by Beth Byers
“Do you think that they know about what we’re up to?” Vi asked.
“Nothing we’re doing is criminal, Vi,” Jack said. “Don’t worry.”
She cleared her throat, trying for an innocent expression. It didn’t work. “I—”
“Tell me nothing,” Jack ordered. “I won’t lie to the detective.”
“Then you need to avoid the parlor,” Violet told him.
The constable eyed Violet and Jack but said nothing. Jack opened the door and walked into the entrance hall where Hargreaves was standing at the ready. He was not blocking the parlor door while very carefully blocking the parlor door.
“Why are the constables here when the murder happened two doors down?” Violet demanded.
A voice from Victor’s office answered her. “I fear some of the main suspects are in this house, ma’am.”
Violet met the gaze of the detective that Ham had assigned to this case. He was so ethical that no one who worked at Scotland Yard would doubt if he suggested Jack wasn’t the criminal, and he’d turned his attention Jack’s way. Violet’s nails dug into Jack’s arm even as she smiled at the detective.
“Are you stupid?” she asked merrily.
“I would like to talk to Mr. Wakefield. It’s necessary to do my work thoroughly and well, my lady.”
“Then I suggest you find the killer.”
“I realize you may have meddled in these types of investigations before, my lady. Surely, you’ve noticed that—”
“Enough,” Jack snapped. “Violet is going to defend me until her dying breath, Clarkson. I have been expecting you and I’ll do whatever I can to help you get a handle on the information you need. I trust you to do your job.”
The detective paused. He seemed a little relieved and Violet might have felt a flash of sympathy if the suspect were any other man. Investigating your superior’s best friend had to be the worst assignment you could be given. “Mr. Carlyle said I could use his office while I was here. If you wouldn’t mind?”
The detective stepped back and gestured for Jack, who nodded and entered the room as though he were the guest.
“Send in sandwiches and coffee to them,” Violet told Hargreaves. “We’ve had a trying morning, and it’s been far too long since breakfast. I’m sure they can both use a little sustenance.”
“Yes, ma’am.” He didn’t move, and Violet realized that he was guarding the door to the parlor. She smiled at him, perhaps a little shiny-eyed for either of their comfort, but he opened the door for her, blocking the entrance with his body after she slipped past.
When she glanced around the room, she found that the chalkboards had been completely redrawn and the names had gone from a huge number—nearly unattainable—to far fewer.
“What are we left with?”
“Seven,” Lila said. She was lying on the Chesterfield with her arm over her eyes. “We were down to four, but we’ve had to add three more from that John Smith fellow. He might have a pretty face”—Lila lifted her arm from her eyes and glanced at Vi—“but he’s terrifying. I’ll have one of your nightmares about him ferreting out my secrets.”
Denny groaned. “Vi, there’s some of those chocolate cocktails and sandwiches. Lila, darling one, you have no secrets.”
Lila had dropped her arm back over her eyes and she groaned, sounding like a softer echo of Denny. “That does make me feel better. Everyone already knows my flaws.”
Violet stared at them, kicked off her shoes, dropped her coat and then demanded, “Did you see the detective?”
“We pretended we weren’t here,” Lila said. “Victor didn’t give them the freedom of the house. He let one back to talk to the servants since they’re all emphatically loyal and he let the detective into his office.”
“All he’s going to find in there, should he snoop, is novels abandoned before we finished them.”
Violet skimmed the names on the boards. They were, each of them, circled. She felt very little surprise to read:
Robert Roche
Robbie Roche
Barty Roche
Gertrude Campbell
Lyle Longfellow
Henrietta Moore
The last name, however, shocked Violet. It was Emily Allen. Vi gasped. “I saw her there. She didn’t leave.”
“She also says she was in the ladies, but Gertrude didn’t mention her and Miss Allen didn’t mention Gertrude.”
Violet rubbed her hand along her collarbone then fiddled with her engagement ring. Emily Allen had made it known that she wanted another chance with Jack. Would she have framed him for murder if she realized it would never happen? One of those pulp novel plot points where the villain says, if I can’t have her, no one can?
Violet couldn’t quite see it.
“Why Miss Allen?”
Denny hopped up from his relaxed position, poured Violet a cocktail and pressed it into her hand. He was grinning and bouncing on his toes. “She was a sometime lover of Theo,” Denny said almost gleefully. “How absolutely fabulous would it be if she were the killer.”
“Miss Allen!” Vi gasped. She winced in sympathy for the woman. She’d had Jack’s heart and thrown it away to fall to the likes of Theo.
“Can you imagine?” Lila asked dryly, without lifting her arm.
“I would prefer not to,” Vi answered, sipping the cocktail that it was far too early into the day to drink. She sighed. “Just because she was his lover? How did he get someone as clever as Miss Allen?”
“I’ll never understand females,” Denny declared. “Even I knew Theo was an abrasive misogynist, and I’m a man. Yet the bloke had a whole slew of females. Some duke’s daughter, an American, a Russian, two French women, along with Miss Allen.”
“He wasn’t terrible to look at,” Lila said, finally sitting up. She glanced at Violet. “I’ve never worked harder. This is your birthday present and your Christmas present. We worked Kate into a headache and a nap. Victor went off with the pretty private detective, and the bulk of this was left to poor Denny and me.”
“What else did the pretty detective find out?”
“Theo was arrogant.” Denny sipped his cocktail while Violet shot him an irritated glance. They knew that already.
“What he means,” Lila said, taking her husband’s cocktail to sip for herself, “is that Theo kept a ledger and didn’t bother to use code or anything. You told the diabolical one to strip Theo bare, and it turns out all he had to do was pick a lock and read through Theo’s papers. Now he’s off trying to rule out which of Theo’s marks couldn’t have killed him.”
Violet closed her eyes in relief. She would fall to her knees later and have a prayer of gratitude for that break. She wasn’t sure that anything could help them more.
“So Gertrude doesn’t have an alibi? I stole a hidden locked bag from her room, but we’re smuggling it in with apparently a gift full of embarrassing things from the salon in case the police decide to search incoming packages.”
Lila gasped. “Jack bought you lingerie! I knew he was struggling harder than it seemed to keep to his chaste resolutions.”
“Lila, my pet,” Denny said, “Anyone with eyes could tell that. Poor Violet’s had the breath kissed from her in every corner of this house. My own eyes have been burned more than once.”
Violet ignored their banter and stared at the names. Perhaps with the information she’d gotten from Hotel Saffron, they’d be able to rule out or confirm one of the Roche party. They were the most obvious ones. She crossed to the line of chalkboards surrounding the room and erased one that had been thoroughly crossed out.
“Where’s Beatrice?” Vi asked absently.
“Collating all of our data on the remaining names. Re-reading to see if she can find any holes, and typing it all up for Ham.”
Vi nodded as she stared at the blank door. Her mouth twisted as she considered where to start. A moment later the door to the parlor opened and Jack walked in, closing it behind him. His jaw was tight, and his eyes were blan
k when Violet looked his way.
She shook her head and he simply crossed to her, taking her hand and jerking her into his arms. She was trembling, tears burning as she whispered, “No, no, no, no.”
“It’s just for a more thorough questioning.”
“Why?” Violet demanded. “Why?”
“It was my knife that killed Theo,” Jack said. “I just identified it.”
“Why didn’t you lie?” she hissed at him.
“It has a rather telltale sign on it that it’s mine, Vi. Ham already knew. They’d checked it for prints and mine were on it, Vi. Happily, whoever used it smudged my prints with their grasp using a handkerchief or gloves or something. Ham knew it was mine the moment he saw it. He’s concentrating on the fact that I didn’t wipe my prints but someone hid theirs.”
“Where is he? How could he! Why didn’t he lie?”
Jack pulled back and kissed her hard before he spoke. “Trust Ham!”
She couldn’t hold back the tears, but she was trying. She didn’t want Jack to be arrested with the memory of her crying in the parlor.
“Where was it, old man?” Denny asked.
“In my desk,” Jack sighed. “Easily found if you wanted to find it. I used it to open letters and to remind me of those days.”
“Why?” Violet demanded. “Why didn’t you have a dull letter opener like everyone else?”
“Because when we remember our dark days,” Jack said against her forehead, “we appreciate our lighter days. I kept it as a reminder of the things that have changed. You’re the star in my skies, Vi. My sun. The lantern on the hill. You’re all of it—that bedamned knife was my reminder of the darker days.”
Violet bit down on her bottom lip to keep from crying and wrapped herself tightly around him. She didn’t know how long it took for Hargreaves to enter silently and cross to Jack, speaking low, because she was focusing on the sound of his heartbeat and the scent of him.
“It will be fine,” Jack told her as he kissed her once more. “Ham has a plan.”
“You’re lying to me,” she told him, holding back the wail that they were supposed to be married in less than twenty-four hours.
He grinned for a moment, that penetrating gaze moving over her as if he were memorizing her and he winked. “Only a little.”
Chapter Sixteen
Violet stared at the parlor door Jack just closed. She could feel the gazes of Denny and Lila, and it made it all the worse. She didn’t speak as she walked to the same door, opened it, and stepped into the entrance hall. It was already empty, and Violet took a broken, halting breath before she ran up the stairs to her bedroom. Her spaniel, Rouge, was waiting as though she’d known Violet might need her. Violet let them both in, closing the door behind her and leaning against it.
As if Rouge somehow knew Violet was lost inside of her mind, the sweet little dog put a paw on Violet’s foot to anchor her from her thoughts. Vi stared down at the little dog and slowly slid to the floor, pulling her knees against her chest. Stabbed, with Jack’s knife, after Jack dragged Theo into the garden, and Jack was found standing over the body. She’d have laughed at the sheer cruelty of it if she’d been capable of making a noise at all. Instead, she put her chin on her knees and stared at the floor of her bedroom.
Violet wasn’t sure how much time passed while she sat against her bedroom door. She was beyond being able to write out her feelings in her journal, beyond being able to think anything at all. If her body could have turned off breathing, it would have. There was an abyss inside of her, one Violet didn’t dare think about or approach. She hoped if she waited long enough she’d be able to think well enough to come up with a plan.
There was a knock on her door sometime later. Vi could tell that time had passed because her bottom was numb and her back hurt, but it had seemed like only moments.
“Violet,” the hushed voice called. “Vi, darling. Please open up.”
Vi sort of grunted. She wasn’t ready yet. If she’d have cried, perhaps she could have faced someone else, but she hadn’t cried yet. She felt like a dam about to burst. She traced her fingertips over the swirls of wood on the floor. What was she going to do? Her wedding was supposed to be the next day.
Had the detective waited until the last minute before the wedding so Jack didn’t flee? Violet felt certain that the clever detective might have done just that. Or perhaps, Violet thought, the detective had given them as long as possible to solve the case and they’d failed.
“Violet,” the voice said a little sharper, “darling, if you don’t open the door, I fear we’ll have to force the issue.”
Violet blinked as she heard her name called again. There was the quiet murmur of conversation, and Violet slowly realized they meant for her to open the door or else. She pushed herself to her feet and, like an automaton, opened the door and stared at the faces on the other side.
Kate, of course, that was who had been speaking. Vi’s sister, Isolde, was there, her wide, blue eyes making Violet feel as though she should be more capable. Vi always felt as though she were supposed to be strong around Isolde, but not this time. Even Denny and Lila had wide, panicked gazes.
That would have been enough, but there were servants there as well. Beatrice, Violet’s steady maid and assistant. Even the butler, Hargreaves, was present, and he didn’t have his expressionless face on.
“Violet,” Kate said. “Oh darling, haven’t you cried at all?”
Violet shrugged and tucked her hair behind her ear.
“Victor hasn’t come back yet,” Kate said, eyes welling with tears. “I’m afraid I don’t know what to do.” The tears slipped over Kate’s face, but Violet turned away. “We’ve sent servants and Tomas everywhere we could think of to locate Victor, but he’s working with Mr. Smith on the investigation.”
Beatrice cleared her throat as Violet only nodded. After a moment, Violet spoke, since they seemed to be waiting for her to do so. “All right then.”
“What do you want us to do?” Kate asked, still crying. Her tears were silent things, rolling down her cheeks.
“Is the servant back with the things I took from the Roches?”
They all shook their heads.
“Then nothing, I suppose,” Violet said, turning to go back to her room. Maybe this time she’d stare at the floor from a chair.
Lila grabbed Violet’s arm and snapped, “No!”
“No?” Violet blinked rather stupidly.
Lila yanked her into the hallway with a strength Violet wasn’t aware Lila possessed. Vi’s best friend dragged her down to the gymnasium and shoved Violet in front of the punching bag as everyone followed. Violet glanced at Lila and then beyond to the whole circle of friends and family.
“Punch it,” Lila ordered.
“Why?”
“If you won’t cry, you have to get it out another way.”
“It?” Violet pressed her hand against her forehead. Maybe she had gone mad. Maybe Jack wasn’t being questioned at Scotland Yard for a crime he didn’t commit, maybe she was just having a very terrible, very real-feeling dream.
“Whatever you’re boxing up inside of that heart of yours would leave me curled up on a sofa screaming to the heavens.”
Violet stared at the punching bag, knowing she hadn’t gone mad and that this was really happening. She slowly curled her hands into a fist and punched it into the bag.
“Please,” Lila said sarcastically. “Lady Eleanor could hit harder than that.”
Violet hit the punching bag again.
“She’d laugh at you for that,” Lila told Violet. “Then she’d get one of her real children to do it better.”
Violet scowled fiercely as Isolde gasped. “Lila!”
Vi hit the punching bag harder the next time, and she felt the sting in her hands. That felt right. How she should feel, if she could feel.
“Again,” Lila ordered.
Violet hit it again, and she didn’t need another order to keeping going. She kept hitting it.
Behind her there was whispered conversation, but Violet wasn’t listening. She focused on the sound of her breathing, the sound of the blood in her ears, the sound of her hands slamming into the punching bag. Maybe if she hit the bag hard enough she’d be struck by some inspiration that told her what to do next.
“Beatrice,” Violet snapped as she paused after a particularly hard strike. “Did you find anything out while you were compiling? Anything that was missed before?”
Beatrice gasped at the sudden question and then shook her head. Violet looked back to the punching bag. If Jack were here and this case were a little less personal, what would Violet be doing? She started punching again even though her hands had begun to pulsate with each beat of her heart. She didn’t stop even though her ring was digging into her finger. She didn’t stop even though an occasional tear slipped down her cheek, even though she was being watched like a mouse surrounded by hawks, even though what she was doing felt useless and worthless.
Finally, Denny lifted her physically and pulled her away. “Vi, darling, that’s enough. Generally we wrap our hands or wear gloves. Your fingers are going to be bruised and sore.”
Violet stared at him. “I don’t know what to do.”
“Let’s do what we always do,” Denny suggested. “Lila, Kate, and I—we’ve been working on it. We narrowed things down for you, Vi,” Denny said. “Let’s go stare at the chalkboards, find the fiend, and get Jack back.”
Violet couldn’t stop the stray tear or two, and she bit down on her lip to keep even more from coming. Denny tucked Violet’s hurting hand under his elbow and drew her from the gymnasium. He chattered about Jack as they went. About how poor Detective Clarkson wasn’t ready for someone as clever as Jack.
“He should have lied to the detective, made them work for it,” Violet told Denny, furious all at once.
“I’d have,” Denny agreed. “I’m generally useless, but I can be counted on to look after myself.”
“He’s too busy focusing on—on—ah!”
“What’s right and moral?” Denny asked with a little smile. “He does seem to be one of those rare birds who worries about such things. It might be one of the things you love about him.”
