Tell Me No Lies Read online

  Not a trysting place. A laundry chute.

  “You don’t mean he…” Really it was too gruesome.

  “The maids were screaming and carrying on so that we could hear them each time a door opened. I was coming down to see what the commotion was when I ran into Brinlow, who was coming to summon me.

  “The laundry was stuck and they’d been trying to dislodge a comforter that seemed to be obstructing the way. It took three of them, but when they finally managed to free it, his … his feet were sticking out. He was still wearing his evening pumps. They hadn’t fallen off as you would expect.” Mr. Pratt swayed slightly.

  Phil motioned to Lily, who efficiently reached into her emergency reticule and handed Phil a vial of sal volatile.

  She quickly passed it under Mr. Pratt’s nose and returned it to Lily in a sleight of hand so fast that Pratt, as soon as his eyes stopped swimming from the inhale, looked around in confusion.

  But he was calm again.

  “So they pulled him out…” she coaxed.

  “No. Godfrey and I came down. We thought he might still be alive, so we pulled him out and put him here as you see. But it was too late. I sent the maids away with orders not to speak about it to one another or anyone, for all the good that will do.

  “It makes no sense. Why would anyone put themselves down a laundry chute?”

  “As a prank or on a dare?” Phil ventured.

  “Not Perry. No matter how drunk he might be.”

  “Was he drunk last night?”

  “What? Oh, I imagine. The champagne was flowing freely. But Perry was not a child, he was twenty-eight, soon to be one of the most important men in the industrial manufacturing world. He was a very serious young man.”

  He hadn’t struck Phil as irresponsible either, especially not while attending an evening among the cream of the financial East Coast. Last night might have been focused on the lovely Agnes, but no successful hostess ignored a chance to further her family’s position in society and, Phil suspected in Gwen Pratt’s case, business.

  “But I suppose he must have; you know how young men can be.”

  Indeed she did. “So where were his friends?”

  Mr. Pratt’s head snapped toward her. “What? What friends?”

  “Whether it was a dare or prank, both are dependent on another party. Whoever the other party was must have run down here to see if he really did it? Or to collect the bet or whatever. And if they did, why didn’t they sound the alarm when he didn’t appear?”

  “Perhaps they thought he had changed his mind.”

  “Perhaps, but unlikely. My dear sir, if you do that kind of thing, at least one person must witness him going in.”

  Pratt rubbed his forehead between his fingers and thumb.

  Phil gave him a direct look. “What more aren’t you telling me?”

  Pratt looked down at the lifeless form at his feet. Shook his head.

  “There must be something or you wouldn’t have come to me.”

  “I was going to call the police, but fortunately Gwendolyn was coming down the stairs to breakfast. I confided what had happened. She immediately said I should call on you. That all the women of her acquaintance know you were the one who saved Bev Reynolds’s reputation.”

  He was worried about his wife’s reputation? Or perhaps his daughter’s. Death in one’s house is a terrible thing, but shouldn’t set off this tizzy of anxiousness. There was more to this story than he’d told Phil. But she was intrigued.

  Phil looked quickly around, knowing Lily would be taking note of everything she did. They’d been studying manuals on detection all summer when they could get a moment away from the festivities of Newport, Saratoga, and Hot Springs society.

  She tugged her gloves tighter for more dexterity, something Preswick had taught her, pulled her skirts aside, and knelt down beside the body, ignoring Pratt’s sharp intake of breath as she reached toward Fauks’s lapel.

  She felt a bit squeamish herself as memories of her arrival in Manhattan flashed before her. Reggie Reynolds, dead, her reaching across the body—

  Phil shook off the residual horror and studied the body.

  His blond hair was still pomaded in place except for a lacquered tress that fell across his forehead in one piece. His skin was pale, almost white, and she didn’t need to touch him to know that he would be quite cold.

  Phil lifted the edge of his tailcoat with one finger. No sign of injury that she could see. But if not on a dare, then why jump down the laundry chute at all?

  Chased by an irate husband perhaps? He was impeccably dressed, properly buttoned and tucked in, not as if he’d dressed in haste.

  She saw no sign of a wound or bruising. Not a broken fingernail on his well-manicured hands that would have suggested signs of a struggle to save himself, to slow down the descent, or even a struggle to prevent himself from being pushed inside. Perry must have been unconscious, or perhaps already dead, when he went down the chute.

  A sudden shadow fell over the body. Phil stood, just as Lily reached for her ankle.

  “Lily, no,” Phil ordered as she confronted the newcomer.

  “Godfrey,” Luther exclaimed, his voice an octave higher than usual.

  “You suspect foul play, Lady Dunbridge,” said Godfrey Bennington. He didn’t look pleased.

  “I’m afraid that it is a possibility.”

  “Gwen said you were down here,” Godfrey said without taking his eyes from Phil. He was a tall, large-boned man with a barrel chest and a mane of flowing white hair. Taller in the morning light, it seemed to Phil, than he’d been last night when she had waltzed with him. He’d been an excellent waltzer, surprising since he looked like just the sort to tread on one’s toes, but he glided her around the floor with ease and in time to the music without once faltering in polite conversation.

  Today, dressed in a well-fitting sack suit of fine wool, he was merely formidable. Perhaps she should have worn the hated eggplant dress after all.

  “Well, yes. Gwen wished for Lady Dunbridge to … sustain her if … when … Lady Dunbridge, you remember Godfrey Bennington, my dear friend and Agnes’s godfather.”

  Godfrey bowed slightly; didn’t smile.

  “Yes, indeed,” Phil said. “I would say it was delightful to see you again, except for the…” She glanced down at Perry Fauks’s body. “The situation.”

  “I’m not certain if you understand the delicate nature of the ‘situation’ currently and the last thing we need is…”

  “Scandal,” Phil finished for him.

  “Yes, but something more important,” Luther said. “These are troubled times, and the death of the Fauks’s heir, even because of a stupid prank, might lead to another financial panic.”

  “True,” Phil said, looking from one man to the other. “But we’re not talking about a prank gone awry. I’m afraid we’re talking about murder.”

  3

  Luther Pratt cast a frantic look toward Bennington.

  Not surprise but a momentary panic that had nothing to do with the financial crisis. Just what was going on here?

  “Quite,” Bennington said. He moved past her and knelt by the body. And before Phil could protest, he turned Fauks over. It was done smoothly and efficiently and Phil couldn’t help but think it was something he’d done before. Not just today but many times.

  He motioned her closer.

  He didn’t have to point it out, the tiny hole in the left side of the jacket’s back. She could smell the tangy unpleasant odor of blood and other things she’d rather not name.

  No accident had made that tiny tear or drawn the blood that seeped around the edges, almost the same color as the dark fabric. It had been an intentional attack. Not by a pistol; there were only torn fibers, not singed ones around the opening as there would have been if a bullet passed through the coat, no residue. But a blade of some sort. Narrow. Thin.

  She felt Lily kneel down beside her. She was breathing slowly, shallowly. “Stiletto,” she wh
ispered.

  Phil nodded and stood. “I think, Mr. Pratt, it is time that we called the police.”

  Pratt looked at Godfrey. “Must we?”

  Godfrey just looked down at the body, his eyes narrowed. Phil wasn’t sure he even heard the question.

  “You must,” Phil said. “You’ll never be able to completely hush this up. The staff has seen and probably gossiped among themselves. You can’t keep it from your family. They’ll wonder where he is and when it comes out that he’s dead, wonder why no one told them. It’s better just to get it done before it grows past the ability for us to handle.”

  Godfrey looked up at that.

  “Godfrey,” Pratt implored.

  “I’m afraid, dear friend, Lady Dunbridge is correct. He can’t just disappear. He will be traced to this house.”

  Phil suppressed a shiver. Was he in the habit of making people disappear?

  “But this needs to be handled with the utmost delicacy.”

  “I know just the man,” Phil said.

  Again Pratt and Godfrey exchanged looks. Phil was beginning to wonder what their relationship was, beyond friends.

  “Very well,” Mr. Pratt said. “If you can vouch for his discretion.”

  “I can vouch for his honesty and integrity. And tenacity,” she added. “He will investigate until he finds the perpetrator of this crime.” She stopped to give them both a good hard look. “But he will not be bribed or thwarted and he will arrest whomever it is, regardless of whoever they are.”

  Mr. Pratt nodded. “It must have been a burglar he interrupted. It does happen. These people case houses where the residents are out of town or busy with entertainment and the servants are all engaged elsewhere. Perry might have interrupted one and was killed.”

  “Is anything missing?” Phil asked.

  “What? I have no idea.”

  “I think it’s time to inform your honest policeman,” Godfrey said. “Who is the man?”

  “You must call the nineteenth precinct and request to speak to Detective Sergeant John Atkins. Speak only to him and ask him to come here. Do not overly explain. Just say that there has been a bit of trouble and … Well, I’m sure you know what to say.

  “If he is not there, have them send someone to find him. Throw your weight around if you must, but delicately. He does not like to be coerced. You may tell him, I precede him. That should precipitate prompt action. In the meantime you must lock the laundry room, and … secure the areas around the entrances to the chutes on each floor.”

  “Impossible,” Luther said.

  “Well, you must figure out a way, and keep the regular staff off the upper floors until this can be dealt with. And if you could just have your cook see that my maid gets a cup of tea in the kitchen.”

  He started. “Yes, of course.” He strode over to the door, stepped out into the hall.

  “Mrs. Cochran!” he bellowed.

  The cook appeared seconds later, wiping her hands on her apron and looking harried. “Yes, Mr. Pratt.”

  “Please take Lady Dunbridge’s maid to the kitchen and take care of her. Give her tea or something.”

  “Yes, Mr. Pratt.” She looked around until her eyes lit on Lily. Her eyes widened.

  “She’s very sweet,” Phil assured her. “Her English is not so good.”

  “Ah.” Mrs. Cochran smiled at the maid. “You come along, dearie. Mrs. Cochran will look after you,” she said in a loud voice as if volume would make up for Lily’s lack of understanding.

  Lily didn’t even hesitate but went with her.

  Phil turned to the two men.

  “Just do as I say and all will be well. Now I must join dear Gwen in the conservatory. Shall we go, gentlemen? I have draperies to discuss.” Phil swept by the two men, but she waited for them at the door. She had no intention of letting these two have their way with the murder scene more than they already had.

  “I’ll see you up,” Luther said and started toward her.

  “As you wish, Lady Dunbridge,” said Godfrey, smiling at her in what Phil thought was amusement and perhaps a tad of admiration. Though whether for her skill, her bravura, or her just plain cheek, she wasn’t certain.

  “I believe Gwen is still in the conservatory,” Pratt said. “It’s good for her lungs. That and the inhalant that she must use several times a day.”

  They climbed the back stairs to the first floor, where Pratt opened the door. “My dear?”

  The first thing Phil noticed was the smell. A sharp acrid odor that had earlier clung to Gwen Pratt’s clothes.

  Pratt went inside but Phil stood just inside the door, staring through the hazy atmosphere to where Gwendolyn Pratt, a green and yellow dressing robe covering her clothes, held the glass mask of a nebulizer to her nose. On a nearby table a kerosene-burning vaporizer released clouds of acrid smoke around her head.

  Gwen saw Phil and pulled the glass mask from her face. “Lady Dunbridge. Philomena.”

  “Please,” Phil said. “Don’t get up on my account.”

  “It’s this horrible asthma. I don’t usually use both the nebulizer and the incense, but with the party and the stress of poor Perry’s death, I thought the double application couldn’t hurt.

  “Elva?” She waved at a maid, a plump young woman with fair hair and complexion, who quickly removed the offending dish of incense and hurried away.

  Gwen slipped out of her dressing robe and turned to her husband. “Thank you, Luther. I know you have a million things to do today. Lady Dunbridge—Philomena—and I will fend for ourselves.”

  A tactful dismissal, Phil thought.

  “Yes, yes, I do. I’ll be here at home in my study if you should need me.”

  “Thank you, my dear. Now, Philomena, let us go into the parlor. I’ve ordered cook to serve us coffee and some cakes.”

  She led Phil into the parlor. She seemed totally recovered from her attack. She stood erect and chatted as well as any hostess would with a morning caller. Only the slightest telltale medicinal odor gave any indication she was unwell.

  “Now, what do you think?” she asked as soon as they had sat down in the window alcove where, Phil did not fail to notice, Mrs. Pratt could watch the street.

  “I’ve asked your husband to call the police.”

  “I thought that might have been what happened. Then it wasn’t an accident by misadventure.”

  “No.”

  Mrs. Pratt’s hand rose to her chest, fingered a medallion that hung around her neck. “But how could this happen, in our own house, under our very noses? A housebreaker? While we were fully staffed and bursting with guests?”

  Phil saw no need to try to assuage the woman’s quandary. She let her work through to the inevitable conclusion. “Not the servants, surely. Ours are carefully vetted. Not one of my staying guests, nor my family.

  “I can’t believe this has happened. And poor Agnes. We’d hoped…”

  “Has she been told?”

  Mrs. Pratt shook her head. “She was still sleeping and I’ve ordered her breakfast sent to her room with a note that I wish her to rest upstairs this morning so she won’t look peaked for the coming activities. It’s her first season, and to have something like this happen, I’m not sure how to react.”

  Neither did Phil. Murder was something entirely beyond the pages of Mrs. Kingsland’s etiquette book.

  “Oh dear.” Gwen’s breathing suddenly became labored. Her hand came to her chest and she sucked in a jagged breath.

  “Shall I ring for your maid?”

  “No, no. I’ll be fine. When … I get … excited … or upset … poor Elva is already very upset by all of this. Her solicitations and fidgeting just make it worse.”

  “Then I’ll send for Lily. She doesn’t speak much English and she’s extremely shy,” she added, if carrying a knife at your ankle would be considered shy. “But she’s extremely efficient.”

  “Thank you,” Gwen said and took a final long breath. “But I’m better now.”

&nb
sp; The door opened and the butler ushered in two footmen with trays of coffee and finger sandwiches both savory and sweet and placed them on a mahogany side table covered in a Battenberg runner.

  Mr. Pratt followed on their heels. As soon as they were gone, he turned to Phil. “I was able to speak with the detective sergeant. He is on his way.”

  “And Mr. Bennington?”

  “He’s in my study. He has business of his own that must be conducted today, so I’ve moved Vincent into the library. I told him what happened. He’s very upset. He and Perry were once good friends.”

  “Once?” Phil asked.

  “Oh, when the boys were in school. They both went to Harvard with my son, Morris, whom you met last night. And a couple of others who attended the party.”

  “They’re no longer friends?”

  “Of course they are, but having moved on in life, their interests have diverged.”

  That was a nice way of putting it, Phil thought. Morris, the son of an important banker and possible government commission appointee; Perry, the heir to a fortune. She didn’t know about their other friends, but if Vincent was a mere secretary to his friend’s father, he hadn’t made very good use of his Harvard education. Though perhaps Mr. Pratt was preening him for a future in government.

  “Now if you ladies will excuse me, I have the unenviable duty of informing Perry’s parents of his demise. And then I must inform Isaac Sheffield. It will be such a blow to the company” He shook his head. “That it should happen in our home.” He wandered off.

  “Poor man,” Gwen said, handing Phil a cup of coffee. “He takes his duties seriously, all his duties.” She offered Phil the platter of cakes then took her own cup and looked toward the window. “I suppose we should at least say something about the drapes.”

  * * *

  When the detective sergeant arrived, he found two ladies of fashion, heads together over a lifted piece of Brunschwig damask.

  Mr. Pratt cleared his throat to get the ladies’ attention. Not that they needed it. Phil and Gwendolyn Pratt had been watching from the window as John Atkins arrived. Saw him look up at the address and quickly lowered their heads over their ersatz reason for being there.