A Merry Little Murder Page 8

  Violet laughed and squeezed Lila’s hand. The two of them sat down, side-by-side, facing the row of men who were looking amongst themselves as if trying to find someone who spoke female.

  “Poor Victor. He does so well normally,” Violet added and Victor winked at her. He, of them all, was back to being comfortable the quickest. He didn’t take Lila’s tears as personally as Denny, and Violet’s laughter gave Victor the relief he needed to know that his twin would be all right.

  “Do we know who killed her yet?” Lila asked suddenly.

  Jack shook his head. “You were with Denny the whole night, I understand.”

  She nodded. “We were together. Listening to…Harriet.” Lila choked the name out. “Dancing. We had a few drinks and a few nibbles. Even when I took Martha aside and told her to tone down her flirting with Victor, Denny was looking on.”

  Victor shifted and Violet glanced at him. His cheeks were red as he sipped his coffee to disguise his reaction.

  “What about Martha? Where was she?”

  “I’ve been trying to track that out,” Jack admitted. “I spent quite a while with her today and the only reason your father let me talk to her was because I was staying here with you. If it had been Pomeroy alone, well, it wouldn’t have happened.”

  “I’ll take care of it,” Lila said firmly. “Papa is not going to obstruct the finding of Harriet’s killer. She deserves better from my family, and she will get it.”

  Jack smiled, the corners of his eyes crinkling for a moment. “Your mother said something very similar and told your father to go take a walk. She was the one who pinned down Martha’s movements, scolded her thoroughly for being fast. Just from the dancing. Martha lied about when she’d been with Mr. Henry Wickham, but we both knew what had happened so I let it go for now.”

  Lila took in a deep breath. “Yes. Well. The less said about that, the better. Outside the timing of it all, I’m sure my sister did not kill Harriet. I won’t pretend that Martha isn’t a fast, determined, brash child, but she’d no more strangle Harriet than she would have drowned a bag of kittens. She just isn’t like that.”

  Pomeroy asked, “You haven’t really been home much lately though, am I correct?”

  Violet winced for Lila, but her friend simply said, “I realize that I am not as close to Martha as I might wish to confirm what I’ve said, but I know my sister. I have little doubt that you both will discover the truth and it won’t have been Martha who hurt Harriet. Beyond that—Harriet was a scrappy thing. Of the two, Martha would have lost a battle between them and then been thoroughly scolded with boxed ears to firm up the lesson.”

  Jack took notes, not bothering to argue the degree of Lila’s ability to know either Harriet or Martha. His notes reminded Violet to bring out her own journal. She opened it up and then grinned at the consternation on his face.

  “So, there is Martha, of course,” Violet said. “As a suspect and despite Lila’s claims. Those will bear out or not, love,” Violet directed to Lila, who didn’t argue further.

  Violet wrote out:

  SUSPECTS:

  MARTHA MOORE — Lila’s little sister. Lila is certain that Martha did not kill Harriet. Not only because Martha wouldn’t have, but she couldn’t have. Of the two, Lila would have bet on Harriet in a fight. And there was a fight.

  MR. HENRY WICKHAM—He pursued Harriet and somehow got her to agree to marry him. At the same time, his nephew was engaged to Harriet. Was she a loose woman or just incapable of saying no? Did she just laugh off a proposal without saying no? Did she ever love this man? If she didn’t, why did she not tell him no? Despite his supposed love for Harriet, he was found with Martha soon after Harriet’s body had been discovered. Was he using Martha as a cover for his terrible actions?

  Violet wrote the second name:

  MR. HENRY WICKHAM—THE YOUNGER.

  She looked up and asked, “Was he at the party?”

  Pomeroy glanced at Jack as though expecting him to contain Violet. Instead he simply nodded.

  “Did he have an alibi?”

  Jack shook his head. “He was one of the young pups we saw staring up at Harriet when she was singing. He remembered dancing with a few girls, he remembered having a few drinks. One of the serving men said that he got pretty drunk. So far we haven’t been able to find anyone who saw him before Harriet’s body had been found or after. He doesn’t remember much of the evening after Harriet stopped singing, but the bartenders remember the boy well.”

  Violet nodded and added to her notes. “So, what about the Misters Henry? Did they have lovers before Harriet?”

  Jack glanced at Pomeroy, who shrugged. They both turned to Lila, who shrugged. But then she said, “I feel like perhaps there was someone before from when I was younger. I don’t know, however. I’m not sure. For the elder Mr. Wickham, my mother would know.”

  “Find out,” Jack said. “We’ll need to just rule it out.”

  Violet pursed her lips. “Both Donald and Robert from the day of the sleigh ride were pretty focused on Harriet. Do you think that they had feelings for her?” She shook her head at herself, “Of course, they did.”

  Denny cleared his throat. “I saw that too. I saw it the last time we were here with Robert. I even told him to gather up his courage and throw his heart at her feet.”

  Violet wrote out the next name:

  ROBERT MOORE — In love with Harriet? Had he ever proposed? If so, what did Harriet say? Was he, perhaps, the only man who accepted her no? Or maybe he just never asked for her hand? Was he silently and agonizingly in love?

  Violet felt for Robert, ached for him. Only she didn’t know him. She just knew the tale of distant love that felt unrequited. She had been there so very recently. Blue and alone in London while Jack worked around the country. Violet sniffed and played with the simple ring on her finger. When she looked up, her gaze was pulled to Jack as though he were her north star, and she found his gaze on her.

  Did he know what she was thinking? Had he felt the same when he’d been working? Did he think of her and wonder if she was falling in love with someone else as she had wondered about him?

  She had worried and wondered and felt that, perhaps, she was a bit unlovable. Perhaps she’d driven him away with her spoiled ways and her closeness to Victor and her frivolous novels and her unwomanly business acumen. The fortune that people would say he married her for. She knew he would never do that, but she also knew that story would still be spread around as though it were fact.

  Violet glanced away first because she was afraid everyone would be able to tell what she was thinking if she didn’t. She wasn’t ready for her feelings to be dissected by their audience. She glanced down at her journal. “What about the band?”

  “They all had alibis. They liked her. They were friends. They don’t have secrets. There’s a couple of aldermen, a postman, the organist for the church. They’re good men.”

  Violet sniffed and drew the picture of a piano’s keyboard. She had learned to play once. Suddenly she wanted to play again. To pick up from where she’d left off—even though she had certainly had declined in ability since those days.

  “I want a piano,” she told Victor.

  He knew she was thinking about far more than the piano and was used to the way her mind worked. Pomeroy, however, grunted.

  Violet sketched out a tube of lipstick and then asked, “Was her makeup still nice?”

  Jack frowned at her. “Vi…Harriet’s demise wasn’t easy. She fought.”

  “Did she still have lipstick on? Had it been kissed off? Did she have skin under her nails?”

  Jack blinked and then glanced at Pomeroy.

  “Ah…”

  Violet tapped her pen against the journal and crossed out Martha’s name. “Harriet and Martha weren’t friendly. Only a few days ago, Kate and I heard Martha call Harriet a whore.”

  Lila gasped and Violet took her hand. She turned to her friend. “Would you have gone to a closet with a girl who treated you li
ke that? During your big concert? Harriet’s face was alight with the joy of singing. She was good at it. That was her time to shine. Not as someone’s arm piece. Not as anything other than a woman who had developed a skill.”

  Lila and Violet’s gazes met. They knew more than the men did. It was so hard for women to shine. Even with the vote, even with the greater rights they’d attained. It was about being someone else’s. Someone’s wife. Someone’s mother. Their daughter. None of those were bad roles. But to just be Harriet…to be the talented, hard-working singer who’d attained something special—those days didn’t happen often.

  She might have followed someone who felt they had the right to her, but nearly anyone else would have been turned down. Except perhaps the someone who had been the reason why she’d finally thrown over the uncle and nephew?

  A closet? It was so different from a bench in the snow. It was the ladies’ book club room. It was the private corner where you let some handsome man kiss you.

  “She went to that closet because she wanted a moment of privacy. She didn’t need that with a woman. It wasn’t Martha who killed Harriet. Not because Martha isn’t a brat. Not because Martha is weaker than Harriet. Because Martha wasn’t Harriet’s lover.”

  “Unless she was dumped in the closet, but it makes more sense she was killed there. Nearly anywhere else would have been too risky.” Jack cleared his throat. “Do we have any idea who Harriet might have actually loved?”

  “Just because she went into a closet with some man—that doesn’t mean she loved him,” Lila said. “Martha doesn’t love Henry Wickham. It could easily have been someone she liked enough to dance with or go on picnics with. Someone she’d never have married even if she appreciated their company.”

  “But you only kissed me, right?” Denny demanded.

  Violet laughed and then asked for Lila, “And you? Is Lila the only woman you ever kissed? You loved her since you were too young to love, right? That’s what you always say?”

  Denny blushed brilliantly and then Violet told Lila, “He’s kissed more than you.”

  Lila wove her fingers around her teacup and lifted a brow at Denny. He blushed brilliantly and then coughed. Glancing at Jack a little frantically, Denny said, “By Jove! Who else did you track down? Who else was there who didn’t have an alibi?”

  Violet’s lips twitched and she glanced at Lila who sipped her tea quietly, watching Denny squirm.

  Chapter 12

  Jack and Mr. Pomeroy left to interview a few others and Lila said, “We need to know more. And I happen to know that Harriet kept a journal when we were girls. I know where she kept them too.”

  Violet glanced at Lila. “Why didn’t you say anything when they were here?”

  “Harriet is mine,” Lila told Violet. “She’s mine. I loved her once. As much as I love Denny, and I chose Denny. I left Harriet to her grief and the caring of the woman who never became her mother-in-law. I left her to suffering, and I barely wrote to her because I didn’t know what to say. I won’t see her disparaged now.”

  Violet rose. “You and I will protect her, then.”

  “I’ll take you,” Denny said. He held out his hand to his wife, his heart in his eyes. He might have kissed another woman once but worshipped Lila then.

  “Both Violet and I are capable drivers,” Lila said. “The snow is gone. Leave it.”

  Denny stepped back at Lila’s snap. He didn’t look hurt. The concern for his wife was in his gaze. She was a tender creature when it came to him, but this trip was showing Violet that Lila’s normally calm and lazy nature with a tendency towards merriness belied what else she could be.

  “I feel,” Violet told Lila, “that I know you now better than I ever have before. You, darling one, will be the most stringent of mothers. Ruling your roost with an iron fist.”

  “When we’re ready for children, maybe,” Lila snorted. “Someone has to rule our roost. I think we both know that Denny will counter me at every turn, spoil rotten whatever children we have, and teach them to nap in the sun, find the tarts while they’re still warm, and how to eat jellies by the spoonful.”

  “He’ll addict them to chocolate and roller-skate with them in the ballroom.” Violet coughed and added, “I suppose I must at least take partial credit for the roller-skating. Beatrice has them somewhere all wrapped up with brown paper and a bow.”

  Lila took Violet’s hand. “My friend, I promise you. Before we leave, we will roller-skate the day away, drink the cocktails that Victor has dreamed up, and unwrap presents. Even if we have to do it the afternoon after the inquest.”

  Violet took Lila’s other hand. “And I won’t leave you to this. We’ll see your cousin buried, her killer caught, and we’ll be grateful that Harriet finally found her way back to her true love.”

  Lila nodded quickly. “That does give me peace for her. Now let’s find her killer and give her the peace she deserves.”

  Violet and Lila left, ignoring Denny’s protests. They carried with them a basket of foods intended to entice an appetite weakened with grief. Harriet lived in a moderately-sized home with her parents. Her siblings had all moved on. As Violet and Lila walked in, the piano that she must have played as she practiced her singing was there in the front parlor. They learned from the maid that Harriet’s mother was in her bed and her father had left the house early. The girl said he’d been crying and taken to the paths as though chased out.

  Violet crossed to the stool at the piano and sat down, running her fingers over the keys. The music for “God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen” was still on the stand and Violet recalled the sound of Harriet singing it the night before. Her voice had been so lovely, and the arrangement had been brilliant. Both jazzy and merry. Violet cleared her throat. The grief of what had been taken rushed her all at once.

  Lila, on the other hand, simply said, “Excuse me.”

  Leaving Violet in the parlor, Lila made her way up the stairs silently. Violet flipped through the music, finding several more arrangements. They weren’t hers, and she shouldn’t take them, but she did. She stacked the music up. Harriet was brilliant when it came to this. Violet hadn’t realized how the singer had also been the brains behind the way the songs had been put together.

  Violet lifted the pages and underneath them, she found another stack of music. She flipped through those and found a stack of letters woven into them. She slowly opened one and read, “My dear Harriet…”

  Violet bit her lip, skimming the page. It included protestations of love, comments on her actions, the way she was so tender with Mrs. Knight. And finished an admirer. It would have been romantic if the letter didn’t detail things no one from the outside should know. The pale pink color of her peignoir. The way Harriet bit her lip while she studied the piano music before making a note.

  Violet shuddered and stood, examining the bench. It was one of those piano benches that could store music. Violet opened it and found, under a top layer of music, stacks upon stacks of letters. She pulled them out and carefully put them together.

  She opened another and read. This letter referred to the way Harriet cried over the wall where Ethan Knight’s name had been carved. The way Harriet traced his name each time she went. The promise that she would love another again—the one who loved her. The admirer. One who waited in the wings. Violet felt sick as she read the pages. There was nothing truly romantic here. Just too much watching, too much noting, too much obsession. Harriet had hidden these letters. Had she been intrigued or horrified? Just because Violet found them alarming didn’t mean Harriet had felt the same.

  Violet’s hand was shaking. Poor Harriet! Had anyone known of this, this…hunter? He’d tracked and documented and commented without regard to how helpless Harriet might feel knowing she was being silently and distantly pursued.

  Violet bit her lip again and glanced up as Lila entered.

  “I have the last journals. The ones that go back to around when I left.”

  Violet nodded. She picked up the stack of
letters, glanced around, and then whispered, “Look up March 27, 1922.”

  Lila looked at Violet, frowning, but did as asked. It took Lila several journals to find the right time frame. Then Lila read,

  “I got another letter today. It was on the piano bench when I returned home from visiting the monument. How did I miss him? Who is it? Why won’t he leave me alone? I’ve left him notes, asking him to leave me be. But nothing…now when Henry asks me for a drive or Hank makes a joke about making me fall in love with him, I don’t know who to trust. All I know for sure is that I can’t find myself married to someone who would follow me and ignore my pleas to leave me in peace.”

  Violet related—at least somewhat—to what Harriet had written. Not because Jack was like this ‘admirer’ but because Jack was the opposite. He’d shown Violet what could be possible by how he treated her. Vi, herself, had first become attracted to Jack when she’d realized that he saw her. Not her the earl’s daughter or the twin or the writer or—eventually—the heiress. He’d seen Violet. The sometimes crabby, sometimes blue, sometimes unkind, sometimes loving, sometimes weak woman and found her to be all he wanted.

  “Oh my,” Lila said. “I visited after this. I spent a whole afternoon with Harriet. When I asked her about falling in love again, she told me it was impossible. I thought…my goodness, Vi…I thought she meant that she was still in love with poor Ethan.”

  Violet took Lila’s hand again. “She was. Of course she was. She cared for his mother and visited the monument where his name was carved. Her love and her heart…they’re wherever his body is buried.”

  Lila’s hands were shaking as she looked at the stack of letters and a tear slipped down her cheek. “If she’d said something, Denny and I would have made room for her. We’d have helped her get away from whoever drove her to write this.” Lila lifted the journal and then let it fall closed.

  “Was Mrs. Knight gone by then?”

  Lila’s gaze lifted and then she slowly shook her head.