Ask Me No Questions Page 12

  “Then he finally left after threatening to put a guard on the library door, unless we all wanted to vacate the premises, and Father said absolutely not. That it was his daughter’s house and that I would stay here as was my right. So I didn’t even have to fight with Father to stay here. John Atkins did it for me. Which I suppose I should be thankful for, but really not if he’s going to send me to prison.

  “I shudder to think what they’ll find. Reggie had to borrow a large sum from me just last week. He said it was to increase his bet on this new horse of his, Devil’s Thunder. That we would be rich after the race. Of course we’re already rich. Rich enough for me, anyway.”

  “Maybe not for Miss Potts.”

  “Ugh, don’t mention that name. If I ever see her again, I’ll wring her neck.”

  “Bev,” exclaimed Phil.

  “Well, I will.”

  “Fine, just don’t say it aloud.” Phil tilted her head toward the closed door. “Sing Sing?” she whispered.

  Bev shuddered. “It’s just a nightmare, Marguerite. And yesterday they found a dead man in the library.”

  “A dead man? How awful. Was it a burglar after Reggie’s money?” Marguerite turned to Phil. “Reggie always kept a large amount of cash in the safe. The whole world knew. Very irresponsible, if you ask me.”

  “I guess,” Bev said. “He said he needed quick access to it. For his racing and betting cronies. They were always coming and going at all hours. And no doubt for that cow he kept on the Upper West Side.”

  “I take it you’re alluding to the mistress,” Phil guessed.

  “That odious Mildred Potts, I refuse to call her Mimi LaPonte. She was a human sponge when it came to Reggie’s money.”

  “I hope she’s not planning to get her hooks into Freddy now,” Marguerite said, and snapped her teeth, which completely spoiled Phil’s former impression of her being a meek and docile woman.

  “Is there any chance of that?” Phil asked.

  “Oh, Reggie’s not the only philanderer in his family. And I’m not sure that Freddy didn’t dip his wick in that pot of wax. He was certainly chummy with that whole gaggle of cheap tarts. After all, it was he who introduced Reggie to her, for which, Bev, I’m eternally sorry.” Marguerite sighed. “Though it did pave the way for you to see more of Otto Klein.”

  “Wait,” Phil said, glancing toward the door and leaning forward. She lowered her voice. “I thought you said you hadn’t had a lover recently.”

  Bev shrugged one shoulder. “Well, not recently, I guess.”

  “What do you mean?” Marguerite said. “You gave him his congé?”

  “I’m afraid so. But it was a few weeks ago. He wanted me to leave Reggie and run away with him to Prussia, of all places. It sounded so morose. He did not take it well.”

  “A few weeks ago?” Phil asked.

  “About three. He was getting to be a bore, one thing I could never say about Reggie. And you were coming and I wanted to be free to frolic.”

  “Oh, my God.”

  “What is it, Phil? Are you unwell?”

  “Maybe. Please tell me Otto wasn’t the man in the library.”

  Bev’s eyebrows furrowed. “In the…” Her hand came to her mouth. “Oh, heavens no. Why would he be?”

  “I have no idea. But Bev, if there is any other little thing you haven’t told me, now would be an appropriate time.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  Phil wondered when her friend had gotten so dense; she remembered her as smart and witty. Several years had passed, but surely … “There are two murders associated with this house, one of which was your husband. The identity of the other remains to be seen. Any way you consider it, you are involved.”

  “You don’t think they suspect Bev of killing her husband?” Marguerite’s expression flashed with something that Phil thought was more than concern. Fear? “That’s ridiculous.”

  “I’m not privy to what they think, but I can tell you this, Detective Sergeant Atkins is no dimwit, and he won’t be bought. At least not yet.”

  “Well, Father will put him straight there,” Bev said.

  I wouldn’t bet on it, Phil thought. “Well, until then I think we should all be discreet.”

  “Well, I really must be going.” Marguerite put her drink down and opened her bag. She rummaged around and pulled out a piece of peppermint candy.

  She unwrapped it and dropped the wrapper in her empty glass. “So the servants won’t gossip about me drinking in the afternoon.” She made a droll expression and slid the peppermint into her mouth.

  “Until tomorrow, then. Freddy and I will be here at nine.” She leaned over and kissed Bev’s cheek. “I’ll see myself out.”

  9

  When Philomena retired to her bedroom later that night, she found Lily dressed in her new maid’s uniform. The books she’d bought that afternoon were stacked neatly on a card table placed near the reading lamp in the window alcove. A tablet of lined paper and several pens and pencils had been placed in front of one of the two chairs set at right angles at the table.

  “You’ve been busy this evening,” Phil said approvingly.

  “Yes madam, my lady.”

  “I see you didn’t bring a chair for Preswick.”

  “He said he would not sit in the presence of ma—my lady.”

  “You know, Lily. I’m growing quite used to madam, rather than my lady. We’ll never get Preswick to change, but if it isn’t too difficult to remember, you may use madam when we are alone.”

  “Yes, madam.”

  “And you must make allowances for Preswick. He’s been a butler for many years. And he did know about the secret compartment.”

  “Yes, madam.”

  “So let us begin.” Phil sat in one of the chairs and gestured for Lily to sit in the other.

  “Classification and Uses of Finger Prints. Let us see what they are and what we did wrong the other night in the library.” Phil opened the book, looked up. “How well do you read, Lily?”

  “In which language, madam?”

  “English.”

  “Well enough, madam.”

  “Excellent.” And one day Lily might actually drop a clue about who she was and why she was willing to serve as someone’s lady’s maid when she’d obviously been educated for more. “Yes, well … ‘The employment of finger prints in many branches…’” She turned a few pages. “Ah, here it is, ‘Finger Prints Part I.’”

  * * *

  The funeral was held the next day. An overcast sky and incipient rain exemplified everyone’s feelings and boded no good. The funeral attire arrived early that morning, and when Phil met Bev at breakfast the two of them looked as morose as the gray clouds gathering outside.

  “Lord, I hope it doesn’t rain,” Bev said, pulling at the crepe ruching around her neck. “I swear whoever decided that a widow should be tortured for two years just because her no-good husband died should be shot.”

  “True,” Phil said, thinking Bev looked rather tragically elegant in her funeral dress, but for the fact she was munching on a piece of toast and reading the Tribune.

  “Well, the good news is we won’t have to put up with that annoying policeman anymore. They’ve taken the husband-stealing Mildred into custody.”

  “For murder?” Phil asked.

  “For ‘questioning in the death of Reginald Reynolds.’ And for not cooperating with the police. So there.”

  Phil, who had just picked up the coffeepot, put it down again. “They said death and not murder?”

  “Yes. Though we all know she did it.”

  “Bev, no, we don’t. And if they’ve only taken her into custody for not cooperating…” She let the sentence trail off, hoping maybe Bev would take the hint. Alas, it was not to be.

  “Well, I say she did it.” Bev rattled the newspaper as she turned the page. “Here’s something much more interesting. Black hats are back in favor this season. I suppose I should be glad seeing how I may be wearing them for som
e time.”

  While Bev read aloud about the latest Paris fashions, Phil poured herself coffee and helped herself from the sideboard buffet.

  Daniel Sloane arrived a few minutes before ten to accompany his daughter to the church in his closed carriage. Philomena followed with Freddy and Marguerite. The servants were conveyed in two carriages, Tuttle, Elmira, Preswick, and Lily driven by Bentley, the head coachman; Cook and the lesser staff were crammed together in the second carriage, driven by an understableman.

  It began to rain almost the minute they entered the carriage. “Good thing we didn’t bring Reggie’s touring car,” Freddy said, and breathed out a chuckle.

  Marguerite shot him a fulminating look, reached in her bag, and brought out one of her peppermint candies, which she pushed into his hand.

  Looking sheepish, Freddy unwrapped it. It took some doing—it seemed to be stuck in the paper—but at last he popped the candy in his mouth and shoved the wrapper in his pocket.

  Marguerite scowled at the closed carriage window.

  Phil didn’t blame Marguerite. She gotten close enough to smell the liquor on Freddy’s breath this morning. Though she supposed he should be forgiven for a fortifier before his cousin’s funeral. If it had been up to her, she would have had Tuttle serve cocktails to all before they piled into the carriages of the cortege.

  “Have the police returned the automobile?” Phil asked, risking Marguerite’s further disapproval.

  “So I’ve been told. I haven’t seen it myself.”

  “Where does he house it?”

  “At a garage on Fifty-Eighth Street.”

  “And when he wants to use it, he has to go ten blocks to retrieve it?”

  “No. He merely telephones around and has someone drive it over.”

  “And that person would also be his driver, if he wished.”

  Freddy frowned at her. “Oh, no, Reggie always drove. Sometimes I wondered if he didn’t like motorcars better than his horses.”

  “Or his women,” Marguerite said caustically, provoking surprised looks from both Freddy and Phil.

  Certainly better than his wife, Phil thought.

  It was fully raining by the time the carriages arrived at the church. They were shown up the steps by the undertaker’s lackeys, holding large black umbrellas over their heads, which may have kept the gentlemen dry but did little to keep the ladies’ skirts from trailing through the puddles.

  The sidewalks were packed with people, seemingly oblivious of the downpour. Umbrellas were raised only to have them jerked down again by someone standing behind whose view was cut off.

  Murmurs rolled through the crowd as the servants passed to be seated in the back pew but were soon replaced by rustling anticipation. “Is that her? Is that the wife?” as Marguerite and Phil, huddled under their umbrellas, hurried inside.

  “That’s her comin’ now!” A roar of cheers and boos resounded as Phil reached the vestibule.

  She turned to see Bev, head bent and leaning against her father, stumble on the steps of the church.

  “Did you murder him?” came a cry from the crowd, which was quickly muffled as the yeller was dragged away by a squad of policeman.

  Daniel tightened his hold on Bev and she managed to stay on her feet.

  “Buck up, Bev! We know you didn’t do it! Three cheers for Reggie and Bev!”

  Daniel Sloane steered Bev into the church, and the doors shut on the cheers behind them.

  Phil took Bev’s free arm and gave it a squeeze. “It’s almost over.” She knew it wasn’t anywhere near being over. A person could grow old at a funeral service, catch pneumonia while waiting for the casket to be lowered into the ground, and as for the ensuing mourning period—cruel and unjust.

  As they walked down the aisle, the church doors opened and shut again on shouts and pinpricks of driving rain. There was a ripple of movement and murmurs behind them. Phil had to concentrate on not turning around, to see if Mildred Potts, the now notorious Mimi LaPonte, was free and had dared to make an appearance. It would be the height of poor taste to do so, but no one had ever accused the Americans of being tasteful.

  Fortunately, she had Lily and Preswick sitting in the back pews with the household servants who would be her eyes and ears. Though Preswick would never admit it, butlers were the world’s best spies. They knew everything there was to know about their masters and the masters’ households.

  And Lily? Who knew? She was an enigma, and Philomena wasn’t about to press her into telling her story. She didn’t want to scare the girl into running away. She was turning out to be an excellent companion, and if her hairdressing left a little to be desired and Phil’s undergarments weren’t perfectly folded, at least they were clean and well cared for.

  Phil didn’t want the girl to feel threatened and “do a bunk,” as they said in the East End. Beautiful and alone, without Phil’s protection, she would be susceptible to every undesirable villain in the country.

  The one time Phil had asked if she had family or friends here whom she would like to contact, she’d given an emphatic no. And Phil had left it at that.

  They made their way slowly down the aisle to the front pew, Phil on one side of Bev, her father on the other. Marguerite and Freddy sat on the pew farther down. The church was packed to capacity, which would account for the crowd outside. Phil hoped there would be no more outbursts during the service. Whatever their relationship had been, Bev was certainly filled with emotion this morning.

  Was it a coincidence that someone had killed Reggie on the day she arrived? And why in a public venue? Someone had managed to kill a man in Reggie’s own study. Why couldn’t they just have killed Reggie there, too?

  Of course, that would even more strongly point to Bev as the potential murderer.

  The eulogy began. The preacher’s voice was kind, but the man he described sounded nothing like the man Phil had met. Did Reggie really have a heart of gold?

  And if he did, why was he dead? And who…? And …

  The congregation stood; Phil stood with them, sat down again.

  Was the murderer sitting somewhere in the church behind them? Sorry for what he had done? Or smirking that he had gotten away with it?

  How she wished she could turn around and peruse those faces, but she kept her head bowed, while the preacher’s words droned into a distant buzz.

  Organ music startled her from her thoughts and she realized the service had ended. She stood mechanically with the others. The pallbearers took their places on either side of the ornate casket, and Phil recognized Bobby Mullins as one of them. He was someone else she should talk to, because if the initial meeting with detective Atkins was any indication, Mr. Mullins knew more than he was telling.

  Atkins didn’t strike Phil as the type of policemen who would resort to bribes or bullying; Freddy’s attempt certainly had no effect on him. But Mr. Mullins wouldn’t be forthright without some incentive … A lady had her wiles, after all.

  The pallbearers lifted the casket with precision and began their slow, arduous journey to the back door.

  Bev and her father filed out behind the casket. The Beechams followed. Phil joined the precession, her head bowed but her eyes searching the mourners. What wonderful things veils were, she thought, as she studied the crowd. She didn’t know what—or rather, whom—she was looking for. But it wouldn’t hurt to look. Who knew what little discovery one might stumble across.

  For instance, there was more than one comely young lady, whose handkerchief found its way beneath her veil to stanch the flow of tears. Evidence that Reggie’s stable didn’t limit itself to horses.

  Was one of them Mimi LaPonte? Phil would never forget that face as she stared down at Reggie’s bloodied body. But today she couldn’t see faces, just a sea of veils. Veils made an excellent disguise.

  The back pew was empty, the servants having been scuttled away to prepare for the return of their mistress. John Atkins was standing at the very back, hat in hand, head bowed, eyes roami
ng, and Phil swore their eyes met, even though there was no way he could have seen hers beneath her veil.

  She looked in his vicinity for Charles Becker but didn’t see him among the crowd. She hoped Atkins had won out and they wouldn’t be bothered by the “Fireplug” again.

  Then she passed out the door and into the carriage that would make the interminable drive out to the cemetery and back.

  Marguerite looked straight ahead, dry-eyed, her thoughts shuttered. Freddy sucked nervously on a peppermint and kept jiggling his foot at random intervals until Phil wanted to physically hold his knee still.

  How could anyone think with that kind of distraction?

  Was Freddy Reggie’s only relative? Bev had never mentioned his family and Phil hadn’t at the time been interested enough to ask. She was interested now. If he was, was Freddy expecting to inherit? Was Mimi LaPonte?

  The will was to be read that afternoon, and Phil was determined to be by Bev’s side. Curiosity? Yes. But she knew how confusing wills could be.

  Codicils and entailments, therefores and whereofs. Phil had had no one with her at the reading of the earl’s will. And though she imagined Daniel Sloane would be present, she wouldn’t let Bev go into that lion’s den alone.

  * * *

  “I thought that would never end,” Bev said, as she tore the pins from her hat and tossed it on the foyer table. “Tuttle!” She headed for the parlor, unbuttoning her coat as she walked while Elmira followed literally in her footsteps trying to ease it off her shoulders.

  Phil allowed Lily to take her coat and hat and smiled as she acknowledged Lily’s eyes widen and return to normal. The girl had news. Excellent, but for now one of Bev’s excellent cocktails was definitely in order.

  Daniel Sloane, Mr. Carmichael, and Mr. Brangle, Reggie’s attorney, had repaired to the billiards room, a room Phil hadn’t known existed until that moment. They certainly managed to pack a lot of rooms into the rectangular brownstone.

  Phil passed Elmira on her way out, carrying Bev’s coat in a haphazard fashion. Bev was already sitting on the settee, legs stretched out along the cushion, her hand held desultorily in the air waiting for Tuttle to place a long-stemmed glass between her fingers.