“That’s the same as the War Office in England?” Phil said the obvious just to give her mind a minute to absorb the information about Godfrey Bennington.
Godfrey had ties to the War Department. He made money from war. Phil had never been political minded, but she wasn’t unfamiliar with men who were, and who weren’t squeamish about profiting from the spoils of fighting, and it had always seemed particularly distasteful.
“I’ve done all I can here without the coroner. I’ll accompany you upstairs, where you will stay while I begin the search of the house.”
“I only saw the one man upstairs. Where are the others?”
“There are no others. I was denied a team. Now I know why.”
“Secrecy. Reputation. National security?”
“Perhaps.” He dipped his head, signaling her to go. They both knew it was about more than discretion. If things turned sour for the participants, pointed to the wrong person as suspect, they might insist on it not coming out at all. They might even try to discredit Atkins.
Lady Dunbridge was not about to let that happen.
“What about the man who was posted on the door of the parlor?”
“He’s on loan from central. One man, who has the superintendent’s ear. And the super has his eyes and ears in return.”
“You can’t trust him.”
“Not at all.”
“You can trust me.”
“Can I?”
“Yes. Besides, what choice do you have? You can’t possibly do this by yourself and you don’t dare alert anyone on the force about what has happened here. The country has just narrowly avoided a disastrous financial crisis. Can you imagine if this were to get out so close on the heels of that event?”
“All too well, Lady Dunbridge.” His eyes narrowed. “Just why are you here?”
She hardly knew what she was doing here. Only that they—whoever “they” were—expected her to do something. But the War Department. She had to confess she felt slightly out of her depth. But that had never stopped her before, and she had no intention of giving up now.
“I was helping my dear friend Gwen decide on the best pattern to use for her new parlor drapes. That’s what we were doing when you arrived.”
“I didn’t see any pattern books.”
“We were merely in the theoretical stage—what colors best accent the wardrobe of the lady of the house, what fabric wears well and what would clash with the furnishings. You know the kind of thing.”
“Can’t say that I do. I’ll have to take your word for it. I had no idea you had expertise in the decorative arts.”
“I have expertise in many things.”
“I have no doubt of that, Lady Dunbridge. And I don’t believe for a minute you are here to discuss drapes. I don’t know how you managed to insinuate yourself into the situation, but you need to bow out.”
“I was invited and I’m staying to help my friends. I can help you. I’ve told Luther to keep the servants away.”
“I’ll see to them.”
“They won’t allow you to question all the family members. There are young ladies in the house.”
“I’ll ask Mrs. Pratt to accompany them.”
“She’s sickly and not up to the task.”
His jaw tightened at each answer. If he didn’t give in soon, she might be inclined to worry about the longevity of his teeth.
“You’ll have to have someone to watch your back.”
“I realize that, Lady Dunbridge.”
“And help you search for the missing stiletto.”
“How did you … I suppose you’ve been reading Gross’s Criminal Investigation again.”
“He is the expert in the field of—”
“I know who he is and I’m certain he would say that you have no business interfering in police business. Now let’s go.” He took her by the elbow, but stopped by the laundry cart. “You too, Lily.”
Slowly Lily rose to her full almost five feet. Lifted her nose in the air. And stalked past him to the door.
“How did you know she was there?” Phil demanded as he steered her out of the room.
“I’m the detective.” He locked the door behind them.
Luther Pratt was just coming out of his office when they reached the ground floor. “Ah, Lady Dunbridge, you too? Come into the study.”
He ushered them into a dark-paneled room of wall-to-wall bookshelves, filled with books old and new.
“Well?” Luther Pratt gestured to chairs as an afterthought. Phil started to sit, but realized Atkins had not moved. She kept her feet. She had no intention of having two bellicose men towering over her and not listening to a word she might say.
“There is really no reason for us to bother Lady Dunbridge with the details of this event,” Atkins said at his suavest and most insulting.
She glared at him, but it was Pratt who after a quick panicked expression pulled himself together and said, “It was Lady Dunbridge who insisted that I call for you personally.”
The detective sergeant’s focus shifted to Phil with a light raise of one eyebrow. “Was it?” he asked drily.
“Yes, for your expertise.” Phil smiled. “And your discretion.”
“And I must insist she stay.”
“Mr. Pratt, the fewer people involved in this investigation the better. There is no reason Lady Dunbridge need be involved at all.”
“She’s a big support to my wife, who is very upset over this. It was her heart’s desire that our daughter, Agnes, and poor Perry would … she is distraught, not to mention Agnes. I don’t know how she will take this.”
“I will have to speak with both of them.”
“What? Not possible. They know nothing of what happened. None of us do. It must have been some kind of prank gone wrong.”
Phil shot Atkins an I-told-you-so look.
“Mr. Pratt. The deceased, Perry Fauks, was stabbed to death. There will be an investigation. With or without your cooperation.”
He was bluffing—he was one “snitch” away from being pulled from the case. And that snitch was probably standing outside with his ear to the door.
“So it’s best that you advise your family to cooperate,” he continued.
Pratt darted a look at Phil.
She smiled reassuringly. “And they will be glad to, Detective Sergeant. Not to worry, Luther.” She used his Christian name as emphasis. It worked—at least with Pratt.
“I’ll see that they are not harassed.” She snapped a smile at Atkins.
The slightest tightening of his nostrils. The detective sergeant was not in the mood to be trifled with today. She didn’t blame him. Someone had cut off a young man in the prime of life.
“You said he was a guest in the house. I’ll need to see his room.”
Pratt nodded.
“And anywhere else he might have gone late last night. When was the last anyone saw of him?”
“I-I don’t know. I suppose it was Isaac Sheffield. When he left he said he’d had—” Pratt clamped down on the last word.
“He’d had what?” Atkins asked.
“Nothing, nothing, just had a few words.”
The detective’s jaw tightened. “What kind of words?”
“I don’t know. Something about the business. Perry was being groomed to take over soon. Isaac is his New York manager, an old family friend. They occasionally butted heads. But nothing that would … no, not possible.”
“Is Isaac Sheffield also staying with you?”
“No. Isaac lives with his wife on Park Avenue. Very well-respected businessman.”
“I’d like you to gather whoever is in the house this morning. In the parlor, perhaps? I’ll need to ascertain Fauks’s movements of last night.”
“Is this really necessary? I’m not sure the girls are even awake. I believe Godfrey is in the dining room with my son, Morris. And as for the Jeffreys, I believe they were going out for a drive through Central Park this morning. They’re fresh-air enthusiasts.”
Atkins had taken out his pencil and was busily writing names down in his notebook, but finally looked up. “How many are there?”
“That’s all at the moment.”
“And the Jeffreys are…?”
“My sister-in-law and her husband.”
“When are they expected to return?”
“I don’t know. My wife may, but please don’t bother her. Her health is fragile and this has already been a strain.”
“I will see whoever is here directly, and the others when they return. At the moment, I’d like to talk to Mr. Fauks’s valet.”
“Yes, of course.” Pratt pressed the call buzzer and as if that wasn’t enough, stepped into the hallway. “Brinlow!” he bellowed, before coming back to his desk.
The butler appeared a minute later, out of breath and still adjusting his jacket.
“Sir.”
“Sorry if I’ve interrupted your lunch. Ask Mr. Kelly to come to the library. Detective Sergeant Atkins would like to speak with him.”
“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.”