it counted most. But at least she had been able to pick and choose. Poor Bev was stuck with Reggie. Well, no longer.

  “Mimi LaPonte, my derrière.” Bev finished her second drink. “And now I’ll have to be in mourning for a year or more; my family are such sticklers.”

  “They always are,” Phil said under her breath.

  “Pardon?”

  “Nothing, just thinking about families.”

  “And how will I introduce you to Manhattan society if I’m stuck at home in widow’s weeds?”

  Yes, how indeed? Phil pushed down the bubble of panic that was mixing with her martini. She had money enough to keep herself and her two servants for a few lavish months, thanks to her grandmother’s foresight in leaving legacies to the Hathaway girl children. Her dowager’s—she shuddered at the word—allowance was barely pin money. The earl had squeezed what was left of his estate dry before he died. The heir was an abstemious Methodist.

  Manhattan promised to be as expensive as London, and she couldn’t afford to cut corners if she meant to start a new life in society.

  She’d planned on staying with Bev and Reggie as long as they would keep her, and she was sure Bev would still welcome her, but that didn’t really relieve the problem of getting out and mingling.

  Well, the situation might resolve itself if they carted Bev off to jail.

  But she couldn’t let Bev be arrested. She’d seen the inside of a jail once when she’d befriended a suffragette who had chained herself outside the Exchequer’s residence on Downing Street. Bev would never survive prison. Phil would just have to do something to ensure her freedom—even if she had killed her odious husband.