Tell Me No Lies Read online

  Atkins straightened up. “All right, Higgins. Bring it over. And be careful of the carpet.”

  Higgins pushed the winch up to the chute opening. He was followed by Bobby, chewing on an unlit cigar, and Rico dressed like he was about to go down to the coal mines. His torso was concealed in a leather harness, and he wore a metal cap with a light attached to the front and a strap under his chin. He looked terribly uncomfortable.

  Phil gave him an encouraging smile.

  “Ready, Rico?” Atkins asked.

  Rico made one sharp nod.

  Atkins clipped him to the rope by a metal hook and lifted him into the opening.

  “Go slowly like you were instructed. Take all the time you need. If you find anything, deposit it with the officer waiting at the next opening then keep going. I’ll meet you at the end.”

  “Yes, sir,” echoed up from the chute.

  Atkins motioned for the machinist to begin uncoiling the rope. “Slowly,” he ordered. “You okay in there?”

  “Yes, sir,” echoed back from the chute.

  Atkins backed away. “Bobby, you’re in charge of making sure everything goes all right here, I’m going to the third floor.”

  He strode off down the hall.

  Phil followed him so closely that when he stopped at the next landing, she nearly fell over him.

  “Go downstairs.”

  “Then bring in more men to help you.”

  His look said it all.

  “Oh my. Now what are they afraid of?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Whoever is tying your hands on this case.” And who is tying theirs? she wondered. How powerful was Godfrey Bennington?

  “Lady Dunbridge. I know you probably mean well, though actually I’m not at all certain. But I’ve been given three days to solve this case before the family leaves for a country house party.”

  He started walking down the hall.

  “Then you should take advantage of an extra pair of eyes and hands.”

  “Go. Away.”

  They arrived at the third-floor laundry chute. This floor also had a guard on the opening.

  “No signs of a struggle, sir.”

  Phil looked around. The carpet on this floor was more plush than the one on the fourth floor. But the officer was correct, there were no scuff marks or splashes of blood anywhere. She’d walked down this same hall following Maud the day before, and she hadn’t seen any then either.

  Fauks must have been murdered somewhere else and his body carried to the chute. They would have to search all the rooms. It would take more time, time the detective sergeant didn’t have.

  They waited by the chute opening and moments later, a pair of shoes, then legs, then torso passed by the opening. Then Rico’s face.

  A bang echoed from inside the chute; Rico rebounded and came to a stop. “Nothing yet.”

  Atkins nodded. “Keep going.”

  Two bangs and Rico’s face disappeared from view. The bangs must be Rico signaling them to stop and start.

  Phil followed Atkins to the second floor. Here Rico tossed out a scrap of paper and a pair of lace-trimmed undergarments.

  Phil tried not to laugh at the look on Atkins’s face, but she couldn’t help herself.

  He, however, was not amused. He handed the underwear to the guard, and after a cursory look at the paper slid it into his pocket.

  “Carry on.”

  Rico knocked on the metal and disappeared again.

  Atkins turned to the guard. “Have you searched the surroundings?”

  “Yes, sir. Nothing.”

  He walked away.

  Phil ran after him. “Do you think he was dead before he got to the laundry room?”

  He ignored her. She followed him down the stairs to the next opening.

  “There didn’t seem to be bruising on his face or hands. If he were conscious wouldn’t he have tried to stop himself?”

  Not getting an answer, she continued. “Is it true that bruising doesn’t occur after death?”

  He shot her a look. “Sometimes it’s hard for me to remember that you are a countess.”

  “Is that a good thing?” she asked, slightly thrown off her game.

  “No.”

  “Are you saying I’m comporting myself in a manner in which a member of the peerage should not?” she said at her haughtiest.

  “I wouldn’t dare.”

  “Detective Sergeant, a man has died. You are under certain constraints. I am not. I can help you.”

  “Why? And don’t tell me because you want to help your good friends the Pratts.”

  What could she say? I think I’m supposed to look into these things because there was an anonymous note on my pillow saying to expect a visitor. It sounded like something right out of a gothic novel. He wouldn’t believe her.

  A pity, because with a little cooperation, they might come to an acceptable outcome a lot sooner.

  “Well?” he prodded.

  “I do want to help the Pratts through this ordeal. And you have to admit, I have access to places and people that you don’t.”

  She placed a hand on his sleeve. “I don’t pretend to know about investigations. But a young man has been cruelly murdered. A young woman is distraught. The financial world is teetering on the edge of another disaster. Let me help.”

  Rico’s head appeared in the opening of the chute, he shook his head.

  Atkins sighed. Rico knocked on the chute and was lowered out of sight.

  Phil and Atkins watched him go, both falling silent. Maybe she should proceed on her own. She turned away.

  And saw a glint in the crease between the wall and the carpet edge. Probably a sequin or diamanté from a ball gown. Still, she knelt to pick it up.

  It wasn’t a sequin, but something much more valuable.

  “What is it?” Atkins asked, coming to stand over her. She stood and found herself very close to the man. He stepped back.

  She turned it over in her palm to reveal a yellow-orange gem, cut with many facets. She tilted her hand so the light caught it from another angle and it turned a fiery red.

  “If I’m not mistaken this is an Imperial topaz.”

  “From a gown?” He bent his head to look closer. Phil could feel his breath on her hand. It was quite a scintillating feeling.

  “Not a gown. This is a very fine stone. And very valuable. At one time it was only allowed to be worn by the Tsar.”

  Their eyes met over the topaz.

  “From a necklace? An earring?”

  “More likely a tiara.” She turned it over with the tip of her finger. “See? It’s cut flat in back as if it was attached to a flat surface. A brooch or possibly a ring in a prong setting … but what a waste of a brilliant stone.”

  He raised one eyebrow. “Are you feeling tempted?”

  She laughed. “Absolutely. But I’ll surrender it, peacefully. Hold out your hand.”

  He did and she dropped the stone into it.

  “Do not lose it.”

  “No.” He took a small envelope out of his pocket and slid the jewel into it, then returned it to an inside pocket.

  “If it came from a piece of jewelry, a lady’s maid would be remiss not to have noticed. Shall I ask Mrs. Pratt to inquire? Or perhaps, she’ll be visited by someone who has discovered it missing.”

  “No. Leave this to me.”

  “I hope you’re not feeling tempted yourself.”

  The look he gave her was more than her quip should have evinced. “Oh really, Detective Sergeant, tit for tat. It was just a little joke.” She smiled. “One must learn to laugh at oneself, don’t you agree?”

  “Perhaps, but not in this case.”

  She glanced at his chest where the gem lay inside his breast pocket. “Do you think it has anything to do with Perry Fauks’s murder?”

  * * *

  Phil, Atkins, and Bobby were waiting like a welcoming committee when Rico’s feet appeared in the opening of the b
asement laundry chute. And Phil felt a sudden chill imagining what the laundry girls must have felt when they’d pulled out the linens to reveal Perry Fauks’s dancing shoes.

  Atkins helped Rico out. As soon as he was standing up he held out empty hands. “Nada.”

  Bobby set about releasing Rico from the harness, then yanked on the rope, which immediately began to recede back into the chute.

  Rico’s clothes were covered with lint, and he sneezed violently several times as Bobby began brushing it off while he checked arms, legs, and hands. After all, Rico was one of Holly Farm’s up-and-coming jockeys.

  “I am fine,” Rico said. “The rope held me safe.”

  Atkins was staring into the laundry chute as if willing it to reveal the secrets of Perry Fauks’s demise. Then he turned to the others.

  “Well, thank you, Rico. See my sergeant by the stairs. He will have a little something for your work.”

  “Oh no, mister. We do it for the lady.” He smiled shyly at Phil.

  “We’ll be sure to see the sergeant before we go,” Bobby said, pushing Rico toward the door.

  “I suppose,” Phil said, “this means we must search farther afield.”

  “We,” Atkins said, stressing the word, “will do no such thing. You will go back upstairs to your drapery or whatever other excuse you’ve come up with for being here, and leave the investigation to the professionals.”

  “Very well.” She lifted her chin and left him. It wasn’t until she got to the door that he said, “But thank you.”

  “Not at all,” she said, and feeling perhaps unwarrantedly satisfied, she went upstairs to discuss new drapes.

  * * *

  She never made it to the morning room. She was still standing in the hallway, considering whether to try to do some investigating on her own or begin the questioning, when she felt Atkins come up behind her. Was he following to make sure she was gone?

  Really, the man was infuriating. She could stamp her foot, but his opinion of her un-countess-like demeanor had rankled. So she merely nodded politely.

  He ignored her and joined an officer who was now guarding the parlor door. “Is everyone in the parlor?”

  “Yes, sir, as you requested.”

  Phil hurried over. Brinlow opened the door to the parlor and before Atkins could muscle her out, Phil slipped inside.

  Not the most graceful entrance she had ever made. But needs must …

  They were all there, almost exactly where she’d left them the day before. Godfrey and Luther standing by the fireplace, only today they both held brandy snifters. Morris sitting somewhat straighter in the club chair, though an empty glass rested on the armchair beside him. Gwen was sitting upright on the settee, next to Agnes, whose hands she held in hers. The Jeffrey family was absent.

  Agnes’s cheeks were flushed. She had dressed in a somber dark green dress, high necked and not at all what a young girl making her debut should be wearing. She glanced up at Phil with frightened eyes.

  “It will be quite all right, my dear,” Phil said sympathetically as she came over to say hello to Gwen, who was dressed in a dark purple moiré silk—a color Phil was coming to hate, and which only served to make Gwen look sickly pale.

  Atkins had stopped just inside the door and stood surveying the occupants. “Where are the Jeffreys?”

  “Out for their morning ride. Taking advantage of our proximity to Central Park. And really, Detective Sergeant Atkins, there’s no need to bother them,” Luther said. “The girls know nothing. Ruth sent both of them to bed right after dinner, long before the party wound down. And Ruth and Thomas followed shortly afterward. They keep a different schedule even when in New York. Early to bed, early to rise.”

  “Nonetheless, I’d like to speak with them.”

  Pratt nodded curtly. “I’ll tell Brinlow to send them in when they return.” He rang for the butler.

  Atkins looked around, zeroed in on Morris. “Then perhaps, Mr. Morris Pratt would like to start?”

  “Me?” Morris said. “I don’t know anything. Of course, there’s a lot I don’t remem—” He broke off, suddenly straightening. “As you wish, Detective.” He followed Atkins out of the room.

  It was an interminable wait until Morris returned, looking if possible even more surly than before he left.

  “He wants to speak with Agnes,” he said.

  Agnes nearly catapulted from her seat. “Me? Mama, must I?”

  Gwen looked at Phil.

  “There’s no reason to be frightened, my dear. Detective Sergeant Atkins must ask everyone questions so that he can construct a timetable of where Mr. Fauks was and when. Just answer to the best of your ability and tell the truth.”

  “But my head is all ajumble,” Agnes whined. “I don’t know what happened. I was having so much fun; it’s my first season.”

  “You must do your duty,” Phil said, cringing at her own words. Duty should be a choice, not an infliction. But not, alas, when murder was involved.

  Gwen pushed herself from the settee and took her daughter’s arm. “Yes, my dear, you must pull yourself together. I’m sure the detective sergeant will let me stay with you.”

  Phil wasn’t sure of that at all.

  “Absolutely not, Gwen.” Luther strode over to his wife and daughter. “I won’t have you wrecking your health for this ridiculous impertinence. I’ll go.”

  “No, Papa,” Agnes cried.

  “I’m going out for a while,” Morris said as they passed him. “This is just getting too tedious to bear.”

  “You’ll do no such thing,” Gwen told him. “Your sister is very upset and she needs her family around her.”

  Morris sighed. “If you say so.” He smiled at his sister but there was no sympathy in it. No love lost between him and Agnes? Of course, siblings did have their difficult moments. Phil shuddered at the memory of a few of hers. The last being over her decision to forsake her rightful place as Dowager Countess of Dunbridge and take off for America. She’d yet to receive a letter from any of them.

  “I’ll be in the billiard room, if you need me.” Morris patted Agnes’s shoulder and sauntered off down the hall.

  Agnes whirled around. “Uncle Godfrey, must I?”

  Godfrey’s lips thinned, but he managed a reassuring smile. “Yes, my dear. It will only take a few minutes and then it will be over. Just tell the detective the last time you saw Perry last night and all will be fine.”

  Agnes shrank back against her mother.

  “Lady Dunbridge?” Gwen entreated.

  Phil rose to the occasion. After all, that was why she was here. “Why don’t we both accompany you to the library.”

  They guided the trembling girl down the hall and knocked on the closed library door.

  8

  “Enter.”

  Phil smiled reassuringly at Agnes and opened the library door.

  Atkins was standing by the desk. His eyes narrowed as Phil, Gwen, and Agnes squeezed through the door. It was quite ridiculous, Phil had to admit.

  Atkins managed to find a smile, though Phil could tell he was near the end of his tether. She wondered why.

  “Perhaps just her mother,” Atkins suggested, tacitly acknowledging their reason for accompanying Agnes.

  Agnes shot a frightened look to her mother. “No, no, I’d rather Lady Dunbridge. If that’s okay, Mama.”

  For a moment, Gwen looked befuddled. Then she nodded. “Of course, my dear. I understand.”

  And so did Phil. What secrets did Agnes Pratt have from her parents? Had she been a naughty girl? Or, perish the thought, was she guilty of murder?

  Atkins held the door for Gwen to leave and Phil calmly swept Agnes farther into the room. She could feel the girl shaking against her.

  He closed the door and motioned for them to sit, not in one of the chairs placed facing the desk, but on a small settee near the bookshelves.

  She recognized what Atkins was doing. He’d placed Agnes where she would feel more comfortable and where he co
uld watch her physical reaction to his questions without having half of her hidden by the desk.

  She had just read about this technique in Mr. Gross’s Criminal Investigation that she’d bought at the beginning of the summer. Actually, she’d learned a similar technique at the feet of some of the most powerful ladies in London society, but applying that knowledge to solving a murder had only gone so far.

  Study had been called for. And for the last five months she and Lily and Preswick had been learning the finer points of investigation.

  Agnes sat on the very edge of the seat. So close that one twitch might plummet her to the floor. Phil gave her hand a reassuring squeeze.

  Agnes looked back at her with her big doe eyes. Phil couldn’t remember having seen such a sweet, helpless expression. She certainly couldn’t remember a day when she’d been that innocent, or even that innocent appearing. She wondered what John Atkins was thinking.

  He pulled a chair close to the settee, smiled slightly, and sat down.

  All of Phil’s instincts rose to the alert.

  “Now, Miss Pratt,” he said, not unkindly. “I know this is a very upsetting time for you, but I need your help.”

  Ha, thought Phil. And she settled back to watch him at work.

  “What time did you last see Mr. Fauks?”

  Agnes glanced at Phil, then said, “I don’t know. It was at the ball. But…” She bit her lip; in a less innocent girl, it would have been a nibble. “After midnight and … yes, I saw him again after supper, so maybe two o’clock?”

  “And where was that?”

  “Where?”

  Atkins smiled slightly. “Yes, was it in the ballroom? Supper room? Upstairs?” He threw the last one out in a voice as bland as whey.

  “The ballroom, I guess. No, I saw him in the foyer after that.”

  Atkins waited, attentively, for her to continue.

  Once again she cast a glance at Phil. Oh dear, there was something she didn’t want to tell the detective sergeant. Phil could guess.

  Agnes squeezed Phil’s hand.

  “What did you talk about? And Miss Pratt. Please know that your answers are confidential unless they are needed as testimony in a court of law.”