Ask Me No Questions

by Shelley Noble

  “Poor Beverly.” Mrs. Tappington-Jones sighed.

  “Beverly Sloane reaped what she sowed, for all you say, Hilda,” said one of the other ladies. “Marguerite Beecham is the one I feel sorry for.”

  “Marguerite? Don’t be absurd.”

  “You’re not saying that Reggie and Marguerite were lovers?” asked Phil.

  “Shhh,” Priscilla said, looking quickly around. “I’m not saying anything of the sort. What I’m saying is that Freddy is terribly in debt, and Marguerite blames Reggie Reynolds. There were words.”

  “What kind of words?”

  “Between Reggie and Freddy. Marguerite told me herself. I caught her crying in the ladies’ withdrawing room at the Claridge’s ball. She told me—well, I had to prod it out of her, but we are third cousins, and I thought it was my duty to help if I could. I told her she should drop the Reynoldses before it was too late.”

  “What did she say?”

  Yes, what? Phil thought, glancing toward the door where the gentlemen would be entering any moment. They all leaned closer, including Phil.

  “She said she wished someone would drop Reggie for good.”

  “Well, she isn’t alone,” said Mrs. Fielding. “Did you hear about the Tennebaums?”

  “Heard they had to sell the Fifth Avenue house.”

  “He’s gone belly—has lost all his money”—Mrs. Fielding leaned over and whispered—“at the track. At least, Hilda, that’s what your husband told mine at the club the other night.

  “And Sophie is threatening to divorce him.” Mrs. Fielding sighed. “Scandalous. And it won’t make one jot of difference. It’s hopeless for her now. Such a blot.”

  “You’re too severe,” Hilda said sharply. “People have lost fortunes and managed to survive in society.”

  But not many, thought Phil.

  By the time the gentlemen joined them, Phil had gleaned quite a bit of information about the people she had met. She felt inordinately satisfied. She’d learned much more than she’d given out, surely the sign of a good detective.

  It was strange, but somehow even the ladies’ gossip had centered around the track and betting. These Americans seemed obsessed with horses. Or gambling.

  And from what they said, she would have to add Marguerite to the growing list of possible murderers.

  Reggie might be responsible for Freddy’s excesses, but he could hardly be blamed for the irresponsible betting of others.

  The door opened, and hearty talk and a cloud of leftover tobacco entered the room. The tête-à-tête quickly broke up. “And here they come now,” Mrs. Tappington-Jones said brightly. The other ladies began to disperse toward their husbands.

  “I hope you didn’t find all that talk of horses boring, Herr Schimmer,” Hilda said, leading him toward the coffee table.

  “On the contrary. Racing is the sport of kings. And how could one be bored knowing that such delightful company awaited us in the drawing room?”

  Mrs. Tappington-Jones nodded graciously. Herr Schimmer took a cup, and when she turned to pour for the next guest, he made his way toward Phil.

  “Holding court, Countess?”

  “It does rather look that way. I seem to be a bit célèbre.”

  “I heard of the tragedy over the port. Sloane’s daughter, I believe, is the widow.”

  “Yes.”

  And where was Daniel Sloane? She hadn’t seen him enter with the other men.

  “Will this mean I won’t see you at the races next week?”

  “What? Oh, I don’t know. It would rather depend on the circumstances. Are you planning to attend?”

  “I think I must see this ‘sure thing’ they were all talking about, no? Devil’s Thunder. With a name like that, who could resist?”

  “Is that what kept you all so long over your port? The odds on Devil’s Thunder?”

  “Guilty as charged. Some of the gentlemen are avid sports aficionados.”

  “Gamblers, you mean.”

  His eyes flashed with amusement and Phil felt a frisson of titillating interest. And of something else not quite so delightful. She’d seen those eyes before and not in any Viennese ballroom. Much more recently.

  “Ah, Lady Dunbridge.” Mr. Tappington-Jones stepped up beside Schimmer. “So glad to see you and the attaché renewing your acquaintance.”

  Schimmer nodded, his expression as bland as only a diplomat could master. Phil merely said, “Yes, it is.”

  “I’ve promised to take him to the races next week. Would it be untoward to expect to see you there? Perhaps we could make a party of it?”

  “But of course. I, like Herr Schimmer, have a desire to see Devil’s Thunder run.” She enjoyed the races as a rule, especially when the earl wasn’t among her party. Bev would probably have to stay behind, and she wouldn’t like that at all, but Herr Schimmer might make an excellent substitute.

  Daniel Sloane entered the parlor and came to stand by Phil. He seemed distracted; perhaps he was the one bored by the dinner conversation or chafing beneath his daughter’s notoriety.

  They left a few minutes after that. He hardly spoke during the carriage ride home. And when she asked if he was feeling unwell, he apologized.

  “Sorry to be such boring company. I just heard some disturbing news at dinner. Oh, it’s nothing to worry about. Just got me to thinking. Really, nothing at all.”

  He spent so much time telling her what it was not about that by the time he walked her to the door of the brownstone, she knew it must be something quite awful.

  They stopped at the door. “Can’t you tell me, as a friend?”

  He shook his head.

  “About this awful murder of Reggie?”

  “No—no.”

  “Did you never find what he was supposed to have left you?”

  “It was nothing. A book. A tell-all exposé of the peccadilloes of some of society’s most prominent ladies. He came to me. He needed money. Reggie always needed money.

  “He said a lady he knew had written it. I agreed to buy it. I’m not really interested in that kind of literature, but I was … I was afraid that perhaps there was something written about Bev in it. I know she likes to shock people, doesn’t always know where to draw the line. I don’t want any of her more lurid escapades published for the world to see.”

  “Certainly not. And you paid him?”

  “Yes. I should have gotten the book first. He telephoned the day you arrived to say there was something he had to do, but he would leave it in the desk compartment, which you no doubt know about.”

  She nodded. “It isn’t there.”

  Daniel turned to her, his eyes dark and turbulent. “We have to find it.”

  “I agree.” Though really, how bad could the scandals be? In the wrong hands it could be embarrassing at most. And most scandal rags were willing to accept payment to keep a name unsullied.

  He didn’t come inside, and Phil went straight upstairs to bed. She had much to think about, including why everyone assumed Devil’s Thunder would still run next week. Had anyone thought to consult Bev? Did she really intend to turn over the operation of the stables to Freddy and Bobby? Did she even have experience if she decided to take an interest? Would the jockeys and trainers ever accept a woman as their boss?

  Bev wasn’t stupid when she wasn’t being flighty. She’d always had a good head for numbers. There was no reason that she shouldn’t run the stables herself. But she couldn’t do that until this murder was put behind them.

  Phil rang for Lily and sat down at her dressing table. While she waited, she picked up the Memoires of Sherlock Holmes and turned to “The Adventure of Silver Blaze.”

  When Lily appeared a few minutes later, Phil could tell she was in a state. “What has happened?” she asked cautiously.

  Lily rustled over to the dressing table. There was no other way to describe it. Her new apron was starched so crisply that it talked as it moved. Phil would have to suggest to Preswick that he have the laundry go lightly on th
e starch. A lady’s maid must look prim, but she also must be able to sneak about in the dead of night without alerting the whole household.

  Lily pulled the tiara from Phil’s head, taking several strands of Phil’s hair with it. “Why do they always blame the wife or the mistress?”

  “Ah, the staff has been gossiping.”

  “Yes.”

  “And what is their opinion?”

  Lily began pulling pins from Phil’s hair.

  “Leave me some scalp, please.”

  Lily’s hands dropped. “I am sorry. I—”

  “Do not throw yourself on your knees, just tell me what happened without scalping me.”

  “Yes, my lady.”

  Phil smiled. Whenever Lily used “my lady” in private, Phil knew that she was either contrite or being terribly sarcastic. Tonight, it had to be contrition.

  “So-o-o-o,” Phil urged.

  “Most of them believe it was that mistr-r-r-ress. But a few, they think it was Mrs. Reynolds. I would fir-r-r-r-re them all without a r-r-reference.”

  “You don’t think either of them murdered Reggie?”

  “Lots of people could have mur-r-r-rdered him.”

  “True, though now they seem to be concentrating their detectival energies toward the missing driver.”

  “Ah, him. Always…”

  “The lower classes are blamed for whatever the rich refuse to believe about themselves. I agree. Go on.”

  “You do?”

  “Yes,” Phil said, watching her maid in the mirror. “I think the lower classes may have an ally in Detective Atkins. I don’t believe for a minute that he agrees with the new turn in the investigation. I think he still has his sights on Bev, unfortunately.”

  “Do you think she killed her husband?”

  Phil thought about it. “No. I think she might have been driven to in a fit of rage. But not on the heels of my arrival. She went to have Reggie bring the auto closer. I arrived at the scene right after she did. She was in shock. And the timing is all wrong. How would she have the time to discover him with his mistress, fumble in her reticule or pocket for a pistol that she just happened to be carrying, shoot him, hide the pistol, and break into a feigned fit of shock?

  “And it isn’t like Bev to plan ahead. If she shot him, she’d be more likely to turn herself in and dance on his sorry carcass.”

  Lily sputtered out a laugh. Clapped her hand over her mouth. “Sorry, madam.”

  “Don’t be. I think we could all use a little humor in this situation. Now tell me, what else are the servants saying?”

  “The footmen think the mistress did it. Cook thinks it was the anarchists.” Lily rolled her eyes expressively. “The two parlor maids keep mum, but the sculleries, they don’t think Mrs. Reynolds did it, but they wish she had, because he was not nice to them, and he took advantage of the parlor maids and Elmir-r-r-ra, who no one likes.”

  “Elmira, too?”

  “If I were Elmir-r-r-a, I would have killed him myself.” Her hand touched the side of her uniform where Phil imagined the knife was now kept.

  “No killing, Lily.”

  Lily grinned. “Oui, madame.” She bobbed a quick prim curtsey that made Phil laugh.

  “Well, we can guess that Elmira in this case didn’t kill him, since she was waiting for Mrs. Reynolds with the smelling salts when we arrived.”

  Lily puffed out air in the French expression of “it doesn’t signify.”

  “They said this at tea?”

  “Oh, no, madam. The sculleries don’t take tea with the others. And they would be turned off for expressing such views. I learned it in the garden on the back steps. It’s where they go to smoke cigarettes.”

  “No smoking,” Phil told her.

  “No, madam, it makes them stink.”

  “Yes, it does. Good work, Lily.”

  Lily finished braiding her hair. “Are we going to study about fingerprints tonight, madam?”

  Atkins had disparaged her reading, had warned her off. She should get herself and her servants out of this quagmire before things became dire, which they might at any moment. And yet she was intrigued by the whole idea of investigation.

  The books she and Lily were avidly studying were rather dry discourses, but sneaking down to search the library in the middle of the night, watching out for Mr. X, even gossiping with the ladies at dinner—those things had made her blood race.

  No telling what she could find out by questioning the infamous Mimi LaPonte, who just happened to be out of jail for the moment. Perhaps a little visit to that not-quite-a-lady would be in order. Or furthering her inquiries into horse racing. There was a lead she hadn’t begun to follow.

  “Tonight, I think we’ll skip the treatise and read something a little more exciting.” Phil reached for the Memoires of Sherlock Holmes and opened it to “The Adventure of Silver Blaze.”

  “Isn’t it interesting that the gentleman in the bookstore recommended a story about horses.” She turned to the first page and read aloud, “‘“I am afraid, Watson, that I shall have to go,” said Holmes…’

  “And so must we,” Phil murmured.

  “But where, madam?” Lily asked, sounding alarmed.

  “Wherever the clues lead us, Lily.”

  “Ah, and are we to become detectives, madam?”

  “Yes, Lily, I believe we are.”

  12

  Phil came down to breakfast the next morning with her head filled with missing horses, lost fortunes, murder, and the Dartmoor fog. Bev was still abed and Phil was now eager to make plans to visit the stables. But when she picked up the morning Times, all thoughts of horses fled her mind. She grabbed the offending piece of journalism and hurried upstairs to wake her friend.

  “Mimi LaPonte is going back on stage,” Phil announced as she brandished the morning paper above Bev’s groggy head. She stopped for a moment. “You look terrible.”

  Bev blinked at her. “Phil? Why are you dressed? Where are you going?” A yawn escaped and she blinked again. “What time is it?”

  “It’s almost afternoon. Are you feeling ill?”

  “I didn’t sleep well.”

  “Too many martinis, my dear. You should pace yourself.”

  “That was nothing compared to life with Reggie. Lord, the man could drink.” She pulled a pillow over and propped herself up in bed. “So what’s so important that you woke me up?”

  Phil dropped the newspaper in her lap. “This.”

  Bev turned the paper around, snapped the pages straight, then scanned the page, finally settling on the article. “Well, that little—”

  “Quite,” Phil said. “And I suddenly have an insatiable urge to go to the theater.”

  “—bitch,” Bev finished.

  Phil frowned. “Was that directed at me or the detested Mildred Mimi Potts LaPonte?”

  Bev’s mouth almost reached a smile. “Mildred, of course.” She pushed the covers away. “I’ll come with you.”

  “You’re in mourning.”

  “I’m a divorcée.”

  “Well, I wouldn’t brag about it. Divorce may be the ‘in’ thing these days, but most of society will condemn you for it.”

  “And since when did you care about what society thinks?”

  “Since you became the number one suspect in your husband’s murder.”

  “Me? You heard Detective Atkins. They think it was the missing driver.”

  “The operative word being ‘they.’ He, however, doesn’t think it was the driver. And I believe he thinks it’s you.”

  “He couldn’t.”

  “Just because you have a pretty face and flirted with him? Good heavens. What’s happened to you, Bev? You have to know how to toe the mark in public, a boxing term, I believe, but very apt for our current situation.

  “You aligned yourself with a man whose closest friends seem to be flash and fury without much substance except firearms and racehorses.”

  Bev’s lower lip pouted.

  “Well
, is it not true?”

  “You don’t understand. We’re the modern set.”

  “Perhaps, but Reggie’s now part of the graveyard set.”

  Bev’s mouth twisted. Phil went to sit beside her.

  “Bev, I don’t give a fig for mourning, and you can be as modern as you like, but you must put on a show at least temporarily if you ever want to be accepted in society again.”

  “Society is changing,” Bev said stubbornly.

  “I certainly hope it is, but until Atkins catches the real killer and society actually does change, think of your reputation.” She patted Bev’s shoulder.

  “I’d rather have fun than a good reputation.”

  “Perhaps, and once the culprit is caught, you can dance naked on the table at Delmonico’s if you want. But until then, please be the proper grieving widow.”

  “Ugh. A week. I’ll stay in mourning a week. That should give him time to find out who really killed Reggie. And save my reputation.”

  Phil cast her eyes to the ceiling. “Good. Thank you. I, however, don’t have a reputation to lose. Though being new to the local mind-set, I believe I’ll borrow one of your veils for my visit.”

  “Then take the crepe silk. No one could recognize you behind that awful thing.” She pushed the covers and Phil away and got out of bed, padded barefoot across the carpet to a bureau, and pulled out the bottom drawer. “It might be a little wrinkled. I was trying to hide it from Elmira. She’s such a stickler.”

  She pulled out the crumpled black veil and gave it several good shakes. “There, as good as new. And you’re welcome to it.”

  Phil just stared at the mess of material as her own mourning, such that it was, came flooding back. Putting on that veil was the last thing she wanted. But she also didn’t want to be seen when she didn’t know who was who and who was watching, and none of her Parisienne chapeau veils were anywhere nearly big enough to hide her face.

  She reluctantly took the veil. Trying to ignore the chill that was slowly spreading over her, she sat down at Bev’s dressing table to pin it over her hat.

  When she was finished, she turned to Bev. “How do I look?”

  “Très dramatique. The mysterious Madame X.” Bev laughed. “To accompany your mysterious mystery man from Reggie’s wake.”