Dinner was a quiet affair. Luther and Gwen did not come down. Agnes sat, not eating and threatening to dissolve into a flood of tears. Ruth sat between Morris and Newty. Harry spent a few minutes attempting to engage Effie and Maud in conversation and finally gave up. Vincent barely looked up from his plate. Daisy kept Godfrey entertained, for which Phil was thankful.
Phil had plenty to think about and even more to do. She needed to consult with Preswick and Lily, find out if they had learned anything more about Elva and whether Atkins’s search of her room had been successful.
Finding the missing letter opener had suddenly taken on more urgency. Something had tied the two murders together. Unless Gwen was the actual target and Elva had been a necessary sacrifice. Why Perry and Gwen? The only thing Phil could see they had in common was Agnes.
She looked across the table at the girl, whose eyes hadn’t left her dinner plate. She hadn’t liked Perry’s advances. Had she complained to Gwen? Had Gwen taken matters into her own hands?
Gwen might have managed to kill Perry and had Elva help her dump his body in the laundry chute. Elva had been with Gwen for many years and, according to Gwen, was very loyal. And according to Lily, very scared. Maybe she’d begun to feel the weight of guilt, had threatened to confess.
Phil’s mind balked at the possibility. Which was no excuse for not looking at the facts. Elva toward the end of the party would be upstairs readying her mistress’s things for bed. It would be easy enough for them to … What? And why in the middle of a party with hundreds of guests?
Unless Perry had actually gone further than Agnes had admitted. Lured her upstairs to her or his room. Gwen had caught them and was furious. Stabbed him with what? The letter opener? She kept it in her upstairs sitting room. The topaz was found on the second floor. There was a good chance that was where Perry was killed, or at least put into the—
“Don’t you agree, Lady Dunbridge?”
Phil started. “I beg your pardon?”
Godfrey gave her a tight smile; the meal was evidently wearing on him in spite of his delightful dinner mate. “I was agreeing with your idea that Lady Warwick should do a speaking tour in the States. Perhaps in the spring.”
Phil smiled back, thinking how fake they all were acting. “Absolutely. I think people would be interested in her life and her ideas.” But mainly in her scandalous behavior, she added to herself.
“Then it’s settled.”
“Oh Godfrey…”
Phil went back to her ruminations. She hadn’t gotten much further when dessert was brought in, a light Charlotte russe that was delicious but which everyone ate as if rounding the homestretch at Belmont.
As soon as Godfrey put down his spoon, Daisy stood. “Shall we?” she said, cuing the ladies to withdraw. Ruth gave Daisy a brief scathing look before dutifully standing. Did she actually think she would replace Gwen as hostess?
The ladies withdrew to the parlor. Phil caught up with Daisy. “I have a headache.”
Daisy frowned. “Must be the weather.”
“No doubt. Please don’t sound the alarm if I’m not in my room when you retire.”
Daisy’s eyebrows rose is supposition.
“I’ll tell you all about it later, but try to keep everyone here and things going as long as possible.”
“Everyone?”
“Everyone.” In a louder voice Phil said, “I must apologize. I have the beginnings of a headache.”
“I think I shall retire, also,” said Ruth.
Daisy sprang into action. “Oh, Mrs. Jeffrey. Ruth. You can’t leave me to fend for myself among all these young people. I depend on you to help me make the best of things.” She took Ruth’s arm and led her farther into the room, while Phil made her escape.
There were no boisterous voices coming from the dining room. Phil had a feeling the men would not linger overlong over their port.
Making certain no footman was in sight, she lifted her skirts and ran up the stairs to her suite of rooms.
Lily and Preswick were there.
“That detective didn’t find anything,” Lily said.
Preswick looked down his quite intimidating nose at her.
She made a face and added, “Sorry, my lady.”
“Of course. We are all a little overexcited tonight.” Phil glanced at her imperturbable butler and thought, Most of us.
“So there was nothing in Elva’s room that could be any kind of a clue. Did you speak with Detective Sergeant Atkins before he left?”
“No, but I waited for him in the servants’ hall downstairs. I knew he’d come down that way. I just knew he would. Mr. Tillis was with him. But as he passed he shook his head just a little at me. Like this.” Lily made a deadpan expression and moved her head slowly and minutely to the left. “But he was looking right at me. It was a message.”
A message indeed. But did it mean he hadn’t found anything or he couldn’t talk in front of anyone? And now he was miles away at some friends’ house.
“Nonetheless we shall search again. Let us go.”
They used the back stairs to the third-floor wing where the servants were housed. They met no one; still, Lily ran ahead to make sure they could enter unnoticed.
Phil and Preswick scurried down the hall to Elva’s room and Lily shut the door behind them.
It was a spacious room with a worktable, a wardrobe, and an upholstered sitting chair. The bed was narrow but looked comfortable enough. There was very little indication that anyone had searched through it, evidence of Atkins’s neatness as well as thoroughness. And he hadn’t found anything.
They searched again, starting with the most obvious—drawers, worktable, mattress, clothes cupboard. They pulled back the oval rag rug; sounded the floorboards; looked behind pictures and emptied the sewing basket.
“Nothing,” Lily said.
Phil sighed and sat down on the bed. “I was sure she must know something that made her the target of the murderer. And if she was frightened, and didn’t tell anyone, what was she afraid of?
“Tell us again what she said to you, Lily.”
“She said there were bad things happening. That she couldn’t stop it. And she didn’t understand it. And she was afraid.”
“She told you all this?”
“Since we came here, to Foggy Acres. I think at first she told me because she didn’t think I could understand. Sometimes it just helps to say things out loud.”
“Yes, very important,” Phil said, hoping Lily knew she could tell her anything without fear of retribution.
“When she started to wind down, I had to pretend to understand and speak a little English.”
“Clever,” Phil said. “Did she say what she was afraid of? Of getting caught? Of something she saw?”
“I tried to tell her that you would keep her safe but it took too many English words. And I didn’t want to give myself away.”
“You did right.” It had been stupid for Phil to have asked her to speak in Italian. A piece of self-assuredness and arrogance that had surely come back to bite them.
“And there was only one thing that could keep her safe.”
“Safe from what? Murder? Because she was afraid of another one happening? You think she saw the murderer?”
“Perhaps, but she didn’t say. Maybe she saw what happened and was afraid to tell.”
“But why not tell? She had friends here. Employers who cared about her well-being.”
“Because, my lady, if I might venture a theory.”
“Please do, Preswick.”
“Because she was afraid of someone in the household?”
“Possibly,” Phil agreed.
“Or because she was afraid someone she cared about was the murderer,” Lily added.
“A lover perhaps,” Phil said. “Lily, did she mention anyone that she might be smitten with? Someone she might want to protect?”
Lily gave her a look that defied description. “She is a lady’s maid. She makes money, lives in comfortable surroundings, and her work is not too hard; she has an amiable mistress. She wouldn’t be so stupid.”
Phil raised an eyebrow.
“Well, I wouldn’t be.” She hesitated. “I was thinking of her mistress.”
“Mrs. Pratt?”
“Elva was very loyal. She would protect her with her life.” Lily frowned. “Which maybe she did in the end.”
The three of them grew silent on that thought.
Lily was the first to recover. “But I did see her talking to that secretary once. They were very appassionato.”
“Romantic?”
“I don’t think so. They were standing close, but I think it was so they wouldn’t be heard. And that Morris is always slinking about. He’s not very particular, that one.”
“But why would Morris want to kill Perry? And then his own mother?” It defied the imagination.
“So what was it? What did she have that could protect her? She must have left a note or something.” Phil stood, looked around the room, even to the ceiling. “Or the murder weapon.” Phil took a couple of steps away, turned back to Lily and Preswick. “What if she found the murder weapon?”
“And hid it somewhere,” Lily posed. “To keep it safe.”
“The police searched the servants’ quarters at the Pratts’ house. So maybe she took extra precautions. Where would she put it?”
She turned to Lily, who glanced down at her own ankle.
Phil frowned back at her. “On her person?”
“She didn’t say.”
If the murder weapon was actually the missing letter opener, it was, according to Gwen, heavy and clumsy to use. Bending and working all day, it would be a difficult item to carry around.
And if she had, Atkins would have found it when he searched the body, as he surely must have done, and somehow have found a way to tell her so.
“Besides her own person, where would be the next safest place? Somewhere no one else could get to it. But there is no such place.”
“What about among the medicines for Mrs. Pratt,” Preswick suggested.
“That’s good but Atkins already confiscated that and if he’d found anything surely he wouldn’t have left us here to fend for ourselves. Where else? What else would a maid have access to—of course, her mistress’s dressing room.”
“You never go into your dressing room when I’m not there?” Lily asked.
“No. Why would I?”
Lily shrugged, darted a look at Preswick. “Sorry, Mr. Preswick.”
Preswick nodded. “That’s an idea, my lady. Do you think Mrs. Pratt would be averse to our searching her dressing room?”
“I think we should find out.” Phil started toward the door. Stopped. “Damnation. Gwen had dinner sent to her room. Luther joined her there. If he’s still there … Oh, never mind. Follow me and stay out of sight until I get rid of Luther. I’ll come to the door after I’ve explained to Gwen what we want to do.”
They hurried single file down the servants’ stairs and back to the second floor. Preswick and Lily tucked themselves into a nearby closet and Phil scratched on Gwen’s door.
Gwen was sitting on a small sofa, dressed in a yellow and light green wrapper, looking as fragile as the first bloom of spring. Luther sat beside her but he stood when Phil entered.
“I just came to see how you were feeling.”
“She is very upset and can’t be excited, Lady Dunbridge.”
“Of course.”
“Oh, Luther, I’m fine. Run along and have your port with the gentlemen. Philomena and I will have a nice visit.”
“Gwen. Are you sure?”
“Yes, my dear. Sometimes a woman just needs for things to be normal and I had an idea about the drapes I wanted to discuss with my dear friend.”
Luther looked askance at his wife. Even Phil was momentarily nonplussed.
But when he was gone, Gwen said, “How stupid. But it was the only thing I could think of at the moment. Sit down and tell me everything that has been happening. Luther thinks by not telling me anything, it will be better for me. I thought I might go mad if someone didn’t come tell me the latest news.”
“We don’t have much time,” Phil said. “We—Detective Sergeant Atkins and myself, and my two servants, who are quite in the know—we think Elva must have seen or heard something the night of Perry’s murder. It’s the only scenario that makes sense.”
“So the killer wasn’t after me?”
“I don’t think so, but we will still take every precaution to keep you safe. But I need your permission to search your dressing room.”
“My dressing room? What on earth for?”
“We think Elva must have some evidence that she thought would keep her safe or else she would have come to you—or run away.”
“But she didn’t.”
“No,” said Phil, slightly distracted as another thought crossed her mind. “To keep herself safe or perhaps indulge in a little blackmail. Surely she hadn’t been so naïve to think that would make her safe. Once the killer knew she knew, it was only a matter of time. Oh Elva.”
“Blackmail? She wasn’t like that.”
“Well, we’re not sure, but since her room afforded no clues, the only other place she could have safely hidden something was—”
“My dressing room,” Gwen said, sounding almost delighted. “I never go in there, nor anyone else.”
“May we? Preswick and Lily are waiting outside.”
“But of course. I’ll help if I can.”
As soon as they were all assembled, they went into Gwen’s dressing room.
It was rather sparsely furnished since she’d only been outfitted for a weekend visit.
“Are you sure she brought it here and didn’t leave it in the city?”
“She must have. Not having it at hand would rather defeat the purpose of having it. She would need to know it wouldn’t be found. And outside of a safety-deposit box, which would be difficult for her to get to with her work schedule, I think she would keep it somewhere she could keep an eye on it without worrying about someone finding it.”
“What do you think it is?”
“I’ll recognize it when we find it.” And Phil imagined Gwen would, too, if it turned out to be what she suspicioned.
Preswick searched the furniture and wall coverings, carefully keeping his face averted while the women pulled out gowns, stockings, shoes, and undergarments.
They unfolded and refolded. Shook skirts, felt in pockets. Opened handkerchief boxes and toiletry cases, lifted the rug. Gwen joined in with gusto, though Phil had to sit her down when the carpet set off a dance of dust motes that left her short of breath. From then on she watched from a chair in the doorway.
“You’ll be our lookout,” Phil told her. She seemed very pleased with the role.
Phil felt along the floor of the cupboard and pulled out a large tapestry bag. “What’s this?”
“My needlepoint. Ruth gave it to me last Christmas. I really can’t stand needlepoint or knitting or any of those things. But I bring it out for show whenever she’s here. It wouldn’t do to hurt her feelings, poor thing.”
Phil placed it on a chair and opened it up. Inside were skeins and skeins of yarn and a piece of canvas with a patch of small spaces filled in with tiny, uneven stitches. Not Gwen Pratt’s forte, to be sure. Phil shoved the frame back into the depths of the bag, felt around until her hand touched something hard. Cold. Metal. She pulled it out, and held it up.
“It’s my letter opener!” Gwen exclaimed. “How on earth did it get in there?”
“If I’m not mistaken,” Phil said, “it’s also our murder weapon.”
Gwen gasped. Preswick and Lily hurried over to see.
“Perry was killed with my letter opener?”
“That appears to be the case,” Phil said.
“Good heavens. But not by Elva? How could she?”
“It seems unlikely unless she had an accomplice and surely they would have disposed of it in order not to garner any suspicion on themselves. I think she was either blackmailing someone else or using the threat of it to keep her safe.”
Preswick took the opener from Phil. “Fingerprints, my lady.”
Phil relinquished it without argument.
“Hold it to the light, Mr. Preswick,” Lily said excitedly. Then her eyes widened as she realized what she had done; she broke into a spate of frantic Italian that even Phil couldn’t understand.
“Yes, do, Preswick,” Phil said, hoping to draw attention from Lily’s sudden fluency in English.
But Gwen had noticed. “My goodness, Lily. Your English has certainly improved in the last few days.” She cut a look toward Phil, more amused than angry, Phil was glad to see.
“A quick learner,” she agreed. “Such an asset. Shall we continue?”
They all gathered around the vanity table. Preswick held the letter opener under the light. And Lily and Phil and Gwen, who had left her post at the door, crowded around him to get a closer look.
“Look there,” Lily said, pointing to the blade.
Elva hadn’t bothered to try to clean it and the blade was still smeared with dried blood. And where the blade met the handle, a ring of crusted blood was embedded in the seam. And at the top of the jewel-encrusted handle a sliver of paper had been wrapped around the handle and tied with a piece of blue yarn.
Phil could see something written on the outside, but letters were partially hidden by the yarn.
Preswick looked at Phil. They should probably wait for the detective sergeant before they removed it. But Phil didn’t know where he was, possibly still driving to his friends’ house. They could telephone, but what if he hadn’t arrived? They would have to leave a message, then he would have to drive back.
It was ridiculous. Phil slipped away and opened the tapestry bag, dumped the contents on the floor; among the yarn was a pair of small sewing scissors. She knew they’d be there. Every girl had had one of these bags at one time or another. Phil was happy to say she, at present, did not, and would not ever again.
She took them back and with one snip the paper fell away to reveal the empty space where the Imperial topaz had been.
Phil started to pick up the paper, but stopped. “Will you do the honors, Mr. Preswick?”
Preswick pulled the cuffs of his gloves tighter, then carefully spread it out on the table. Phil and the others leaned over, beside themselves with anticipation.
Finally, the answer lay before them. The initials VW-T.