Tell Me No Lies Page 9

  Agnes burst into tears. “I didn’t do it. He wanted me to, but I didn’t want to.”

  Atkins cut a look to Phil. She took the hint and put her arm around Agnes. “Now, now. What did Perry want you to do?”

  Agnes shook her head, as tears sprang to her eyes. “To … to go upstairs,” she mumbled into Phil’s shoulder. “With him.”

  Phil exchanged a look with Atkins. Champagne and dancing and desire. Stupid man. You didn’t take a girl at her debut ball.

  “And you told him no?”

  Agnes nodded. “Of course. Can I go now?”

  Tears were streaming down her face. Atkins reached in his pocket for a handkerchief. Phil incongruously wondered how many handkerchiefs he lost in this way and how many he could afford on a policeman’s salary.

  Atkins stood and walked to the window, giving Agnes a minute to collect herself.

  Phil took advantage. “There, there,” she said. “It’s all right. These things happen.”

  “He said everybody did it, and I was being a silly schoolgirl. But Mama says, a girl shouldn’t let men take advantage.”

  “And she is correct,” Phil said. A woman should always be the one who decides whether she’s taken advantage of—or vice versa.

  Atkins turned from the window. His face was free of emotion, but he’d turned a shade paler. She remembered that from before; most people turned red when they were angry, but John Atkins went white. Phil was struck by a pang of sympathy for the man; he must hear terrible things, much worse than this, day after day.

  He sat down, leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. A nonaggressive pose. “After you saw him in the foyer, where did you go?”

  “I don’t really remember. He was mad at me.”

  “Do you know what he did?”

  Agnes shook her head. “I didn’t see him again. I know Morris said he and some of the fellows were going out, you know, ‘slumming,’ he called it. Whenever Perry was in town, Morris would invite him to go out with him and his friends.”

  “And were these friends at your party?”

  “Some of them. Harry Cleeves, and Newty—Newton—Eccles. Maybe a couple of others. I can’t remember. Vincent used to go with them, but not anymore since he came to work as Father’s secretary.”

  Probably concerned about his reputation, thought Phil. And his future if Luther Pratt became a member of the banking commission.

  Atkins had been busily writing in his black notebook; now he stood.

  “That will be all for now, Miss Pratt. Though I hope you’ll be willing to talk to me again if I have more questions?”

  Agnes sniffed and let Phil dry her eyes with the now soggy handkerchief.

  “Now see, that wasn’t so bad, was it?”

  Agnes shook her head. “Don’t tell what I said.”

  The same thing Maud had said. Phil most likely would have to show him the notes, but not with Agnes in the room. There was no reason to add insult to injury, if there was any evidence that Perry Fauks was carrying on with his intended’s cousin.

  At one time Phil might have found this kind of intrigue amusing, but not so today. She must be getting old, because Agnes’s unhappiness was all too depressing.

  “Miss Pratt, you never have to allow anyone to make you do things against your will. Understand me?”

  “But…”

  “No buts.… It isn’t right that any man should force himself on you. Now thank you for your time.” A tic of his head and Phil pulled Agnes off the settee and headed her toward the door.

  She’d been momentarily distracted by Atkins’s assurances. She’d seen a little window into the things he cared about. She couldn’t say she was surprised, but she was glad to see it.

  But before they reached the door, it opened and a man stepped inside. Phil recognized him as Pratt’s secretary, Vincent Wynn-Taylor.

  Wynn-Taylor pulled up short. “I beg your pardon. I didn’t realize. I was just coming for the daily account book.”

  “Vincent?”

  “Aggie?” Vincent stretched out his hands and took an involuntary step toward her before re-collecting himself. “Agnes, what is happening here?”

  “The police wanted to know about Perry.”

  “Does your—” Wynn-Taylor got no further.

  “Mr. Wynn-Taylor. Please take what you need. This room is being used for the investigation and is off-limits until further notice.”

  “Yes, of course. I apologize. I had no idea.”

  Vincent crossed to the desk, took out keys and unlocked a drawer from which he retrieved a large black ledger. Then with one more quick look toward Agnes, he left the room.

  Phil stood back to admire the detective sergeant’s rapid change from compassion to authority. He did them both so well.

  He also had seen what she had seen. Wynn-Taylor’s reaction at seeing Agnes being questioned by the police had been more than mere surprise. Or the concern of an employee. Did his interest lie in that direction the same as Perry’s? He didn’t stand much of a chance if monetary considerations carried the day.

  Except the heir to Fauks Copper, Coal and Steel was conveniently dead.

  “Thank you, Miss Pratt. You’ve been most helpful.” Atkins opened the door to find both Pratts waiting anxiously outside. Gwen saw her daughter’s face and rushed to her. “My poor dear.”

  “Look here, Atkins,” Luther snapped.

  “It’s okay, Papa. I just got scared. I didn’t know what to expect. Mr. Atkins was very nice.” The doe eyes turned on the detective sergeant, beseeching.

  “She was very brave and I appreciate her clearheadedness.”

  Phil’s eyes widened, not doe-like, but in surprise. This wasn’t the by-the-book, come-hell-or-damsel-in-distress attitude she’d seen in their previous investigation. Now what had made him act so out of character? Or perhaps the question should be, What was he up to?

  As she stepped past him, Atkins said, “Lady Dunbridge, a moment if you please.”

  “But of course.”

  He closed the door on the others’ astonished faces and turned to face her.

  “Rather tarnishes the golden boy’s reputation,” she said. “Not to mention opens up another line of inquiry.” One that she really should make him aware of. Agnes wasn’t the only girl involved with Perry. Agnes might not have wanted him, but Maud clearly did.

  She opened her mouth but before she could confess about the letters, his eyes narrowed. “I hope you don’t intend to…?”

  “Poke my nose into your investigation?”

  “I was searching for a more polite way to say it.”

  “Always the gentleman.” Unfortunately, she thought.

  “If you think you can set yourself up as a self-appointed protector of the rich, forget it. You were a help I’ll admit in the reckoning of Reggie Reynolds’s murder, but that doesn’t make you an expert. And I find your presence—”

  “Delightful? Invigorating? Come now, Detective Sergeant, I can’t help it if murders occur among my friends. You do have an awful lot of murders in this city, do you not?”

  “I don’t for a moment believe this was another coincidence. A more suspicious man than I might suspect you of more than curiosity.”

  “Oh, come now. Two murders do not a—what do they call it?—an accessory? make?”

  He closed his eyes for a moment. Counting to ten? Then gestured to the settee.

  “So what have you found out that I haven’t?” he said, sounding resigned.

  “Nothing yet.” At least nothing she was willing to share just yet.

  “But you will. I suppose you know that Godfrey Bennington has already been on the telephone to have the investigation shut down.”

  “He did mention it.”

  “Damn.” He flinched. “I beg your pardon.”

  “Not at all. But who exactly is the man? I know you said he was connected to the War Department, and he’s friends with the Pratts and Agnes’s godfather, but does he really wield as much p
ower as that?”

  One eyebrow dipped. “Really? Godfrey Bennington has his fingers in every pot. Local as well as national. So if you’re planning to involve yourself in this case, and I’m sure you are or you wouldn’t be here today—”

  “I explained why I was here.”

  “Drapes. Yes, and do you really expect me to believe that?”

  “No. But since I plan to be around at least until your investigation ends, I’d best have a good reason to be here.”

  “Why? What interests you here? It has to be more than idle curiosity.”

  That was a good question. She wished she knew the answer. “They’re my friends, Detective Sergeant.” She sighed. “What comes after detective sergeant?”

  “What?”

  “‘Detective sergeant’ is such a mouthful. Now something like ‘inspector’ rolls off the tongue. Inspector.” She drew out the syllables. “See?”

  She swore she could hear him grinding his teeth. “Will there be anything else? No? Then I’ll bid you good day.” She rose.

  He managed to get to the door before her. He did move quickly when he needed to.

  “Oh, and I would not discount the two Jeffrey girls if I were you. Maud and Effie.” There, that should suffice for the time being; nudge him toward Maud and let her have the opportunity to tell him about the love notes herself. If she didn’t, then Phil would be forced to encourage her to do so. But she absolutely refused to betray another woman’s possible peccadilloes unless absolutely necessary to the investigation. “I just thought I would mention it. I’m certain you would have questioned them eventually.”

  “Have no worries about that, Lady Dunbridge. I may be plodding, but I’m thorough.”

  I bet you are, Phil thought. Too bad he was also so thoroughly a gentleman.

  * * *

  Brinlow was waiting to show Phil up to Gwen’s private sitting room. She followed him dutifully down the hall, past Agnes’s bedroom, past the laundry chute opening and the place where they had found the Imperial topaz.

  Her excitement of the find had ebbed somewhat. It might belong to anyone who had wandered upstairs to the ladies withdrawing rooms, which she had reason to know were in the far corridor, and had decided to take a look-see in the upper rooms. It might not be missed until the next ball, at which time the lady’s maid in charge of such things would be given the sack for not noticing sooner.

  Brinlow stopped at the next door and knocked before announcing Phil. Gwen’s sitting room was a cheerful, delicate space, furnished with a feminine touch. A Sheridan writing desk stood at a bow window overlooking a tiny garden. Gwen was stretched out on a chaise longue, but she sat up when Phil entered the room.

  “I sent Agnes to her room. Poor child. I think I must have the girls take her out shopping or something. I can’t expect her to sit pining for a man who hadn’t even declared for her, when she’s on the brink of the season. Can I?”

  “No. I think you should carry on. Discreetly, of course, as you would for any friend who had passed.”

  “That’s what Godfrey says, but it seems … I don’t know. I suppose when they find this valet, things will be set to rights.”

  “Most likely,” Phil agreed.

  “Did they find anything in the laundry chute? I’ve been so beside myself I forgot to ask.”

  Phil was dying to say, Yes, do you know anyone who owns an Imperial topaz? But she kept mum as directed. She would show Atkins that she could be trusted—within limits, of course. He needed her. He knew he did; she could go places and question people that he as a policeman, no matter how cultured he might appear, would not have access to.

  She’d proven that during what she liked to think of as “our last case.” She really didn’t understand why he was so loath to accept her help. It was common knowledge that the police used paid informants. At least in the lower classes, so why not in her class?

  After all, wasn’t that exactly what she was? After a fashion. Actually, her duties weren’t quite clear, if they were indeed duties. But why else pay for her keep in expensive apartments like one would a mistress without expecting something in return.

  “These arrived a little while ago,” Gwen said, rising to walk to the far side of the room where a tower of fabric books was stacked on a small oval table.

  “My heavens,” Phil said. “We have our work cut out for us.”

  “I may be enticed to redo the draperies after all. I didn’t think Luther would like to have the parlor cluttered with them, so I had them brought here. Besides, we’ll be quite undisturbed here, and I have news.”

  “Do tell.”

  “I don’t know if Luther told you, but he called Isaac Sheffield’s office yesterday to inform him of Perry’s death. Isaac wasn’t there. Evidently he had gone out of town early yesterday morning. No one seemed to know why or exactly where. It must be something to do with this banking situation. It has made the whole business world a tinderbox.”

  “So he doesn’t know about Mr. Fauks?”

  Gwen slowly shook her head. “Not at the time, but I do know that after you left, Detective Atkins visited his home to ask his whereabouts. Evidently Isaac’s wife, Loretta, refused to let him in.”

  “So Sheffield hasn’t been located?”

  “I don’t know. Luther tries to scuttle me out of hearing distance every time they discuss something.” Gwen breathed a little laugh. “These men, I don’t know why they persevere in this notion that we need to be protected from the difficulties of life.”

  Phil murmured something. She’d stopped depending on men to protect her the day she was force-marched down the aisle toward the Earl of Dunbridge.

  “Anyway, I took the liberty of telephoning her earlier today. Just to see how she was. She didn’t come to the ball. She doesn’t get out much. Well, actually, she hasn’t been the same since her daughter died. They only had the one child. A daughter. Rachel. She and her infant son died of the influenza, oh, about two years ago. They were staying with Loretta and Isaac at the time.

  “Loretta has never really recovered. A shame. She used to be quite fun. Perry often stayed with them in the past. She’s bound to be affected by his death. And if Isaac isn’t there to support her…”

  “Do you think she knows where he is?” Phil asked.

  “Surely he would tell his wife that he was going out of town.”

  Phil wasn’t so sure about that. If he’d been at the ball late and left early the next morning. It could be coincidence, but it did have all the trappings of a man on the run.

  “With her husband away, perhaps she would enjoy a morning call?” Phil suggested.

  Gwen’s eyebrows rose. “That’s just what I told her. Shall we say ten o’clock tomorrow? I’ll have the carriage brought around.”

  * * *

  Phil was not really interested in attending the Follies that night. She and Bev had seen Mr. Ziegfeld’s extravaganza twice last summer at the rooftop of the New York Theatre. Entertaining, amusing, slightly risqué, perhaps it was just what she needed after two days of murder investigation.

  And where better to hear the current on-dit than at intermission in the most popular revue of the season. Had news of Perry Fauks’s death made it to the grapevine? Were opinions being touted, gossip being spread?

  Tonight would be the show’s last performance. There was bound to be a crush.

  And the Countess of Dunbridge was taking her scintillating self to the theatre to find out what the town was talking about.

  “Hmm,” she said as she looked at Lily’s confection of a coiffure in her dressing mirror.

  “What is it, madam? Is something amiss?”

  “Not at all, Lily. Just thinking about the investigation.”

  “Well, you should think about your toilette or you’ll be late.”

  “You are right, of course. There’s just something that bothers me.”

  “What is that?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Huh. Mr. Preswick and I will
confer while you’re gone.”

  “Good idea. Maybe you will come up with a solution.”

  Lily affixed a narrow tiara of emeralds at the crown of her head.

  Phil perused their sparkle in the mirror. “I wonder if Detective Sergeant Atkins asked if someone was missing a valuable topaz from some piece of jewelry. It’s almost as if they expect the valet to be arrested.”

  And that thought was given more credence when she arrived at the Grand Opera House on Twenty-Third Street and joined her friends, Olivia and Frank Quincy, in their box.

  Hellos were said and small talk ensued. A few words from Frank about the near miss of the financial crisis which was quickly hushed by Olivia with “you promised no talk of business tonight.”

  Ah, but murder was a different thing.

  “My goodness, would you look at that,” Olivia Quincy said from behind her opera glasses, which were trained on a box across the theatre where a party was just entering.

  Phil didn’t need her glasses to recognize the lion’s mane of white hair. Godfrey Bennington had come to enjoy the Follies. Now she raised her glasses. Maud and Effie were there, their black curls arranged in similar swirls and twists.

  The couple with them must be Ruth and Thomas Jeffrey, whom she had yet to meet. Ruth was a duller version of her sister. Thomas was tall, with brown hair and a thick mustache, and appeared to be scanning the audience. Looking for someone in particular?

  Godfrey nodded to someone in another box. Saw Phil and nodded to her.

  Phil nodded back. They all seemed quite normal. No one turned en masse to look. A buzz didn’t go through the audience. It seemed Perry’s death was not the subject of widespread gossip yet.

  So intent was Phil in her study of the family that she almost didn’t notice the man who sat alone several boxes away, his own opera glasses turned toward Godfrey’s box. Phil raised her opera glasses and he came into view.

  She caught her breath. How ridiculous to be staring at another pair of opera glasses, staring back at you.

  She lowered hers, just as the lights dimmed and the orchestra burst into music. The people across the theatre were lost in shadows and she knew when the lights rose on intermission, the box the man had occupied would be empty.