This Side of Murder Page 22

  I stared down at the picture, trying to remember what it had been like to be that naïve, hopeful girl. But five years separated me from her. Five years of war, and pain, and struggle, and loneliness, and loss, and horrors I could never unsee, actions I could never undo, words I could never take back. Part of me hated that young, fresh-faced girl, while the other part of me wished I could turn back the clock and do so many things differently.

  I didn’t hear him until the door swung open and he stood half in front of and half behind the door frame. In the gloomy light of the stormy afternoon it was difficult to see at first that it was, in fact, my husband, but my other senses seemed to have known it before my eyes, for I did not cower or reach for a weapon. And a good thing, too. For as Sidney entered the room, shutting the door behind him, I could see he gripped a pistol. One I was certain he wouldn’t have hesitated to use if necessary.

  CHAPTER 18

  “ How did you get in?” Sidney demanded.

  “Do you really need to ask that?” I responded wearily.

  His gaze flicked down at the picture in my hands and then back to my face.

  “You kept it,” I remarked lightly, before leaning forward to set it and the button back in his drawer.

  “Of course.” He spoke as if such a comment on my part was inane, as if holding on to my picture and the button was the most natural thing in the word. And maybe for him, it was. But in light of everything, it was quite a different matter for me.

  “I see you’ve been gathering your evidence diligently.” I nodded toward his table strewn with papers, wishing he had pursued me even a fraction as persistently.

  He ignored my remark, moving deeper into the room. “Why are you here?” His dark eyes searched my face. “Have you broken the cipher?”

  I stood so that I could be at a more even level with him, even though he towered more than a foot over me, and arched a single eyebrow. “Why else would I have troubled you?”

  He hesitated a moment, perhaps realizing how wounding his gruffness was to our already fragile relationship, perhaps doubting the veracity of my statement. Whatever the truth, he wasted no time in homing in on what he’d made very clear was most important to him.

  “You’ve done it.”

  My mouth flattened into a thin line, wanting to deny it, but I knew something more important than me or my feelings was at stake. “Yes. Though, I’m not sure how pleased you’ll be.” Reaching into my coat pocket, I extracted the translated text.

  He eagerly took it from my hands and moved toward the window, where he pushed the curtains wider to let in the murky daylight. His brow furrowed in concentration as he read through the document, and I watched as dawning comprehension and its accompanying frustration suffused his features. He turned the paper over, obviously hopeful there was more, and I was sorry to disappoint him.

  “This is all of it?” He gestured with the paper. “There isn’t another part to decode?”

  “That’s all of it.”

  He swiped a hand back through his thick hair and lowered the paper to his side. “I thought surely there would be some clear indication who the traitor was. There would be a name, or a distinguishing remark, or some sort of conclusive proof.”

  “People writing coded messages are rarely stupid enough to sign their names to them,” I told him, not ungently.

  He stared at me blankly and then nodded. “Yes, I suppose you’re right.” He sank down on the edge of the bed.

  I gazed down at his lowered head, hating to see how dejected he was. His cold, single-minded pursuit of the truth was easier to take than this. My heart clenched, wishing I could do something to ease his pain. Wishing I could sweep away all of this madness and take him home to our flat in Berkeley Square. But nothing was ever as simple as it should be.

  I sat down beside him, taking the decrypted letter from his loose fingers. “It’s not entirely useless,” I pointed out. “It does tell us that whoever the traitor is, he had powerful connections in London. That the treason being committed was far higher reaching than we even suspected.” I glanced at Sidney. “Or at least, higher than I suspected.”

  He exhaled sharply. “Yes, but it does not name names. I need proof, Verity.” He flipped his hand toward the table covered in papers. “I have evidence that treason was being committed, but no confirmation who was doing it. The War Office isn’t just going to want a lot of theories and suppositions that something was going on. They’re going to want names. Hard facts. And I won’t destroy a bunch of men’s reputations without sound evidence of who truly is the culprit.”

  “So what do you wish to do?” I asked, struggling to hold on to my own temper.

  “There’s nothing else to do,” he muttered. “I’ll just have to keep searching.”

  “For how long?”

  “For as long as it takes.” He glanced sideways at me, bristling with aggravation. “What choice do I have?”

  “And what am I to do?” I bit out. “Return home to wait for you? Continue to pretend you’re dead?”

  His demeanor softened, as if finally grasping what a difficult situation he’d placed me in, and how very close I was to losing my composure. “I know it’s a lot to ask of you.”

  “It’s an intolerable thing to ask of me.” I pushed to my feet, needing distance from him, and went to stare down at the detritus of the last fifteen months of his life scattered across the table.

  He heaved an aggrieved sigh. “This is exactly why I didn’t contact you before. I knew it would be impossible to make you understand.”

  I whirled around to face him in furious disbelief. “What I can’t understand is why you must do this alone. I realize you wish to protect the men who were your fellow officers and closest allies through nearly four hellish years of war, but isn’t it the War Office’s job to figure out who is guilty and who is innocent? Haven’t you sacrificed enough? Haven’t I?” I inhaled a shaky breath. “Or don’t I count for anything in all of this?”

  He jumped to his feet. “Don’t count for anything?” he snapped, then cursed roundly as he strode forward to grip my waist. “Why do you think I’m so desperate to solve this? To come home to you.”

  I stared up into his glimmering eyes and reached up to grasp his square jaw firmly between my hands. “Then end this. Take the evidence you have to the authorities and let them figure out who is behind it all.”

  “And if they don’t believe me?”

  I stiffened. “What do you mean? Why wouldn’t they believe you?”

  He squeezed my waist in emphasis. “I’m a deserter, Verity. If I had been caught during the war I would have faced a firing squad.”

  I dropped my hands from his face to his shoulders. “Yes, but clearly you had a reason—”

  “And what if they think it’s all a lie? What if they think I’m the traitor?”

  My brain stumbled over my response. “But your evidence—”

  “You believed it.”

  I frowned. “I did not believe it. Or not truly. I wanted to know how the letter writer had known I was in the Secret Service and why they were making up such ludicrous nonsense about my husband.”

  “And when you found the coded missive tucked inside my book?” he pressed, unwilling to let the matter go. “What then?”

  I wanted to lie. To tell him that I’d not doubted him for a second. But I could already tell he knew the answer. “I . . . I didn’t know what to think. But you were the one who tucked it into the spine of your copy of The Pilgrim’s Progress, not the traitor.”

  “Ah, but you have only my word on that.”

  I paused, startled by what he was suggesting.

  “Are you going to lie about where you found it, about the other things that happened this weekend when you’re questioned?”

  His gaze was sharp, already knowing the answers. I wouldn’t lie, I couldn’t, not even for Sidney.

  “You do realize that Scotland Yard as a whole is not a very imaginative bunch. Who do you think they’re
going to decide murdered Tufton and Montague once they discover I’m here? I’m supposed to be dead, but here I am. Pretending to be a gardener, hiding in the wings, waiting to exact revenge for something I believe to be true, whether it is or not.”

  I shook my head, trying to pull away, but he held fast, making me stare up at him as he pressed on ruthlessly.

  “Maybe one of them shot me. Maybe one of them is a traitor. Or maybe I made it all up in my head. Just another sorry case of shell shock. A man who can’t leave the war behind. A man who’s lost his mind.”

  “It’s not true,” I protested.

  “Are you certain?” His eyes had lost their luster. “I know you saw it during my last leave in London.”

  I stilled, staring up at him in horror.

  “You never said anything, but I could see it in your eyes. The worry, the uncertainty, the reticence.”

  I opened my mouth to deny it, but he cut me off.

  “Don’t.” His voice was stark with pain. “Denying it won’t make it better.”

  I swallowed against the answering lump in my throat, managing to choke out just a few words. “I’m sorry.”

  He inhaled raggedly, leaning forward to press his forehead to mine as I fought back tears. “I know, Verity. Please. Don’t apologize.” He rolled his head back and forth against mine. “I’m not . . . blaming you. I’m merely making the point that Scotland Yard and the War Office will.” He lifted his head to look down at me. “And no matter how hard you might try to deny it means anything, they will see it differently.” His lips curled into a tight grimace devoid of humor. “After all, you’re just my wife.”

  I understood what he meant. None of them would know of my work with the Secret Service, and I was forbidden from speaking of it. I was just a simple society wife who knew nothing of the war or what the men who had fought in it had gone through.

  “Then I’ll contact C,” I replied, unwilling to go down without a fight.

  But it was Sidney’s turn to shake his head. “If you mean your chief, I doubt he will take much of an interest in the matter.”

  “Of course, he will. This is treason we’re talking about. And besides, he rather liked me. He was gruff and difficult at times, but I overheard him say that while most of the men who worked for him were blackguards, I had a remarkably keen intellect. How else do you think I was ever allowed to do any fieldwork?”

  A genuine smile lit his eyes. “I’m sure that’s so, but it still won’t serve.” He reached up to brush a stray curl back from my cheek. “Calling in the Secret Service, blowing your cover, and possibly being brought up on charges because of it won’t clear me of blame.”

  I studied his face while my brain worked feverishly, trying to figure out a way he could be reasoned with, but ultimately I knew he was right. I had seen firsthand how our government agencies often handled things. They preferred to have someone to blame rather than no one, and Sidney would so easily fit the bill.

  “Then what do we do?” I asked.

  “We find the culprit. Preferably before anyone gets off this island.”

  Given all our setbacks, I pondered whether that was even possible. “And if we don’t?”

  “Then I’d better depart before the authorities arrive.”

  I followed his gaze toward the window, where the light was already beginning to fade.

  “The men were searching the island for any other functional boats, and Walter was trying to fix the motor on his,” I informed him, then tilted my head in suspicion. “Were you the one who sabotaged it?”

  His mind was somewhere else, for he answered me almost absently. “No, I’ve been wondering if that was a bit of mischief on someone’s part.” His brow furrowed. “I wonder why . . . Oh, but wait. Toby left the island about a week ago.”

  “The laborer who was good with mechanical things?”

  His gaze dipped to meet mine. “Yes.”

  “Do you know where he went?”

  “No, I didn’t even see him leave.” His eyes searched mine. “It does seem awfully coincidental, doesn’t it?”

  I arched my eyebrows. “That Walter’s boat engine should break so soon after he left? Quite.” Leaning back, I watched his face for a reaction. “Did you know the telephone lines have also been deliberately cut?”

  The corners of his eyes crinkled as he muttered dryly. “Searching me for signs of guilt, are we, Verity? Yes, I discovered the line at the church had been cut, and surmised the one at the house must have been also.”

  I wanted to believe he’d had nothing to do with the matter, but his amusement over my suspicion made it difficult to tell. That is, until he spoke next.

  “Did you know that Tufton’s body has been moved to the church to be laid out beside Montague’s?”

  My eyes widened in alarm. “You mean Walter never contacted the authorities yesterday?”

  Sidney shook his head.

  “But he told us he had. Max even asked what they had said about Jimmy’s apparent suicide, whether they had agreed. Why would Walter have lied?”

  He didn’t have to answer that, for I already knew. Either he was the murderer, or he was covering for someone who was.

  But Sidney had latched on to another part of my statement. “Didn’t Ryde think it was odd that the authorities never questioned him?”

  I shifted my gaze from where I had been staring over Sidney’s shoulder to meet his scrutiny.

  “I mean, I assume you didn’t expect to be questioned because men tend to shield women from such matters, thinking they’re too delicate. But Ryde should have known he would be quizzed on the matter. And yet he didn’t say anything when Walter lied.”

  My head was spinning at the implications, trying to recall exactly what Max had said. “Well, neither did Sam.”

  “Yes, but that’s because he knows he’s supposed to try to stand back and observe, as much as it’s possible for him to do so, without interfering.”

  Part of me wanted to defend Max, to deny that he could possibly be playing a part in all of this. After all, he had become, at the very least, a friend. Someone I felt to some extent I could rely on, particularly with things being so strange between me and my newly resurrected husband. But I knew that doing so would be foolish. After all, I had already begun to harbor suspicions about him after decoding that missive. This was but one more reason to be wary.

  However, Sidney seemed to think my frown indicated something else, for his jaw hardened. “Is that how it is, then?”

  “How what is?”

  He scoffed. “You’ve been a widow for all of fifteen months. I’m sure it’s been lonely.”

  I gasped at the pain his horrid words caused me. It was as if he’d thrust a blade into my heart and twisted. Especially knowing the secret I harbored from him. The secret that had racked me with guilt even before I’d known he was still alive.

  I pushed away from him, trying to break free of his grasp, but Sidney only pulled me closer, wrapping his arms around me.

  “Let me go,” I gulped, desperate to be free.

  “Verity, wait,” he pleaded. “I’m sorry. That was uncalled for.”

  “It . . . it was . . . monstrous!” I retorted, still trying to pull away.

  “I know, I know. Please, Verity, stop. Please.”

  I could have called on my training to force him to let me go, but I didn’t want to hurt him. Not when I could hear the genuine remorse in his voice. It worked quite effectively in breaking down my defenses, and I fell against his chest, sobbing.

  He gathered me close, running his hands through my hair as he murmured apologies and self-recriminations. But I only wished he would stop talking. For with each expression of regret, each insult he heaped on himself, he thrust the knife deeper.

  “Stop,” I hiccupped. “Just stop.”

  When he didn’t, whether because he couldn’t hear me or he didn’t believe that’s what I really wanted, I lurched up on my tiptoes and pressed my lips to his. It took only a split second f
or him to respond, and when he did it was like it had always been between us, like a flame to tinder, sweeping me away until I didn’t know where one breath started and the next began.

  How much time had passed exactly, I wasn’t sure, but I did know it was Sidney who tore his mouth away from mine first. Our breathing was ragged. Our chests rose and fell rapidly against each other. And I found I had been backed up against the table, practically seated on it, with my husband pressed between my legs. I physically ached for him to continue, but my mind had begun to clear, even with his face buried in the sensitive curve between my shoulder and my neck.

  Now was not the time for this. No matter how much I might think I wanted it, once the haze of passion dissipated I would regret it. There were too many things unresolved between us. Too many things left to be said.

  For one thing, I wasn’t entirely certain I trusted him. Not after everything that had happened. And for another, what if I were to become pregnant from this clandestine encounter? After all, it had happened once before, during his second to last leave he’d spent in London. But before I could write to tell him, it had been over. At the time, I’d been glad I’d kept it to myself and wouldn’t have to snatch back such happy news through a letter. I’d planned to tell him all during his next leave, but then he’d seemed so distracted, so haunted, I simply couldn’t bring it up and add to his pain. So I’d remained silent, never again having the chance to tell him. Until now, though it was hardly the time.

  If I were to become pregnant again, it would be weeks before I knew it, and what if in that time we were unable to find proof of who the traitor was and Sidney insisted on disappearing again? What would I do then?