This Side of Murder Page 2

  A glance in the wing mirror revealed I hadn’t left Ryde in the dust. Though whether he was enjoying himself or merely determined to keep up was difficult to tell. I didn’t peg him as the reckless sort. Not like Sidney, anyway, whose devil-may-care driving had been somewhat legendary. But even the chariest can be seduced by the power of a good engine. In any case, I forced myself to ease the Pierce-Arrow down to a more reasonable pace, lest I actually cause a collision.

  Poole was larger than I’d expected, but still easily navigable when one’s destination was the harbor lined with tall-sailed yachts and large Channel-crossing ships. We skirted the shore of a lake and passed the train station, where most of our fellow guests had disembarked from their journeys down from London or elsewhere in England. I could have taken the train as well. After all, there were stops in both Winchester and Epsom, where I’d attended the Derby before driving on to Beatrice’s. But I’d wanted the freedom of being able to come and go as I pleased, of flight should it become necessary.

  My hands tightened around the driving wheel. Though, how that would be possible when we were all about to be ferried out to an island I didn’t know.

  I shook the worrying thought aside, slowing the motorcar as we approached the quay. I wasn’t at all certain we would be able to pick out Walter’s boat among all of the ships lining the waterfront, but true to his assurances I spotted the brilliant scarlet and yellow checked flag flying above the yacht’s sails. The sight of the boat and its fellow passengers standing along the rails with drinks in their hands relieved me far more than it should have. I’d had mixed emotions about attending the house party, but apparently missing it was no longer to be borne.

  Ryde insisted on hefting my larger case as we made our way down the dock toward the waiting boat while I carried my valise and hatbox. But I was relieved of even those burdens as a dark-haired man smartly dressed in a brown pin-striped suit descended the gangway to take them from me.

  “Here you are,” he proclaimed, passing my parcels up to one of the sailors. Taking my hand, he grinned broadly and insisted on helping me aboard. “We were just about to leave without you.”

  “Then it’s lucky we arrived when we did. I would so have hated to have to swim across.”

  His eyes gleamed with interest as he scoured my features at a closer proximity.

  Deciding it would be best not to overly encourage his forward behavior, if that was all it was, I extracted my hand from his and glanced over my shoulder at Ryde. “What about you, Max?”

  His lips quirked, not having missed my deliberate use of his given name when I hadn’t done so earlier. “I don’t know. A dip in the water might be quite refreshing. Of course, then we would be battling pneumonia. So perhaps it’s for the best we won’t need to.”

  The man in the pin-striped suit smiled, but I also noted the tightening of his brow as he studied Max. “You and Westfield know each other, I see.”

  “Oh, yes. For all of three quarters of an hour now,” I drawled. “I’m afraid I nearly ran him down in my motorcar.”

  “Really?” A smirk tightened his mouth. “I think a number of us would have quite cheerfully saluted you for that but a year ago.”

  It was spoken in jest, but I sensed there was something behind the words that wasn’t altogether in good fun. I could tell Max did, too, though he didn’t even flicker an eyelash at the barbed comment.

  “That’s what comes of allowing females to drive motorcars,” another man muttered from his chair nearby.

  I stifled a sigh, far too familiar with this narrow-minded opinion. However, I could hardly chide the man when I’d practically prompted him by announcing I’d almost crashed. Though I did turn a weary glare his way.

  An effort that was wasted as he wasn’t even looking at me. He was too busy glowering at the deck for some unapparent offense. The right sleeve of his coat was folded and pinned, hanging just below the bicep of the arm he’d lost from the elbow down. “And he’s Lord Ryde now, remember?” the seated man snapped, turning icy blue eyes on the smartly dressed man who had helped me board the boat. “Heaven forbid, you should read the papers.”

  “Not if I can bloody well help it,” he sneered.

  I glanced at Max, who was sparing far too much effort conferring with the steward. I suspected so that he wouldn’t have to address the topic at hand. His father, the previous Earl of Ryde, had been quite a prominent figure in politics until his death seven months ago, just weeks before the armistice he’d fought so hard to help secure. The newspapers had speculated endlessly on whether the late earl’s son and heir would attempt to step into the void left by his father or accept a quieter role in Parliament.

  “Gentlemen,” he chided the other men as he swiveled to pass me a flute of champagne he’d taken from the steward’s tray. “Perhaps, rather than bickering, you’ll allow me to introduce Mrs. Verity Kent.” His eyes twinkled with mischief. “And these two sorry souls are Felix Halbert”—he dipped his head toward the man in the pin-striped suit and then the man in the chair—“and Jimmy Tufton.”

  “Charmed, I’m sure,” I murmured, seeing the curiosity in their gazes as I sipped my champagne.

  Apparently, Max had, too, for he confirmed all our suspicions. “They served in the Thirtieth with your husband as well.”

  I nodded at both men. How many of the guests had fought alongside Sidney in France? First Walter and Max, and now Felix and Jimmy. Surely Walter’s friends were not all veterans of the Thirtieth?

  Or had so many of his friends from before the war died that these men were all that was left? I’d met a man one evening at a nightclub who’d confided in me while we were dancing and both half bosky that he was the only man from his circle of eight friends who had survived the war. A few weeks later, I’d read in the paper that he’d shot himself.

  As if in answer to my unspoken query, a voice called out behind me. “Verity?”

  I swiveled around, delighted by the sight of a familiar face. “Tom!” I hurried forward, grateful in more ways than one to see my childhood friend and neighbor. He wrapped me in a fierce hug. “I didn’t know you were going to be here,” I gasped as he released me.

  “I could say the same to you.”

  There were fine lines around his eyes that hadn’t been there the last time I’d seen him. The same fine lines I’d been surprised to see marked my brother Freddy’s face when he’d stepped onto the train platform in London after the war ended. But in this case at least, they only seemed to emphasize Tom’s happiness.

  His hands held me away from him so that his gaze could sweep up and down my figure. “You are a sight for sore eyes, Pip,” he proclaimed, using the shortened form of Pipsqueak, the nickname my older brothers and their friends had taken to calling me long ago. “I’m glad to see you’re all in one piece.” His smile dimmed. “Though I was sorry to hear about Sidney. Rotten luck, my girl. He was a dashed fine fellow. We all thought so.”

  I pressed a reassuring hand to his chest, feeling the same emotion I’d choked down in front of Max fist in my throat. “Thank you.”

  His lips curled in a reflexive grimace of commiseration; then he turned, draping his arm around my shoulders as we walked toward the opposite side of the deck. Until he’d done so I hadn’t noted his limp, but with every step I felt the jolt of his body compensating for the weakness in his left leg.

  “So who is it you’re friendly with? Ponsonby or his fiancée?” he asked.

  “Walter stood up with Sidney at our wedding.”

  He nodded. “Of course. I think your brother mentioned that. Once upon a time.”

  “But what of you? I didn’t think you served in the Thirtieth?”

  Tom’s eyes cut sideways at me. “Noticed that, did you?”

  “It’s hard to miss.”

  “Yes, well, Ponsonby seems to have gotten along with his fellow officers rather better than most, if this sampling of the weekend’s guest list is anything to judge by. For my part, when the war ended I was more
than happy to never have to see the sullen, puppy faces of a couple of lieutenants and the ugly mug of one Welsh corporal ever again.” Then he added as almost an afterthought, “It was always the good ones who clicked it.”

  I had no response for that. Everything I could think to say sounded too trite.

  In any case, he wasn’t waiting for a reply. “But to answer your question, no. It’s Nellie who received the invite.” He glanced up, drawing my attention to his wife standing beside the rail. “The fiancée, Helen Crawford, is her cousin.”

  I’d forgotten Tom had married. A rather rushed affair in the midst of the war. When a few months later my brother wrote to tell me Tom had a newborn son, I’d suddenly understood the haste. Not that I blamed them. After all, I remembered how feverish Sidney’s and my couplings were when he was home on leave.

  Even so, Tom’s choice in a wife smarted.

  “Nellie, darling,” I murmured, stepping forward to embrace her loosely. “You look well.”

  “Thank you. Likewise.”

  If Tom noticed the stiltedness between us, he was intelligent enough not to comment.

  Nellie and I had been friends when we were younger, though admittedly, never very close ones. However, she’d never gotten over the fact that Sidney had chosen me over her, quite without my interference. The last time we’d spoken we’d both said a number of nasty things to each other, but there was one thing she’d shrieked that time had only hardened within me. One thing I wasn’t certain I would ever be able to forgive.

  Her eyes drifted toward the opposite side of the deck, where the trio of men who had served in the Thirtieth had been joined by a fourth man. They all looked on as the gangway was removed and the anchor lifted by a pair of sailors.

  “I’m sorry about Sidney.”

  I glanced over at Nellie, trying to tell if she was sincere, but she refused to meet my eyes, and her porcelain features remained as smooth as stone. Ignoring her, I turned back toward Tom, taking another sip from my glass. “Where is Walter? Didn’t he come to meet us?”

  “No, I imagine he’s waiting to greet us on the island. From what I gather, some of the other guests will have already arrived.”

  “It’s his leg,” Nellie interjected, turning to stare out into the harbor as the boat moved away from the quay. “He can’t get around as well as Tom. Has to use a cane. And Helen says on bad days, he doesn’t even try to leave his chair.” Something in her tone made it sound as if it was a competition. One that Tom was winning.

  But Nellie had always been like that.

  “Yes, well, it will get better,” Tom replied. “It’s only been nine months since his injury. I’ve had the better part of two years to reach this point.”

  Nellie lifted one shoulder negligently.

  “What of Umbersea Island?” I asked, deciding it was time to change the subject. “What do you know of it?”

  “It’s just there.” Tom pointed toward a large landmass, rather closer to shore than I had expected, though still too far away for anyone but the strongest to swim out to, even in calm weather.

  The larger part of Poole Harbor formed a sort of diamond, with Poole at the top tip, and the passage into the English Channel lying at the middle of the bottom right side. Umbersea Island sat more or less at the very center. From this vantage, it appeared thick with trees and vegetation, more a haven for animals than the opulent country retreat of a wealthy businessman, as I knew Walter’s father to have been.

  “From what I understand, it was fortified in Henry the Eighth’s time and then largely used as a pirates’ haunt until some well-heeled gentleman bought it and fixed up the island as his country estate. There was a pottery business based there for a short time in the nineteenth century”—Tom shook his head—“but not much else to tell.”

  “Helen says it doesn’t look like much from Poole. That the quay and all the buildings and beaches of any note lay on the far shore.” Nellie sighed. “I certainly hope so. Because I did not come here intending to rusticate.”

  I had to agree with her, though I would never have been so rude to say so out loud. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see Tom’s brow furrowed with displeasure, and I decided it would be best to excuse myself. For some reason, Nellie was apparently indulging in a fit of the sulks—something she had done as a child, but should have long since grown out of—and I felt absolutely no compulsion to charm her out of them.

  I strolled down the deck in the direction I’d seen the gentleman I’d yet to meet disappear. Ostensibly this was done to introduce myself, but in truth I wanted a few moments alone.

  I sipped the last of my glass of champagne, which had begun to grow warm in the sun, and paused to lean against the railing, staring out across the harbor encircling us. The white sails of other yachts dotted the water in the distance, far removed from the line we now cruised toward the far side of Umbersea Island. Beyond them I could see sandy beaches and cottages peppering the bluffs of tall grass. The air was thick with the scent of the sea and the lemon wax the deckhands must have used to polish the wood beneath my fingers to a gleam.

  “Did Tom Ashley and his wife point out Umbersea to you?” Max asked, approaching to stand next to me.

  I swung my gaze in the direction we were sailing, watching as the island loomed larger before us. “They did.”

  “I suppose he also gave you a brief accounting of its history.”

  Hearing the amusement in his voice, I glanced back at him, curious how he knew that.

  “Ashley was stationed as a town major in a village near the Somme during the middle of the war, acting as liaison between the locals and the British troops. Used to use any opportunity he could to expound on his vast knowledge of the area’s history to any officer passing through.”

  I smiled. “Yes, Tom took a first in history at Cambridge.” I glanced upward at him through my lashes. “As I’m sure he let you know.”

  “Of course.”

  “As a boy he was forever yammering on about Romans and Saxons, and what have you. Though, I admit, I think I learned more from him about Britain’s noble history than any of my governesses. But, heavens! Don’t tell him that.”

  “Your secret is safe with me.” He drank the last finger worth of brandy from his glass before plucking my empty flute from my hand and passing them to the steward. “Speaking of scholars, have you met Montague yet?”

  I turned to see he was hailing the man I’d intended to introduce myself to, a fair-haired fellow who appeared far too young to have served any time at the front. He looked so hesitant to approach, I almost told Max to leave the poor boy alone. But he called his name again louder, forcing the chap to either join us or blatantly snub us.

  “Charlie Montague, allow me to introduce Mrs. Verity Kent,” Max declared, performing the introductions.

  I suspected he already knew who I was, for he displayed no shock or uncertainty upon hearing my name. Though when he took hold of my proffered hand, ever so briefly, I noticed how his hand shook.

  “Very nice to meet you.” His lips pressed together for a moment; then he blurted, “Sorry about your husband.”

  “Thank you. That’s very kind.”

  He clasped his hands behind his back, rocking back on his heels.

  Seemingly accustomed to the other man’s fretful demeanor, Max offered us both a reassuring smile. “Montague plans to attend Cambridge in the autumn.”

  “How marvelous,” I said, trying to set Charlie at ease. “Then you’ll want to talk to Tom.” I glanced toward the man in question, still standing with his wife a dozen meters away. “He studied there before the war.”

  “Thank you. I shall,” the young man replied, then astonished me by striding off to do so.

  I stared wide-eyed after him.

  “Sorry about that,” Max murmured resignedly. “Charlie always was a bit peculiar, but I’m afraid the war has only made it worse. Some of the men have a more difficult time readjusting than others.”

  Shell shock.
I could read between the lines.

  I watched as he clumsily introduced himself to Tom and Nellie, the latter of whom turned away, almost as if he had leprosy.

  Yes, I supposed that would explain it. He wasn’t the first man I’d met whom I’d suspected of having it. And sadly I knew he wouldn’t be the last.

  I couldn’t stop my thoughts from straying to memories of Sidney’s last leave. The few short days he’d been allowed to spend with me in London, he’d been jumpy, fidgety, as if he couldn’t settle. After the first night when he’d frightened us both awake, yelling and thrashing from a nightmare, I would wake in the middle of the night to find he’d slipped out of our bed and down the hall to sleep on the sofa. Sometimes he wouldn’t even be trying to sleep, just sitting there wide-eyed in the dark, staring into the shadows.

  I hadn’t said anything. There wasn’t anything to say. I’d heard enough talk at the office about the “poor sods whose minds cracked under the strain of the war.” Sidney didn’t need to know his actions made my chest clench with worry and dread. Not when he had to return to the front and face it all again.

  But now I wondered if there might have been other factors at play. Other reasons he was so flighty and furtive, answering all of my questions with queries of his own. Other reasons he had returned to the front two days before he had to report back. I wondered if I’d been too quick to fear it was shell shock when there were other possibilities to consider. Ones that, at the time, I’d never dreamed of contemplating.

  CHAPTER 3

  “ There.” Max pointed over my shoulder. “You can see the top of the castle.”

  I shook away my troubled musings and turned to follow his finger. Rising over the dark treetops on the opposite side of the island stood the solid stone block of Umbersea Castle. However, to reach it we had to round the eastern tip of the island, the northern part of which appeared to be a large lagoon bounded by a thin breakwater. Assorted large waterfowl floated across its surface, and I even caught sight of some woodland creature darting into the forest on the far side.