Ask Me No Questions Read online

  “And don’t say you’re not at liberty to say.”

  “She did do it.” Bev jumped up from the sofa. “I know it. That … that … woman killed my husband.”

  “Do you own a pistol, Mrs. Reynolds?”

  Bev, who had crossed to the window, spun around. “Me?”

  He didn’t answer, merely raised his eyebrows

  Her hand came slowly to clasp a cameo that hung around her neck on a thin gold chain. It was an elegant gesture and had the effect of drawing both Philomena’s and the detective’s attention to her graceful neck.

  “No,” she said tentatively. “Reggie once…”

  Philomena’s breath caught. “Another cup of coffee, Detective Sergeant?” she said, standing. Unfortunately, it was too early for cocktails. Heaven knew Phil could use one.

  A slow smile curled his lip. Philomena couldn’t tell if he was amused or going in for the kill.

  “Are you attempting to distract an officer of the law?”

  “I beg your pardon? I was being polite.”

  “Manners don’t usually come into play in a police investigation.”

  “Fortunately, I have never had the occasion to be involved in one.”

  “Until now.” He handed her his cup.

  His hand was steady. She was afraid hers might not be, but she took the cup.

  “Are you also questioning Mimi LaPonte?”

  “We questioned her yesterday.”

  “And I suppose—”

  “As soon as I conclude my conversation with Mrs. Reynolds, you’ll have your chance to enlighten me, but for now…” He turned back to Bev. “Were you aware that your husband had a…”

  “Mistress?” Bev supplied for him. “Quite a few. Is Miss Potts aware she wasn’t the only one?”

  Atkins blinked, either at her candor or because this was news to him. “Would you care to enumerate?”

  Bev trilled a laugh, though it sounded a shade hysterical to Phil. “Detective Atkins, I lost count ages ago.”

  “Miss LaPonte—”

  “Potts,” Bev spit out.

  Atkins’s mouth twitched. “If you will. Miss Potts says he promised to leave you and elope with her.”

  “Rubbish,” Bev said, but Phil noticed the two bright slashes of pink that sprang to her cheekbones. She was certain Atkins was aware of them, too.

  “It’s more likely just the opposite,” Phil interposed. “He told her he wouldn’t leave his wife, they argued, and she shot him. Did you ask her that?”

  “I believe I’m the one asking the questions.”

  “And they’re lovely questions, but perhaps you’re asking the wrong people.”

  The detective’s nostrils flared. Phil knew she had just crossed the lines of civility. Which she didn’t mind doing on occasion. Only she didn’t want to antagonize Detective Atkins. He might just hold their future in his hands.

  “I beg your pardon, Inspector.”

  “Detective Sergeant.”

  “Of course. My apologies, Detective Sergeant. But if it wasn’t suicide, and you don’t think this Miss Potts killed him, then it obviously was murder by some ruffian in the crowd. With all the commotion and the crush of people and that marching band, anyone could have walked up to the automobile and shot him. I believe an anarchist murdered your president Mr. McKinley in much the same manner.”

  “We are considering all possibilities.”

  “Surely there were witnesses. And where was the driver during all this? Reggie was not dressed in motoring clothes, so he must have brought a driver. Maybe he’s your anarchist.”

  The detective sighed and stood to take his forgotten coffee cup from the butler’s tray.

  “Lady Dunbridge, you have just demonstrated the problems with witness testimony.”

  Phil frowned. “I wasn’t a witness. I didn’t arrive until after I heard the shot.”

  “So I was told, and I would be much obliged if you would give your statement when I finish with—when my conversation with Mrs. Reynolds is at an end.”

  Phil tried not to smile at that. He was definitely watching his wording—and chafing beneath the need to do so—which meant he must have been ordered by someone higher up to tread lightly, and he didn’t like it.

  “And when did you arrive at the auto, Mrs. Reynolds?”

  “What?”

  “Where were you when the shot was fired?”

  Phil opened her mouth to speak.

  Atkins raised a hand to stop her.

  “I—I don’t know,” Bev said. “I went to get him and he was lying there.”

  “And where were you, Lady Dunbridge?”

  “When the shot was fired?”

  He nodded.

  “With Bentley. But we were right behind Bev—Mrs. Reynolds.”

  “How did you know to run to the automobile? Was there any reason to think someone would be shooting at Mr. Reynolds or his wife?”

  “Bentley started running and I followed—” She saw that she might be leading Bentley into trouble. If the American police were anything like the London constabulary—and it looked like they might be—they would love to blame an underling for wrongdoing rather than a member of the upper crust. She rapidly thought back to the events at the pier. “I believe he recognized Bev’s scream.”

  Atkins turned back to Bev. “Did you scream? You didn’t tell me about that.”

  “I screamed? Yes. I must have. I really—”

  “She was probably too distraught to really know what was happening at that point,” Phil said desperately. “But yes, she screamed. When we arrived at the car, she was barely supporting herself by holding on to the car door.”

  He shot a quelling look at Phil. “And did you open the door, Mrs. Reynolds?”

  “Why … yes. I did. I saw that he’d brought that odious creature with him to pick up my friend. The nerve of the man.”

  “Bev,” Phil warned.

  “So I yanked the door open, and there he was, just lying there, with his head on her lap and blood—” She broke down.

  Phil patted her hand but didn’t take her eyes off the detective.

  “Now we begin to get somewhere,” he said.

  “Yes,” Phil agreed. “And Mimi LaPonte just sat there until she started crying, ‘Reggie, why did you kill yourself?’ She repeated it, more than once, very loudly. I wonder if it was the actress in her? She seemed determined to make us all hear her.”

  “Lady Dunbridge.”

  Phil barreled on. “Reggie was wearing a suit, not motor clothes. So where was the driver? I didn’t see him by the car. Why wasn’t he there trying to aid his master, um, employer?”

  “The police are investigating.”

  “And the man I saw?”

  Atkins shrugged slightly. “If he was there, he’d disappeared into the crowd by the time we went after him.”

  “He was there, all right. And the bag?”

  “What bag?” Bev asked, rousing herself.

  “There was a purse on the floorboards.”

  “Gone, probably snatched by a petty thief in the excitement. If there was a bag.”

  “There was a bag. I described it to you. And you lost it? It may have been important.”

  “Like I said, a petty thief, most likely, taking advantage of the commotion.”

  At that moment the double doors burst open and a stocky man, wearing a checked suit and bowler hat, burst into the room. “I came as soon as I heard.” He saw the assembled occupants and skidded to a stop.

  Phil caught a glimpse of Tuttle, Preswick, and the footman standing in the doorway.

  “I’m sorry, madam,” Tuttle said.

  “It’s quite all right,” Bev said, and waved a dismissive hand. Tuttle closed the doors.

  “This is Mr. Bobby Mullins, my husband’s—my late husband’s—stable manager.”

  “And right-hand man,” Mullins said.

  “And welterweight boxing champion in 1894,” Atkins added. “You’ve put on a little flesh sinc
e then, Bobby.”

  Boxing. It was a universal truth that anywhere men met, boxing was sure to be the subject of conversation. And he certainly had put on a couple of stone if he’d been a welterweight. He was midheight and thick set. His suit barely buttoned around his middle.

  Bobby recognized the detective and snatched the hat from his head, displaying a bush of carrot orange hair that seemed to defy the pomade that had been generously applied. “Constable Atkins.”

  “Detective Sergeant these days.”

  “So, is it true? Did somebody off Reggie?”

  Bev gasped.

  “Oh, sorry, Mrs. Reynolds.” Mullins glanced over to the detective sergeant, then back to Bev. “I don’t think you should be answering no more questions until you can get Freddy over here.”

  “It’s all right, Bobby. I believe the detective sergeant is almost finished. Pour yourself a cup of coffee and have a seat.”

  “I’m almost finished for now, though I will be needing to speak to you all at a later time. Just one more question for Lady Dunbridge. Do you own a pistol?”

  “I do,” Phil said. “Though it was packed in my cases at the time. Besides, I have a witness.”

  “Oh,” Bev said. “I’m sure the detective didn’t mean to imply—”

  “Not at all,” Atkins said smoothly. “Though it does seem odd that a countess would own a pistol and you, Mrs. Reynolds, the wife of a, shall we say, cosmopolitan man about town, don’t.”

  Bobby’s cup clattered on the butler’s tray.

  Atkins shifted to Bobby. “Want to say something?”

  Mullins shook his head.

  “Are you sure? Withholding information is a serious offense.”

  “Just that she—” Mullins broke off, gulped his coffee. His eyes flitted to Bev and then to the floor.

  “Does own a pistol?” Atkins asked.

  “Well, yeah. Reggie gave it to her two Christmases ago. But it don’t mean she shot him.”

  “Is this true?” he asked Bev.

  “Well, yes. I’d forgotten all about it. I’ve never even used it. A horrid thing, I don’t know why Reggie thought it would be a good present.”

  “That’s right,” Mullins said. “It were a pretty little thing, but she didn’t want it and told him to take it away. He weren’t none too happy, but he locked it in his desk drawer. It’s probably still there right where he put it. Too girly for a man to use.”

  Atkins turned to Bev. “I’d like to see your husband’s desk.”

  “It’s in the library. Tuttle has the key. I’ll ring for him.”

  “The study is kept locked? Isn’t that rather unusual?”

  Phil thought so.

  “No. My husband always kept his study locked when he wasn’t using it. He handled a great deal of cash and didn’t want the servants to be tempted.”

  “I see.”

  Atkins suggested they might stay in the parlor while he looked over the study, but neither Phil nor Bev nor Bobby Mullins was having any of that. The four of them followed Tuttle to the back of the brownstone and waited expectantly while he unlocked the door.

  Tuttle crossed the darkened room and opened the drapes, allowing the light to flood in. They all crowded through the doorway and stopped.

  A man sat at Reggie’s desk, one hand inside the top drawer.

  “Who are you?” Bev demanded. “What are you doing in Reggie’s chair? How did you get in?”

  “He’s going for the gun!” Bobby cried, and pushed Bev behind his substantial bulk.

  “Nobody move,” Atkins ordered. He drew his own gun from inside his jacket and aimed it at the man as he strode toward him.

  Just as he reached the desk, the man nodded slightly, then abruptly fell forward, his forehead making a dull thump when it hit the desktop.

  Bev screamed.

  Phil stared in disbelief.

  Atkins returned his revolver beneath his jacket and checked for the man’s pulse. Shook his head slightly.

  Careful not to touch anything, Atkins looked in the drawer, on the desk, and then on the floor around the man’s feet. “Well, well, what do we have here?” He pulled the handkerchief from his jacket pocket and knelt down. When he stood, he was holding a small pistol.

  “I don’t suppose you know who owns this?” he asked.

  “It’s mine,” Bev said, and crumpled to the floor.

  4

  What a dilemma, Phil thought as she let Bev collapse. Bev had always been the consummate fainter. And this was no different. Whether real or feigned, shock or hunger—God knew neither one of them had touched much food in the last twenty-four hours—or sheer theatricality, Bev was on her own.

  This situation was rapidly getting out of control. A scandalous public death was one thing, but an unknown murder victim in one’s library was more than just coincidence.

  Phil was half aware of Tuttle rushing to help his mistress, Bobby Mullins inching backward toward the open door. Only Phil and Detective Sergeant Atkins were actually perusing the intruder.

  The detective, after an initial instinctive move toward the fallen damsel, collected himself and pointed a finger at the retreating Mr. Mullins, who froze in his steps.

  “I never saw him before in my life. I swear it.”

  “I don’t believe you can see him now,” Atkins returned. “I was merely going to ask if you’d kindly help Mrs. Reynolds back to the parlor.”

  “Criminy. She’s out cold.”

  Atkins lifted his eyebrows, and Mullins quickly but not too gracefully hauled Bev into his arms.

  “And wait there until I call for you,” he added as Mullins staggered his way through the open door, followed closely by Tuttle tut-tutting and wringing his hands.

  “Tuttle. Is that your name?”

  “Yes, sir,” Tuttle said, coming to a halt in the doorway and turning on his toe like an act from the Variety.

  Oh dear, thought Phil. He is upset.

  “Please send for Mrs. Reynolds’s maid, then be so kind as to have one of the footmen stand guard on the door to the library while I contact the proper officers to investigate the scene.”

  “All but one of the footmen are off this morning, sir. The other is stationed at the front door. But there is a telephone on Mr. Reynolds’s desk. He just had it put in a few months ago. You may use it.”

  The extra footmen off? The day after a death in the family when they would be needed more than ever as legal, clerical, and condolence calls would be made. Or had they merely been hired for last night’s festivities? The Dunbridge estate hadn’t come to that, but Phil knew plenty of houses that were mere shells whenever they were not being used for entertaining.

  Was it possible that Bev and Reggie might be in financial trouble? If that were the case, things were looking bleak for all of them.

  “One more thing, Tuttle.”

  Tuttle stopped midturn. “Yes, sir?”

  “Did anyone have access to the library since yesterday when Mr. Reynolds left the house?”

  “No, they did not. Mr. Reynolds handed me his key like he always does.”

  “He must have trusted you.”

  Tuttle didn’t bother with an answer, but his look was what one might call quelling.

  “And no one came in during the wake.”

  “They did not.”

  “The maids this morning?”

  “No. I decided that under the circumstances we would leave the library as Mr. Reynolds left it.”

  “Good man.”

  “The decision was in deference to Mrs. Reynolds’s feelings.”

  And not for your convenience, was the implication, and Phil had to give this American butler credit where it was due. He’d handled the detective admirably.

  Atkins nodded slightly. “That will be all.”

  Tuttle bowed and left the room.

  Phil sighed with relief. Tuttle had weathered the detective’s questions without a blink.

  Atkins glanced at Phil, who had lagged behind. “I�
�ll need to speak with both you and Mrs. Reynolds … later. Thank you.”

  Phil peered around his shoulder for a glimpse of the body. “Detective Sergeant, there is a dead man in Mr. Reynolds’s library. I must insist that you have him removed at once.”

  “All in good time. Once I complete my investigation, which I can’t do until you return to the parlor.”

  “Investigation? What is there to investigate? One of Mrs. Reynolds’s guests must have come in to use the telephone and had a heart attack.”

  “You heard the butler. The library was kept locked. He squeezed in through the keyhole, perhaps?”

  She gave him a dour look.

  “Thank you for your refreshing observations, but now if you would just—”

  He reached for her, but she slipped deftly out of reach. Really, all those years gracefully evading the lechers of London society were already coming in handy in Manhattan.

  “Detective Sergeant. In Mrs. Reynolds’s absence, the duty of hostess falls to me. And I couldn’t possibly leave Reggie’s library unattended.”

  She gave him the dowager stare. “Don’t you need someone to identify the poor soul?”

  “Are you suggesting I call Mrs. Reynolds back in here?”

  “Heavens no. Bev is much too upset. But I’m willing to take a look.”

  “Pardon me for saying so, but I was under the impression you had only arrived in the country yesterday.”

  “Yes, but he might have been present at the par—wake last evening.” She bit her tongue. That would mean someone would have let him in, and Tuttle was the only one with the keys.

  “And you would remember him?”

  “I never forget a face.”

  Atkins bowed slightly and moved so she could see.

  Phil swallowed, stepped closer, and peered at the man. His head had fallen to the side, leaving half his face exposed. Nondescript brown hair with thick sideburns, rough-shaven cheeks, and one side of a bushy handlebar mustache.

  Not their mystery guest. She let out what she hoped was an unnoticeable sigh of relief. That would have been a disappointment.

  “No, sorry, I’ve never seen him.”

  His jaw tightened. Phil could imagine him grinding his teeth. The detective, handsome or not, certainly wasn’t accepting his place in the social strata.

  “Mrs.—Lady—Dunbridge, thank you. Now I really must insist that you leave. A crime scene is not a place for amateurs.”