Ask Me No Questions Read online

  As they drove away, Phil caught a glimpse of the policeman, hand in the air, hailing a cab. Oh, Lord, he was going to follow them all afternoon.

  It seemed to take an inordinate amount of time to go the few blocks before turning south onto Third Avenue. The traffic, smells, and noises were just as bad as in London. No wonder Bev had merchants come to her.

  They inched down the avenue and had just passed Sixtieth Street when the carriage stopped for the umpteenth time.

  Phil looked out the window to see if they were still being followed by the constable, but it was impossible to tell in the crush of vehicles. They were surrounded by motorcars, carriages, drays, and handcarts. Pedestrians scooted between them, taking their lives in their hands to catch the trolley car or merely to cross the street.

  Even the sidewalks were crowded with shoppers and workers pushing their way up and down the pavement, skirting around the street venders, avoiding elbows, and dodging shopping bags.

  They inched forward and stopped again.

  Preswick seemed content to look out the carriage windows, but Lily was having a hard time containing her anticipation of buying new clothes.

  Phil sympathized. She was impatient also. Outside her window, a huge building rose several stories. A steady flow of women, children, and men entered and exited with abandon. All carrying parcels. And Phil and her companions were confined in an unmoving carriage.

  “Preswick, what is that building?”

  The butler leaned over and looked out the window. “It appears to be a department store. Bloomingdale’s according to the sign.”

  “Bloomingdale’s. Excellent. The Harrods of the West. We’ll start our shopping there.” Phil knocked on the ceiling. “Bentley, we’ll get out here.”

  Bentley pulled the carriage to the curb.

  “You may return for us in three hours,” Phil told him.

  “Very good.”

  “He’ll probably still be here in three hours,” Lily said.

  “Very likely,” Phil said. “Shall we go inside?”

  “Oh, yes, madam.” Lily reached for the door.

  “Lily, mind your place,” Preswick ordered.

  Lily threw herself back against the seat. “I beg your pardon, Mr. Pr-r-reswick.”

  “Come along, Preswick.” Phil opened the door and was almost out of the carriage while the groom was still letting down the step. Lily bounded down behind her.

  “Your ladyship, wait. What are you doing?” Preswick climbed down behind them.

  “We’re going to a department store.” She didn’t know whether she or Lily was more excited. In her former life, affaires de coeur were expected; rubbing shopping bags with the great unwashed was strictly taboo.

  But no longer. As Bev pointed out, it was the twentieth century and the peerage of England was very far away. She’d be completely unrecognized here.

  She quickly looked around. The policeman who was following them got out of a hansom cab several carriages back. Honestly, what did John Atkins think she could possibly do on a shopping excursion? No matter, they’d stop at the lingerie department first. That should deter his efforts.

  “Come quickly, before he sees us.”

  “But my lady.”

  Phil took off toward the entrance. Unfortunately, she didn’t see the older gentleman stepping out of the hansom cab that had stopped just in front of them.

  “Oof,” Phil said, practically knocking him over. He was tall but rather frail, stooped in the shoulder with a full gray beard and wearing a bowler hat and a worn morning suit.

  “I beg your pardon, madam,” he said, doffing his hat to reveal a head of coarse bushy gray hair and releasing the faint aroma of an unusual scented pipe tobacco.

  “No, it was all my fault and I do apologize,” Phil said. “Are you all right?”

  “But of course. It is not every day I literally run into a lady of such quality.”

  He spoke with a faint accent, Romanian or Hungarian.

  “Nor I to meet a gentleman so delightfully unexpectedly.” No reason not to return his compliment. This was America.

  He nodded, she nodded, and Preswick whisked her away. “Quite, Preswick.”

  “My lady?”

  “You were about to chastise me for talking to a total stranger on the street. I was a little excited. But I did almost run him over. I hope the poor man is all right. And he had such a twinkle in his eye that I couldn’t resist. I promise to be more discreet in the future.” She looked back for the victim of her enthusiasm, but he had disappeared into the crowd.

  “Then come let us see what this Bloomingdale’s has to offer.” They joined others climbing the wide marble staircase just inside the entrance, passing others carrying parcels, some accompanied by a porter or maid, coming down the stairs on the opposite side.

  “Where to begin,” Phil said, once they reached the first floor and saw that it stretched as far as the eye could see.

  Lily for once was speechless.

  They wandered up and down the aisles of glass display cases containing everything imaginable. Phil had ventured into Harrods several times, even purchased a few minor items, and ridden the “escalator” there.

  Even Preswick was impressed by the array of goods on sale. They wandered from floor to floor, taking in all their surroundings. On the third floor, they stopped to listen to a phonograph that played all the latest songs on hard round discs. The rows and rows of premade clothing were daunting, but at the end of an hour they had purchased Lily two day dresses and a walking outfit, stockings, underthings, and a pair of shoes. Just as they were leaving, she spied an elaborate parasol. Her delight was catching. So even though she would rarely be able to use it except for her half day off, once she knew her way around well enough to have a day off, Phil gladly bought it for her.

  They stopped to eat lemon ices on the street and Preswick led them to a much smaller establishment, where domestic uniforms were sold.

  But Phil had seen a small book emporium two doors down. She’d been chastising herself ever since the discovery of the dead man in the library for not having listened to Sir Edward’s talk on fingerprinting. Here was a perfect opportunity to rectify that oversight.

  She left explicit instructions with Preswick on what to buy, and though he tried to convince her to wait for them, when she explained that she need to buy some books and Lily must have new uniforms, he acquiesced.

  “And don’t be miserly, Preswick, if you please,” Phil told him under her breath. “Uniforms, underthings, stockings, and day wear for when she is working. And Preswick, nothing but the best for a servant of mine.”

  “But of course, my lady.”

  Having safely extricated herself from an hour of toil, Phil headed straight into the bookstore. The proprietor sat on a stool behind a counter, stroking a fat orange cat who was stretched across an open book the man was obviously trying to read.

  The man slid off the stool. “May I help you, madam?” Standing, he was no taller than he had been when sitting at the counter, a little over five feet tall and dressed in a brown suit and bow tie.

  “Yes, if you please. I’m looking for a book on fingerprints.”

  He blinked. Rolled his eyes toward his eyebrows as if the catalog of his inventory was written on his forehead.

  He smiled, dipped his chin. “An unusual request, but I do believe I may have something that would interest you. This way, please.”

  He led her down a narrow aisle between two towering cases that ran the length of the store. At the back the entire wall was one floor-to-ceiling bookcase with a ladder that ran on tracks from one end to the other.

  He moved this halfway along the case, then climbed to the top shelf, where he touched the spines of several volumes until he came to a slim volume, which he pulled out.

  “Here is the Classification and Uses of Fingerprints by Sir Edward Henry,” he said from his lofty perch. “Is madam interested in other forensic tomes? I have several.”

  “Ye
s,” Phil said, “I am.”

  He nodded, then holding on to the ladder with one hand, he stretched himself as far as possible and jimmied out two more volumes, before tucking all three under his arm and climbing down to the floor.

  She followed him to the front of the store, where he pushed the cat off to the side and placed the books on the countertop.

  “Here is Dr. Edmond Locard’s paper on what he calls the ‘exchange principle,’ the fact that a criminal always leaves something behind when he commits a crime. Like your fingerprints. But also other things—footprints, hair, clothing fibers.” He smiled deprecatingly. “I happen to be a crime buff myself. I’m afraid it’s written in French.”

  “My French is excellent,” Phil said. And if she had gaps in her understanding, she had no doubt Lily could help with the translation.

  “And this other one?”

  “And this is a must-read for any gentleman—or lady—interested in investigation. Dr. Gross’s Criminal Investigation, a Practical Handbook. It’s quite thorough on actual investigative techniques, though I must warn you, it can be rather specific. Actually, perhaps it isn’t appropriate for a…”

  “It sounds perfect. I’ll take all three.” To these she added the latest edition of the Strand, which had a Sherlock Holmes story advertised on the cover. She was fairly certain Preswick hadn’t read it, though he would never suggest buying it in her presence.

  The door opened, a little bell tinkled, and another customer entered the store. “With you in one moment, sir,” the proprietor said, and rang up Phil’s purchases.

  “No hurry at all,” the newcomer said in a slight European accent.

  The door closed, and a moment later Phil caught a whiff of exotic tobacco. She turned around. It was the old man from the hansom cab.

  “Ah, what a double pleasure this fine day,” he said, his eyes twinkling. He quite reminded her of a favorite professor from Madame Floret’s.

  He made his way over to the counter. “Ah, I see you are a reader of Sir Arthur’s. If I might suggest a title that might interest you?”

  Phil smiled. She’d always had a soft spot for delightful but lonely old men. “Please.”

  “Do you have the Memoires of Sherlock Holmes?”

  “I certainly do,” the proprietor said, and hurried off to the shelves. He returned a minute later with a rather large book.

  “I think you would rather enjoy ‘The Adventure of Silver Blaze.’ One of my favorites,” said the old gentleman.

  “Thank you,” Phil said, and nodded to the proprietor to add it to her bundle.

  “My pleasure. Now, my good man, can you direct me to the history section.”

  He tipped his hat to Phil and disappeared into the rows of bookshelves, while the proprietor saw her out of the store.

  * * *

  They returned to the brownstone so laden down with parcels that the footmen were called to carry them inside.

  “It looks like a fruitful excursion, my lady,” Tuttle said, and closed the door behind her. “Mrs. Reynolds is in the parlor. Mrs. Beecham is here.”

  “Tell them I’ll be down as soon as I rid myself of this hat.” And these books, she added silently. She’d practically had to wrestle the footman to keep him from carrying them. But she insisted on carrying them herself. It was one thing for a lady to indulge in the occasional novel, but forensic enlightenment? Disgraceful.

  Phil was sitting at her boudoir mirror when Lily burst into the room.

  “Did you have your tea already?” Phil pulled the last pin from her hat and tossed the hat into Lily’s agile hands.

  “No, but I wanted to tell you. The servants were having their tea when I came in. They were talking about their mistress. And wondering whether she was going to be taken off to jail.”

  “Idle speculation.”

  “Maybe, but they said there was a ter-r-r-ible row after we left. And Mr. Sloane told that inspector-r-r—”

  “Detective sergeant,” Phil corrected.

  “That detective ser-r-r-geant that he’d see him in hell before he accused his daughter of murder.”

  “Oh, dear.” Phil stood for Lily to unbutton her visiting dress. “I think the aquamarine tea gown for the afternoon, Lily.”

  She followed Lily into the dressing room. “Is Detective Atkins still here?”

  “I do not know, they shut up when they saw me.”

  “Oh, dear. Here, help me into this dress and then run downstairs for your tea before they finish. Time to slip them a morsel. Grease the wheel so to speak. Capisce?”

  “Sì. What shall I tell them?”

  “Well … that we were followed by the police on our excursion today and we had to give them the slip.”

  “But we did not. That silly one was always nearby, and he bumped into the manikin and tried to apologize. Stupido.”

  Phil chuckled. “Well, that’s a good tale, they’ll enjoy the laugh.

  “Meanwhile I’ll go down to Mrs. Reynolds and find out just what happened while we were gone. And tonight will be a night of study.”

  As soon as Phil was dressed and her hair had been tidied, she sent Lily on her way to the kitchen, and she took herself to the parlor, hoping not for tea but for one of Bev’s cocktails. Even a glass of sherry would suffice, though she really hated sherry.

  Another good thing about America, she noted, as she went down the stairs. Ladies weren’t stuck drinking sherry and tea but indulged in cocktails and whiskey and soda and all manner of things. Yes, once they were past this murder business she thought she would enjoy living here very much.

  Phil found Bev and Marguerite Beecham sitting on the parlor settee. Tuttle stood at the drinks cabinet mixing cocktails, though not martinis. These had a distinct pink tint to them. The things she’d missed while being in black for the last year and a half. Well, no more.

  “Phil, there you are,” Bev said. “Look who’s here.”

  “Good afternoon, Lady Dunbridge.”

  “Do call me Phil. Lady Dunbridge reminds me that I’m actually a dowager, and I find that so lowering.”

  “Phil. And you must call me Marguerite. Did Bev send you to the incomparable Madame Grayard?”

  “She did give me an introduction,” Phil said, taking a seat in what she’d come to think of as the detective’s chair. She rather liked the idea of her in the detective’s seat.

  “Oh, Phil, don’t keep us in suspense. Did you see Madame Grayard? Did you order fabulous things?”

  “Actually no,” Phil said, taking a glass from Tuttle.

  “Pink gin,” Bev said by way of explanation.

  Phil took a sip. “Interesting.”

  “So where did you spend the last several hours if not at Madame Grayard’s?”

  Bev and Marguerite must have started on the pink gins awhile back, their cheeks were flushed and Bev at least seemed a little giddy.

  “Well, actually, we stopped at one of your department stores. Bloomingdale’s. Fascinating. We had to get my maid Lily some new furnishings,” Phil explained to Marguerite. “She lost most of her luggage on the voyage over.”

  “I’ve heard there have been increasing problems with theft,” Marguerite said.

  Phil had never heard that, but she nodded. “Then we visited the domestic goods shop, ate ices on the street. Scandalous but delicious.” She decided not to mention the bookstore. She held up her drink and considered its color. “And this drink will probably go straight to my head, since besides the ices, we never stopped to eat.”

  “That’s no problem. I’m rather peckish myself. Tuttle, please bring us a tray of hors d’oeuvres. We’re all absolutely starving.”

  “Yes, madam.” Tuttle strode out of the room.

  “Even a trip to Bloomingdale’s would be better than the way I spent today.”

  “With Marguerite here to entertain you?”

  “Oh, she just arrived a little while ago.”

  “I would have come earlier, Bev, if I’d known you needed me.”
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  “I know you would and you’re a dear for keeping me company when you must have a thousand things to do. I was just about to tell Marguerite about Hilda Tappington-Jones’s condolence visit this morning.”

  “Old crow,” Marguerite said. “What did she want? To smirk over Reggie’s death or use it as an opportunity to flirt with your poor father?”

  “It was a condolence call,” Bev said. “And she was perfectly civil … when she wasn’t making eyes at my father. It was rather depressing.”

  “Well, I hope you’re not going all sentimental over that philandering husband of yours.”

  “No, but I do prefer the wake the other night. Reggie’s friends were all so droll … most of them.” Bev sighed.

  “Well,” said Marguerite, “whoever did shoot him did you a favor.”

  “Really, Marguerite,” Bev protested.

  “Oh, don’t get miffed. I’m sure Lady Dunbridge is in your confidence.” She looked at Bev for confirmation.

  “Of course she is.”

  “Then not to put too fine a point on it, we all know what Reggie was and how he spent his—and your—money. How he was constantly humiliating you with his affairs. Have you had a chance to look through his papers?”

  Phil frowned. A rather abrupt non sequitur. Of what concern could Reggie’s papers be to Marguerite?

  Bev shook her head. “Father was here with our solicitor, Mr. Carmichael, but that Atkins fellow wouldn’t allow them to get into the library. I don’t care how swell the guy looks in a suit, he’s trouble. And he and Father had such a dustup. I think he wanted to take me to jail.”

  “Did he say that?” Phil asked.

  “Not exactly. But he asked all sorts of impertinent questions, and I didn’t have you here to put him in his place.” Bev turned to Marguerite. “You should see Phil in action. Wonderful.”

  “What kind of questions?”

  “I don’t know. Stupid stuff. And he still won’t let anyone in the library because it’s still a crime scene, and Father threw one of his mightier-than-thou fits, which have often quailed the entire publishing world. It didn’t seem to have much effect on that detective, which it should, because he could easily find himself out of a job.