by Beth Byers
“I agree with that sentiment.” Violet grinned.
She nodded and rang the bell for Hargreaves. They’d need him to send for the private investigator they’d employed to help clear Jack’s name. The man would do anything for his client, and Violet wasn’t above having him help her manipulate the players in this case to find the truth.
“Martha is stupid to a level that is shocking,” Violet told Jack that night.
“So you had to hire the angel-devil detective. He’s a step above a criminal, Violet.”
“These aren’t our people, Jack,” Violet said. “They aren’t going to tell us their secrets. We can’t believe that Henry is a good guy who controls his drug use because Martha says so. We can’t trust that Joshie isn’t in love with Heather because Martha says it was brotherly. We need someone who will discover their secrets for us. Someone who doesn’t care what they are but will chase them to the ground.”
“Why do you have to be involved at all?”
“Martha is too stupid to live. Someone has to help her. There is no way she isn’t on Detective Clarkson’s list of suspects and probably at the top.”
Jack rubbed his jaw, examining the stubble in the mirror before turning to Violet. He shook his head. “I suppose I fell in love with you because you looked after the defenseless. It’s an appealing trait in a person who should be even more spoilt and stupid than Martha.”
Violet sat down on his lap, wrapping her arms around his neck. “I fell in love with you because you didn’t see me as another spoilt, stupid lady. I guess we really are a match made in heaven.”
Jack laughed against her lips, kissed her, and then leaned back. “Ask.”
“Who does Clarkson prefer for the crime?”
Jack frowned as he admitted, “Martha. The doctor won’t say when he thought Bobby was stabbed, so it could be Martha when she disappeared at the tango club. The only ones who it couldn’t be is you and Rita.”
Violet pressed her forehead against Jack’s chest, listening to his heartbeat, and knew she was a maudlin fool when the sound of it gave her peace. “Who do you think did it?”
“There’s no evidence trapping anyone right now. Clarkson’s men need to find the weapon, if they can.”
“You still have a theory.”
“I lean towards Joshie or Heather. Sally took Bobby’s neglect and abuse for too long to think she’d turn on him after all that time. Joshie could easily have feelings for Heather. He had to have guessed she went home, and unlike Bobby, Joshie wouldn’t be someone her parents would hate.”
Violet considered. “I don’t think we should discount Sally, but I’d like to think it was Heather standing up for herself after all his abuse. Really, however, I’d prefer it was that fellow at the door. You know what pauses me?”
Jack tilted his head for the answer, but didn’t wait for it. Instead he peppered her face with light, soft kisses. Violet was distracted until he asked, “What pauses you, love?”
“Someone stabbed Bobby and he didn’t react. He didn’t stagger and call for help. He didn’t try to get revenge. He didn’t fall down dead. Whoever stabbed him—it was in the back—it must have been this act of rage, but then he just kept walking around. One of them knew he’d been stabbed. They must have been going mad wondering what was happening.”
Jack rubbed his chin along his jaw. “So who is the best actress of them all?”
“Not Martha,” Violet told him and Jack nodded.
“Not Martha.” He sighed. “It never ceases to amaze me what people do to each other. You would think that whoever stabbed him would have run. Tried to hide or get away or finish the job even, but to just casually wait? That takes a coldness that I wish I had a harder time imagining.”
“It seems all too possible after the cases I’ve seen,” Violet told him. “It must be infinitely worse for you with all that you’ve seen.”
“Before you, Vi, it was slowly ruining me.”
Jack lifted Violet from the chair and carried her to the bed. He laid her down and then stretched out next to her, pressing another kiss to her forehead and then running more along her jaw. In the moments before they slept, he showed her once again what it was to be cherished and adored.
Chapter Fifteen
It took Martha three days to get Heather to Violet’s house. During that time, they’d discovered that Bobby had owed a lot of money to a lot of people. They were, however, all rather like Martha and Joshie. Fools with too much money who’d come into his web.
“It seems to me,” Rita said, “that whoever killed him was someone who knew him well enough to see through his lies.”
“I’d like to know why Clarkson’s men haven’t found the weapon yet,” Jack said. “Someone might have snapped and killed Bobby, but they aren’t evil geniuses. Finding the weapon could break the whole case open and draw it to a conclusion.”
Their conversation fell to an immediate stop when Heather was presented at the door with her mother. Violet lifted a brow at Martha, but she shrugged. Heather and her mother walked into the room and took the seat that was offered along with the cup of tea. Heather didn’t drink the tea and Violet watched her fiddle with the cup for a long while.
Heather’s mother finally spoke. “I understand I have you to thank for returning my daughter to me, Lady Violet.”
“Just Vi, please,” Violet said, hoping it would set the woman at ease, but if anything she stiffened.
“I’m sorry, Lady Violet,” Mrs. Flye said. “My daughter and I have heard of your reputation.”
“I must seem like a monster to you then,” Violet said. “An interfering spoiled woman who wiles away an afternoon digging through people’s secrets.”
“Perhaps,” Mrs. Flye said stiffly.
“Of course,” Violet said easily, “if I didn’t interfere and meddle, I’d have left your daughter in the state I found her.”
Mrs. Flye’s gaze darted to Violet, and the woman’s mouth pursed. Her gaze moved to her daughter and she stiffened.
“I am not a monster,” Violet told Mrs. Flye. “I have no desire to see your daughter suffer or be accused of a crime she did not commit. Mrs. Flye, you must know that Heather is a suspect in this crime.”
“My daughter did nothing to that Bobby fellow, but even if she had, he would have deserved it.”
Violet sipped her coffee, attempting to gather her thoughts. “I agree with you wholeheartedly there.”
“Why are you interfering then?”
“Mrs. Flye, I understand better than you can know what it is like to have someone you love suspected of murder.”
“Then you’ll understand that I don’t wish to help you.”
“Yes, of course,” Violet said.
Mrs. Flye set down her teacup and then nodded at Violet. Before Mrs. Flye and Heather could make their apologies, Violet added, “It will be a shame when your daughter is arrested on suspicion of murder.”
Mrs. Flye’s jaw firmed. “Heather did nothing. They won’t be able to prove a thing.”
“Only that Bobby’s sometime lover left him, returned inexplicably, and then he fell dead.”
“She was only keeping her promises. Joshie and the rest of the band were counting on her. Not just Bobby.”
“Of course,” Violet agreed. “Of course. I’m sure that any jury will believe that a manipulated and abused young woman had reached her limit of abuse, was leaving her lover, and then decided to return to help him one final time.”
Mrs. Flye swallowed. “Bobby wasn’t the only person in that band. He wasn’t the only person who was counting on Heather.”
“No,” Violet agreed. “There was Joshie Mortar. The very man who introduced Heather to the criminal Bobby and changed the fate of Heather’s life.”
“It wasn’t Joshie’s fault,” Heather said, suddenly. “He tried again and again to get me to go home. He swore Mama and Daddy would forgive me. If he didn’t talk about it so much, I wouldn’t have had the courage.”
Violet
sipped her coffee, letting her doubt fill her expression before she spoke again. “I’m sure the jury will believe you.” The doubt flooded Violet’s tone and Heather flushed.
“It is true. Joshie is a friend, and I couldn’t leave him like that. He needed the money for playing that night.”
“His father is rich.”
“He wasn’t taking money from his father.” Heather’s voice cracked.
“The problem isn’t convincing me,” Violet told Heather flatly. “It’s convincing the jury. A rich boy who won’t take money from his father out of pride. A girl who returns to help that rich boy avoid asking for help after the same fellow convinced her to go home to escape a manipulating drug user boyfriend.”
“It isn’t the same,” Heather said. “Joshie is brilliant. He’d die in a barrister’s office.”
Violet lifted a brow and then glanced at Rita, whose expression was equally mocking.
“I got there just before we were supposed to start playing,” Heather said suddenly.
“Don’t speak of it,” Mrs. Flye said. “If you do what Sally said and you can keep quiet, they won’t have anything to go on.”
“Sally?” Violet demanded.
“Henry said it,” Heather told Violet. “Sally just brought the message.”
Violet scoffed.
“Joshie agrees. He said that as long as we stand together, they can’t convict any of us of anything other than being there when Bobby collapsed. He was a criminal who was stabbed by one of the people he associated with.”
Violet laughed. “Bobby was a conman who persuaded women to give him money while he ran underground jazz clubs that specialized in making little rich girls and boys feel daring.”
Heather blushed.
“I heard him say he loved you.”
Heather’s gaze darted to Violet.
Mrs. Flye snorted. “That wasn’t love.”
“It felt like love to Heather,” Violet said, and watched the girl flush. It was enough to convince Violet that Heather was one of those girls who focused on the good times. She let the bad times go and focused on the fun, the love, the happiness. Violet didn’t believe that Bobby truly loved Heather—or anyone—but women didn’t leave him. He left them.
“He said he wanted to marry you,” Violet told Heather.
She shook her head, tears welling in her eyes.
“He said he loved you and you left him. He died lying to protect someone. I think it was you.”
“No! No, it wasn’t.”
“Then why are you protecting the person who killed him?”
“I’m not!”
“That’s enough, Heather.”
“No.” Heather spun on her mother. “No! I didn’t kill Bobby, and I don’t believe Joshie did either. It was Martha or Sally or Henry. Lady Violet is right. I won’t protect his killer.”
“Heather!” Mrs. Flye shouted. “Stop this!”
“Mrs. Flye,” Violet snapped. “We aren’t talking about her family. Or good friends. We’re talking about a group of people pulled together by the charisma of a dead man. With each day that passes, they’re all wondering who is going to cave first.”
Mrs. Flye bit her bottom lip, crossing her arms over her chest.
“What is going to happen is that Detective Clarkson—who is one of Scotland Yard’s very best—will find the murder weapon or something nefarious about one of the others. By stonewalling the detectives, you all are making it seem as though you either worked together to kill him or you’re working together to protect the killer. Either way, you’re helping a killer.”
“You should understand as well,” Rita said, “Jack Wakefield and Hamilton Barnes are involved in this case. Along with Detective Clarkson, you have three of the very best that England has to offer discovering the truth. It will out. Trust Violet to help you, and she can persuade both Barnes and Wakefield to move past your interference. There is perhaps no one who can help you as Vi can.”
“Why would she believe me?” Heather asked. “Why me over Joshie or Henry or Sally?”
“You didn’t kill him,” Violet said. “It’s obvious that it was Sally or it was you.”
Rita choked and Jack shifted without saying a word. Lila and Denny both glanced at each other and then Denny giggled low, muffling it with his hand over his mouth.
Heather flushed. “I don’t know who killed him, but it wasn’t me.”
“Yes, you do know,” Violet replied. “You’re simply trying not to think about it.”
Heather shook her head again.
Violet stood and crossed to the chalkboard. “Whoever stabbed Bobby did it because they snapped in fury.” She pointed to Henry’s name. “There’s no suggestion that Henry was emotionally involved enough to become furious.”
“Why does that mean it was Sally?” Denny asked. “Or Heather?”
Violet glanced at Denny and then pointed to the next name. “Joshie doesn’t love Heather enough to kill for her. You finding your way home was all Joshie wanted. As far as he was concerned, the moment you returned to your parents, he was absolved. He’s too obsessed with his music to worry about anything else.”
“What about Martha?” Mrs. Flye demanded.
“Martha was playing with the idea that sweat and grit were valuable. The truth is, Martha has been biding her time for a rich man to spoil her. She didn’t love Bobby. She loved the idea of him being obsessed with her. She is an idiot,” Violet told Heather and Mrs. Flye, “but Martha is too spoiled and too self-obsessed to love anyone but herself.”
Martha gasped.
Violet ignored Martha to point to Sally’s name. “Sally, however, loved Bobby. She stood by him, even after she heard him say he loved you. She heard him say he wanted to marry you. I don’t know whether she stabbed him in the dark, when the lights in the hall were out, or whether she stabbed him after he slapped her and got her dismissed from her only legitimate position that didn’t depend on him. Maybe she stabbed him when she saw you returned, but she is the only one of you who has a motive that I can believe. Outside of yourself, of course.”
“I don’t know who stabbed him, but Sally wasn’t herself,” Heather said suddenly. With that, the alliance was broken. Violet glanced at Jack and he shook his head just slightly enough to encourage Vi to keep going.
“Of course she wasn’t,” Vi agreed. “She’d either stabbed Bobby, and he kept walking around, or she was realizing he’d never love her and all her devotion was for naught.”
“I can get her here!” Heather said. “I can get her here.”
“Why don’t we get them all here,” Violet said. “You may use our telephone or our servants if they’re not reachable by telephone. Send them notes, whatever you need to do. Explain that you’re telling everything to the detectives tonight. You can’t lie anymore. Tell them to be here by 9:00 p.m.”
Chapter Sixteen
“Well,” Detective Clarkson said as he walked through the parlor door, “I’m here. Who is the killer?”
Violet considered not answering, but she glanced at Ham instead. He hadn’t even been paying attention. He was staring at Rita’s feet as if that were somehow less disturbing than staring at her face.
“Well?” Clarkson demanded.
Ham snorted and looked up. “Stow it, Clarkson. Sit down, be unobtrusive, and take notes.”
Clarkson’s jaw dropped open.
“Siam?” Ham demanded suddenly. “Siam?”
Rita glanced up at him and shrugged. “Sure. Why not?”
That question was just loaded enough that Violet winced, but Ham—the fool—didn’t realize the dare in the question. For the love of all that was holy, Violet wanted to slap Detective Hamilton Barnes, the too-observant, too-aware detective, in the back of the head and knock some sense into him.
Violet looked at Jack and he shook his head. Why not? she demanded silently, but Jack’s expression didn’t change.
“By Jove!” Violet said, standing. “I need a cocktail.”
&n
bsp; “Victor left this morning,” Jack told her.
“Yes,” she snapped. “I know. I believe I can figure out how to slosh some gin and tonic over ice.”
She crossed to the bar, stared at the bottle, and then poured herself her favorite ginger wine instead. Sipping at it, she waited in the chair next to Jack and remained quiet as the guests arrived.
When everyone had gathered, Violet waited long enough for people to start shifting in their seats before she stood. She crossed her fingers that her performance would work.
She glanced around the room and found her private detective, John Smith, as well as Denny, Lila, Jack, Detective Clarkson, Rita, and Ham. At the door to the room were two uniformed officers, and lined up in a row, so they couldn’t see each other’s faces, were the suspects. Henry, Sally, Joshie, Martha, and Heather. Heather’s parents had accompanied her, as had Joshie’s father.
“Let me speak first to those who are here out of the kindness of my heart,” Violet said to Heather’s parents and Mr. Mortar, Joshie’s father. “If you interfere, you will be escorted from the room and refused entrance. Do you understand?”
“This is very irregular,” Mr. Mortar said.
“Too true,” Violet said. “Don’t speak again or your removal will occur now.”
To the others, she walked in front of them and then said, “We already know you have conspired to remain silent on the death of Bobby. A conspiracy of fools.”
Sally glanced at Joshie, whose jaw flexed but he said nothing.
“What you don’t know,” Violet added, “is that in leaving Martha both out of your conspiracy and making her a suspect with you, you have pulled in myself and my resource. May I present to you, Detective John Smith. One of London’s foremost private investigators,” Violet lied—more like most disreputable. “Terrible things have been uncovered about each of you.”
They hadn’t had time for that really, but Violet had little doubt they all had secrets.
“Things you would prefer to remain silent,” she continued. “What confuses all of us is how a group of people who do not like each other and do not trust each other and are not loyal to each other would help to cover up a murder.”
