“Honestly, Frances, after all that woman and her husband put you through, I can’t believe you are worried about her feelings. Besides, reading about Stoke-Whitney’s crimes in a letter is hardly better than reading it in the papers.”
“I’ll be kinder, and she’ll find out ahead of everyone else. It would be better in person, but I’m not up to checking the train schedules at the moment.”
“Where is her country home?” Gilliam asked.
“Not far, actually. It’s in Chelmsford,” I replied.
“Well, that’s less than an hour away, and on a good road, too. I could have you there and back before nightfall if you’d let me drive you.”
I felt a sudden chill. “In your motorcar? No, I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
“Why, it’s a splendid idea.” Aunt Hetty had suddenly become all smiles. “Though I don’t know why you wish to trouble yourself with her, I think a drive to the country is just the ticket. The perfect way to blow off the cobwebs.”
I was afraid it would blow off more than that. “This seems like a great deal more trouble than just writing a letter.”
“No trouble at all,” he said. “I’m delighted to provide some assistance. As Mrs. Chesney says, you’ve been through a difficult time, and a drive is just the thing to remind you that you are still alive.”
“But for how long?”
“Don’t be such a stick in the mud, Frances. Gilliam hasn’t lost a passenger yet. We’ll all go.” Hetty got to her feet, as if the discussion was over. “You’ll love it.”
* * *
I did not love it.
Once the novelty of the first twenty minutes of breathtaking motion had worn off, all I noticed was the discomfort. Hetty sat in the front seat, as, of course, did Gilliam. I could forgive him, as he had to drive the contraption, which he explained to me was called a Daimler. This arrangement left me clinging to the seat directly behind and slightly above them. My breath was not the only thing taken away by the wind. It took my hairpins, even though my hat was secured with a scarf. It took every drop of moisture from my eyes, possibly a layer of skin from my cheeks, and every word from my lips—most of which were calls to stop or at least slow down.
This might have been an amusing occupation in May or June, but this was November, and despite my thick coat, I was thoroughly chilled. There could be no conversation, as nothing could be heard over the rushing wind. Why did this thing not have a roof? Had anyone tried this motorcar on the open road before manufacturing and selling them to the public? This machine would never catch on as a mode of transportation.
While I stewed in my discomfort, we did manage to pass a few more miles and slowed down to enter a village. We stopped briefly at the inn for directions to the Stoke-Whitney home, and for me to stuff my hair back up into my hat. We were on the road again far too soon, with Gilliam’s assurance the manor was only a few miles ahead. I should have insisted on sending a letter.
Blow off the cobwebs, indeed.
Fortunately, he had not exaggerated. Within minutes, we turned off the road and into the drive leading to our destination. He turned off the engine, and I pried my fingers from the back of Hetty’s seat, while he came around the front of the vehicle to help us both down. My legs felt as wobbly as if I’d been aboard a ship.
The Stoke-Whitney butler met us at the door. “Good afternoon, ladies, sir.” He backed away from the entrance to allow us into the hall.
“Good afternoon,” I said once inside. “I am Lady Harleigh.” I withdrew a calling card and handed it to him. “My aunt, her friend, and I are here to pay a call on Mrs. Stoke-Whitney. I’m afraid it’s rather urgent, so I do hope she’s at home.”
“I am grieved to disappoint you, my lady.” Indeed, he did look distressed. “But Mrs. Stoke-Whitney is unable to receive callers at this time.”
Through sheer force of will, I didn’t roll my eyes. Knowing Alicia, “unable to receive callers” could mean she was in bed with the underbutler or some neighbor’s husband. “Perhaps you could check with her? We’ve just come from town, with a message of the utmost urgency. I am certain she will want to see me.”
“I’m afraid it’s not possible to disturb her at the moment, as she’s quite unwell.”
“Unwell? That’s unfortunate. Didn’t she just arrive yesterday?”
“She did, madam. And she seemed in good health at the time, though a bit out of sorts. It seems she fell ill overnight and telephoned Mr. Stoke-Whitney. He arrived early this morning and has been faithfully caring for her.”
“Mr. Stoke-Whitney is here?” What was he doing here? Something about this story sent a chill through me. He wouldn’t care if Alicia was ill. He certainly wouldn’t come running to her aid. And nursing her? Something was just wrong about this situation.
“Yes, he is in residence, but he asked very specifically not to be disturbed. I’m terribly sorry you’ve made the trip for nothing.”
Gilliam replaced his hat and moved toward the door. It was clear we’d been dismissed, and under normal circumstances, we’d return to the village and inform a constable or the magistrate that the Metropolitan Police was looking for Stoke-Whitney. But I couldn’t make myself leave. Something odd was going on here, and I couldn’t help but think Alicia was in danger.
Still, what could I do? Insist upon staying or demand to see Stoke-Whitney? No, actually, I had no desire to see him. An idea occurred to me, and as much as I hated to do it, I saw no other choice.
“If you would indulge me,” I said. “Before we take the long drive back to town, would it be possible to refresh myself?” Under normal circumstances, a lady would never acknowledge such a need. Indeed, I had the man flustered, but after a scant hesitation, he recovered his composure.
“Of course, my lady. If your companions would care to wait in the blue salon.” He waved a hand, indicating an anteroom to the left of the hall.
Hetty pulled me aside before following Gilliam into the room. I didn’t wait for her question.
“I have to find Alicia and see if she’s all right. Then we’ll fetch the police. If I don’t return in a timely manner, go without me.”
I turned away from her horrified face to find the butler waiting. “If you’ll come this way, ma’am.”
As I’d expected, he led me up the stairs, past the main rooms, to the family area of the house, which was where I hoped to find Alicia. He came to an abrupt halt and indicated a door along the hallway. “You should find everything you need in here, ma’am.”
“Thank you.” I looked around. “I should be able to find my way back on my own.” Heaven knew what I’d do if he insisted on waiting.
“Of course.” With a bow, he turned and headed down the hall.
I stepped inside the small room and closed the door behind me, just in case he looked back. I counted to five and slowly eased the door open, then peeked out with one eye. He was gone. Now, where was Alicia?
There were six doors between me and the turning in the hallway. We’d come up the central staircase, a very elaborate affair. Where would the master suite be? Near the stairs, for convenience, or farther down the hall, for privacy? My guess was convenience, and as my gaze traveled the hallway, I noticed a key in one of the closest doors. Odd, unless Stoke-Whitney had locked Alicia in. Was that a crazy idea? I reminded myself he was a murderer. Nothing was crazy, but this could be terribly embarrassing.
I turned the key as quietly as possible, but it made a click, and I heard someone stir inside the room. I pushed the door open and poked my head in.
And came face-to-face with Alicia.
We both started, but she was first to recover and pressed her fingers against my lips, her other hand pulling me inside. Once my heart returned from its leap to my throat, I complied, then closed the door behind me and took in the luxurious appointments in the very feminine room.
“I don’t know what you’re doing here,” Alicia whispered, “but thank goodness you’ve come. Arthur arrived this morning
in a foul mood.” She gestured to the key still in my hand. “He found that from who knows where and, without so much as a word, locked me in here.”
“Then you didn’t send for him? You didn’t know he was coming?”
“Send for him? Why would I do that?”
“He told your butler that you are ill, that you sent for him, and that he came here to care for you.”
She flung out her arms. “You can see how he’s caring for me, and I’m not ill. What is he up to?” She stepped back and gave me a look. “Why are you here?”
“It’s rather a long story. First, tell me, why are we whispering? Is your husband nearby?”
“Just on the other side of the dressing room. I’ve heard him moving around. I know he’s angry. The last thing I want to do is disturb him.”
Bother. But then I supposed it was good to know where he was. I placed a hand on Alicia’s shoulder. “I shall have to give you the abbreviated explanation, and you will simply have to trust me. Arthur is in trouble back in London. Now that he’s here, I’m afraid he wants to hurt you. I think you need to come away with me.” I finally realized she was still in her nightclothes. “It’s the middle of the afternoon. Why are you not dressed?”
She ignored my question. “Why would he want to hurt me?”
“I don’t have time for questions, Alicia. Did you miss the part where I said to trust me? We have to leave quickly, before the butler tells your husband I’m here.”
Too late. I heard a key scratch in a lock. The dressing room door. We had mere seconds.
“Get in bed and pretend to sleep.” I gave Alicia a shove toward the bed and looked for somewhere to hide, finally opting for the heavy draperies over the window. With any luck, Stoke-Whitney would see his wife sleeping and would come back later—after we were long gone.
I heard him step into the room and pause. Now, if only he’d turn around and go away. A floorboard squeaked as he advanced toward the bed. Bother! I’d counted on him to behave like a gentleman and let her sleep. If he decided to quarrel with her now, I could be stuck here for hours, while Hetty and Gilliam attempted to distract the butler. At least he wasn’t likely to look for me in Alicia’s room. And he could hardly report my trespass to his master, so I supposed things could be worse.
Things became worse quickly. The bedsprings creaked. Alicia groaned softly, as if she didn’t want to wake up. Then she groaned again, this time with a bit more enthusiasm. Were they doing what I thought they were doing? Was I really to be stuck behind these draperies while they made love not a dozen feet away from me? I looked out the window and wondered how much damage I’d sustain if I jumped.
Another noise. Was that a squeal?
“Are you begging for mercy, Alicia? What a shame I can’t quite understand you.”
His silky voice made me shiver. And those hardly sounded like words of love. I moved the edge of the drape ever so slightly, just enough to peer out, and blanched at the sight on the bed. Stoke-Whitney knelt over Alicia, pressing a pillow against her face, while her right arm flailed helplessly in the air.
Heavens, he was killing her before my eyes!
I don’t even recall moving, but I did see the man’s expression of utter shock as I ran from the window and launched myself at him with enough force to take us both across the bed and onto the floor in a tangle of sheets and counterpane. Before I could catch my breath, he pushed to his knees with me clinging to his back, a very precarious position.
Stoke-Whitney managed to come to his feet, though he was covered with a sheet. I still hung from his neck while kicking at his legs and screaming for all I was worth. As he spun this way and that, I caught a glimpse of Alicia, struggling to sit up. I’d find no assistance from her.
Just as my grip grew lax, the door burst open, and a maid rushed in, followed by the butler. How must this look to them? Before they could decide I was the problem in this situation, I took charge.
“You, go and help your mistress. And you . . .” I nodded at the butler as my grip gave way and I slid from Stoke-Whitney’s back to the floor. “Help me with him. He was trying to murder her.”
The maid ran to Alicia, but the butler stood in the doorway, his eyes wide and jaw slack. Fortunately, Hetty and Gilliam pushed past him. Just as Stoke-Whitney fought himself loose from the bedsheet, Gilliam pinned him down.
“Whoever you are, you have this backward.” Stoke-Whitney struggled in Gilliam’s hold. “It was her. I came in to find Lady Harleigh smothering Alicia. I attacked her to save my wife.”
I pushed myself to my feet as the butler weighed the veracity of his master’s statements. We were three strangers, after all.
“Send for the magistrate,” I told him.
“No.” Stoke-Whitney’s face was a mask of impotent rage. “I am master here, and this woman was trying to murder your mistress.” His eyes pleaded with his wife. After what he’d done, he still thought she’d lie for him?
Clinging to the maid, she stared at him as if he were crazy, but he made one more plea.
“Think of my children.”
She turned away from him. “It was as Lady Harleigh said. He tried to kill me. Call for the magistrate.”
“Aunt Hetty, go with him. Tell the magistrate to contact Inspector Delaney at the Chelsea division.” I took custody of Alicia, who was shivering and limp in my arms, and sent the maid in search of a wrapper.
Hetty and the butler left, and with the departure of his only ally, Stoke-Whitney ceased struggling and simply stood, with Gilliam holding his arms behind him.
“Inspector Delaney is already looking for you in London,” I told him. “He has enough evidence to charge you with the murder of Irena Teskey.”
Alicia’s eyes rounded in horror. “You? What have you to do with that woman?”
“Nothing. I never had anything to do with her.”
“His first wife, Jane, was Irena’s mother,” I told her.
As Alicia put all the pieces together, her face reflected her revulsion.
Stoke-Whitney saw it, too. Trapped in Gilliam’s grip, he released a growl of frustration. “Jane was just like you. The two of you did your best to bring shame to this family.”
“Yet, ironically, it was you who succeeded in doing so.” Alicia sank to the bed, and I sat beside her, wrapping a protective arm around her shoulders. She lifted her gaze to her husband. “You tried to kill me because you thought I disgraced the family name.” Her voice dropped to a breathy whisper. “Did you murder Jane?”
Stoke-Whitney snapped his jaw shut and gave her a look of contempt that chilled me.
Alicia ignored it and continued in a soft monotone. “It would have been so easy for you to do. She was here. She’d just given birth, probably weak as a baby herself. All you had to do was put a pillow over her face, as you did with me. I was just fortunate someone was here to stop you.”
“Be quiet,” he snapped. “Aren’t things bad enough?”
“Then you just sent the child on to her father, like so much useless property.”
“I said, be quiet!” His eyes bulged. A bit of spittle wobbled on his lip.
Gilliam and I exchanged a glance. This was far more than either of us had expected.
Alicia was in no mood to be quiet. It was as if she needed to pay him back for all his years of bullying. “Why should I? Your silver tongue won’t save you from this mess, Arthur. There’s no question you tried to murder me. The police seem to have evidence to prove you murdered that young woman.” She let out a strangled laugh. Tears filled her eyes as she began to shiver. “It doesn’t even matter if you killed Jane, too, at least not to any judge. After all, they can hang you only once.”
From the expression on his face, this was the first time he’d considered the punishment for his crimes. Once again, he struggled and failed to break free.
“What will your boys think, Arthur? You murdered their mother.”
“She was planning to leave them.” His voice was a low growl. “She could
n’t just have an affair. She had to fall in love with the man. She was willing to leave me and the boys for him—let the world know it was his child she carried. I couldn’t let that happen.”
“Now the world will know you’re a murderer.” Alicia bowed her head and released a sob. “I know you don’t care about Harriet or me, but you have ruined your sons’ lives, too.”
“For their sake, you must help me,” he said.
I was stunned. Despite the blatant fear in his eyes, it was clear he still held out hope of Alicia helping him.
“You’re beyond my help, Arthur.” She nodded to the bedside table, where the Book of Common Prayer lay—just as pristine and untouched as one might expect. “There’s your salvation.” She stood and wobbled on her feet. “Frances, will you help me to Arthur’s room? I’ll wait for the police in there.”
I caught her as she stumbled. The maid had already disappeared through the dressing room, and Alicia clung to me. I glanced at Gilliam. He still held Stoke-Whitney’s arms behind his back, though the man had ceased struggling and seemed almost resigned to his fate—his face blank and eyes lifeless.
Gilliam gave me a nod. “Go with her. I’ll be fine here.”
“I’ll get her settled and return to wait with you.”
Alicia leaned on my arm and let me guide her through the dressing room and into Arthur’s bedchamber, where I helped her into a chair. When I turned to leave, she caught my arm.
“Wait. He needs some time.”
Before I could make sense of her comment, I heard a scuffle in the other room. I pulled away from her grasp and was starting toward the dressing room when a shot rang out. Surging forward, I stumbled into Gilliam, who caught me up in the doorway and pushed me back.
“Don’t go in there,” he said, turning me around.
I looked him over for signs of injury. “What happened? Are you hurt?”
A Fiancée's Guide to First Wives and Murder Page 26
