A Murderous Marriage

by Alyssa Maxwell

  * * *

  Phoebe rose especially early the next morning, dressed without waking Eva, and hurried down in the lift. She was determined to witness whatever Miss Blair and Ernie Shelton were expecting to happen this morning.

  Her arrival in the dining room proved timely, for Sir Hugh Fitzallen was just being seated at a table by himself. She wondered if he, too, might be anticipating an important event in the next couple of hours. A bit of luck had him gazing up in her direction as he sat, and she used the opportunity to smile and wave. She knew exactly what the result would be.

  He spoke to the waiter, who immediately came over to her. “The gentleman I just seated asked if you would join him for breakfast, my lady.”

  Yes, she had expected as much, for a gentleman could not do otherwise.

  Mildred Blair and Ernest Shelton had acted suspiciously yesterday, and Veronica Townsend sported a wound that could have produced the blood found on the railing of the Georgiana. But those particulars were far from conclusive, and questions remained about Sir Hugh.

  She beamed at the waiter. “I’d be delighted.”

  Moments later, they gave their breakfast orders and were enjoying a pot of coffee. After trading the usual pleasantries, Sir Hugh turned somber.

  “How are you holding up, with everything that has happened?”

  “It’s been a trial,” she replied honestly, “but I have faith my sister will be exonerated.”

  “Of course she will,” he was eager to agree.

  “It’s my grandparents I worry about most right now. This is taking a heavy toll on them. As you might be aware, my grandfather’s health is precarious.”

  “I do wish him, and all of you, the very best.” He sounded sincere, albeit his words were little more than correct, delivered with typical British reserve. Phoebe regarded him, from the top of his smooth, slightly shiny head to the wide span of his shoulders, to the breadth of his muscular chest. The deck steward had seen, as he put it, a good-sized bloke, who perhaps did not have hair.

  “Thank you. But here we are discussing me, when you’ve lost a lifelong friend. How are you coping, Sir Hugh?”

  “As you may well imagine, it’s difficult. I keep thinking we’ll meet for brandy in the evenings, or in the library to pore over maps and discuss past strategies and victories, as men who served together will do.” He fell quiet, his gaze searching an invisible, faraway distance.

  Phoebe seized the opportunity he had just provided her. “He saved your life, I understand.”

  He looked startled for a moment, then blinked. “He did at that. At Bergendal, in South Africa. Back in nineteen hundred.”

  “And you, in turn, saved his life, after his leg was destroyed.”

  His lips curled slightly, as if at a secret. “You’ve been checking up on me. My history.”

  “Isn’t it common knowledge?” she asked innocently.

  “Not for someone of your age,” he replied with a chuckle.

  “But why wouldn’t I be interested in the man my sister was going to marry, and his closest friend? The individuals we choose to spend our time with say much about us, don’t you think?”

  “A shrewd observation, again, especially in one so young.”

  Phoebe shrugged and, not wishing to be sidetracked, plunged in again. “So you and Gil owed each other quite a lot, or did you consider your debts to each other settled after South Africa?”

  “I don’t know that we ever thought of our actions in terms of debt. We each acted upon instinct and afterward simply got on with it.”

  “That can’t have been easy. I know how war changes people. I’ve seen the effects of the Great War firsthand. And Gil had to learn to walk again, with the aid of a prosthetic.”

  Sir Hugh nodded slowly, a frown scoring his brow. She weighed the wisdom of her next words. She risked bringing their conversation to an abrupt end, with Sir Hugh storming off, but she went on nonetheless.

  “One can’t help but wonder if Gil ever thought back to that moment he saved you from enemy fire, only to end up losing his leg. If he hadn’t become distracted, would things have gone differently, with him escaping the machine-gun fire intact?”

  His frown deepened. “What are you getting at?”

  “I’m only speculating. It would be natural, wouldn’t it, to consider what might have been if only . . . ?”

  “You seem to be implying Gil blamed me for his leg. That he resented me.”

  “Did he?”

  “Good heavens, no. We were in the middle of a battle. It easily could have been me seriously injured or dead. I can’t believe for a moment Gil regretted saving my life. And to tell you honestly, I don’t appreciate your implying it.”

  He pushed back in his chair, as if to come to his feet, but at that moment the waiter arrived with their food. To leave now would have created a scene, and Phoebe once again wagered on his being too much of a gentleman to do that—if not too much of a gentleman to have murdered his best friend.

  “I’m frightfully sorry, Sir Hugh. I . . .” She drew in a purposely audible breath. “You’re correct, and I don’t know what has gotten into me. I do apologize.”

  He studied her a moment before reaching across the table and patting her hand. “It’s quite all right. The strain of events . . . We’re all a bit off our stride.”

  She latched onto another opportunity. “Very true. But strange things continue to happen. The night before last, my maid and I went out to the Georgiana to collect more of my sister’s things and—”

  He started, looking up sharply. “Did you? Was that a wise choice, going out there at night?”

  “It was rather late, but I’d decided to go, anyway, rather than wait till morning.” She sliced into her blood pudding. “I wished to collect more of Julia’s things to bring to her first thing in the morning. It’s so distressing, picturing her in that bleak cell. But do you know, we were not the only visitors to the ship? Someone else was there, not openly, but skulking about and even sneaking into Gil’s office. I can’t imagine what he was looking for, but Eva—my maid—and I were only a few cabins away, in the main stateroom. I shudder to think what might have happened if our paths had crossed.”

  “Did you see this individual?”

  To lend credence to her story, she shuddered now. “Fortunately, we did not. The night steward did, however, though it was too dark to make out a great many details.”

  “A shame.”

  “Yes. Although, he did say the man—for a man he seemed sure it was—was bald.”

  Sir Hugh blanched. “Oh?”

  Phoebe raised her eyebrows and, with a small smile to imply she might be jesting, asked, “It wasn’t you, was it?”

  He hesitated, then said, “I assure you, I am not the only bald man in the world.”

  “No, but you are the only completely bald man who attended Gil and Julia’s wedding. And you are the only bald man who argued with Gil in the pantry off the dining room during the reception.”

  “How do you know about that?”

  “Someone overheard you and told me about it. So please don’t bother denying it.”

  His eyes narrowed; the frown lines across his forehead became sharper. “Friends sometimes argue. It doesn’t mean anything.”

  “My source told me you seemed upset, even frightened. I wonder if it had anything to do with the threatening notes printed on wedding invitations in Gil’s desk?”

  The clatter of his fork and knife striking his plate startled her into silence. But only momentarily.

  “Well?”

  “I don’t see why I should answer these questions. Who are you but an overimaginative, idle young chit?”

  “True, but this idle young chit’s sister has been wrongfully accused of murder. Where were you the night before last, Sir Hugh?”

  “In my room.”

  “Can anyone attest to that?”

  “As it happens, yes. I was in when the maid came to turn down the bedclothes.”

 
“She came in the middle of the night? Doubtful. Here’s what I think.” She took a sip of coffee and set her cup decisively on its saucer. “I think you had yourself rowed out to the Georgiana in hopes of finding those invitations before someone else did. Unfortunately for you, I already had them. I’d found them that morning. What do they signify? Who was after Gil? Who is still after you, Sir Hugh? Or . . .” She paused to take his measure. “Or was it you threatening Gil all along and pretending to be threatened, as well, to throw him off?”

  Sir Hugh threw his napkin onto the table and pushed to his feet. Without a word, he strode from the dining room. Far from deterred, Phoebe hurried after him, following him through the lobby and out to the terrace. He must have heard her footsteps, for he stopped short and turned. There were too many people about, however, for him to raise a vocal protest, at least across the distance between them. He waited for her to reach him.

  “Are you intent on hounding me?” he demanded when she did.

  “If it helps my sister, yes. At least tell me what those threats were about. Do they put my sister in danger, as well?”

  Sir Hugh turned abruptly and kept walking, but at a slower pace, as if expecting her to fall in at his side, which she did. She grew puzzled when he descended the stairs and crossed the roadway to the strip of beach on the other side. The tide was high, and salty droplets, kicked up as the waves broke against the sand, pelted her arms and face. Sunlight bounced off the water. Having come out without a hat, she shielded her eyes with her hand.

  Sir Hugh let out a long sigh. “The truth is, I don’t know the answers to your questions. I don’t know who sent the threats. I received them, as well, except instead of being on wedding invitations, they came on blank stationery, without a hint as to who might have sent them.”

  “The messages I saw had a teasing tone,” she said, “as though they were toying with Gil, trying to throw him off balance.”

  “It worked. Gil pretended not to take it seriously, but I know he did. That’s why he insisted on having the reception on the Georgiana. He wanted to set sail immediately after and get away from England for a while.”

  “That’s why you were to go along, isn’t it? Because you were threatened, as well.”

  “Yes, and Veronica, too, though she knows nothing about it. Gil was afraid to leave her behind, fearing whoever this is might attempt to kidnap her, use her to get at him.”

  A gust of wind threatened to raise Phoebe’s hems, and she pressed her hands against her thighs. Strands of hair whipped about her cheeks. She suddenly envied Sir Hugh’s hairlessness and his attire. “Surely you must have some idea why someone would come after you in this way.”

  “No one has actually come after us. I feared there might be some attempt here in the hotel, or at least a continuation of the threats, but so far there’s been nothing. And no, I cannot imagine who it could be. Perhaps it’s all been a devilish prank.”

  “Perhaps, but Gil obviously didn’t think so, or he wouldn’t have arranged for all of you to sail away on the Georgiana. As for who is behind the threats . . . it seems to me there are only a few reasons to prompt someone to such behavior. Money tops the list. Do you owe anyone any great sums?”

  He gave her a pained look. “Again, I feel no compunction to respond to your prying.”

  “Why didn’t you go to the police?” she persisted.

  He spun away, tramped several paces across the sand, and swung back around. “Because, my dear Lady Phoebe, I didn’t dare.”

  CHAPTER 15

  Eva and Hetta went down to the lobby together, planning to have a quick breakfast. Lady Phoebe was already up and had left her room, and Amelia was still sleeping, so neither of them needed Eva at present. Even at that early hour, the lobby buzzed with activity, with porters carrying luggage back and forth, and men and women in coats and hats stopping by the front desk. Eva took little interest in any of it, crossing the space without scrutinizing faces and wanting only a cup of coffee and a scone, with a side of fresh fruit.

  Hetta, on the other hand, lingered near the desk. Eva couldn’t begin to imagine why, and if she didn’t know better, she’d have believed Hetta to be listening in on a conversation between the clerk and a gentleman in a calf-length tweed coat with a fur-trimmed collar.

  After a few moments Hetta hurried over to Eva. She wore an urgent expression. “We wait. We watch.”

  “Watch whom?”

  Hetta pointed at the man in the tweed-and-fur coat.

  Eva’s puzzlement grew when Miss Blair appeared from the lift and approached the man. They exchanged a few words, and then Miss Blair returned to the lift.

  When the gentleman in question turned away from the desk to find a seat along the wall, Hetta led Eva to seats of their own on the opposite side of the lobby. Eva estimated him to be in his midforties. He was clean shaven, his hairline was only just beginning to recede, and his eyes were sharp and darting, as if he was making a mental map of every detail in the lobby.

  “Does that man have something to do with Lord Annondale?” she guessed, for why else would Hetta have pointed him out? Could he have anything to do with what Eva had overheard yesterday between Miss Blair and Mr. Shelton?

  Hetta didn’t answer her at first but stared down at her entwined fingers. Then she nodded almost imperceptibly.

  “But how do you know that?”

  “I follow Fräulein,” she murmured.

  “Fräulein . . .” Eva’s puzzlement mounted. “You followed Miss Blair?”

  Another nod confirmed this hunch. “No trust.”

  “When?”

  “Yesterday.”

  Prying the information out of the other maid was proving a challenge to Eva’s patience. She forced herself to breathe calmly. “Where did she go?”

  “Uh . . . letters building.”

  “Letters . . . Do you mean the post office? Did she send a letter?”

  “No.” Hetta frowned in concentration. Then, “Tap-tap.”

  “Tap-tap? What is that? What does it mean?” Eva was about to throw up her hands in defeat, when the obvious occurred to her. “Do you mean a telegram?”

  Nodding, Hetta opened her mouth to reply, then closed it and pinched her lips. She pointed to one of the lifts. Miss Townsend and Mr. Shelton stepped out, followed by Miss Blair. She led them to the man in the fur-trimmed coat. He stood and shook hands with both of them. Eva came to her feet, but Hetta reached up, caught her hand, and pulled her back down.

  “I tell you something. The Fräulein, she is on deck, says bad words.”

  “When? You mean when Lord Annondale died?”

  Hetta nodded emphatically.

  “Bad words . . . She was arguing with the viscount?”

  Hetta shook her head and shrugged.

  “Was she with a man or a woman?”

  “Man.”

  Eva stood. “I need to find Lady Phoebe. Whatever is set to happen this morning is about to happen now. Hetta, keep an eye on them.” Eva pointed first to her eye, then to the gathering across the lobby. “Find out where they go. Do you understand?”

  “Watch. Ja.”

  Eva hurried off, first to the dining room. Seeing no sign of Lady Phoebe, she tried the library, with the same result. Perhaps the terrace. She was practically running now, back through the lobby, where a glance revealed the group to still be there. Waiting for what?

  She stepped out onto the terrace at the same moment she spied Lady Phoebe coming up the outside staircase. Phoebe saw her and gestured and quickened her steps until they stood together.

  “Sir Hugh and I just had a little talk,” she said breathlessly. She looked to be bursting with news, news Eva would have liked to hear, but there wasn’t time.

  “Never mind that for the moment, my lady. Something is happening in the lobby. A man I don’t recognize just arrived, and Miss Blair, Miss Townsend, and Mr. Shelton appear to be meeting with him. There’s more I have to tell you, but there isn’t time now.”

  They
hurried inside, to be greeted by something of a shock. From the street door, Lady Julia entered the lobby, immediately trailed by two uniformed bobbies. Miss Blair and the other three with her had disappeared somewhere. The pieces were beginning to fall into place. This man in the fur-trimmed coat could be none other than Lord Annondale’s solicitor, and Lady Julia’s presence must mean he had arrived to read the will. Which struck Eva as exceedingly odd, as wills were not typically read before the funeral, and Lord Annondale still lay in the morgue.

  Lady Phoebe hurried to her sister, but Lady Julia walked by her with barely a glance. She made eye contact with no one but kept her gaze fixed on the front desk. The brows of the man behind it converged, and a corner of his lower lip slipped between his teeth in an aspect of apprehension or even fear, Eva thought. Foolish man. Did he believe Lady Julia to be a murderess? Did he think she’d make a scene?

  The lift dinged, and the door opened, this time to reveal Lord and Lady Wroxly, who appeared as frail and wan as the last time Eva had seen them. The earl’s nearly vacant expression brightened, however, when his gaze landed on his granddaughter. He spoke to the countess, and they made their way to her. The lift also deposited Lady Amelia, who appeared bemused and slightly wary as she moved toward her family.

  And who could blame her? As when the police had first taken Lady Julia away yesterday, all commotion ceased, and a hush settled over the lobby. Eva wanted to chastise everyone present, tell them to go about their business and leave the Renshaws alone. How dare they seek entertainment from the misfortunes of others?

  Lady Julia spared her grandparents a brief hug and a few words. Amelia threw herself into her sister’s arms and hung on to her even after Lady Julia released her. Eva saw Lady Julia nodding vigorously and holding up her bandaged hand, perhaps assuring them it was healing well. Eva took a moment now to puzzle over her attire, which she did not remember packing for her yesterday, when they brought her things to the jail. She searched the lobby, and her sights landed on Hetta. When their gazes met, Hetta stood and crossed the lobby to her.

  “I see where they go,” she whispered. “I lead you.”

  “I don’t think it matters now. I believe I know why they’ve gathered this morning.”