The Adventuress

by Tasha Alexander

  “I am a bit disappointed,” Amity said, standing with Jack, inspecting the paintings by candlelight. “I had heard stories of tourist parties in this region being attacked by natives brandishing bows and arrows.”

  “You should have liked that?”

  “Very much. I would have befriended them all and taken tea with them in their villages.”

  “You are an extraordinary lady, Miss Wells,” Jack said.

  “Miss Wells?” Amity crinkled her nose. “You are not going formal on me now, not after all this time, Jack.”

  “No, not really.” He could hardly take his eyes off her beautiful face. “I am only teasing.”

  “I like it when you tease.” She looked down, suddenly coy. “I am very pleased we will see you in Egypt.”

  For a moment, Jack wondered if maybe, just maybe, she was in love with him, instead of falling for the idea of his brother, and even though he knew her parents would never approve of the match, would forbid their marriage, he wished he could take her in his arms. Unable to think of anything suitable to say in reply, he took her hand and kissed it.

  “Would you do something for me, Jack? Something I want desperately, but should never admit to anyone except you? Will you persuade your brother to visit you in Cairo?” She blushed slightly as she posed the question, and Jack thought she had never looked so beautiful. “I am told the society is second only to that in London, and there is nothing to do in England during the winter. Isn’t that correct?”

  Jack felt as if she had struck him and splintered his heart, but he recovered without hesitation. “It is indeed. Everyone retreats to country estates.”

  “Damp, horrible estates. Or so I am told.” She took him by the shoulders and shook him playfully. “I am American, Jack. I am accustomed to central heating.”

  “I guarantee you would have not the slightest use for it in Cairo, Amity. And I will do my best to get my brother over just as soon as I can.”

  Her smile could have charmed anyone.

  4

  I did not accompany my husband to collect the autopsy results from the Sûreté. Experience had taught me that the police, no matter what the country, view ladies as nothing more than an encumbrance to any sort of investigation. Not that I am suggesting this was an investigation rather than a desperate search for something that might help us understand Mr. Neville’s actions. Not yet, at least.

  Cécile, Margaret, and I had retreated to the wide balcony of my suite to await Colin’s return, knowing that any information he had to share would be better disseminated in private. The view our location afforded was magnificent. Palm trees lined La Croisette below us, their silvery green fronds dancing with every breeze that came off the Mediterranean while sunlight shimmered on the water, and the shades of blue, from cerulean to azure, were too numerous to count.

  Cécile, who had ordered a salad of exotic fruits to be sent up to us, was searching through it with a fork and removing only chunks of mango, which she placed on a plate in front of herself. “You may rhapsodize about our natural surroundings as much as you like, Kallista, but to my mind the more interesting view is directly below us on the terrace. Look at the hat Madame Wells is wearing. What can she mean by owning such a thing, let alone displaying it in public? I count at least two mounted birds, and I have not the proper angle to make a thorough study of the odious object. I thought the fashion for such things had fallen out of favor.”

  “I like Birdie, even if she does allow her nickname to influence her fashion choices,” Margaret said, popping a chunk of pineapple into her mouth and looking thoughtful as she chewed. “She did let Amity traipse all over India with very little regard to propriety. Would your mother have let you hunt tigers, Emily?”

  “Never,” I said. “I shouldn’t have wanted to, however.”

  “My mother would have refused me India altogether.” Margaret frowned. “I do despise her.”

  “Yet she let you have Oxford,” Cécile said. “A fair enough trade for a make-believe broken heart, oui?”

  “Yes, yes,” Margaret said. “But it doesn’t seem fair that I have the least noxious mother of all of us. Except perhaps you, Cécile. We never hear about your mother.”

  “She is no longer with us. If she were, you would find her deeply disappointing.”

  Margaret sighed. “Cigarette?” She held out an elaborately engraved golden case.

  “I would prefer a cigar,” I said.

  “Ask and ye shall receive.” Margaret produced three from her reticule. “I believe one ought to be prepared for every situation.” Cécile begged off hers, but Margaret and I indulged, dissolving into laughter as Margaret tried—with a spectacular lack of success—to teach me how to blow rings with the smoke. She had attempted to do this countless times since we had first met, but I had never shown even the slightest sign of having the skills necessary to master the trick.

  “You have, I believe, tormented Monsieur Hargreaves enough, mes amies,” Cécile said. “He has been leaning against the door for some time now, tolerating this exhibition. I cannot tell if he is amused or suffering from acute despair.”

  “It is amusement, Cécile, I assure you,” Colin said, lowering himself into a wrought-iron chair. “We have little enough of it in our current circumstances, so I would not ask them to restrain themselves.”

  “You have the autopsy results?” I asked.

  “Yes. Neville died from strychnine poisoning.” Colin’s voice, low and rough, reflected the somber look on his face.

  “Strychnine? I do not think that would be my first choice for suicide,” I said. “Is it not an extremely unpleasant death?”

  “It is,” Colin said. “Convulsions and asphyxiation.”

  “Mr. Neville may have used it only because it was all he could find,” Margaret said. “He also may not have had any knowledge of what sort of death it would bring.”

  “Oui, Margaret. I imagine he cared more about the end result than the process of getting there.”

  “Where does one find strychnine in Cannes?” Margaret asked.

  “I am afraid it does not matter now,” Colin said. “He had dosed the entire bottle. There can be no doubt that he meant to die.”

  “The entire bottle?” I asked, feeling my eyebrows knit together. “That strikes me as odd. Wouldn’t he have put the poison in his glass—in whatever amount he felt necessary—and then poured in enough whisky to make the deadly concoction tolerable?”

  “What difference does it make?” Margaret asked.

  “What if Jeremy had returned, found the body, and poured himself a drink to steady his nerves in the face of seeing his friend in such a state?” I asked. “He would be dead as well. I do not think Mr. Neville would have been so careless.”

  “I do not think Neville would have given the possibility any thought, Emily,” Colin said. “He did not so much as leave a note. He may have done this in a fit of despair, during which his mind was too clouded to consider anything other than his own death.”

  I stood up and started to pace. “Now that I think of it, I cannot remember ever seeing Mr. Neville take whisky. Can you, Colin?” I asked. “When we first arrived in Cannes, Mrs. Wells hosted us all for dinner. There were drinks before, and most of us had champagne—do you recall?—appropriate to celebrate an engagement. Jeremy insisted on whisky though, as he is wont to do, and you joined him.”

  “Yes, I did,” Colin said.

  “Mr. Fairchild did the same. Jack was content with champagne until his brother cajoled him into switching over, but Jeremy was unable to convince Mr. Neville. I remember it quite well.”

  “Not everyone wants whisky before dinner, Emily,” Colin said.

  “Mr. Neville stated that he would prefer rum, and Jack goaded him about it, saying it was only fit for lowly sailors.”

  “I do remember this, Kallista,” Cécile said, nodding. “Monsieur Neville insisted that this was not the case, and that he had enjoyed it greatly when he visited the West Indies some years b
ack.”

  “And he went on to say that he had never much cared for whisky, finding brandy far superior. Jeremy trounced him soundly over holding such a position,” I said. “Is it reasonable to believe that a gentleman, bent on ending his own life, would choose as his final drink a libation he has admitted to not liking?”

  “Suicides are not rational, Emily,” Colin said. “Neville was most likely intoxicated when he returned from the casino. We do not know why he had sunk so low, but for whatever reason, he chose that moment to end his life. I doubt very much that a man who did not care to leave any sort of note of explanation gave much consideration to the mixer for his poison. He drank whisky because there was nothing else in Bainbridge’s room.”

  “Why didn’t he go to his own room?” I asked.

  “I haven’t the slightest idea. We have no way of knowing,” Colin said. “We can only know the conclusion, and it is a tragic and unsatisfactory one.”

  “We always want there to be more, don’t we?” Margaret asked, passing Colin the cigar Cécile had rejected. “You are right, of course. None of us can be satisfied by what happened, and I think we must accept that if one is in a state of mind that allows for suicide, one is by definition incapable of rational action.”

  “I cannot agree with this, Margaret,” Cécile said. “There are many elaborate suicides, where the victim—or should I say perpetrator?—goes to great lengths to explain his actions.”

  “But not always,” Colin said. “In this case, Neville may have acted rashly and with very little planning.”

  “I want to know more about what happened at the casino. What catalyzed this in him?” I asked. Colin put his hand over mine.

  “My dear, sometimes we must accept that we cannot know everything. Uncovering every detail will not bring back Neville.”

  “It might reveal this to be something other than suicide,” I said. “I will never believe that he would have poisoned the entire bottle. Not in Jeremy’s room.”

  “It was a bloody waste of life, Emily,” Colin said, standing and crossing his arms. “Accept it as that and nothing more.”

  “I fear your husband is right, Kallista. There is nothing further for us to do here. Seeking more information can do little but increase the pain Monsieur Neville’s friends are already feeling. They miss him keenly and feel as if they let down a man who was always there when they needed support. To ask questions now—do you not think this would only cause Bainbridge to blame himself all the more?”

  “Quite right, Cécile,” Margaret said. “He is already miserable enough. He does not need his friends doing anything that would make him feel worse.”

  How could I object to such a sentiment?

  Amity

  Five months earlier

  When at last the day came to leave India, Amity made a careful study of her every emotion, but could not identify so much as an ounce of regret or sadness. This came as a surprise, for she adored the subcontinent with a passion she had never before felt for a place. Egypt beckoned her, not so much the pyramids or the history or the sweeping desert, but because it brought with it the possibility of meeting the Duke of Bainbridge. Jeremy. Her lips curled into a smile whenever she thought of his name, and if she admitted this response to be foolish, which it was, given that she had not yet met the gentleman, she did not care. She knew, without question, she stood on the precipice of a great change in her life, a change that, at last, would bring her happiness.

  No detail of the journey troubled her: stormy seas; dirty, hot train compartments; carriages traversing rough, dusty roads. None of these mattered. They were all leading her to joy. So long, that is, as she could convince Jack to lure his brother to Cairo.

  5

  Many visitors to Cannes, coming to escape the bleak English weather, take extended drives in the countryside every afternoon, rhapsodizing over the trees heavy with lemons and oranges, the scent of rosemary in the air, and the sweeping views of the Mediterranean afforded by the winding roads that climb the hills along the coast. Mrs. Wells had arranged many such excursions for us, but after Mr. Neville’s death, none of us had the heart for them. We could not, however, remain holed up in the hotel, morose and despondent forever. To do so would have been decidedly un-English. Furthermore, Jeremy and Mr. Fairchild needed to have some relief from their state of melancholy. Mr. Fairchild had become so bleak, he had not even attempted to discuss cricket with anyone in days, and while I welcomed the absence of such conversation, I knew it signaled deep pain. In an effort to cheer them up, Amity organized an expedition. We were to walk all the way along La Croisette until we reached Le Suquet, the medieval part of Cannes, where we would turn away from the sea and meander up the steep, narrow streets that led to Notre Dame de l’Espérance, a church whose construction was begun in the twelfth century, and the remaining bits of the castle once occupied by the Lérins monks.

  Amity’s parents, along with Cécile, stayed behind. Cécile insisted she would find no solace in the adventure, and much preferred a quiet afternoon on the terrace. “The south,” she had said, “is meant for relaxation, not for an amateur Cook’s tour.” Augustus was nowhere to be found, so we set off without him, Jeremy and Amity leading the way. Jack was carrying Christabel’s bulky camera for her, and she accepted the offer of his arm with a blush that betrayed her feelings for him. I wondered if before long we would be celebrating a second engagement. Margaret and Colin were arguing about the relative merits of Romanesque and Gothic architecture, so I walked with Mr. Fairchild.

  Mr. Fairchild, the eldest son of a well-to-do banker, had met Jeremy and Chauncey Neville at Harrow, where he had started two years later than most of the other boys, and, hence, was something of an odd man out. Mr. Neville, sensitive to anyone who felt out of place, quietly took him under his wing, and soon he was fast friends with the entire set, as well as the best batsman at Harrow. When it was time for university, Mr. Fairchild and Jeremy went up to Oxford together, while Chauncey made his way to St. Andrew’s. Their Oxford years sealed their brotherhood, and it was Mr. Fairchild who was to stand with Jeremy at his wedding.

  I did not know any of Jeremy’s school chums well. I had met them all at various times, when they had come home with their friend between terms, but schoolboys have little use for girls younger than themselves, and by the time I was out in society and might have proved interesting, they had long since finished university. Mr. Fairchild had taken Mr. Neville’s death with a quiet acceptance, but I could tell he had been profoundly affected by the loss. While Jeremy was wont to bury his emotions with an outward show of strength and humor, Mr. Fairchild’s sensitivity was not so easily hidden. I had come upon him twice in the past days, staring at the ocean from the pier across from the hotel, his eyes misty. Naturally, he bucked up as soon as he saw me, but I could tell the effort took a toll on his spirit.

  We set off along La Croisette, the wind stronger next to the water than it had felt directly outside the hotel, but the bright sun warmed the air, and we could not have asked for a more beautiful day. The weather changed with astonishing frequency, from hot, to perfect, to chilly, sometimes in the space of a single hour, but that only added to the charms of Cannes. While there, one never had to accept for the long term the monotony of that singular grey that plagues the skies of England. Even when it rained, the wind would soon blow away the clouds to reveal the cerulean sky.

  “Amity is quite a force of nature, isn’t she?” Mr. Fairchild asked as he escorted me along the pavement. “Just the sort of girl for Bainbridge. Until I met her, I never thought he would voluntarily agree to matrimony.”

  “He was quite set against it,” I said.

  “Yet now he is on the verge of being happily settled. She is a capital girl. I am immensely fond of her.” He coughed. “Do you mind if I smoke?”

  “Not at all,” I replied. “Everyone is immensely fond of Amity. She is possessed of the sort of exuberance for life to which no one can object.”

  “No gentlemen, at
least. I think she is less successful among the ladies.”

  “Her parents give her a wider berth than that to which we are accustomed in England,” I said. “I believe we all envy her that.”

  “You are discretion itself, Lady Emily,” Mr. Fairchild said. “Do not think me unaware of her … shortcomings, shall we say? I aim to be congenial and polite in most situations, a position that does not always afford one the pleasure of candor.”

  “You are not fond of her, despite your statement to the contrary?” I raised an eyebrow.

  “I would not go so far as that. It is simply that—” He blew a silver stream of smoke toward the sky. “I ought not to be so uncharitable.”

  “I do not like to think of myself as relishing gossip, but I suspect you and I are closer on this subject than I would have anticipated.”

  “Amity acts more like a schoolmate than a fiancée,” Mr. Fairchild said, taking a deep drag on his cigarette before looping my arm through his and starting to walk again. It seemed as if the guests of every hotel in Cannes had poured out onto La Croisette, eager to take advantage of the day. We stepped aside to avoid slamming into a small boy who was skillfully rolling a hoop along the pavement while a smaller girl chased after him. “She is the only lady I have ever met who asked if I would teach her how to bowl a cricket ball. Can you imagine? Christabel nearly fainted when she heard her friend ask, and told me in no uncertain terms that she could think of nothing more tedious than my favorite game.” He smiled. “A point of view that does not trouble me in the least. Once Amity realized Bainbridge has no interest in the sport, she told me she no longer needed to learn. I half expected her to come with us to the casino that awful night, and that she would drink all of us under the table.”