Well, she hadn’t expected that. Now she must readjust her opinion of Godfrey Bennington. Not only was he a good family friend, a doting godfather, he was well connected, powerful, and, she imagined, ruthless.
She didn’t envy Atkins, though she suspected he was used to these strong-arm tactics. He always seemed to be assigned to the more delicate investigations, whether because he was more cultured than most policemen or whether they were trying to make things so difficult he finally quit, Phil could only guess.
The mantel clock struck the hour. It was later than she thought and time to take her leave. She didn’t expect to see Atkins again today. Once he’d finished questioning the servants, he would be hustled out the back door and sent on his way.
Besides, she was getting hungry. She’d only had a slice of toast for breakfast, and the sandwiches the Pratts’ cook had sent up had sat uneaten and were finally taken away.
“Perhaps I could call Mr. Mullins and arrange for tomorrow’s search,” she said to Luther, “and then I’ll collect my maid and be on my way.”
“Of course.” He escorted her back to the study. “I’ll tell Brinlow to send your maid up and leave you to your privacy.” He bowed slightly and closed the door.
She placed the call to Holly Farm. When at last Bobby Mullins answered, she told him about the plan for needing someone small enough and willing to climb down a laundry chute.
Bobby laughed. “Well, that wouldn’t be me, would it, your ladyness?” Once a welterweight boxer, Bobby had put on a few stone over the years; “stocky” would be a polite term for what Bobby was these days. “But I got a bunch of little guys willing to make an extra buck, I mean—”
“Excellent, of course he will be reimbursed,” she said before Bobby could start haggling and give himself a cut. “But I must warn you, this is a police matter.”
“Gorn, not again.”
“I’m afraid so. A young man died at a residence last night. A very important residence. Discretion is required.”
“I don’t know how you get into these things. I’ll bring Rico. I’ll wear my bluest suit and see that he does the same. Rico is okay with you, your ladyness? His English is pretty so-so. And he knows how to keep his mouth shut.” And he was sweet on Phil’s maid, Lily.
She gave him the address and Luther Pratt’s name.
There was silence on the end. Then a whooshing sound as if Bobby was blowing out air. “I’ll say this for you, your countess-ness. You sure do run in some pretty high-up circles. Don’t tell me he’s dead. I don’t think the banks could take it. He and his kind nearly queered the whole stock market. Lucky they didn’t all lose their shirts.”
Interesting that Bobby should know of Luther Pratt’s financial dealings. Of course, before he’d cleaned up his act to run the stables, Bobby had had his hand in a lot of money deals—some legal, some anything but.
But things had changed. Phil knew she could count on him and the other men at the farm.
“Detective Sergeant Atkins will be here to give Rico instructions. Shall we say eight o’clock?” She thought Bobby groaned but whether at the mention of the detective or the early hour, she could only guess.
“We’ll be there.”
“And Bobby, no offense, but could you come to the servants’ entrance?”
“No offense taken. We’ll bring some tools, so nobody won’t know we’re not tradesmen.”
“Excellent. I knew I could count on you. Until tomorrow.”
“Aw revoir,” Bobby said. He was laughing when she ended the call.
Godfrey stopped her by the open door of the taxi as she was leaving. “I’ve decided to take the whole family out to Foggy Acres, my estate on Long island, as soon as Detective Atkins has finished with his search. Keep them removed from the situation until the valet can be apprehended and the talk dies down.
“I hope I can count you as one of my guests. I’m sure Gwen would love the company.”
“But what about Agnes?” Phil asked, frantically putting together the ramifications of the entire list of suspects leaving town. “It is the beginning of the season. Must she withdraw from society due to Perry’s demise?”
“No. Nothing was settled between them, thank God. Though there was speculation. Which is another reason to get her away. A few days to let the gossip die down and she’ll be welcomed back into society without a thought.
“And while we’re away I’ll keep the young people entertained. I can scrounge up a few couples for dancing. There is still plenty of game for the gentlemen. Quite a few of my neighbors live there year-round. And there are plenty of others who would love to take the drive out to be able to claim themselves as Foggy Acres guests.”
“I see. In that case, Mr. Bennington, I would love to come.”
“Godfrey, please. I believe under these circumstances, formality becomes rather ridiculous.”
“I agree.”
“I will have my Daimler call for you.”
“Godfrey. I’d love to come, but I’ll be driving my own auto.”
“I see. And how many staff will be accompanying you? I have plenty of room.”
“Just my maid, and perhaps my butler, an old family retainer. I think he might enjoy a few days in the country. I’m afraid he’s a little out of sorts in America.” She mentally apologized to Preswick, who was having a second youth since landing in New York harbor. Phil even suspected he was “stepping out,” as they say, with a certain cook he’d met recently.
She and Lily climbed into the taxi. Phil was tempted to tell the driver to let them off at Central Park. She liked to stroll every day.
But it was gaining evening and there was much to be done if she was to solve a murder and outfit herself for a country house party. Hopefully it wouldn’t be as boring as English parties, where the gentlemen spent their days “bagging birds” and the women sat around with one amusing non-athletic gentleman to entertain them.
Phil generally joined the shoot, though she’d never enjoyed killing birds. She rather liked them, especially their feathers, which adorned many of her hats, she was embarrassed to say, but one had to get one’s feathers somewhere.
“Well?” Lily asked.
“Later.” Phil nodded, indicating the driver. You never knew who might be willing to sell secrets to the newspapers; she’d learned that at an early age and to her immense chagrin. And even though the rattle of the engine made conversation nearly impossible, she didn’t dare take a chance of the driver overhearing.
So they sat in silence while they drove back to the Plaza.
The taxi let them off at the main entrance on Fifty-Ninth Street.
While Phil fumbled in her purse, Lily reached into her own pocket and paid the fare.
“Clever girl,” Phil said. “Always prepared.” A quality she needed to cultivate in herself, and immediately. Because between the murder, the War Department, and her secret employer, she was bound to have a full dance card.
Before they entered the lobby, Phil made a quick detour to the corner newsboy hawking the afternoon edition of the Evening Post and bought a copy. Surely it was too early for word to have gotten out to reporters. But they were indefatigable newshounds and it was best to stay abreast of the news.
She folded the newspaper and tucked it under her arm. Turned to avoid a passing shoeshine boy and stopped. Turned back around, but the “boy” who was actually a rather tall man disappeared around the corner of the hotel.
She inhaled, but it was gone, that exotic pipe tobacco that her mysterious note-leaving friend preferred. She was tempted to run after him, but that would be unseemly and besides, she knew he would be gone. Since their first meeting, he’d appeared several times in different disguises and disappeared without her ever managing to catch him.
“What is it, madam?”
“Lily, did you smell that?”
Lily wrinkled her nose. “Just fumes and horse droppings.”
“Hmm.” Phil took a last look down the street and decided she must have imagined that telltale scent.
“Good afternoon, Lady Dunbridge.” The doorman tipped his hat and opened the door for them.
“Good afternoon, Douglas. Did you recognize that shoeshine boy who just passed?”
“Boy?” Douglas crinkled his brow.
“An adult shoeshine person, rather.”
“No, can’t say that I did. Though there’re plenty of ’em hanging around. Did he bother you?”
“No, I was just curious.”
“Yes, madam.”
Phil went inside and headed straight for the row of four bronze elevators that took guests all the way up to the nineteenth floor. Her favorite elevator operator, Egbert, was waiting at the first lift and she and Lily stepped inside.
“Lovely day, Lady Dunbridge.”
“Yes indeed, Egbert.” His voice was a lyrical tenor and his greetings always reminded Phil of a song.
He shut the grate and they ascended to the fifth floor.
She let Lily and herself into her apartments. It was a wonderful sense of freedom, this coming and going at will. Preswick, of course, frowned upon the custom of letting oneself into one’s own apartments, but he’d finally stopped grumbling aloud.
He of course appeared before they had both stepped over the threshold.
“High tea, immediately,” Phil declared.
“Yes, my lady.”
“For three. I refuse to have my tea while the two of you stand over me like starving refugees. We’ll all have tea. In the study room where I can spread out my newspaper and you can both take notes on what we found out today. We’ve a lot to do if we’re going to the country at week’s end.”
“The country?” Preswick said.
“Yes, and you will accompany us, Preswick. It’s to be a country weekend in a place called Foggy Acres or some other Dickensian-sounding name.” Phil laughed. “These Americans. I’ll explain all if I may only have my tea.”
Preswick bowed and hurried to call the waiter who would order tea to be sent up by dumbwaiter from the subbasement kitchen. And which would arrive hotter and fresher than most food served in the great homes across England and probably America.
“Now, Lily, get me out of this hat and we’ll reconvene to compare notes.”
By the time her hat was returned to its hatbox, Phil had changed into an at-home gown of mauve chiffon, and had transferred the torn strips of paper from her pocket to a small silk reticule. She carried the bag, her newspaper, and the note down to the smaller sitting room, where a lavish tea was spread out on their study table.
She sat down, dumped her paper and bag on the table, and piled her plate high with liver paste, watercress, and cucumber and cheese sandwiches, while Preswick poured tea.
“I must say, this delivery system is excellent,” Phil said, taking a sip of tea. “Delicious.”
“Humph,” Preswick said. He’d been trying to get the kitchen to make English scones. The French chef was not amused until he found out that Lady Dunbridge had a favorite recipe. Which, of course, she didn’t. It never occurred to her to bring recipes to America—if she’d had any, which she didn’t. Nonetheless, Monsieur Lapparraque humored Preswick and turned out a reasonably edible scone.
As soon as Preswick deigned to sit, Lily sat down and reached for a sandwich. While they ate, Phil apprised Preswick of the murder of Perry Fauks. “Lily and I got a firsthand look, though I imagine Detective Sergeant Atkins was more thorough.”
“We would have found more but he made us leave,” Lily added. “But I saw when the black van came.”
“The coroner?”
“Yes. Three men, two carrying a cot. The detective sergeant took them into the laundry room, but he locked the door behind them. I tried to listen but they were talking low. Then they came out again and cook told me I was to stay in the kitchen and not wander around the halls. She called me a heathen.” Lily’s face hardened. “But I just smiled and pr-r-r-retended not to understand her-r-r-r.”
“Very good,” Phil said. “She’s an uneducated woman and is to be ignored.”
Preswick poured Lily more tea.
“So tell me what else you found out downstairs today.”
“Pfft, those ser-r-r-vants. They were told not to talk, and that’s all they did all morning long.”
“So your presence didn’t curb their tongues?”
“I just sat and looked stupid, and didn’t react to anything they said and they yammered on for hours. Yammer, yammer, yammer.”
Preswick cleared his throat. “That is not the proper word for a lady’s maid, Lily.”
“But I like it. Yammer-r-r-r.” She grinned at him. “But I won’t use it.”
“I told her to only speak in Italian today.”
“Ah,” said Preswick, putting his cup down.
Phil pushed the tiered plate of sandwiches toward him. He hesitated and then chose one of cheese and cucumber.
“I wish I’d had my notepad,” Lily said. “But I think I remember most things. Mostly they were just hysterical and saying they were afraid to stay.”
“So no question about it being an accident?”
Lily shook her head. “The laundress saw the blood. It was on one of the sheets. But it was put in the fire.”
Of course it was, Phil thought. What else had they “tidied up” before she arrived?
And where was the weapon? Had they tidied that up, too? Phil mumbled an expletive under her breath. She was certain that both she and Detective Sergeant Atkins hoped it was stuck in the laundry chute somewhere. And not on its way to the garbage dump.
“What else did you learn, Lily?”
“Three of the laundry maids. They went down to sort the day’s laundry and he was stuck in among the sheets. They screamed and carried on until the laundress came over then sent for Mr. Pratt. The men had to pull him out. That’s when they saw the blood. The laundress wanted to bleach it, but Mr. Pratt said to burn it.”
So Luther had given the order. Fastidiousness or stealth? “Go on.”
“Mr. Pratt and that other one with the lion’s hair laid him out and tried to see if he was still breathing, but he wasn’t. Then they sent the girls away and told them not to talk, and cook took them to the kitchen for tea.”
“And were there conjectures about how the man died?”
“Just silly talk. Rr-r-r-robbers or madmen. Stupido.”
“Yes, I’m afraid it might be a little closer to home.” Phil took a minute to describe to Preswick going to Agnes’s room, following Maud to Perry Fauks’s room.
“Maud Jeffrey. I don’t think you saw her today, Lily. She’s one of Agnes’s cousins. A twin. You both will see them when we all go to Long Island.”
“You think this cousin killed him and stuffed him down the laundry chute?” Lily asked.
“Not unless she had help,” Phil said. “She’s quite petite.”
“Small individuals are known to have unnatural strength when under duress,” said Preswick. “One of the girls from the village lifted a wagon off her father when it collapsed on him while he was trying to tighten the wheel.”
“No!” Lily said, her eyes wide. “Is that true?”
“Do you question my veracity?” Preswick asked indignantly.
“No, Mr. Preswick,” Lily said contritely. “But is it true?”
He raised an imperious eyebrow.
Lily grinned back.
“But I did find this.” Phil wiped her fingers on her napkin and opened the silk bag she’d brought to the table. She turned it over and shook it until the table was covered by strips of torn paper, as well as Maud’s confiscated note.
She lifted the note and unfolded it.
“What does it say, madam?”
“It’s a love note. And rather silly schoolgirl stuff. But Maud sneaked away to retrieve it from Mr. Fauks’s room.”
She read it aloud. A short, pitiful exclamation of affection and a plea not to marry her cousin Agnes. “Well, the girl was certainly carrying a torch for Mr. Fauks, but there’s nothing here that sounds desperate enough that would cause a young girl to kill her lover.
“Though I suppose we should read the rest.” Phil looked at the strips of paper in front of them. “Do we have glue and paper? Perhaps we can reconstruct these.”
While Preswick went to fetch the supplies, Phil and Lily started arranging the strips. It took under an hour to put them all back together. Most were silly, like the one Phil had confiscated. Two were pleas to meet Maud at night. There were no dates, but they did raise the possibility that Maud had met him the night of the party and might have been the last person to see him alive.
Or possibly the first to see him dead.
“I suppose I must hand them over to Detective Sergeant Atkins. I hate to do it, they’re such humiliating evidence of a schoolgirl crush. Except, maybe not so innocent.”
Phil sighed. She herself wasn’t so old—at twenty-six she was in her prime, perhaps a little jaded; she had seen much of the world—that she couldn’t sympathize with those pangs of love. She’d definitely have to turn them over to Atkins. And ask him to be gentle with the girl’s heart.
She pushed the notes to the side of the table and reached for another sandwich. “Let’s see, what else,” she said as she munched on the liver paste sandwich. “I suppose I shouldn’t share this since it’s pure speculation, but the Pratts’ daughter, Agnes, was about to be engaged to Mr. Fauks, or so they expected. But when Maud of the love letters left the room, I overheard her say, ‘She’ll be glad he’s dead.’ I believe she was referring to Agnes.
“I’ve asked Bobby Mullins to bring a jockey to climb down the chute tomorrow morning to look for clues. He may bring Rico.”
Lily’s nose went up. “Oh, that one.”
“Yes, that one.”
“Is it dangerous?” asked Lily, melting a little.
“No. I’m sure the detective sergeant will contrive some sort of harness to keep him safe while he’s looking for clues.”
“What kind of clues will he be looking for in a laundry chute?” Preswick asked.
“The missing weapon for one. It appears to be a stab wound from a very narrow knife. If it isn’t in the chute, they will have to search farther afield.”
“Any suspects thus far?”
“The valet disappeared. The police are looking for him. But there is a whole house of people, including the Pratts’ son, Morris, a rather smug, unlikable young man.
“There was also a Mr. Isaac Sheffield at the ball last night. The victim was to inherit his family’s Copper, Coal and Steel trust, which is now being run by Mr. Sheffield, until Perry was deemed mature enough to take over. Which will never happen now. But it could be a motive.
“Mr. Sheffield lives in the city with his wife. Preswick, if you could ask around, peruse some newspapers, see where he stands in this financial crisis business. Godfrey Bennington, he of the lion hair, is somehow connected to the War Department. Luther Pratt is a very influential banker, managed to survive the Panic, and is expected to be appointed to a big government committee to prevent such things in the future.
“Everything could unravel for him if this isn’t solved efficiently.”
“Yes, my lady.”
“And what if it brings scandal to his house?” Lily asked.
“Then it will. But it is the price one pays. Tomorrow I will return, ostensibly to help Mrs. Pratt with her new parlor drapes. Preswick, call to a fabric house and have them send over some appropriate samples, in blues and ochers, drapery colors, you know better than I.
“Oh, and what do you know about balloons?”
“Balloons, my lady? I imagine they sell them in the park.”
“No, the kind that carry people and instruments. There is a test of such balloons scheduled for next weekend. I saw an article crumpled up in Perry Fauks’s wastepaper basket. And I’ve just been invited to a house party by a man who works for the War Department and whose estate is located near to where the government is testing balloons while we’re in residence. It seems too coincidental not to do a little research.”
“Very well, my lady. I can take the trolley down to the library tomorrow.”
“Thank you. And now that my hunger is somewhat assuaged…” Phil stood up and a piece of paper fell from her skirt.
“Now what’s this?” She leaned over and picked it up. “Odd. There were no missing pieces from the notes. It must have been in the wastepaper basket along with the others.” She peered at it. Rectangular and torn at either end. Initials and numbers and Greek to her.
“If I might, my lady.”
Phil handed the paper to Preswick.
“Do you know what it is?”
“Yes, my lady. It’s a ticker tape.”
“Which is?”
“It sends the most recent movements of the stock market over the wire. The initials stand for the name of this particular company. The numbers represent the fluctuation in stock prices since the last reporting.”
“Can you tell what the company is?”
“No, but I can stop by the exchange tomorrow and find out, though…”
“Though what?”
“I doubt if this company will even exist tomorrow. From the numbers displayed, the company’s losses are most likely unrecoverable.”