“So we are looking for a person of indeterminate height and gender who owns a cloak,” Colin said. “How encouraging.”
“I want to question the hotel staff,” I said. “Not the desk clerks, but the maids and anyone else who works behind the scenes, so to speak.”
“Do you believe Bainbridge was candid with you last night?” Colin asked.
“I have no reason to doubt him.”
He made a low, thinking sort of noise. “Something doesn’t fit.”
Back at the hotel, we consulted with the manager as to who had been working overnight on the evening in question and started to interview the staff. The night clerk, to whom we had already spoken, did not alter a word of his story. He saw nothing unusual in the English duke requesting pillows in the middle of the night and then going back outside. He was adamant that guests often make strange requests, so it had not stood out to him at the time. Among the rest—the housekeeping maid who discovered Mr. Neville’s body, a handyman who slept on property in case there were any emergency repairs needed after hours, and three kitchen maids—only one had anything new to share with us, the second of the kitchen maids.
“She was very, very pretty,” she said. “I only saw her because I had stepped out for a smoke—I know I shouldn’t have, so please don’t tell—only we were so late that night, finishing up the dishes.”
“Where exactly did you see her?” Colin asked.
“She saw me. I was having my smoke, just out the staff door, and she came to me and asked if I could let her in. She gave me a handful of coins.”
“Did she say where in the hotel she was going?” I asked.
The girl gave me a shrewd look. “It was quite obvious, wasn’t it? Dressed the way she was, all fancy, with rouge on her face? That sort don’t use the front door, do they?”
“Does this happen with some regularity?” Colin asked.
The girl shrugged. “I suppose it does, often enough. We don’t mind. What business of ours is it if the grand people want a little amusement?”
“Is the manager of the hotel aware of this?” I asked.
“I believe, madame, it is not the sort of thing people like you—or the manager—like to discuss.”
“Did you see where, specifically, she went in the hotel?” Colin asked. “Or did she, perhaps, ask you for directions?”
“Non. Our conversation was nothing more than a simple transaction.”
No one else reported having seen the person in question, in or out of the hotel, and the kitchen maid’s description of her was too imprecise to be of much use. It could have been Hélène, but it could have been any number of other girls. The manager confirmed that he was aware of such things going on—only occasionally, he insisted—in the hotel. This, he promised us, was not the sort of establishment that encourages such happenings, but one could not stop everything.
“So we have next to nothing,” I said. “I suppose the only sensible thing to do now is interrogate every single gentleman who was staying that night. You may need to torture some of them, but I am confident that eventually someone will own up to having hosted a lady of the evening.”
“Quite,” Colin said. “Torture is such a reliable way to get to the truth. Would you object to a spot of tea before I begin?”
Amity
Jack was sulking. They were on the hotel’s back lawn, playing croquet, a game Amity adored. She admitted freely this was because she so enjoyed the satisfaction that came from sending an opponent’s ball far off the court in a savage roquet. Almost more entertaining than the match were Christabel’s attempts at flirting with Mr. Fairchild. She was too sweet to be obvious, and, as a result, Mr. Fairchild was rather confused, particularly as Christabel’s flirtation primarily consisted of refusing to take roquets when her ball hit Mr. Fairchild’s. In Christabel’s mind, the earnest smile she flashed at Mr. Fairchild ought to have suggested to him that she was flirting. Instead, he was left with a feeling that she did not entirely understand the rules of the game, and he kept trying to explain them to her. In reply, she asked him if he would teach her the basics of cricket, a sport about which she felt she had in the past been most unkind.
Jack was the only person who suspected something else was afoot, and this was just as Amity had wanted it. Had Christabel possessed better skills in the art of flirtation, she would have had Mr. Fairchild paying court by the end of the afternoon. As she was barely able to handle Jack in a satisfactory manner, she would never have been able to navigate her way out of the mess caused by two suitors, which perfectly suited Amity’s plan. Jack was jealous, and that would spur him to further action.
“I do not think this is working,” Christabel whispered when the game had finished and they were being served lemonade. “Captain Sheffield is barely speaking to me.” The pained look on her friend’s face told Amity Christabel could no longer bear to take the liberty of calling him by his Christian name.
“Oh, Christabel, you are so naïve! It’s charming. Truly, it is,” Amity said. “That merely proves our plan is working. He has been watching you all morning and he is worried. I am confident that within the next day or so—this evening if we are lucky—he will pull me aside and ask if I am aware of you having any romantic attachments.”
“And you will tell him I love him?” Her eyes brightened.
“Of course not. First, because when the time comes for that sort of revelation, you are the one who shall have to make it—”
“I don’t know that I could do that.” Christabel wrinkled her nose.
“Do not interrupt. It is exceedingly rude.” Amity laughed and pulled her friend close. “The second reason I will not tell him that you love him is that he must suffer a little longer, otherwise he will feel a rush of relief to learn that his affections are quite safe, and he shall then immediately return to treating you exactly as he did before.”
“Was that so bad?” Christabel asked.
“Had he proposed?”
“No.” Her voice was quiet.
“Had he declared his love to you?”
“No,” came her answer, in the barest whisper.
“Had he begged even a single kiss from you?” Amity asked.
“You know he did nothing of the sort, Amity!” Christabel looked around, embarrassed, afraid that this last question had been spoken so loudly as to have been easily overheard.
“Precisely,” Amity said. “So now our darling Jack must suffer, just for a short while, before we can be guaranteed that you, my friend, will have a happy ending to your fairy tale.”
“I would hardly call it a fairy tale,” Christabel said.
“They always become quite ugly in the middle, Christabel. Go back and read the Brothers Grimm if you don’t believe me. There is little more bleak and terrifying than an unfinished fairy tale. You must focus on the end, not this part.”
17
Given that torturing guests—or even a little friendly interrogation—was unlikely to result in us being able to identify the girl the kitchen maid had let into the staff entrance of the hotel, Colin and I had to take a different tack. To begin with, he pulled Jeremy aside and told him what we knew. Did he now want to confess to having asked Hélène to meet him in his rooms? The answer was an emphatic no.
“Do you believe him?” I asked. I was sitting on our balcony with a pot of tea (Assam) and an assortment of pastries (divine) watching the parade of tourists walk along La Croisette. It proved immensely diverting, as I have an endless capacity for inventing stories about people when I see them. The rotund lady (American) wearing a fox wrap, replete with head and feet, could only have been new money. There was no other explanation for such a garment on such a warm day. The lanky gentleman in a straw boater running at breakneck speed had let time get away from him in the casino and was now late for an appointment with his sweetheart. And so on, until Colin returned and reported the results of his conversation.
“I do believe him,” he said, helping himself to a large bite of raspber
ry tart. “He understands the gravity of the situation. Unfortunately, I do not see how we can identify the woman in question.”
“Does this not make you think, though, that someone other than Mr. Neville poisoned that whisky?”
“I admit to the possibility, but we have no hard evidence.”
“You two look very serious,” Margaret said, bursting onto the balcony and taking the chair next to mine. “Meg let me in and she said to remind you that she would not tolerate your being late to dress for dinner tonight. You have turned her into quite a monster, Emily.”
“It is all her own doing, I assure you,” I said.
“Bring me up to date on the investigation,” she said, and we did just that as she made quick work of the remaining pastries. “What a hopeless business. I don’t see any way through the muck.”
“Nor do I,” I said. “It is rather frustrating.”
“If we suspect that someone other than Neville poisoned the whisky, his object must have been to kill Bainbridge,” Colin said. “Jack is the obvious suspect, as he would inherit if his brother died.”
“Jack has no interest in being duke,” I said.
“So he may claim,” Colin said. “Or is that nothing more than a not-very-clever cover?”
“You cannot truly think—” I started.
“We must consider every possibility,” he said. “He would have had ready access to his brother’s room.”
“It pains me to even consider it,” I said, “but you are right, we must.” I was staring out over the water, but a shot of red fabric caught my eyes on the drive in front of the hotel. It was Amity, running at an insupportable speed. She barely hesitated before crossing the street and turning east on La Croisette, narrowly missing being struck by a carriage. I shot out of my room, through the corridor, down the steps, through the lobby past a baffled-looking Jeremy, and out of the hotel, doing my best to catch her. Running in a corset poses a unique set of problems, but I did my best to ignore the stays poking my ribs as I struggled for breath. Fortunately, Amity was struggling against the same enemy, and I found her, less than two hundred yards down the promenade, holding onto the back of a bench, trying to catch her breath.
“Are you unwell?” I asked. “I saw you flee and was worried.”
“Bloody corsets.” She sat down. “They render us all but useless.”
“You have been crying,” I said, noting her tear-stained eyes. “What happened?”
“I have just had a rather painful conversation with my fiancé, I am afraid. I am not certain that he is going to marry me.” She hugged her arms around her shoulders.
“Amity, that is impossible!” I said. “Jeremy adores you—he told me just last night how much. You are like a dream to him. I use his words.”
“He told me he spoke to you. Please understand that I do not fault you in the least for what happened. I know your intentions were of the best, but I am afraid they catalyzed a most serious situation.” She stretched her legs in front of her, crossed her feet at her ankles, and let out a sad sigh.
“What did he say to you?”
“I have believed, even from before I met him, that we were designed for each other. Absurd, I know, but Jack’s descriptions of his brother brought him to life for me. You know how easy it is to adore Jack. How could his brother prove any less amiable? And when I met Jeremy in Cairo, everything Jack had said, and that I had hoped, was confirmed. Now, though, I begin to wonder if I am not what he wants.”
“Why would you think such a thing?” I asked.
“He was speaking to me of secrets and opacity and making very little sense, but I understood the thrust of his meaning,” she said. “He does not want the sort of life I do. He told me my exuberance sometimes frightens him.”
“That does not mean he does not love you.” I put a hand on her arm, hoping to reassure her.
“I know he loves me,” she said, her gaze focused on the sea in front of us, “but can I be the sort of wife that he wants? I don’t want to molder away in some damp estate while my husband is out shooting birds.”
“I can assure you that Jeremy does not want that kind of life either.”
“Are you certain, Emily? If that is so, why does my exuberance frighten him?”
“Did you not tell me yourself last night that the casino was not so enthralling as you had hoped?” I asked. “Perhaps he feels the same. You are both doing your best to present yourselves to each other in the most extreme ways, almost as if you mean to outdo one another. Isn’t it exhausting?”
“How can I be sure that is how he feels?” She looked directly into my eyes, and I began to think her feelings for Jeremy were more sincere than I had previously believed.
“Ask him,” I said. “When I spoke to him I told him to be honest with you, and it sounds as if he made a bungle of doing that.”
“He did nothing but confuse me.” A formidable lady, dressed in a way that can only have been intended to emulate Queen Victoria, knocked against Amity’s shoes with her walking stick. Rather than pull them in out of the way, Amity stuck them out farther, glaring at the woman before she turned back to me. “She could have been polite about it. I wasn’t deliberately trying to block her path. What was I saying? Yes. Jeremy made very little sense.”
“Speak to him again. I can assure you he never intended for you think, even for a moment, that he does not want to marry you or that he would expect you to be a different sort of wife than he knows you will be.”
“Could you talk to him, Emily? I said some terrible things and I am ashamed. Sometimes I should make a better effort at being polite.” Now she pulled in her feet and tucked them under her skirts so that they were no longer blocking any part of the promenade.
“I do not think it is wise to have anyone mediating in this sort of situation, Amity,” I said. “You two must deal directly with each other. It is the only way forward.”
“There is something else, you know,” she said. She clenched her fists, then released them. “That girl—that dancer.”
“Hélène, yes.”
“She’s dead. He swears it wasn’t him—”
“You must believe that,” I said.
“I do. Augustus told me he watched him the entire night, and that he was only with her for a short while in the garden at the casino. After that, he wandered around near the beach.”
“Augustus was watching him?”
“It is what Augustus likes to do, and if it makes him feel useful, what’s the harm in it? At any rate, I know I can trust Jeremy in that regard. Are you certain that he can be happy with a wife like me?”
“I have never been more certain of anything.” I smiled, hoping there was no hint of my true feelings visible on my face. I did know that Jeremy adored her, and that he unquestionably thought she would make a perfect wife, but I still did not feel that I really knew Amity. Something about her felt false. Perhaps it was nothing more than the posturing they were both doing, but my intuition told me it was greater than that.
“I suppose we shall never find out who sent me that hat,” Amity said, changing the subject. “Not now that there is a murder to be solved.”
“I have not forgot that,” I said, “and you have given me an excellent idea as to what to do next. I hope I shall have answers for you before much longer. Now, are you feeling better? I think we had better return to the hotel. Jeremy is bound to be worried.”
* * *
Amity cried the prettiest tears I have ever seen when she stood in front of Jeremy, his face pale and drawn, waiting for her in the lobby (precisely where I had told him to be as I raced past him in pursuit of his fiancée). I left them to it, feeling rather nauseated by the way she was now fawning over him. Before returning to Colin and Margaret, I inquired at the desk as to whether Augustus was in his room. He was not, and the concierge told me he had gone to the garden at the Villa Vallombrosa, which was open to the public each afternoon. I intended to follow him there, and Colin agreed that confronting him abo
ut what he had seen the night of Mr. Neville’s death was an excellent idea.
“I did not say that is why I wanted to speak to him,” I said. “I had thought to ask him about the morning of the infamous hat delivery, but I see no reason I cannot address both topics.”
“I would rather you let me do it,” Colin said.
“Why don’t the three of us go?” Margaret asked. “When we find him, it will be natural for us to walk in twos, and he won’t suspect a thing.”
“What he suspects is irrelevant, Margaret,” I said. “I have no intention of being less than straightforward with him.”
“A little subtlety never hurts,” Colin said. “Margaret may be onto something.” And so it was decided. We set off for the villa, but locating Augustus in its acres of plants proved a challenge. The stunning grounds were filled with lush vegetation and towering trees: cedars of Lebanon and eucalyptus among swaying palms. Large patches of bamboo seemed to shudder in the wind, and the cool grottoes with their fountains could make a lady wish for a wrap on even the warmest summer day. Aspidistra and ficus thrived here. Roses filled the sunny spots and begonias brightened the shade, their delicate petals soft as satin. When at last we found Augustus—we identified him from a distance by the bright yellow carnation in his buttonhole—he was sitting on a sunny bench, using a magnifying glass to study a beetle of some sort.
“Do your interests extend to all insects, Mr. Wells?” Margaret asked after greeting him. “I thought you were particularly keen on butterflies.”
The Adventuress Page 19
