This Side of Murder Read online

  During my work for the Secret Service, I’d encountered several staff officers, and found them to be much more of a mixed breed than I was led to believe by the sharp commentary of my colleagues back in London. Some of the staff officers were quite scrupulous and well-informed, while others had infuriated me with their incompetence and callousness. But regardless of their natures, it took a certain amount of detachment for them to be able to effectively perform their work, regularly making decisions to send men into harm’s way. As a result, most of them were a bit aloof.

  I hadn’t pegged Max as such an officer. He simply didn’t exude the qualities I’d learned to expect from a man of such rank. But perhaps he hadn’t always been a red cap. After all, he’d mentioned serving alongside Sidney in the trenches, and the shoulder wound I suspected he’d sustained also suggested he’d taken part in combat in some capacity. Nevertheless, this knowledge gave me a new insight into why Felix and the others were not necessarily pleased by his company, and fair or not, it made me look at him a bit differently as well.

  As if Max sensed this, he dipped his head in agreement. “Now you understand. I can hardly blame them for their dislike.” He sighed. “And these men have more reason to hate me than most.”

  “Why is that?” I asked, surprised by his admission.

  His expression turned guarded, as if unwilling to face the memories my question evoked. “Let’s just say, the Thirtieth was rather unlucky, particularly during the Somme.”

  Any mention of that long, bloody battle caused pain in every British heart. Scarcely a soul in all the country didn’t know of at least one man, if not dozens, who had been killed in that struggle. Having worked in the offices of the Secret Service at the time, I knew better than most civilians the toll it had taken. I had spent that entire summer and well into autumn feeling cold all over with fear, half-certain that I would read Sidney’s name on the daily list of casualties. I don’t think I’ve ever been the same since, as if from that moment forward I’d known the inevitable would happen, and I was merely bracing for it.

  I rubbed my arms, suddenly chilled by the sea breeze rustling the leaves overhead. Goose flesh had raised on my skin, and I glanced behind me, suddenly feeling as if I was being watched. But from where?

  There were the other guests, of course, but most of them were distracted by Helen, who appeared to be trying to salvage everyone’s good spirits after Felix’s nasty jest. Servants came and went, carrying trays of refreshments, and a few gardeners were at work behind the shrubs in the far corner, quietly pruning, but none of them seemed to pay me the least mind.

  “It’s my serve. Who’s receiving?” Felix called out impatiently from the back of the court.

  I shuffled into position, scanning my surroundings one last time, though the feeling had lifted. I decided it must have been caused by my own uneasiness at not knowing who among the guests had sent me those letters. Given the circumstances, it was only natural that I should feel a bit hounded.

  We resumed our match in much the same manner as before, though with slightly less enthusiasm on my part. In the end it didn’t matter, for we still trounced our opponents. Even though this was not Max’s fault and he was too gentlemanly to point it out and wound Elsie’s feelings, Felix seemed happy to overlook this fact so that he could gloat and preen for Helen and her other friend Gladys.

  Distancing myself from his rude antics, I poured myself another glass of cold lemonade and flopped into an empty chair at the edge of the party next to Jimmy. Adjusting my white skirt around my legs, I leaned back to sip the sweet liquid. My mouth puckered at the strength of the alcohol, noting this pitcher seemed more potent than the last. Whether that was wise given the hostility and animosity exhibited between some of the guests remained to be seen.

  “Felix is a bounder,” I declared, narrowing my eyes at the man in question as he gestured broadly, reenacting one of his returns.

  Jimmy scoffed in agreement before muttering, “Well, don’t dislike him on my account.”

  I turned to look at him, arching one eyebrow in annoyance. “Who said I was?”

  It was quite evident to me that the last thing Jimmy wanted or needed was my compassion, which out of necessity had become a rationed emotion over the past four and a half years. His surly demeanor made it all too easy to withhold.

  “I know how soldiers joke with one another. Granted, they usually don’t do so in mixed company. But I’m sure his crude jest wasn’t the first time you’ve had a comrade make light of your injury.” I dipped my head at his other hand, which cradled a half-empty glass of brandy. “Besides, you seem to be getting along just fine.”

  He lifted the cup to his lips, grimacing as he took another drink. “Better than some, right?”

  I studied his profile—the crook in his nose, the sunken hollows of his cheeks—trying to decide how much of my private pain to reveal. “If you’re referring to Sidney, then yes.” I looked away. “I would very much rather have him here with me bereft of one arm than buried somewhere in France.”

  We sat silently for several moments, watching Felix retake the court across from Mabel’s beau, Sam, while I inhaled past the tightness in my chest.

  I was surprised when Jimmy next spoke that his voice had not only gentled, but also contained a slight lilt. “I liked Captain Kent. He was one o’ the good ones.” His blue eyes lifted to meet mine. “Makes me glad to know his wife is mournin’ him, as she should be.”

  There was a kindness in his words I hadn’t expected from such a bitter man, but also a sharp condemnation of others. Perhaps of this entire house party. I turned to watch the antics of the other guests. Helen’s friends Gladys and Elsie were linked arm in arm, laughing as they rather ineffectually demonstrated some sort of dance to Max and Charlie, who looked on with amusement. Mabel slumped low in her chair, her lips curled contentedly from the edge the lemonade had given her. While Helen flitted about between them all, the pristine white of her skirt belling out with each twirl. It was evident she was in her element as hostess.

  “I suspect everyone deals with their losses in their own way,” I murmured.

  “You could have fooled me,” he sneered derisively, never taking his gaze from where it was narrowed on the tennis court.

  “You do realize they’re not all insensitive,” I tried to explain, thinking of the somewhat manic nature of my own social life in London. “The drinking, the dancing, the gambling, the forced joviality of it all. They’re just trying to deal with the pain, or drown it out, however they can. The same as those who retreat into silence or anger are doing, just in a different way.”

  He didn’t reply, so I decided to venture another comment. “The truth is, I would probably be as tipsy as the rest of them, except . . .”

  I stopped myself before I said any more, choking down the words I didn’t dare reveal. Except someone has accused my husband of treason, and I don’t yet know who or why.

  Jimmy’s eyes lifted to meet mine, curiosity shining in their depths. He seemed oblivious to my turmoil, and I was tempted to explain, but I knew that would be imprudent. Especially when I strongly suspected the missive and the book had been sent by one of these men who had served alongside Sidney in the muck and mud of the trenches, sharing a cigarette and their confidences. Until I knew more, it was best to keep my own counsel.

  When it became evident I was not going to say more, the light in his eyes dimmed and his expression resumed its customary scowl. “Well, you’re all fools deluding yourselves.”

  I took another long drink, feeling the sting of his words. “Perhaps. But what if we prefer the distraction. What if it’s the only thing that keeps us moving? What if lucidity and silence only leaves us with a head filled with memories we wish to avoid.” I twirled the ice in my glass. “Perhaps we prefer to keep spinning. Perhaps it’s better than having to face what all that movement blurs.”

  Jimmy’s eyebrows arched. “Yes, but you can’t spin forever. Eventually you crash.”

&nbs
p; As if I needed the reminder.

  “True,” I admitted, but couldn’t resist challenging him in return. “But you also can’t stay angry at the world forever, or you won’t be long in it.”

  His lips actually curled into the semblance of a smile, and I liked him all the better for it. “Are you threatening me, Mrs. Kent?”

  I sat back, rearranging my skirts. “I wouldn’t dream of doing such a thing.” I peered up at him through my lashes. “But that doesn’t stop me from contemplating it.”

  He gave a sudden bark of laughter, making some of the others swivel to look our way in disbelief. It was evident Jimmy wasn’t often inclined toward mirth, so their reactions were only to be expected. But Jimmy seemed to find it all vexing, smothering his humor and excusing himself to retreat to the house before his cantankerous reputation could be damaged further.

  I watched him go, wondering whether the loss of his arm was truly the source of his determined anger, or if it was something else. Something he’d decided was far easier to reveal in writing than confront directly.

  CHAPTER 5

  I joined the others, accepting Helen’s good-natured razzing about my charming Jimmy out of his dudgeon. Most of the guests seemed to be in high spirits, undoubtedly helped along by the spiked lemonade. Even Felix and Sam seemed to be more interested in attempting impossible shots than actually playing a match.

  Ordinarily, I would have been at the heart of the fun, pulling one of the men to his feet and demanding he dance with me. But my lack of inebriation and current apprehensions made the scene before me seem far more annoying than amusing. So as soon as I could, I slipped away, deciding my time was better spent gathering my thoughts than trying to gain information from any of these people in their current state.

  Passing through the French doors into the room where the grammy was blazing, I found my way out to the hall and then the cool white foyer where we’d gathered earlier. I’d climbed more than halfway up the stairs twisting around to the right when I heard raised voices below me. My steps faltered, as I easily recognized them as belonging to Jimmy and our host, Walter, who had yet to make an appearance in the garden.

  “Why is he here?” Jimmy demanded to know, filling the space between his words with colorful cursing.

  “Not that it’s any of your affair,” Walter snapped back, “but I had to invite him.”

  Invite who? I couldn’t skulk away now. Not without knowing whom they were talking about. I leaned closer to the railing, peering down at the tops of their heads just visible below me. I hadn’t noticed Walter was going bald before, but there was definitely a thinning of his brown hair on top.

  “Why?!” Then Jimmy paused, considering something before he leaned forward into Walter’s space to snarl. “If you brought him here to tell him . . .”

  Walter sliced his hand through the air. “No! Are you mad?”

  “No, but I’m questioning if you are.”

  Huffing an exasperated breath, Walter glanced around him, before lowering his voice to a more moderate level. “I had to invite him because he’s dashed near engaged to Helen’s cousin. She wanted him here. And I could hardly tell her why I didn’t.”

  “Rather a rotten coincidence, don’t you think?” Jimmy’s voice was laced with suspicion.

  Walter’s response was terse. “Yes, but there it is.”

  A trill of laughter coming from the back of the house made both men jump and turn. I padded quickly up the last few stairs and out of sight.

  They obviously had been talking about Mabel’s sandy-haired beau, Sam. I’d yet had an opportunity to speak with the fellow, but he’d seemed rather bland and average. Certainly no one to be alarmed about. But Walter and Jimmy were anxious about him for some reason.

  I dropped into the pale ecru upholstered wing chair beside the window in my room and lifted aside the curtain to peer out at the cloud-strewn sky. My window looked out on the harbor, giving me a clear view of both island’s piers, and the ships coming and going through Poole Harbor. On this warm, sunny day there was no shortage of traffic.

  Releasing the gold drapes, I sank my head back against the chair’s cushion, pondering again the oddity of the guest list. The female guests seemed natural enough, being comprised mostly of Helen’s friends and cousins. I was the only peculiarity there, but I supposed that was explained easily enough by my late husband’s friendship with Walter.

  The male guests, on the other hand, made little sense to me. None of them seemed to like one another, nor had I observed any of them being particularly close to Walter. I’d considered the possibility that Sam was, but after overhearing Walter’s conversation with Jimmy that was unlikely. Why invite any of them then? Had it been done to make up numbers? There must be other men Walter was friendlier with still living. Even cousins or distant relatives, as Nellie was to Helen. The only thing that seemed to connect most of the men here was the war. And the fact they’d all been part of the unlucky Thirtieth.

  Or was that the real reason they were here? Was that the real reason I was here in Sidney’s stead? Was the letter and its accusations of treason simply pretext to lure me here for some other purpose?

  I considered the possibility and then discarded it, rising to my feet to lock my door. Whatever the reasons for the others being here, that decrypted missive had looked real. Opening my valise, I pulled out Sidney’s battered copy of The Pilgrim’s Progress and perched on the edge of the bed before removing the worn paper scrawled in code.

  I brushed my fingers gently over the impressions, not wanting to damage the document, but also wary of its contents. Though I could already feel my mind stirring with possible permutations, practically itching to attempt to crack the code, I firmly shut them down. Not now. Not yet. Not until I knew more about what this letter might contain.

  It seemed all too evident that the only reason my mystery correspondent had shared this with me was so that I could decrypt it. Why else would they have passed along such a valuable piece of evidence? How they knew I was even capable of such a thing, I didn’t know, but somehow they’d discovered I worked for the Secret Service during the war. Why shouldn’t they also know, or at least have guessed, which skills I possessed?

  Regardless, I was justifiably hesitant to try. How was I to know exactly what information this missive contained, whether decrypting it would make the situation better or worse? I couldn’t know for certain whether my correspondent was friend or foe. For all I knew, they could be traitors themselves, and the faded letter held secrets they wished to sell to Britain’s enemies. They’d provided me with no qualification; only wild accusations they’d yet to prove.

  I tucked the letter back into the spine of the book, telling myself I was merely being sensible. However, I was too honest with myself not to recognize a part of me was also terrified and as yet unwilling to face the possibility that the coded missive would confirm everything the letter writer had claimed and implied was true. That Sidney had committed treason. That I had been blindly duped.

  I gripped the book between my hands, as everything within me rebelled against the notion that my late husband had been capable of such a thing. But I knew all too well how war could make people do things they would never have done otherwise. Terrible things. Things that did not vanish with the rising of the sun, or the coming of peace.

  Suddenly feeling exposed in such a large chamber, I stood to scan the room. I didn’t know precisely what or whom I was dealing with. Consequently, it seemed best not to leave anything to chance, including leaving the book and its dubious contents lying about for anyone to find. While working for the Secret Service, I’d learned very quickly never to commit anything to writing, and in those instances when I had to, that I’d better find a good hiding place for it. A midwife I’d worked with in Belgium, whose job enabled her to regularly cross military lines and secretly record her observations of the enemy while she did so, had taught me how to conceal my missives and reports by wrapping them around the whale bones of my corset.
However, I rarely wore a corset these days, and a book was much too large to conceal in such a manner.

  Crossing to the large oak wardrobe, I knelt to pull out the lowest of the large drawers fashioned at the bottom. Reaching inside, I discovered, just as I’d suspected, that there was a shallow well between the underside of the drawer and the bottom of the wardrobe. I carefully placed the book inside and slid the drawer closed over top of it.

  If only I could just as easily shut away my apprehensions.

  * * *

  By the time I descended the stairs a short while later, I’d regained some of my equilibrium. It certainly helped that I was wearing my favorite evening frock of black satin with a lightweight net over-layer decorated in seed pearls with a scrolling acanthus leaf pattern on the bodice and skirt. Sheer turquoise fabric draped over each sleeve, and a wide turquoise sash circled my waist, tying at the side before trailing to the hem. A long necklace of ivory pearls and my black pumps completed the ensemble.

  Given the guest list and the nature of the questions I needed to ask, I must accept that comments were bound to be made about Sidney. I would simply have to face them and whatever emotions they wrought as calmly and graciously as I could. Pretending his loss no longer impacted me was foolish. I should have realized that long ago.

  In any case, mercifully he was not the first person someone asked after.

  “Verity, whatever happened to that termagant of yours?” Tom’s voice boomed across the parlor, where everyone had gathered before dinner.

  Several of the guests were clustered near the sideboard, where Mabel held sway, mixing together one of her famous cocktails, I presumed. As I made my way toward where Tom stood next to his wife perched on a cream Weston sofa, I couldn’t help but note his red cheeks and bright eyes. Coupled with his boisterous manner and the slight slurring of his speech, it was not difficult to deduce the glass cradled in his hand was not his first.