CHAPTER 26

AN AGONY OF DECEIT

MY HEART STOOD STILL and then began to tremble as if it were a mouse under the gaze of a cat. I had met those eyes a dozen times. For a moment I could not place the face, until it struck me that on other occasions there had been a pair of round gold-rimmed spectacles sliding down the pointed nose. I opened my mouth and closed it again. My eyes flicked to Marjorie, who used the tongs to put a slice of lemon into her teacup with no notice of a calamitous revelation here in her drawing room.

One does not expect to be utterly deceived by the same person twice. But here I was, a double dupe. Admittedly, in my experience, she was very, very good at deception, so I credited her talent more than I rued my foolishness.

Until this morning, I had only ever seen her dressed as a man. That’s how Mr. Fibbley did his job, in disguise, writing about sights that most women dare not see, sights that most newspaper employers consider unhealthy for any but the hardest-hearted men to witness.

And yet, here was another version of Mr. Fibbley, a slim and pretty woman, un-spectacled and clad in mourning from hat to hemline, sniffling into a black-bordered handkerchief. So familiar, and yet never seen before!

“Miss Truitt,” I said. I did not wish to expose her without knowing what game she played. For my sister’s sake, I could not join the game with an easy conscience. “Perhaps…” I glanced again at Marjorie, but her lips were at the rim of her teacup. “Would you care to, er, wash your hands after your journey? I could show you the way.”

Marjorie flushed, and smiled at me warmly. “Oh, Aggie, thank you. I should have offered at once to…”

Miss Truitt rose and followed me.

“We haven’t much time,” she whispered, her black skirt rustling along the passage.

She opened the door of the lavatory and turned back to me with a sassy grin. “This will be cozy.” She clasped my wrist and pulled me with her into the tiny room, closing the door swiftly. We were squished together as closely as herrings in a jar.

“Have they got electric lights?” she whispered.

“In some of the rooms,” I said. “Some of the time. It does not appear to be a reliable commodity.” I felt her arms swatting the walls in a fruitless search of some manner of illumination. I found the switch and turned on a small lamp suspended from the ceiling.

“I will wash my hands while we’re in here,” said Miss Truitt, “if you don’t mind.”

My hip was wedged against the sink, but I pressed myself flat against the wall while she turned on the tap and found lavender soap.

“What are you doing here?” I said. “What if someone recognizes you?”

“Why would it occur to anyone to look for a male journalist in the clothes of a bereaved young maiden?”

“Why are you pretending to be a bereaved young maiden?” I spoke as fiercely as I could. “Wherever did you find a weeping veil at such short notice?”

She wiped her hands dry on her skirt and ignored my question. The hook with the hand towel was digging into my back.

“The police,” I said, “will want to speak with you, Miss Beatrice Truitt. They’ll be looking for a motive. Perhaps it was you who killed him, that’s what they’ll be thinking. They’ll ask all sorts of questions—and you know nothing about him!”

“I know from the other reporters the bits they’ve gathered from the servants,” she said. “I know he was a harmless chap who owed a bit of money and was too fond of the bottle. Nothing to get killed for.”

“Maybe he wasn’t the one meant to be killed,” I said. “There were four men dressed the same way. What if one of the others—”

“It’s done now,” said Miss Truitt. “I report on what happened, not what might have happened. His old mum died last year, and he’d got no one else to care about him, except these actors. I shall disappear as soon as I have gathered a bit more color. Just watch. As good as a conjurer, my vanishing act. Really, these few minutes with Lady Greyson have already given me a trove of details…though it would be a treat to have a quick look at the body. Only you and Hector will ever know I was in here. I’d have thought, as a fellow writer, that you would applaud my ingenuity!”

“Your ingenuity is swamping my sister with guilt,” I said. “And what if a real fiancée arrives? Or an actual Mrs. Corker, with three children and genuine sorrow in her heart? What will you do then?”

“I tell you, there’s nobody like that. Mr. Corker had a heart-to-heart with a footman over a bottle of ale, told him he was alone in the world, not so much as a cat to go home to.” Miss Truitt grinned, her teeth gleaming faintly in the near dark.

Which footman? I wondered.

“Listen,” she said. “It is not every day that a reporter has an opportunity like this, to see the inside story. Not one of those men out there could do what I have done this morning, isn’t that right?”

I thought of the fellow with the pocked face and wiry black beard. Or the ginger-haired man with gray smudges under his eyes and a droopy mustache. What sort of women might they dress up to be? I laughed.

“I’m not certain that’s a fair defense of your trickery,” I said.

“You and Hector swore an oath in October that you would not tell the secret of my identity,” Miss Truitt said. “Surely you will not break a promise so soon as this?”

“I will not,” I said. Promises were to be honored, I knew that much. But could not the same be said of honesty?

“Good girl,” she said. “Then poke me in the eye, Miss Morton.”

“Wha—?” I began to say. But truly? There was nothing I wanted to do more right then. I followed her instruction and twisted two corners of the hand towel into points.

She leaned forward. “Go on,” she said.

Without warning her as to the moment of attack, I jabbed one eye and then the other, an instant later.

“Ohh!” She blinked and winced and peered into the mirror. “That worked a charm!” Her eyes had turned pink and filled with tears. “Now you have conspired with me and must play the game to the end. Come, let us get back before my sorrow dries up!”

In the drawing room, everyone was seated as before, except for Hector, who offered around the plate of seed cake. I had such a trove to tell him! Miss Beatrice Truitt had her veil turned up and allowed her pink eyes to brim with tears. This prevented anyone from wondering why we’d been absent for so many minutes.

“Miss Truitt,” said Grannie Jane. “Please sit here by me.”

Miss Truitt sat, modestly shielding her face—now that her woe had been witnessed.

“Because of the investigation…” Marjorie spoke in a careful voice so that I guessed at once that Grannie had been coaching her. “We may not assist in making plans for a funeral as yet, but please be assured that when the time comes…” She paused because Miss Truitt had sobbed.

Her weeping now rang loudly of fraudulence. I wished to stamp on her toe. I waited with the others, however, for the woman to recover her calm.

“If I could just…” said Miss Truitt. “It would mean so much to me if I might…see him? To pay my last respects?”

“Would that really give you comfort, my dear?” said Grannie Jane. “It may be…just a bit gruesome.”

A soft knock came at the door half a moment before it opened to reveal Mr. Pressman and one of the policemen.

“Constable Gillie, my lady,” said the butler.

The constable stepped in and cast a quick look around the room, as if he had not entered many like it before. The ornate plaster roses, set into the ceiling to reflect the ones in the carpets, the gold-threaded draperies, the cascade of crystal blossoms hanging in the chandelier—it was all pretty grand.

“Yes, Constable?” said Marjorie. “How can we help?”

Constable Gillie cleared his throat. “Detective Inspector Willard understands there’s a young woman come who might shed light on the investigation.” His eyes fell on Miss Truitt, sitting with head bowed. Truly, gossip flew from one room to the next in this house, as speedily as a nervous bat. Like a fly catching a whiff of honey. Like a bird with its tail on fire.

“The inspector would like to have a word, as soon as it is convenient,” said the constable.

Marjorie rose to her feet and smiled. “I cannot, naturally, presume for our guest, but neither will I disappoint her. She wishes to spend a few moments, now, alone with…with Mr. Corker. After that, she may speak with the inspector, if she has strength to do so.”

“Thank you, Lady Greyson,” murmured Miss Truitt. “The girl has been unwavering in her kindness. Might she lead me to view the body of my beloved?”