This Side of Murder Read online

  Regardless, Gladys seemed completely oblivious to how rude her comments had been. She tilted her head to the side in consideration. “I wonder how loaded the earl is.”

  I couldn’t answer this question, nor was I going to help her size up our fellow guests’ financial situations. At any rate, music suddenly blared forth from the French doors to our right, saving me from having to reply. Gladys and Elsie leapt forward to coax the men into dancing.

  “Aren’t you coming?” Elsie paused to ask.

  “In a moment.”

  She smiled and returned to her quest, her kindness allowing Gladys to snag Max first.

  I slowly crossed the terrace toward where several of the other guests clustered around a wrought-iron table fashioned with delicate tracery. Large potted plants that looked like they’d been grown in a hothouse were positioned to one side in order to form an arc that screened the terrace behind them from our view. However, the area in front of the table had been cleared to form a dance floor. Along the wall of the castle stood a large table weighted down with chilled buckets of champagne and vodka, and decanters of brandy, ready for our indulgence. I also noted a platter filled with sweet strawberries and pineapple slices—my favorite.

  However, before I could make my way over to the table to sample them, Mabel beckoned me over. “Verity, have you met Sam yet?” she asked, blowing out a plume of cigarette smoke.

  “No, I can’t say I’ve had the pleasure.”

  Sam rose to his feet to take my hand. “The pleasure is all mine, I’m sure.” His broad grin revealed a charming little gap between his front teeth. “Mabel tells me you’re from London. Is that where you met Helen?” He glanced over his shoulder toward our hostess, who was coaxing Charlie out onto the dance floor.

  “No, I’d actually never met her until today. My husband was great friends with Walter,” I explained. “I suppose you could say I’m here in his stead.”

  “Oh, yes,” he replied with a grimace. “My apologies.”

  I nodded, tipping my head toward the dancers to cover my discomfort. “Aren’t you two going to join them?”

  Sam offered a hand to his sweetheart. “A marvelous suggestion.”

  Mabel’s lips curled in a teasing smile. “Why, darling, I thought you’d never ask.” Stubbing out her fag, she allowed him to pull her to her feet.

  I grinned at the sight of them fox-trotting across the terrace. But I wasn’t allowed to remain an observer for long. An arm slid around my waist from behind, guiding me toward the other dancers.

  “Come on, Pip. It’s been a long time since I’ve gotten to dance with you.”

  I laughed as Tom spun me into his arms. “What about Nellie? Didn’t she want to dance?”

  His eyebrows arched, telling me he knew very well that I was aware of Nellie’s distaste for ragtime. “No, claimed she had a megrim.” He shrugged one shoulder. “Whether that’s true or not . . .”

  He didn’t have to finish that sentence. I was familiar with Nellie’s frequent ailments, some of which were genuine, while others, not so much. At least, that’s what I and the other children from Upper Wensleydale had always suspected, given the fact they seemed to come and go whenever she wanted to get out of doing something she didn’t wish to do.

  “Well, her loss is my gain,” I told him, and was glad to see the twinkle return to his eyes. Tom had always been a splendid dancer. Not as good as Sidney, but still quite keen, even while half bosky on brandy.

  Our steps slowed as the song on the gramophone changed before resuming our quickstep. Gladys and Elsie swiftly switched partners, while Walter looked on indulgently as Helen continued to hold Charlie in her sway. Which left only Jimmy to brood at the edges of the party. The look on his face was forbidding, but I suspected before the war he’d liked to dance as much as the rest of us. He still might, though I knew better than to ask. He would never admit it.

  Noticing the direction of my gaze, Tom swung me in a tight spin. “I know that look,” he cautioned.

  “What look?”

  He shook his head. “Don’t spare much sympathy for Tufton, Verity. He did it to himself.”

  “What? His injury?”

  His face was grim.

  I frowned in aggravation. “How? Did he shoot himself in his arm?”

  “No, but he charged that machine-gun post alone for one sole purpose, and he didn’t achieve it. Though he sure tried.”

  I opened my mouth to argue, but then comprehension dawned. My eyes widened in shock, and I darted another glance toward Jimmy. “You mean . . .”

  Tom nodded.

  Like so many others, I’d read Siegfried Sassoon’s poem “Suicide in the Trenches,” and felt my throat close up with the pain and horror it represented. By then I’d known not to cheer when soldiers marched off to war, but I’d also refused to let myself contemplate the desperation a man must feel to commit the ultimate act of self-destruction.

  “Do you know why?”

  Tom’s expression shuttered. “Who knows?”

  It had been a dumb question, for, of course, he knew. All the soldiers did. There were a thousand reasons why, even if one didn’t know the exact event that had ultimately broken them.

  I smiled tightly in apology and tried to concentrate on losing myself in the steps of the dance and the larks of the other guests. But I couldn’t stop thinking of Jimmy’s reckless charge, wondering if it had anything to do with the tension between the men or the letter I’d received. And what of Max’s comments earlier about the Thirtieth battalion’s bad luck?

  I studied Tom’s face, knowing that if I could convince anyone to explain about the Thirtieth, it would be my childhood friend. So when the dance ended, I tugged him toward the balustrade, snagging him another glass of brandy along the way. When I turned to face him, shoving the drink into his hand, he eyed me warily.

  “What’s this for?”

  I hesitated, comprehending that what I was about to request of him was not an easy thing. “I need to ask you a question.”

  His jaw hardened and he turned aside, gazing out into the dark lawn.

  “Please, Tom. I need to understand, and you’re the only one I can ask.”

  He tipped the glass back, taking a swift drink. “I’m not going to tell you about the war.”

  “I know. That’s not what I want.”

  He glanced at me out of the corner of his eye.

  “Not really,” I hastened to explain. “I . . . I just need to understand why the Thirtieth was so unlucky at the Somme.”

  “Who told you that?”

  “Max.”

  Tom’s brow furrowed.

  “Why? Is it not true?”

  For a moment I wasn’t sure he would answer me. Instead he continued to stare out into the darkness, wrestling with his own thoughts. Whatever they were, I knew they weren’t happy. His eyes had taken on the same bleak cast I’d sometimes witnessed in Sidney during his last few short leaves of absence.

  I hugged myself, hating that my questions had put that look in Tom’s eyes. Hating that I had to contemplate any of this at all. But how else was I to learn the truth? To uncover just what it was my mysterious correspondent wanted?

  When Tom spoke, his voice had lost all inflection. “They were decimated. At the Somme. Cut down to almost nothing.”

  My chest tightened at his words, thinking of all those dead soldiers, and of the men left behind to try to struggle on without them. No wonder Jimmy had found it too much to bear. I shook my head. “Sidney never told me—”

  “He wouldn’t have,” Tom said, cutting me off.

  I nodded my understanding. How did one put such loss into words?

  But Tom’s next remark stole the breath from my lungs.

  “Because he blamed himself.”

  I stood there blinking, trying to grasp what he was saying. “What do you mean?” I finally managed to ask.

  Tom exhaled and his hand shook, jostling the liquid in his glass. He stared down at it as if he’d fo
rgotten it was there. “His battalion got separated from the others because the map they’d been given was rubbish. And to make matters worse, the artillery shells had gone astray, blowing a crater in the middle of their path. At least, that’s what the official report found. But the fact of the matter is, Sidney’s company was supposed to flank some of the others, and when Sidney couldn’t get his men into position in time, the Germans overran them.” Tom lifted his glass to his lips, but before drinking added, “He never forgave himself for that.”

  I watched as he downed the rest of the contents of his glass while my heart ached with the knowledge that Sidney had been carrying around that guilt and grief alone. I knew better than to question why he hadn’t told me. Our fighting men simply didn’t discuss such things with those at home. They couldn’t. Not without exposing us to the horrors they were trying so hard to keep us from finding out about.

  I had often wondered if it would have been different if Sidney had known about my work with the Secret Service. Would he have shared more with me knowing I’d already seen and heard so many terrible things? I suspected not.

  “Thank you for telling me,” I murmured.

  Tom nodded.

  “Do you know if the others blamed him?” I asked, daring one last question.

  He shrugged, glancing over his shoulder. “I honestly don’t know.”

  I followed his gaze toward where Felix now stood talking with Charlie. Or rather, talking at him. Then he threw his head back and laughed, nearly toppling backward.

  “Hey, everyone! Listen to this,” he slurred, grasping the other man’s shoulder. “Charlie is . . . Charlie is going to become a vicar!”

  Charlie’s cheeks flushed a fiery red as Gladys and Elsie began to giggle and some of the others snorted.

  “Really, Charlie? A Holy Joe, hey,” Walter quipped. “If you’d chosen your calling sooner, you could have led the cushy life at the front.”

  “Could’ve had your own dugout and everything,” Sam chimed in, making everyone chuckle.

  Gladys reached out to loop her arm through the shy fellow’s. “Maybe you can marry Helen and Walter.”

  “I’m not waiting that long,” Helen protested with a mischievous smile. “But you can christen our first child.”

  As the laughter began to subside, Max stepped forward to slap Charlie on the back. “Well, there’s no shame in becoming a clergyman,” he remarked reassuringly, displaying some of the commanding presence that had likely gotten him promoted up the ranks. “It’s a respectable profession.”

  “No, it’s not.” A voice from behind them snapped. “They’re all liars! And cowards!”

  Max turned to face Jimmy as he rose to his feet a bit unsteadily. “Now, Jimmy . . .”

  “Oh, stuff it, Westfield,” he cursed, using stronger language than that.

  Elsie gasped, pressing a hand to her mouth.

  It was a testament to how furious and drunk Jimmy was that he’d forgotten to call Max by his new title after correcting Felix earlier that day.

  “Ye don’t have to step in and try and smooth everyone’s feathers, or save them from disaster. ’Cause yer a bloody sap at it.”

  Max blanched.

  “And ye know as well as I do.” He swiveled to point angrily at all the men, ending on Charlie, who he shoved backward. “There is no God! Or if there ever was one, he abandoned us long ago. Left us all to die in those bloody pits.” With one last scornful stare, he stormed off into the house, slamming the door behind him.

  We all stood silently, none of us knowing what to say after facing such fury and vehemence. Gladys wrapped an arm around Elsie, who had begun to silently cry. Charlie looked as if he’d been punched in the gut. I didn’t know how strong his faith was, but if he was determined to become a vicar, he would have to find a way to respond to such angry rebuttals. For I knew Jimmy wasn’t the only British soldier who’d lost his faith in God somewhere in the trenches, though few would tell you so in such strident terms.

  Unsurprisingly it was Felix who spoke first. “He’s barmy,” he proclaimed derisively. “Come on, Elsie.” He reached for her hand. “Dry your tears. Don’t let him ruin our fun.”

  Elsie gave him a bleary smile and allowed him to pull her into his arms. After this display of heroics, I suspected Max would be losing one of his admirers. Possibly two.

  “Charlie, dance with Gladys,” Felix ordered.

  The others began to gather themselves, rejoining the dancing or pouring themselves another drink. But though they attempted to carry on, much of the gaiety had drained from the evening. Unable to paste on another fake smile, I refreshed my glass of champagne and retreated to the shadows at the far end of the terrace, needing a few moments to myself.

  The music grew softer and the hushed sounds of night reached my ears again—the hum of crickets and the rustle of the wind trailing its fingers through the leaves. On this side of the castle, away from the sea, the trees grew thicker, for I could smell them and the faint perfume of London Pride in the bushes bordering this end of the terrace. I paused to lean against the balustrade, tipping back my glass to drain it, in need of the fortification. I probably shouldn’t have taken this latest glass. I’d already consumed far too much, and drinking this one so fast would only make me tipsier than I wished, but having a clear head suddenly seemed intolerable.

  I’d been more unsettled by Jimmy’s outburst than I wanted to admit, especially as it had followed so swiftly on the heels of Tom’s revelations. All I could think of was Sidney during his final leave. I kept picturing him sitting there alone in the dark, his head cradled in his hands. Should I have gone to him? Should I have asked? Would it have made any difference?

  I tensed at the sound of footsteps. Glancing over my shoulder, I forced a taut smile, thankful the shadows that cloaked this end of the terrace also hid much of my expression.

  Even so, the man before me seemed to sense I was less than pleased by his intrusion, for he paused. “May I join you?” he asked.

  Hearing the pleasing timbre of Max’s voice and not one of the other gentlemen’s, my shoulders relaxed. “If one of those glasses you’re holding is for me.” I’d meant for the comment to sound flippant, but my words rang all too hollow.

  “But, of course.” Max joined me at the balustrade, passing me one of the flutes filled with bubbling champagne. Already feeling the effects of my last glass dampening the sharpness of my thoughts, I sipped this one more slowly. I’d been considering making a flirtatious remark to break the stilted silence that surrounded us and redirect both of our attentions to something more pleasant, but he beat me to the punch.

  “I’m sorry Jimmy’s comments upset you.”

  I set my glass down on the stone with a hard clink, wishing I had spoken first. I could hardly deny my distress, for it was obvious. “Well, my maternal grandfather was a rector. And I adored him,” I mumbled in response, knowing perfectly well that didn’t actually explain anything.

  But Max just nodded. “From my experience, some of the men became overzealous to deal with the war and all the horrors they’d witnessed, while others . . .” He sighed. “A lot of others—like Jimmy—lost their faith altogether. It’s how they coped.”

  I turned to look up at Max’s handsome profile in the dim light, amazed by how at ease he seemed discussing these things when most of the former soldiers I knew would rather be sent back to the trenches. I could say almost anything to him and he wouldn’t flinch. He wouldn’t shy away. The last time I had felt the same comfort, the same connection with anyone, had been with Sidney. But that had been before the war. Before all the secrets that had torn us away from each other.

  “And what do you think?” I asked, curious whether I was right. Whether he would answer me.

  His brow furrowed, and I could see he was giving the matter his serious consideration. “I saw so much . . . too much . . . not to make me doubt.” He paused. “But the idea of there being no God . . . well, somehow it seems untenable.”


  Gripping the edge of the balustrade under my hands, I swallowed the lump that had formed in my throat and dared to ask the question I really wanted to know. “What about Sidney?” Max’s gaze lifted to meet mine. “What do you think he believed?”

  It was too dark to read the expression in his eyes, but from the manner in which he had stilled, I knew I had managed to unsettle him.

  When he didn’t answer, I hastened to explain. “I wondered, that’s all. Because I’ve had similar doubts.” I gave a huff of laughter. “And wouldn’t my mother be horrified to hear that. She would find a way to drag me back to Upper Wensleydale. Not that she hasn’t already tried.”

  Max smiled. “I don’t know. But . . . I’m certain you would know better than I what your husband was thinking.”

  “But that’s just the thing.” I narrowed my eyes, trying to peer into the darkness as if it were my own murky memories. “I don’t think I would. We married so swiftly, you see, just as the war broke out, as soon as I turned eighteen. And then he was gone.” I pressed my lips together, wondering if I would dare to say the thought that had been eating at me for weeks. “Sometimes . . . sometimes I wonder if I ever really knew him at all.”

  If I could have looked my anonymous correspondent in the face that very moment, I knew I would have slapped him. I had never doubted Sidney before. Never questioned his love or loyalty. But now all I could do was ask myself whether he was the noble man I’d believed I married, or the lying traitor they implied. And if so, how had I missed it?

  I glanced up as Max’s warm hand covered mine where it rested on the cold stone. He was close enough now that I could see the compassion reflected in his eyes.

  “Verity, I don’t know everything Sidney was thinking or feeling. But I do know he cared for you very much. That couldn’t have been plainer to see.”

  I blinked against a sudden wash of tears and nodded before turning to stare out again at the shadowed garden. While I struggled to regain control of myself—cursing those last two glasses of champagne I’d allowed myself to drink that had made me maudlin—he stood quietly next to me, sipping from his own flute. Fortunately, I’d had four and a half long years of practice at stuffing my emotions back deep down inside me. With one last sniff, I tucked away my handkerchief and turned to look at Max.