Tell Me No Lies Page 5

  “I’m afraid, sir, that’s impossible.”

  “Mr. Kelly isn’t at lunch?”

  “He’s gone, sir.”

  “Gone? You mean out?”

  “Gone for good. I went up to find out if he knew about his employer. How could he not? But he wasn’t there. His room has been cleared out. And no one has seen him this morning. It’s like he was never here at all.”

  “There’s your killer, Detective Sergeant,” Pratt said. “Why didn’t we think of that? You won’t need to disturb my household after all.”

  “On the contrary,” Atkins said. “He may be the killer, but we will need evidence to convict him once he’s found. And that evidence lies within this house among the residents. In the meantime, I’d like to inspect the valet’s room.”

  Pratt turned to Brinlow, who had made himself invisible during the exchange. He nodded and Atkins followed him to the door.

  He turned at the threshold. “Good day, Lady Dunbridge.”

  Well, that was rather obvious, Phil thought. And totally ineffective. She had no intention of leaving him to pursue this by himself.

  “I’ll be ruined,” Pratt said, sinking into his desk chair.

  “Perhaps he’ll find some clue that will lead to the man’s arrest,” Phil said.

  “You heard him. He wants to speak to everyone in the house.”

  “It’s how they learn the facts, as you must understand.”

  “Why? Perry’s valet killed him. God knows he’ll never work again.” He grabbed his forehead between his fingers. “What am I saying? He’ll go to jail—or worse.” He straightened suddenly. “I beg your pardon, Lady Dunbridge. I was just thinking out loud.”

  “I assure you, Mr. Pratt, it’s nothing I haven’t heard or seen before.” Though she had to admit, seeing that handsome young man lying dead among the laundry had given her pause.

  “I suppose I must warn the family. Godfrey might be able—”

  Phil cut him off. “If you want this solved quickly, you and Mr. Bennington must let the detective sergeant do his job. Once the news is out, the press will have a field day for as long as the investigation lasts. The more you cooperate, the quicker it will be. And I, of course, wouldn’t think of leaving Gwen at such a trying time.”

  Detective Sergeant Atkins returned several minutes later. He shot Phil a look that spoke volumes, starting with why are you still here, and ending with—if he hadn’t been a gentleman—get the hell out.

  Fortunately he was, at all times, well mannered.

  “I’m afraid, Mr. Pratt, it will be necessary to search the premises as well as the laundry chute.”

  “What?”

  Atkins’s eyes narrowed to mere slits. “Mr. Pratt. You told me no one touched the body.”

  “Not once we got him out. We laid him there and covered him up. No one has touched him since. Except for Godfrey Bennington. He turned him over to show Lady Dunbridge the…” He couldn’t finish the sentence.

  “Did anyone remove anything from the scene or the body?”

  “No.”

  “Then I will need to send someone down the chute to look for any possible evidence.”

  “What evidence?”

  The murder weapon for one. Could it be stuck in the chute? Was it hidden somewhere among the sheets? Phil hadn’t had time to search.

  Or had someone removed it after the body was discovered? With her new insight into Godfrey Bennington, she didn’t think he would have any compunction about tampering with the scene.

  And what about Luther Pratt? Was he complicit in an attempt to cover up the real reason for Perry Fauks’s murder?

  “In that case,” Phil said, “you’ll need someone small enough to fit in the laundry chute and still be able to look around for clues. Perry wasn’t a large man and he got stuck.”

  “How did you know that?” Atkins asked.

  “He was wedged in the chute. They had to forcibly pull him out,” Phil said complacently.

  Pratt rubbed his chin. “I don’t have anyone on my staff small and agile enough to do that. Perhaps I could ask the chimney sweep.”

  Phil pursed her lips. “Small to be sure, but perhaps not as needle-witted nor as honest as necessary. But,” she added before Atkins could stop her, “I know just who will have such a person, and who will be completely discreet.”

  And he would also keep her abreast of what was found.

  Both men looked at her. Pratt with curiosity, Atkins with resignation.

  “I’m afraid no one is completely discreet,” Pratt said tentatively.

  “Discreet—and loyal,” Phil smiled.

  “You have such a person?”

  “I believe I do,” Phil said.

  Atkins glowered at her. “You can’t possibly mean Lily.”

  “Good heavens, no. She’s much too delicate for such an endeavor.”

  Atkins made a noise that from a less cultured man would have been a snort.

  “Really, Detective Sergeant,” Phil said. “You don’t need a policeman, or a chimney sweep, or even a lady’s maid. You need a jockey.”

  5

  “A jockey?” Luther exclaimed.

  “A jockey.” Phil knew Atkins wouldn’t like her idea, so she plowed on before he could explode. “I’m sure Bobby Mullins would be only too happy to loan us one from the stable.”

  “Mullins? That—” Atkins caught himself before he expounded on his views of Bobby Mullins, ex–prize fighter, confidant of thugs and thieves, denizen of Manhattan’s seamier society.

  Bobby had turned over a new leaf since then, but not before running the gamut of unsavory professions until finally ending up as the loyal right-hand man of Reggie Reynolds, notorious gambler, womanizer, racehorse owner—and husband of Phil’s best friend.

  After Reggie’s murder, Bobby had switched his loyalties to Bev and, because of Phil’s involvement in solving Reggie’s murder, Phil.

  “He’s the manager of Holly Farm stables. I’m sure he would lend me—us—one of his men.”

  “I have no doubt,” Atkins said, through clenched teeth. But he knew she was right. The police were constantly battling a war on two fronts. One to catch criminals, and two, dealing with the powers that be when the investigation skirted too close to the upper crust of society.

  She could see the detective sergeant’s mind at work. She didn’t envy him. As one of the holdovers from the department’s brief experiment with honesty and efficiency, he was respected by few and despised by many who augmented their own salaries with graft, bribes, and extortions. Being a cultured man—Phil hadn’t so far learned just how that had come about—he was naturally sent to deal with the upper echelons of society when it was impossible to merely look the other way.

  It constantly put him in an untenable position, alert to deceit from his own people, and out-and-out hostility from most of the people he was sent to investigate.

  He could use her help, though he would never admit it.

  “Bobby can expedite the investigation.”

  “I think it’s a capital idea,” Mr. Pratt said. “If you really trust this Mullins character.”

  “With my life,” Phil said somewhat hyperbolically. Bobby’s loyalties were few, but unwavering. She hoped it was never put to the test, but she expected Bobby would do his part to save her if it ever came to that.

  “But I can’t have rough characters coming in and out of my house. I have women and young girls in residence.”

  “I will ring them and ask them to come, shall we say tomorrow morning? I’ll tell them to arrive at the servants’ entrance and carry a crate so it will look as if they’re tradesmen. Bobby has experience in the theatre.”

  Atkins cut off a snort.

  Well, Bobby did have experience, if you counted consorting with the ladies of the chorus.

  Atkins didn’t make a move to stop her. And why was that? Usually he would have thrown her out by now.

  “I’ll be glad to call out to the farm and arrange it with B
obby. And of course I’ll be here to make sure all goes well.”

  “Not necessary,” said Atkins.

  “Au contraire. You intimidate him, and put him on his guard. But I—”

  “And your inimitable charms?”

  “Thank you, can get him to do what we need.”

  “Very well,” Pratt said.

  Atkins nodded his acceptance, possibly his defeat? He would thank her someday. Hopefully when they found an indisputable clue in the laundry chute on the morrow.

  A muscle in Atkins’s jaw worked as he turned back to Pratt. “I must ask you to seal every opening to the chute as well as the entire laundry room until a search can be accomplished.”

  “But what about the laundry? And what do I tell the servants?”

  “That the sanitary department will be here tomorrow for its yearly inspection,” Phil suggested without missing a beat.

  The two men stared at her.

  “Every laundry chute should be habitually disinfected.” Especially after a dead body had passed through it. “Now, if you gentlemen will excuse me, I think I should check on dear Gwen and then make arrangements for tomorrow.”

  She swept past the two men, past Brinlow who stood just outside the door, and met Gwen in the foyer as she was about to go upstairs. She stopped on the first step and looked over the banister at Phil.

  “Any news?” Gwen asked.

  “Yes. It looks like Mr. Fauks’s valet is missing. Suspicion has fallen on him.”

  Gwen slumped and caught the rail. “Oh, thank goodness.”

  “You should rest,” Phil said, coming around the newel to lend her support.

  “I will, but first … someone must tell Agnes what has happened.” Tears welled in her eyes. “All her hopes dashed. It’s almost too much to bear.”

  “Let me help you upstairs,” Phil said and took her elbow.

  “I don’t know how to thank you, Lady Dunbridge—Philomena. You’re so calm. So collected. I envy you your aplomb.” They reached the second floor; halfway down the hall, Gwen stopped by a door. They could hear giggles coming from inside the room. It must be Agnes’s room.

  “I’ll leave you to your daughter,” Phil said.

  “Oh no, please, if you don’t mind.”

  Phil really had intended to search Perry’s room while Atkins was otherwise occupied, but it would have to wait. She was here to give support after all.

  They found not one but three young girls sitting on a bed covered by a thick eider down quilt. Heads together, they whispered and laughed as they sipped chocolate and munched on muffins. When Phil and Gwen entered, they all jumped, nearly upsetting the breakfast tray.

  “Oh, Mama. You scared us to pieces.”

  Gwen forced a smile. “Sorry, my dear. Are you exchanging secrets about the young men at the ball last night?”

  Agnes blushed. She was a pretty girl, not like her mother and not really like her father either. Blond curls had escaped her nightcap and curled beguilingly around her cheeks. Her eyes were bright blue and large; she reminded Phil of one of those girls pictured on soap advertisements.

  “Agnes, your manners.”

  Agnes scooted off the bed, setting off a swell of ruffles and lace of her dressing gown.

  “Oh, I beg your pardon, Lady Dunbridge, I didn’t see you standing there. How nice of you to come?” The sentence ended in a question. Why on earth should a dowager countess she’d only briefly met last night be visiting in her boudoir?

  The other girls also stood. Curtseyed.

  “And this is Maud and Effie, my sister’s children,” Gwen said. “You met them last night, Lady Dunbridge.”

  “Should we go, ma’am?” asked the one on the left.

  Gwen shook her head. “No, Effie. I’m afraid I have bad news. You might as well all hear it at once. There’s been a terrible accident.”

  “Papa!” Agnes cried.

  “No, child, your papa is fine. It’s Perry Fauks.”

  “Perry? What kind of accident?”

  The twins, Effie and Maud, whom Phil hadn’t bothered to differentiate at the ball last night, inched closer to each other.

  “What kind of accident, Mama?”

  “It seems he fell down the laundry chute.”

  “Stupid man. Isn’t he too old to play at that? How badly is he hurt? Serves him right.”

  Effie and Maud nodded their heads in agreement.

  “I’m afraid…” Gwen cleared her throat. “He’s dead, my dear. A terrible thing.”

  Agnes frowned. “He can’t be.”

  Effie—or maybe it was Maud—gasped and covered her face.

  The other sister—Maud or Effie—cried, “Oh no,” and threw her arms around the other sister and they clung to each other so closely that their masses of black curls and similar expressions evoked images of the two-headed lady Phil and Lily and Preswick had seen at Coney Island at the beginning of the summer.

  “I am so very sorry,” Gwen said and tried to hug her daughter, but Agnes pulled away and sank back against the bed. “He’s dead?”

  “Yes, my dear, I’m afraid so.”

  “Poor Perry.”

  Phil turned to the twins. “Perhaps you should go wait for your mother to return.”

  One of them nodded convulsively, and Phil noticed she had a tiny mole on her neck. “Come, Maud.”

  Phil took a quick look at Maud’s neck as she passed by. No mole. Good, now she would be able to identify them if need be.

  Maud hesitated, before Effie took her elbow and pulled her across the room. “She’ll be glad he’s dead,” Maud said as the door closed behind them.

  Well, well, Phil thought. She looked quickly at Agnes. The girl hadn’t shed a tear. Shock could do that. Grief would come soon enough.

  Gwen began helping Agnes back into bed, so Phil took the opportunity for a quick look around. The room was done up in flounces, swags, and ruffles in various shades of pink and green. Curlicues and furbelows adorned the drapes and chairs and dressing table.

  She wandered over to the table. A pair of gloves that hadn’t been taken away by the maid. Odd, that they had been forgotten. Phil picked them up, turned them over. Found nothing. She didn’t really think this child had stabbed Perry and shoved him down the laundry chute.

  But one never knew.

  Agnes’s dance card was open on the tabletop and a pink rosebud was wilting on the top.

  Memorabilia, cards, and favors from various trips were strewn across the surface. Nothing to aid Phil in finding Perry’s killer.

  After another quick look around, she quietly left the room and stood just outside the door considering what to do next. With the men downstairs and Atkins searching the valet’s quarters, this would have been a perfect time to visit Perry Fauks’s room, if she only knew which one it was. Unfortunately she didn’t know the layout of the house. She was obviously in the family’s wing. The guest bedrooms could either also be on this floor or the floor above.

  She was contemplating the efficacy of just opening doors and taking the chance of surprising someone at their toilette when a door at the end of the hall opened and Effie—or was it Maud—slipped out, closing it quietly behind her. Then she sped down the hall away from Phil and disappeared around the corner.

  Phil naturally followed. She slowed at the back of the house, then peered around the corner. Maud looked back so quickly that Phil barely had time to hop back into the corridor. When she peeked out again, she caught sight of the train of Maud’s dress going into a room. Not a room. Up the servants’ stairs.

  What was the girl up to?

  Fortunately, Effie, or Maud—Phil needed to get a closer look to be sure which one it was—was in too much of a hurry to notice the square of light that appeared on the stairs when Phil opened the door. She shut it quickly, dimming the light to the square windows on each landing.

  The girl paused on the landing above, then went through the door to the third floor. Phil stopped when she got to the landing, then stuck
her head out the door. The girl had disappeared.

  Phil walked slowly along the hallway trying to hear any sound that might be coming from the bedrooms on this floor, but the guests were either out or still sleeping.

  Well, Phil could wait. And hope to heaven Detective Sergeant Atkins didn’t find her skulking along the corridor before she found out what Effie or Maud was up to. She’d just stepped forward when a door opened, and Maud—or Effie—ran headlong into her.

  “I beg your—” The girl broke off. “What are you doing up here?”

  A quick look revealed the lack of a mole on her neck. Maud. “Following you, my dear. You seemed distressed. I wanted to make sure you were all right.”

  “I’m fine.” Maud shoved one hand behind her back, but not before Phil saw the sheet of folded paper.

  “Love letter?” Phil guessed.

  “It’s mine.”

  “But this isn’t your room.”

  Maud shook her head. “It’s just a silly note I wrote. I wanted it back. Now that he’s … he’s … dead.”

  She burst into tears. Phil quickly slipped a supporting arm around her and relieved the note from her hands.

  “The police will probably want to see this.”

  “No. They can’t. Please give it back. It doesn’t mean anything. It was just a joke. Agnes will never forgive me. Mother will kill me. Please.”

  “If that’s so, then perhaps all will be well.”

  “I didn’t kill him.”

  Phil blinked. “What makes you think someone killed him?”

  “I-I just do.”

  “You must have a reason to think that.”

  Maud shook her head, setting off an agitation of curls.

  “Come now.” Phil made a slight motion with the hand that held Maud’s note. Just enough to get the girl’s attention.

  “I don’t. Please let me go.”

  Phil supposed it hadn’t occurred to the girl she could merely walk away.

  “Is that Perry’s room? Is this where you retrieved your note?”

  Maud’s eyes bugged. Answer enough. Now how had she known which was Perry’s room, unless she had been there before?

  “Why don’t you go back to your room. I’ll take this for safekeeping. If the police need to see it, I’ll hand it over to Detective Sergeant Atkins. He’s very discreet. If you’re innocent, you have nothing to worry about.”