This Side of Murder Page 6

  “What was her name again?” he muttered as Nellie shot him a quelling look beneath her lashes. Evidently, she was the one who had noted that my maid was missing, likely voicing her disapproval in the same breath.

  “Matilda?”

  “Right-o! She’s the one.” His eyes sparkled with mischief. “Don’t tell me you convinced her to ride in that motorcar of yours?”

  I smirked. “Not on her life. No, she’s returned to the Dales.”

  He gasped in amusement. “You mean you finally sacked the old gal?”

  “I didn’t sack her,” I protested, sweeping aside my sash to settle into one of the bergère chairs flanking the sofa. “I simply sent her back to my parents.”

  My mother was the only person to whom she was loyal anyway. She might as well resume her proper place in their employ, considering the fact she’d never actually left it.

  A small furrow formed between my brows at the thought of the woman’s duplicity. Despite my reservations, I’d allowed my mother to convince me to take her long-time retainer, Matilda, with me to London when I married. It had been a compromise of sorts when I refused to remain in the Dales with my parents since Sidney was marching off to the front. I hadn’t wanted my husband to waste any more of his precious time on leave traveling to see me in the north than was necessary. Not to mention the fact that, as a headstrong eighteen-year-old newlywed, I was more than eager to escape my parents’ strict supervision and strident disapproval of all things modern.

  It wasn’t long before I’d begun to suspect the truth. Matilda hadn’t been sent along with me so much to look after me as to spy for my mother. She had always been rather disapproving of me, something I had strained against as a child and adolescent, and came to positively loathe as a young soldier’s wife making her way in the city, doing her own important part for the war effort. Under the circumstances, I had kept her with me far longer than I should have, possibly in some misguided attempt to please my difficult mother. But after Sidney was killed and Matilda had taken to openly chastising me for behavior she deemed inappropriate for a widow, I could no longer tolerate her presence. Especially when I was already berating myself enough without the maid’s help.

  Tom raised his glass to me. “Good for you, Pip. She always was the worst sort of fire extinguisher.”

  “Who are we talking about?” Helen asked, looking rather dashing in her powder blue satin tunic gown with shell pink tulle. She took a sip from her glass and then tipped it toward me. “It’s a martini. You simply must ask Mabel to make one for you.”

  “Verity sacked her nursemaid,” Tom replied with a grin, recapturing her attention.

  I narrowed my eyes at his teasing. “She was not my nursemaid. And I didn’t sack her.” I glanced up at Helen to explain. “She returned to work for my parents.” Likely plaguing my sixteen-year-old sister. I felt a twinge of guilt at the thought.

  “But who cares for your clothes?” Nellie leaned forward to ask. Her wide eyes roamed over my form. “Who dresses you?”

  I smiled at her horrified disapproval. “I do have a maid.” Another soldier’s widow, who had been rather desperate for work. “But there’s no need for her to travel with me.” Especially on this trip. “I can dress myself, after all.” I flipped my bobbed hair in illustration. “There are some decided advantages to short hair.”

  “But . . . it’s so boyish.”

  It was a rather rash statement to make, as three of the six women at the house party had bobbed hair, and I suspected it was only a matter of time before Elsie and Gladys lopped off their tresses as well.

  Walter chuckled as he joined our group, wrapping a possessive arm around Helen’s trim waist. “I doubt anyone would mistake Helen or Verity for a boy. But it’s understandable that you should be so attached to such beautiful tresses, Mrs. Ashley,” he added, smoothing any ruffled feathers.

  Nellie flushed in pleasure at his polite praise. “Well, thank you, Mr. Ponsonby.”

  Helen pressed a hand to her husband’s chest. “Darling, everyone agreed to use our given names, remember.”

  From the manner in which Walter flicked a glance at Nellie it was evident he was aware that not everyone had happily accepted this decree, but he didn’t argue. “Yes, of course.”

  “We missed you this afternoon,” I told Walter.

  The corners of his eyes tightened as he drew on his cigarette, exhaling a long stream of smoke before answering, and even then his reply was stilted. “Yes, well, with the ongoing renovations there always seems to be something to attend to.”

  Helen gazed up at him fondly, shaking her head as he seemed to search the room for something.

  “Ah, there’s old Chumley. Dinner must be ready,” he said, spying the butler standing in the doorway.

  Helen closed her mouth, refraining from voicing whatever she had been about to say. I couldn’t help but be curious what that was, and why he’d stopped her from doing so.

  In any case, the moment passed as we were ushered into a sumptuous dining room wallpapered in forest green Romany damask. Large windows spanned the length of one wall, providing a view of the front garden in the fading light, while the opposite wall was completely covered in floor-to-length mirrors. The effect was rather dazzling, and a shade overwhelming, what with all the candles and reflected light, as well as the crystal and silver cutlery. I suspected there was more glass and gilding than I’d seen at one table since before the war.

  And that wasn’t the only excess. The rationing that still affected those of us in London didn’t seem to apply here, for there was no shortage of butter, flour, sugar, milk, and meat. Con-sommé Olga, baked haddock with sharp sauce, Filet Mignons Lili, chateau potatoes and creamed carrots, and clafouti; it was all so rich and delicious. I couldn’t recall the last time I’d eaten so decadently, and that was saying something, considering the fact that the circles I ran in hadn’t exactly been living a deprived existence. I would have to take care, or my already unfashionably rounded figure would become downright voluptuous. Sport kept my waist trim and my legs shapely, but no amount of effort was going to shrink my bosom or hips.

  There seemed to be endless bottles of champagne to be uncorked, and decanters overflowing with brandy for the gentlemen who preferred less bubbles in their libations. All of which was quite lovely, but did not seem to be helping the general mood of the party. Some of the guests were quite merry, namely Helen and her two young girlfriends, but many of the others brooded behind their glasses or darted uncertain glances around the table.

  It was such an odd gathering for an engagement party. Here we were supposed to be celebrating Walter and Helen’s impending nuptials, and yet a more edgy, mistrustful get-together I’d never experienced. And I’d sat through my share of tense meetings during my time with the Secret Service.

  I wasn’t the only one who sensed it. Seated across from Max as I was, I could see how he observed everyone, weighing their actions and expressions, much as I was doing. He also seemed to be moderating his alcohol intake—at least more so than anyone else at the table—and when our eyes met over the gleaming spread I could sense he was in agreement with me. Something was definitely peculiar about this party.

  From the manner in which Walter continued to attempt to make jokes—each one more forced than the last—and gulped his brandy, it was clear he was also conscious of the strain, even if his fiancée seemed oblivious.

  When the contrived laughter at his latest jest faded, I leaned toward Helen. “So tell us how the two of you met.” I gestured between her and Walter with my champagne glass before taking another sip. “I haven’t heard the tale yet.”

  “Oh, it’s a lovely story,” Helen cooed, casting doe eyes at her fiancé. “Why don’t you tell it, darling?”

  Walter nodded, distractedly refilling his glass once more. “We met through a Lonely Soldier column.”

  When he failed to elaborate further, Helen gave a trill of laughter. “Oh, Walter, you fussy thing. That’s not how you tell it
!” Her eyes sparkled as she turned toward me. “I was in London, desperately trying to find a way to fill my time and help our soldiers, since my father wouldn’t allow me to assist in the canteens or any of the charitable associations all the other ladies were contributing to.” She wrinkled her nose in remembered frustration. “When one day I stumbled across a Lonely Soldier’s column in one of the newspapers.” From the manner in which she glanced at Walter, it was clear the advert had been his, and also just as clear from the way he was so absorbed in the food on his plate that he was somewhat embarrassed by it. “It was the most heartbreaking thing I’d ever read, and I simply had to respond.”

  “As did six or seven other women,” Felix muttered under his breath, making Charlie snort a laugh into his drink.

  Walter shot him a deadly look, but Helen’s smile was undimmed.

  “Did you think I didn’t know that? But, of course, other ladies wrote him. And sent him gifts, I’m sure.” She arched her eyebrows and her fiancé flushed. “But that didn’t last along. Especially after we met in London on his next leave.” The warmth behind her words and the look in her eyes left no doubt as to what she was implying.

  This wasn’t a new story. I’d known about the Lonely Soldier columns and their Lonely Stabs, the nickname the soldiers had dubbed the girls who replied. Though I would never have mistaken Helen for one. Nor had I ever heard of such a relationship resulting in marriage.

  Sidney had spoken of them in passing as being somewhat of a joke among the men at the front. One corporal in his company had contrived to receive two to three parcels a week from different women by this method, sharing the spoils among his fellow soldiers. From the reactions of the other officers in his battalion, I couldn’t help but wonder if Walter’s post in the Lonely Soldiers column had begun with the same intention.

  Was that why some of the men seemed so uncomfortable? Were they aware that the happy couple’s relationship had begun with less than honorable intentions, at least on the groom’s part? If so, they were a far more scrupulous lot than most of the gentlemen I knew.

  I knew without looking at Nellie that she disapproved of this courtship tale on principle, even if her own was nothing to sigh over, and in many ways far less romantic, as it was quite possible Tom had felt compelled to marry her because of her unexpected pregnancy. It seemed Gladys and Elsie, on the other hand, could not have found Helen’s story more idealistic, cooing over their friend’s evident happiness. None of these reactions surprised me.

  However, the look Mabel shared with her beau, Sam, suggested to me that all might not be as Helen wished it to appear. If anyone knew more about the details surrounding the pair’s courtship, I suspected it was Mabel. Not only was she Helen’s cousin, but she was also older and more experienced. And far more likely to notice the things Helen’s young, giggling friends would overlook.

  I wondered what Sidney would have thought of all this. Whether he would have been able to read more from his friend’s strained expression than I could.

  Forcing myself to affect good cheer, I lifted my champagne flute. “How positively charming. To the happy couple.”

  Helen beamed at me as the others reached for their glasses to join me in my toast.

  “Hear, hear.”

  Then she blew a playful kiss at Walter across the expanse of the table, who had recovered himself enough to feign it hitting him like one of Cupid’s arrows. We all laughed delightedly at their antics, glad to see them behaving as a betrothed couple should at their engagement party.

  Happily resettling to our meals, we fussed over the chocolate soufflés being set before us. I closed my eyes as the chocolate melted on my tongue. Sugar had also been in short supply, so to taste something so sweet and delicious was quite a treat.

  Max must have shared my sweet tooth, for he was the first to finish his dessert, relaxing back in his chair contentedly with his glass of brandy. “What of the peace talks in Paris? I’m afraid I haven’t seen the papers today. Has Germany agreed to the terms?”

  “Not a word, ole chap,” Jimmy replied, narrowing his eyes at the center of the table. His heavy drinking made his lilt more pronounced. “Makes ye wonder what’s takin’ ’em so long.”

  “Well, the terms were somewhat harsh.”

  “No more than they deserve,” Tom declared, echoing a popular sentiment bandied about London, usually by the people who knew the least about the situation. Most ex-soldiers I knew remained mute on the subject. Many of them having spent years opposite the Germans in the filthy trenches, I wondered if they actually held the most sympathy for their former opponents, even if they never voiced it. Or perhaps it was more a matter of comradery. If anyone understood what they’d been through, it was their adversaries on the other side of No Man’s Land, not the people back home.

  Walter shook his head in answer before lifting his glass toward me, sloshing the contents inside. “Maybe you should ask Verity. With her contacts in London, she probably knows more than the lot o’ us.”

  Stunned by his comment, I fumbled to form a response as everyone’s heads swiveled toward me. “Whatever do you mean?”

  He opened his mouth to respond, but his fiancée cut him off.

  “Walter, you know I expressly forbade any talk of war or politics.” Her mouth had tightened into a tiny moue. “That was all my father ever spoke of, and I’ve been bored enough for one lifetime.”

  “My apologies,” Max told her, flushing with guilt since he’d started the conversation.

  She offered him one of her charming smiles. “It’s quite all right. You didn’t know any better.” She leaned toward him. “But tell us about your estate on the Isle of Wight. I hear it’s frightfully spectacular.”

  I listened with only half an ear to Max’s reply, my mind still absorbed by the question of whom Walter had been referring to when he mentioned my contacts. I couldn’t imagine who that would be.

  Unless he meant my colleagues among the Secret Service. But how could he possibly know such a thing?

  No one was supposed to even know of its existence, let alone who had worked for it. I’d been forbidden from even telling my husband. To the rest of the world, my official job had been a secretary to an import-export business. And a rather liberal one at that, as they’d been one of the few places who hired married women.

  I glanced over at Walter, hoping to catch his eye, but he seemed determined to avoid it. I couldn’t help but note that my anonymous letter writer had also known about my work with the Secret Service. Were he and Walter one and the same?

  CHAPTER 6

  It was a beautiful night—warm and cloudless, with just the whisper of a breeze to ruffle the turquoise sleeves of my gown. I stood leaning against the balustrade of the terrace, where we had adjourned after dinner, nursing my drink and watching the last bit of sunlight bleed from the western sky over the garden. The air was delicately scented with the alstroemeria, freesia, and peonies growing in the flower beds below and the sea just beyond the elms.

  I stared out at the deepening shadows, wondering why I felt that curious sensation of being watched again, and why it should so intrigue me. It was almost certainly just a servant or an estate worker, interested in seeing what antics we Londoners got up to while wearing our glad rags. After all, Walter’s father’s parties had been quite notorious, but it had doubtless been years since anything so disreputable had happened here.

  Before I could give the matter much more serious consideration, Gladys and Elsie rushed over to join me.

  “Walter is winding up the grammy so we can dance,” Gladys said, her dark eyes shining with eagerness. I supposed as one of the women currently unattached, they had decided to include me in their bonhomie.

  “How delightful,” I declared, swiveling to survey the gentlemen gathered around the terrace lit by oil lamps. “And who are each of you eyeing?”

  “I think the earl is simply divine,” Elsie sighed.

  “So handsome,” Gladys agreed with a giggle. “But F
elix is rather dashing as well.”

  I smiled, wondering if Max realized what a flock of admirers he was gathering.

  “What of Jimmy?” Elsie asked, having tilted her head in consideration of the man slumped against the wall of the house. “He’s not so bad looking. Do you think he can dance?”

  Gladys sniffed. “I don’t know, but I’m not dancing with him.”

  It was difficult to tell what exactly the pert blonde found distasteful—his brusque manner or his missing arm—and I didn’t know enough about her to judge.

  Elsie, on the other hand, seemed remarkably unpretentious. “He is rather surly, isn’t he?”

  “I heard he has pockets to let,” Gladys informed us. “Did you smell those stinkers he was smoking earlier? No one buys those horrid American fags if they can afford anything else.” Leaning back against the balustrade in her slinky silver gown, an elaborate corsage of pink silk roses nodding on her shoulder, she turned her gaze toward one of the other gentlemen. “However, Felix, it seems, is quite flush. Came into some sort of inheritance shortly after the war. What luck!”

  She glanced fleetingly at me. “Verity, I realize you don’t have to concern yourself with such things since your husband was decent enough to leave you with a pile of money when he died. You’ll have no trouble whatsoever attracting a second husband. But my father wasn’t so fortunate. I’m all but dowry-less.”

  I stiffened, uncertain how to respond to such an insensitive remark. I would have traded all that money in a heartbeat just to have Sidney return to me. But I also understood what a strained situation many in the upper classes had found themselves in since the war. There was rather a large number of poor aristocrats wandering about London nowadays. Property taxes and death duties—sometimes owed double- and triple-fold because of the war—had crippled any number of wealthy noblemen, forcing some of them to sell land and property that had been in their family for dozens of generations.