Tell Me No Lies Read online

  Before they entered the lobby, Phil made a quick detour to the corner newsboy hawking the afternoon edition of the Evening Post and bought a copy. Surely it was too early for word to have gotten out to reporters. But they were indefatigable newshounds and it was best to stay abreast of the news.

  She folded the newspaper and tucked it under her arm. Turned to avoid a passing shoeshine boy and stopped. Turned back around, but the “boy” who was actually a rather tall man disappeared around the corner of the hotel.

  She inhaled, but it was gone, that exotic pipe tobacco that her mysterious note-leaving friend preferred. She was tempted to run after him, but that would be unseemly and besides, she knew he would be gone. Since their first meeting, he’d appeared several times in different disguises and disappeared without her ever managing to catch him.

  “What is it, madam?”

  “Lily, did you smell that?”

  Lily wrinkled her nose. “Just fumes and horse droppings.”

  “Hmm.” Phil took a last look down the street and decided she must have imagined that telltale scent.

  “Good afternoon, Lady Dunbridge.” The doorman tipped his hat and opened the door for them.

  “Good afternoon, Douglas. Did you recognize that shoeshine boy who just passed?”

  “Boy?” Douglas crinkled his brow.

  “An adult shoeshine person, rather.”

  “No, can’t say that I did. Though there’re plenty of ’em hanging around. Did he bother you?”

  “No, I was just curious.”

  “Yes, madam.”

  Phil went inside and headed straight for the row of four bronze elevators that took guests all the way up to the nineteenth floor. Her favorite elevator operator, Egbert, was waiting at the first lift and she and Lily stepped inside.

  “Lovely day, Lady Dunbridge.”

  “Yes indeed, Egbert.” His voice was a lyrical tenor and his greetings always reminded Phil of a song.

  He shut the grate and they ascended to the fifth floor.

  She let Lily and herself into her apartments. It was a wonderful sense of freedom, this coming and going at will. Preswick, of course, frowned upon the custom of letting oneself into one’s own apartments, but he’d finally stopped grumbling aloud.

  He of course appeared before they had both stepped over the threshold.

  “High tea, immediately,” Phil declared.

  “Yes, my lady.”

  “For three. I refuse to have my tea while the two of you stand over me like starving refugees. We’ll all have tea. In the study room where I can spread out my newspaper and you can both take notes on what we found out today. We’ve a lot to do if we’re going to the country at week’s end.”

  “The country?” Preswick said.

  “Yes, and you will accompany us, Preswick. It’s to be a country weekend in a place called Foggy Acres or some other Dickensian-sounding name.” Phil laughed. “These Americans. I’ll explain all if I may only have my tea.”

  Preswick bowed and hurried to call the waiter who would order tea to be sent up by dumbwaiter from the subbasement kitchen. And which would arrive hotter and fresher than most food served in the great homes across England and probably America.

  “Now, Lily, get me out of this hat and we’ll reconvene to compare notes.”

  By the time her hat was returned to its hatbox, Phil had changed into an at-home gown of mauve chiffon, and had transferred the torn strips of paper from her pocket to a small silk reticule. She carried the bag, her newspaper, and the note down to the smaller sitting room, where a lavish tea was spread out on their study table.

  She sat down, dumped her paper and bag on the table, and piled her plate high with liver paste, watercress, and cucumber and cheese sandwiches, while Preswick poured tea.

  “I must say, this delivery system is excellent,” Phil said, taking a sip of tea. “Delicious.”

  “Humph,” Preswick said. He’d been trying to get the kitchen to make English scones. The French chef was not amused until he found out that Lady Dunbridge had a favorite recipe. Which, of course, she didn’t. It never occurred to her to bring recipes to America—if she’d had any, which she didn’t. Nonetheless, Monsieur Lapparraque humored Preswick and turned out a reasonably edible scone.

  As soon as Preswick deigned to sit, Lily sat down and reached for a sandwich. While they ate, Phil apprised Preswick of the murder of Perry Fauks. “Lily and I got a firsthand look, though I imagine Detective Sergeant Atkins was more thorough.”

  “We would have found more but he made us leave,” Lily added. “But I saw when the black van came.”

  “The coroner?”

  “Yes. Three men, two carrying a cot. The detective sergeant took them into the laundry room, but he locked the door behind them. I tried to listen but they were talking low. Then they came out again and cook told me I was to stay in the kitchen and not wander around the halls. She called me a heathen.” Lily’s face hardened. “But I just smiled and pr-r-r-retended not to understand her-r-r-r.”

  “Very good,” Phil said. “She’s an uneducated woman and is to be ignored.”

  Preswick poured Lily more tea.

  “So tell me what else you found out downstairs today.”

  “Pfft, those ser-r-r-vants. They were told not to talk, and that’s all they did all morning long.”

  “So your presence didn’t curb their tongues?”

  “I just sat and looked stupid, and didn’t react to anything they said and they yammered on for hours. Yammer, yammer, yammer.”

  Preswick cleared his throat. “That is not the proper word for a lady’s maid, Lily.”

  “But I like it. Yammer-r-r-r.” She grinned at him. “But I won’t use it.”

  “I told her to only speak in Italian today.”

  “Ah,” said Preswick, putting his cup down.

  Phil pushed the tiered plate of sandwiches toward him. He hesitated and then chose one of cheese and cucumber.

  “I wish I’d had my notepad,” Lily said. “But I think I remember most things. Mostly they were just hysterical and saying they were afraid to stay.”

  “So no question about it being an accident?”

  Lily shook her head. “The laundress saw the blood. It was on one of the sheets. But it was put in the fire.”

  Of course it was, Phil thought. What else had they “tidied up” before she arrived?

  And where was the weapon? Had they tidied that up, too? Phil mumbled an expletive under her breath. She was certain that both she and Detective Sergeant Atkins hoped it was stuck in the laundry chute somewhere. And not on its way to the garbage dump.

  “What else did you learn, Lily?”

  “Three of the laundry maids. They went down to sort the day’s laundry and he was stuck in among the sheets. They screamed and carried on until the laundress came over then sent for Mr. Pratt. The men had to pull him out. That’s when they saw the blood. The laundress wanted to bleach it, but Mr. Pratt said to burn it.”

  So Luther had given the order. Fastidiousness or stealth? “Go on.”

  “Mr. Pratt and that other one with the lion’s hair laid him out and tried to see if he was still breathing, but he wasn’t. Then they sent the girls away and told them not to talk, and cook took them to the kitchen for tea.”

  “And were there conjectures about how the man died?”

  “Just silly talk. Rr-r-r-robbers or madmen. Stupido.”

  “Yes, I’m afraid it might be a little closer to home.” Phil took a minute to describe to Preswick going to Agnes’s room, following Maud to Perry Fauks’s room.

  “Maud Jeffrey. I don’t think you saw her today, Lily. She’s one of Agnes’s cousins. A twin. You both will see them when we all go to Long Island.”

  “You think this cousin killed him and stuffed him down the laundry chute?” Lily asked.

  “Not unless she had help,” Phil said. “She’s quite petite.”

  “Small individuals are known to have unnatural strength wh
en under duress,” said Preswick. “One of the girls from the village lifted a wagon off her father when it collapsed on him while he was trying to tighten the wheel.”

  “No!” Lily said, her eyes wide. “Is that true?”

  “Do you question my veracity?” Preswick asked indignantly.

  “No, Mr. Preswick,” Lily said contritely. “But is it true?”

  He raised an imperious eyebrow.

  Lily grinned back.

  “But I did find this.” Phil wiped her fingers on her napkin and opened the silk bag she’d brought to the table. She turned it over and shook it until the table was covered by strips of torn paper, as well as Maud’s confiscated note.

  She lifted the note and unfolded it.

  “What does it say, madam?”

  “It’s a love note. And rather silly schoolgirl stuff. But Maud sneaked away to retrieve it from Mr. Fauks’s room.”

  She read it aloud. A short, pitiful exclamation of affection and a plea not to marry her cousin Agnes. “Well, the girl was certainly carrying a torch for Mr. Fauks, but there’s nothing here that sounds desperate enough that would cause a young girl to kill her lover.

  “Though I suppose we should read the rest.” Phil looked at the strips of paper in front of them. “Do we have glue and paper? Perhaps we can reconstruct these.”

  While Preswick went to fetch the supplies, Phil and Lily started arranging the strips. It took under an hour to put them all back together. Most were silly, like the one Phil had confiscated. Two were pleas to meet Maud at night. There were no dates, but they did raise the possibility that Maud had met him the night of the party and might have been the last person to see him alive.

  Or possibly the first to see him dead.

  “I suppose I must hand them over to Detective Sergeant Atkins. I hate to do it, they’re such humiliating evidence of a schoolgirl crush. Except, maybe not so innocent.”

  Phil sighed. She herself wasn’t so old—at twenty-six she was in her prime, perhaps a little jaded; she had seen much of the world—that she couldn’t sympathize with those pangs of love. She’d definitely have to turn them over to Atkins. And ask him to be gentle with the girl’s heart.

  She pushed the notes to the side of the table and reached for another sandwich. “Let’s see, what else,” she said as she munched on the liver paste sandwich. “I suppose I shouldn’t share this since it’s pure speculation, but the Pratts’ daughter, Agnes, was about to be engaged to Mr. Fauks, or so they expected. But when Maud of the love letters left the room, I overheard her say, ‘She’ll be glad he’s dead.’ I believe she was referring to Agnes.

  “I’ve asked Bobby Mullins to bring a jockey to climb down the chute tomorrow morning to look for clues. He may bring Rico.”

  Lily’s nose went up. “Oh, that one.”

  “Yes, that one.”

  “Is it dangerous?” asked Lily, melting a little.

  “No. I’m sure the detective sergeant will contrive some sort of harness to keep him safe while he’s looking for clues.”

  “What kind of clues will he be looking for in a laundry chute?” Preswick asked.

  “The missing weapon for one. It appears to be a stab wound from a very narrow knife. If it isn’t in the chute, they will have to search farther afield.”

  “Any suspects thus far?”

  “The valet disappeared. The police are looking for him. But there is a whole house of people, including the Pratts’ son, Morris, a rather smug, unlikable young man.

  “There was also a Mr. Isaac Sheffield at the ball last night. The victim was to inherit his family’s Copper, Coal and Steel trust, which is now being run by Mr. Sheffield, until Perry was deemed mature enough to take over. Which will never happen now. But it could be a motive.

  “Mr. Sheffield lives in the city with his wife. Preswick, if you could ask around, peruse some newspapers, see where he stands in this financial crisis business. Godfrey Bennington, he of the lion hair, is somehow connected to the War Department. Luther Pratt is a very influential banker, managed to survive the Panic, and is expected to be appointed to a big government committee to prevent such things in the future.

  “Everything could unravel for him if this isn’t solved efficiently.”

  “Yes, my lady.”

  “And what if it brings scandal to his house?” Lily asked.

  “Then it will. But it is the price one pays. Tomorrow I will return, ostensibly to help Mrs. Pratt with her new parlor drapes. Preswick, call to a fabric house and have them send over some appropriate samples, in blues and ochers, drapery colors, you know better than I.

  “Oh, and what do you know about balloons?”

  “Balloons, my lady? I imagine they sell them in the park.”

  “No, the kind that carry people and instruments. There is a test of such balloons scheduled for next weekend. I saw an article crumpled up in Perry Fauks’s wastepaper basket. And I’ve just been invited to a house party by a man who works for the War Department and whose estate is located near to where the government is testing balloons while we’re in residence. It seems too coincidental not to do a little research.”

  “Very well, my lady. I can take the trolley down to the library tomorrow.”

  “Thank you. And now that my hunger is somewhat assuaged…” Phil stood up and a piece of paper fell from her skirt.

  “Now what’s this?” She leaned over and picked it up. “Odd. There were no missing pieces from the notes. It must have been in the wastepaper basket along with the others.” She peered at it. Rectangular and torn at either end. Initials and numbers and Greek to her.

  “If I might, my lady.”

  Phil handed the paper to Preswick.

  “Do you know what it is?”

  “Yes, my lady. It’s a ticker tape.”

  “Which is?”

  “It sends the most recent movements of the stock market over the wire. The initials stand for the name of this particular company. The numbers represent the fluctuation in stock prices since the last reporting.”

  “Can you tell what the company is?”

  “No, but I can stop by the exchange tomorrow and find out, though…”

  “Though what?”

  “I doubt if this company will even exist tomorrow. From the numbers displayed, the company’s losses are most likely unrecoverable.”

  7

  Phil arrived at the Pratt mansion a few minutes before eight the next morning.

  “Good morning, my lady,” Brinlow said as he took her coat and hat. “The workmen have arrived and are on the fourth floor with Mr. Atkins. Mrs. Pratt isn’t down as yet, but if you would like to wait in the parlor, I will inform Mr. Pratt that you have arrived.”

  “Thank you, Brinlow, but that won’t be necessary. I’ll go directly to the fourth floor.”

  “Would you care to take the elevator, my lady?”

  “Yes, indeed I would, Brinlow.”

  He bowed, handed her coat off to a waiting footman, and took her to a door inlaid with mother-of-pearl and exotic woods near the back of the foyer. It opened to reveal a cage that could accommodate several people.

  Excellent, Phil thought. Now she wouldn’t have to sprint up four flights of stairs and arrive disheveled and out of breath to face the detective sergeant. He was bound to be in an unconciliatory mood.

  “After you, my lady.”

  Phil stepped inside. It was rather a rickety ride up, in comparison to the smooth-running elevators at the Plaza, but still eons away from the cold hard steps of Dunbridge Castle. The longer she was in America, the more she loved it.

  Brinlow opened the doors onto the fourth floor and a hallway saturated with sunlight from a back window. She could hear the sounds of activity and after thanking Brinlow, she hurried toward it.

  The first person she saw was Bobby Mullins, his bright orange-red hair, as always, defying the generous amount of pomade he used to keep it tamed. His black bowler was sitting out of the way on the floor. He was wearing his
best plaid suit, brushed and looking slightly looser than it had been the first time she’d met him.

  Bobby must be getting exercise running the stable and training facilities at Holly Farm.

  He and another man, who Phil took as a tradesman, were arguing about the best way to send Rico down the chute.

  Rico himself was standing back looking skeptical. He was a small man, even for a jockey, with almost black hair framing his face. He saw her and nodded, but his face fell when, she imagined, he saw that she had not brought Lily.

  She had left Lily home for just that reason. Rico needed his wits about him today and Lily would be a distraction.

  Besides, she had more important things for Lily to do today.

  She found Atkins farther along the hallway leaning into what must be the opening of the laundry chute on this floor.

  “Good morning, Detective Sergeant.”

  He started and knocked his head on the top portion of the chute before easing out and standing upright.

  Phil winced, not only for his head, but for the cut on his cheek and the blue bruise along his jaw.

  “A barroom brawl, Detective Sergeant?” she asked.

  There was the slightest tightening of his nostrils. Not in the mood to be trifled with today.

  “Surely Perry Fauks’s death didn’t lead you to the rough side of town.”

  “I was on another case. We’ve been known to work more than one at a time.”

  Things must not have gone well. “Dare I ask, did the bad guys win?”

  “Depends on which bad guys to whom you refer.”

  “We’re ready, sir.” The man who Phil had taken for a tradesman was rolling a winch down the beautiful antique runner.

  “Hold it there, Higgins, until I finish here.”

  “Is this where you think Fauks went in?” Phil asked as the detective sergeant bent down to peruse the floor around the chute.

  He cast her an irritated look over his shoulder.

  “I take that to mean there isn’t evidence either way. Shall I help you look?” She put her actions to the suggestion and began searching the carpet for anything that might give them an idea of where to start looking.