5

“A jockey?” Luther exclaimed.

“A jockey.” Phil knew Atkins wouldn’t like her idea, so she plowed on before he could explode. “I’m sure Bobby Mullins would be only too happy to loan us one from the stable.”

“Mullins? That—” Atkins caught himself before he expounded on his views of Bobby Mullins, ex–prize fighter, confidant of thugs and thieves, denizen of Manhattan’s seamier society.

Bobby had turned over a new leaf since then, but not before running the gamut of unsavory professions until finally ending up as the loyal right-hand man of Reggie Reynolds, notorious gambler, womanizer, racehorse owner—and husband of Phil’s best friend.

After Reggie’s murder, Bobby had switched his loyalties to Bev and, because of Phil’s involvement in solving Reggie’s murder, Phil.

“He’s the manager of Holly Farm stables. I’m sure he would lend me—us—one of his men.”

“I have no doubt,” Atkins said, through clenched teeth. But he knew she was right. The police were constantly battling a war on two fronts. One to catch criminals, and two, dealing with the powers that be when the investigation skirted too close to the upper crust of society.

She could see the detective sergeant’s mind at work. She didn’t envy him. As one of the holdovers from the department’s brief experiment with honesty and efficiency, he was respected by few and despised by many who augmented their own salaries with graft, bribes, and extortions. Being a cultured man—Phil hadn’t so far learned just how that had come about—he was naturally sent to deal with the upper echelons of society when it was impossible to merely look the other way.

It constantly put him in an untenable position, alert to deceit from his own people, and out-and-out hostility from most of the people he was sent to investigate.

He could use her help, though he would never admit it.

“Bobby can expedite the investigation.”

“I think it’s a capital idea,” Mr. Pratt said. “If you really trust this Mullins character.”

“With my life,” Phil said somewhat hyperbolically. Bobby’s loyalties were few, but unwavering. She hoped it was never put to the test, but she expected Bobby would do his part to save her if it ever came to that.

“But I can’t have rough characters coming in and out of my house. I have women and young girls in residence.”

“I will ring them and ask them to come, shall we say tomorrow morning? I’ll tell them to arrive at the servants’ entrance and carry a crate so it will look as if they’re tradesmen. Bobby has experience in the theatre.”

Atkins cut off a snort.

Well, Bobby did have experience, if you counted consorting with the ladies of the chorus.

Atkins didn’t make a move to stop her. And why was that? Usually he would have thrown her out by now.

“I’ll be glad to call out to the farm and arrange it with Bobby. And of course I’ll be here to make sure all goes well.”

“Not necessary,” said Atkins.

“Au contraire. You intimidate him, and put him on his guard. But I—”

“And your inimitable charms?”

“Thank you, can get him to do what we need.”

“Very well,” Pratt said.

Atkins nodded his acceptance, possibly his defeat? He would thank her someday. Hopefully when they found an indisputable clue in the laundry chute on the morrow.

A muscle in Atkins’s jaw worked as he turned back to Pratt. “I must ask you to seal every opening to the chute as well as the entire laundry room until a search can be accomplished.”

“But what about the laundry? And what do I tell the servants?”

“That the sanitary department will be here tomorrow for its yearly inspection,” Phil suggested without missing a beat.

The two men stared at her.

“Every laundry chute should be habitually disinfected.” Especially after a dead body had passed through it. “Now, if you gentlemen will excuse me, I think I should check on dear Gwen and then make arrangements for tomorrow.”

She swept past the two men, past Brinlow who stood just outside the door, and met Gwen in the foyer as she was about to go upstairs. She stopped on the first step and looked over the banister at Phil.

“Any news?” Gwen asked.

“Yes. It looks like Mr. Fauks’s valet is missing. Suspicion has fallen on him.”

Gwen slumped and caught the rail. “Oh, thank goodness.”

“You should rest,” Phil said, coming around the newel to lend her support.

“I will, but first … someone must tell Agnes what has happened.” Tears welled in her eyes. “All her hopes dashed. It’s almost too much to bear.”

“Let me help you upstairs,” Phil said and took her elbow.

“I don’t know how to thank you, Lady Dunbridge—Philomena. You’re so calm. So collected. I envy you your aplomb.” They reached the second floor; halfway down the hall, Gwen stopped by a door. They could hear giggles coming from inside the room. It must be Agnes’s room.

“I’ll leave you to your daughter,” Phil said.

“Oh no, please, if you don’t mind.”

Phil really had intended to search Perry’s room while Atkins was otherwise occupied, but it would have to wait. She was here to give support after all.

They found not one but three young girls sitting on a bed covered by a thick eider down quilt. Heads together, they whispered and laughed as they sipped chocolate and munched on muffins. When Phil and Gwen entered, they all jumped, nearly upsetting the breakfast tray.

“Oh, Mama. You scared us to pieces.”

Gwen forced a smile. “Sorry, my dear. Are you exchanging secrets about the young men at the ball last night?”

Agnes blushed. She was a pretty girl, not like her mother and not really like her father either. Blond curls had escaped her nightcap and curled beguilingly around her cheeks. Her eyes were bright blue and large; she reminded Phil of one of those girls pictured on soap advertisements.

“Agnes, your manners.”

Agnes scooted off the bed, setting off a swell of ruffles and lace of her dressing gown.

“Oh, I beg your pardon, Lady Dunbridge, I didn’t see you standing there. How nice of you to come?” The sentence ended in a question. Why on earth should a dowager countess she’d only briefly met last night be visiting in her boudoir?

The other girls also stood. Curtseyed.

“And this is Maud and Effie, my sister’s children,” Gwen said. “You met them last night, Lady Dunbridge.”

“Should we go, ma’am?” asked the one on the left.

Gwen shook her head. “No, Effie. I’m afraid I have bad news. You might as well all hear it at once. There’s been a terrible accident.”

“Papa!” Agnes cried.

“No, child, your papa is fine. It’s Perry Fauks.”

“Perry? What kind of accident?”

The twins, Effie and Maud, whom Phil hadn’t bothered to differentiate at the ball last night, inched closer to each other.

“What kind of accident, Mama?”

“It seems he fell down the laundry chute.”

“Stupid man. Isn’t he too old to play at that? How badly is he hurt? Serves him right.”

Effie and Maud nodded their heads in agreement.

“I’m afraid…” Gwen cleared her throat. “He’s dead, my dear. A terrible thing.”

Agnes frowned. “He can’t be.”

Effie—or maybe it was Maud—gasped and covered her face.

The other sister—Maud or Effie—cried, “Oh no,” and threw her arms around the other sister and they clung to each other so closely that their masses of black curls and similar expressions evoked images of the two-headed lady Phil and Lily and Preswick had seen at Coney Island at the beginning of the summer.

“I am so very sorry,” Gwen said and tried to hug her daughter, but Agnes pulled away and sank back against the bed. “He’s dead?”

“Yes, my dear, I’m afraid so.”

“Poor Perry.”

Phil turned to the twins. “Perhaps you should go wait for your mother to return.”

One of them nodded convulsively, and Phil noticed she had a tiny mole on her neck. “Come, Maud.”

Phil took a quick look at Maud’s neck as she passed by. No mole. Good, now she would be able to identify them if need be.

Maud hesitated, before Effie took her elbow and pulled her across the room. “She’ll be glad he’s dead,” Maud said as the door closed behind them.

Well, well, Phil thought. She looked quickly at Agnes. The girl hadn’t shed a tear. Shock could do that. Grief would come soon enough.

Gwen began helping Agnes back into bed, so Phil took the opportunity for a quick look around. The room was done up in flounces, swags, and ruffles in various shades of pink and green. Curlicues and furbelows adorned the drapes and chairs and dressing table.

She wandered over to the table. A pair of gloves that hadn’t been taken away by the maid. Odd, that they had been forgotten. Phil picked them up, turned them over. Found nothing. She didn’t really think this child had stabbed Perry and shoved him down the laundry chute.

But one never knew.

Agnes’s dance card was open on the tabletop and a pink rosebud was wilting on the top.

Memorabilia, cards, and favors from various trips were strewn across the surface. Nothing to aid Phil in finding Perry’s killer.

After another quick look around, she quietly left the room and stood just outside the door considering what to do next. With the men downstairs and Atkins searching the valet’s quarters, this would have been a perfect time to visit Perry Fauks’s room, if she only knew which one it was. Unfortunately she didn’t know the layout of the house. She was obviously in the family’s wing. The guest bedrooms could either also be on this floor or the floor above.

She was contemplating the efficacy of just opening doors and taking the chance of surprising someone at their toilette when a door at the end of the hall opened and Effie—or was it Maud—slipped out, closing it quietly behind her. Then she sped down the hall away from Phil and disappeared around the corner.

Phil naturally followed. She slowed at the back of the house, then peered around the corner. Maud looked back so quickly that Phil barely had time to hop back into the corridor. When she peeked out again, she caught sight of the train of Maud’s dress going into a room. Not a room. Up the servants’ stairs.

What was the girl up to?

Fortunately, Effie, or Maud—Phil needed to get a closer look to be sure which one it was—was in too much of a hurry to notice the square of light that appeared on the stairs when Phil opened the door. She shut it quickly, dimming the light to the square windows on each landing.

The girl paused on the landing above, then went through the door to the third floor. Phil stopped when she got to the landing, then stuck her head out the door. The girl had disappeared.

Phil walked slowly along the hallway trying to hear any sound that might be coming from the bedrooms on this floor, but the guests were either out or still sleeping.

Well, Phil could wait. And hope to heaven Detective Sergeant Atkins didn’t find her skulking along the corridor before she found out what Effie or Maud was up to. She’d just stepped forward when a door opened, and Maud—or Effie—ran headlong into her.

“I beg your—” The girl broke off. “What are you doing up here?”

A quick look revealed the lack of a mole on her neck. Maud. “Following you, my dear. You seemed distressed. I wanted to make sure you were all right.”

“I’m fine.” Maud shoved one hand behind her back, but not before Phil saw the sheet of folded paper.

“Love letter?” Phil guessed.

“It’s mine.”

“But this isn’t your room.”

Maud shook her head. “It’s just a silly note I wrote. I wanted it back. Now that he’s … he’s … dead.”

She burst into tears. Phil quickly slipped a supporting arm around her and relieved the note from her hands.

“The police will probably want to see this.”

“No. They can’t. Please give it back. It doesn’t mean anything. It was just a joke. Agnes will never forgive me. Mother will kill me. Please.”

“If that’s so, then perhaps all will be well.”

“I didn’t kill him.”

Phil blinked. “What makes you think someone killed him?”

“I-I just do.”

“You must have a reason to think that.”

Maud shook her head, setting off an agitation of curls.

“Come now.” Phil made a slight motion with the hand that held Maud’s note. Just enough to get the girl’s attention.

“I don’t. Please let me go.”

Phil supposed it hadn’t occurred to the girl she could merely walk away.

“Is that Perry’s room? Is this where you retrieved your note?”

Maud’s eyes bugged. Answer enough. Now how had she known which was Perry’s room, unless she had been there before?

“Why don’t you go back to your room. I’ll take this for safekeeping. If the police need to see it, I’ll hand it over to Detective Sergeant Atkins. He’s very discreet. If you’re innocent, you have nothing to worry about.”

“Innocent?” Slowly she dropped her hand. “Take it. I don’t want it. I’m sure you’ll have a good laugh at me when you read it.”

“I doubt it. You’re not the first girl to do something silly. Now run along and try to forget that anything just happened.” Phil waited until the girl slumped away, then looking quickly each way, she slipped into the room.

The guest room was like many she’d seen, lifted straight from an English country house or French château and deposited in a smaller space in a New York mansion. A large four-poster bed of dark mahogany commanded the room. It was prepared for the night with one corner turned down, but unused. No one, including Perry, had been in Perry’s bed before he was killed.

She quickly searched the carpets for scuff marks, even drops of blood, though she didn’t expect to find much. Fauks’s shirt and jacket had soaked up most of it. And though it was hard to tell against the black wool, it was even harder to see among the deep jewel tones of the oriental carpet that covered the floor. And as far as scuff marks—there were none.

She moved on to a carved dresser and wardrobe, both in the Hepplewhite style. She was tempted to look inside, but she knew John Atkins would be walking through the door any minute with the same purpose in mind. The same purpose, but perhaps not for the same reasons.

Phil wasn’t even certain why she felt she needed to stay a step ahead of the intrepid detective. He was thorough, intelligent, and honest, as far as she knew. But if her elusive benefactor had known of the murder early enough to warn her of Luther Pratt’s visit, there was something more here than a spontaneous crime of passion or accidental manslaughter.

She opened the top drawer of the dresser. It was a shambles, with linens, socks, and pajamas rudely pushed into heaps. The detective sergeant would be furious. Especially if he thought Phil had made such a mess.

And of course she wouldn’t, but she couldn’t very well tell him Maud had torn through them looking for her letter. Not yet.

She dismissed the thought. One day even the straitlaced detective would accept that there are some things women might just do better than men.

She moved quickly to the writing desk. The surface was clean, she took a little peek in the drawer beneath. The typical guest amenities. Clean sheet of stationery, pens, envelopes. She shut the drawer.

But the wastepaper basket. There was a temptation too strong to resist.

And it appeared to be a treasure trove. Quite a few torn strips of paper. The same stationery she’d seen in the drawer. Her pulse quickened. Had Perry been having trouble writing a letter? Phil wondered. Or breaking off his flirtation, surely not an affaire, with Maud?

She leaned over and stirred the papers with one finger, trying to see some indication of their contents without actually touching them. Most had been torn into strips, and she finally had to lift one out to see what it contained. Love letters and, if she wasn’t mistaken, all in Maud’s hand. So more than one little note, and he’d torn all but one. At the very bottom, one sheet was merely crumpled.

She deliberated for two seconds. After all, it was already crumpled, what did it matter if she opened it and then crumpled it again.

She scooped it up, opened it, and smoothed it against the desktop. It was an article about balloons cut from a newspaper. She leaned over to read the crinkled print.

An announcement of the testing of air balloons by the War Department the following week on Long Island.

War Department. Godfrey. Balloons?

Interesting. That he had this article might mean no more than Perry was boning up his conversational skills for social chats with Godfrey. As heir to Fauks Copper, Coal and Steel, he might have many things in common with the older man.

And the fact that he crumpled it up and threw it away might only mean he was finished with it.

Phil, however, wasn’t. She re-crumpled it and dropped it back into the wastepaper basket. She’d leave the paper but she would ask Preswick to do some research on war balloons as soon as she returned home.

But Maud’s letters were different. Obviously they hadn’t meant as much to Perry as they had to Maud. And the fact that she knew which room was his didn’t bode well for the girl.

A girl in her position could lose every chance of a future in society if she had strayed too far.

Phil wouldn’t be responsible for wrecking the girl’s future if she could help it. She’d take the letters for safekeeping until the time they were needed, and if they weren’t? Well, no need for the world to ever find out about them.

When she was sure she’d collected every scrap, she shoved them all in the pocket of her morning dress and hurried back downstairs—down the front stairs this time—and returned to the drawing room to find not Gwen, but Luther and Godfrey and another younger man, who seemed vaguely familiar.

“How is Agnes taking it?” Luther asked, coming to meet her.

“Gwen is with her. She’s holding up the best she can.” Phil hoped that was true.

“You remember my son, Morris.”

Morris was sprawled in a club chair. His hair, which tended to curl like his father’s, was neatly pomaded in a center part. His demeanor left much to be desired.

Spoiled. Bored. Going to seed already. Phil knew the ilk.

“For God’s sake, Morris,” Luther Pratt said between tight lips.

Morris unfolded from the chair, languidly bowed over Phil’s hand, and gingerly eased himself back down.

“I do beg your pardon, Lady Dunbridge, but I’m sure you can understand. Have a bit of a head this morning. My sister’s debut, a cornucopia of my father’s excellent champagne, several cigars, and a walk along the river with some fellow revelers have made me an anathema to good company.”

He smiled and relapsed into a silent heap in the chair.

Luther Pratt shot him an acid look. “Please be seated, Lady Dunbridge. Detective Sergeant Atkins is telephoning to alert the police to be on the lookout for the valet, Mr. Kelly. And also to summon the coroner and the mortuary van. Are you sure this man can be discreet?”

“Ha,” said Morris. “When have you ever known a copper to be discreet? He’ll cost us a fortune.”

“Don’t be vulgar,” Luther snapped.

Morris shrugged.

“I assure you, you needn’t worry about that,” Phil said, bristling at the assumption that Atkins could be bribed.

“I beg your pardon.”

She nodded slightly. Perhaps he was just a concerned son, worried that his father’s reputation and good name, not to mention his rise among the political elite, might be irrevocably damaged by the death of Perry Fauks.

“It is very kind of you to support Gwen during this difficult time,” Godfrey Bennington said into the silence that had fallen over the group.

“Not at all. So many people, Gwen particularly, have shown me kindness since I’ve arrived, I’m delighted to be able to return the favor.”

She didn’t miss the quick sparkle in his eye. Had he guessed that it was more than her compassion that had brought her here? He suddenly became much more interesting.

He wasn’t ruffled at all at Fauks’s death. Not like Luther Pratt. But then Godfrey wasn’t about to become the head of a powerful banking committee.

He was, however, attached to the War Department. Could such a situation be disastrous to him, also? He didn’t seem at all concerned.

She realized he was watching her, a smile hovering on his lips. Was he just being friendly? Waiting for her to put the pieces together? What was his place in all of this?

Phil sighed. Really, this detective business was getting no easier. She had become suspicious of everyone.

The door opened and another young man strolled in.

“Hey ho, Morris. Brinlow wasn’t about, so I saw myself in.” He stopped mid-step. “Sorry, sir. I didn’t expect you to be home. My apologies. I came to pick up Morris and the girls for a day on the lam. Where are the girls? Aren’t they ready?”

He looked from Mr. Pratt to Morris. Frowned. He was obviously no stranger. Middle height, an athletic build, and dressed in motoring weeds. Phil could see the slight indentions from where he’d been wearing driving goggles.

“Anything wrong?”

“Perry’s dead,” Morris said in a laconic voice.

“Drank too much last night, did he? Well, we’ll go without him. Serves him right for hogging all the girls on the dance floor.”

“No, Harry. I mean dead. Deceased. No longer living.”

Harry’s eyes widened and he turned back to Mr. Pratt for verification. “Can’t be. He was in prime twig. Don’t tell me he fell down the steps or something.”

“He was killed, Harry. By his valet as far as we know. The man has disappeared.”

Harry sat down in the nearest chair. “So much for Perry’s great business coup. Murdered?”

“It appears so,” Morris said. “Glad you held on to your money?”

Harry let out his breath. “I’ll say. But poor Agnes. How’s she taking it?”

“She’s distraught, as you can imagine,” Mr. Pratt said, breaking into the two men’s conversation. “The police are here and we’re all still trying to make sense of what happened.”

“Perhaps I should … go?”

“Good idea,” Morris said and stood with more energy than he as yet had displayed. “I’ll go with you. I can’t stand much more of this sitting around.”

“Morris,” his father said, “I really think—”

“If that policeman wants to question me, tell him to come round tomorrow. I’ve had enough. Ta.” He bowed to Phil and he steered Harry out the door.

“Pardon our poor manners, Lady Dunbridge,” Godfrey said. “That was Harry Cleeves. His father is head of one of the city’s major investment companies. Barely escaped collapse. One of the lucky ones. Harry is one of the new set, not much on manners, but heavy on enthusiasm.”

“Please, don’t be troubled by it. But tell me, what were they talking about, Perry’s big coup?”

“Oh, just talk. Those young men are always scheming some way to get rich without working. I just don’t understand the younger generation, so much energy just to fritter it away.”

“Detective Sergeant Atkins may be interested in learning more about Perry’s latest scheme.”

“I don’t see how it could possibly be of interest to him,” Luther said. “Just something to confuse the investigation.”

“Which I’m sorry to say,” Godfrey added, “will not last much longer.”

Phil’s eyebrows went up.

“I’m afraid I was forced to go over the detective sergeant’s head. In my defense, no good can come from him digging into very volatile matters. He’ll be allowed to search the chute tomorrow, and do a cursory questioning of the staff, while the police pursue this valet. But after that, as far as we and his superiors are concerned, his involvement of the Pratt family will be at an end.”

“You’re ending the investigation?” Phil blurted. “But why?”

“My dear Lady Dunbridge, I too have my superiors.”