Murder Most Posh: A Mrs. Xavier Stayton Mystery (7 page)

   In a strange, faraway voice, Mathew Farquhar said, “My wife has thrown herself off the ship.”

   From bow to stern, the
Olivia
was searched. The Beaumonts had been awakened from their tonic-induced sleep, their cabin searched, and then ours, next the Emersons’, and then the crew moved on.

   Just after dawn, the ship’s captain came to our cabin, where Mathew sat silently with us, and told him, “I am sorry to tell you this, but there is no trace of the Countess Orlov on this ship.”

   The man’s eyes did not turn red, and there was no uncontrollable sob. He was in genuine shock. I was quite curious as to why he’d staged the scene of the locked room; his actions hadn’t fooled me. At first, I suspected him of foul play, but I could see in his eyes that he
’d
had nothing to do with his wife’s disappearance.

   Much later in the morning, Lucy and I sat in the sunny café and silently ate a light meal. We were confounded just how we’d found ourselves in the midst of another tragedy. Lucy, at least, believed this to be a sad case of suicide. I suspected otherwise.

   We were just finishing our tea when the steward approached and, with an apologetic air, said, “I do beg your pardon, Mrs. Stayton, but Mr. Pace, the ship’s purser, has requested to see you.”

   Despite knowing the way to the man’s office, we were escorted there with much pomp by two uniformed men. To those who we passed by, Lucy and I either appeared very important, or highly troublesome.

   Within Mr. Pace’s outer office, we discovered Gerald Hurst pacing the floor. He came to an abrupt stop and exclaimed, “Mrs. Stayton, thank goodness.”

   The ship’s purser gave me an uncomfortable smile and told me, “I apologize, Mrs. Stayton, but Mr. Hurst insisted on speaking to you. He heard about…” the polite man became tongue-tied, and he finished by simply saying, “Countess Orlov.”

   I had been waiting all morning for Gerald Hurst to suggest just what he breathlessly exclaimed, “This flat tire here tells me it was a suicide. Dominika would never have killed herself. She was going to leave Mathew once they were in America—”

   “And marry you,” I finished for him, feeling very much like my fictional
Mrs. X.

   “That was the idea,” Gerald replied humbly.

  “Was this trip planned just to escape from Mr. Farquhar, or does she in fact have a lost sister in New York?” I inquired.

   “She does have a sister there; Alisa is her name. Dominika had hoped to borrow money from her. She’d be done with that palooka, and we’d start a new life together.”

   Mr. Pace spoke up. “I don’t see why Mrs. Stayton should be troubled by this matter.”

   Gerald blurted out, “Mrs. Stayton knows her onions; she’s a sleuth, like one of them detective characters.” He looked to me. “I beg of you, find out the truth.”

   Sadly, the truth isn’t always what people desire in the end. I asked bluntly, “How long have you been having an affair with the countess?”

  “Over the past year. Dominika married Mathew thinking he was something that he’s not. She stayed because of the money, but now that doesn’t matter. She loved me.” His words rang of truth.

   “Did the countess know that her husband was also having an affair?” I asked, keen to see Gerald’s reaction.

   The man’s eyes grew wide, and he replied, “The louse! No, she hadn’t a clue.”

   “Mrs. Stayton!” said a shocked Mr. Pace.

   “Lucy and I saw him in the arms of a statuesque blonde woman, just yesterday morning; this was the same woman who caused a scene in the ballroom last night.”

   “It’s true!” retorted dear Lucy.

   “We must find out who she is.” I seriously doubted that Mathew Farquhar had killed his wife. His brash lover, perhaps?

   Mr. Pace sent for a crewman to inquire with any staff members who had been present in the ballroom when the unknown woman created the scandal. Very little time passed before we had her name.

   “Simone Wainwright,” said Mr. Pace. “Cabin C-53.”

   After sending a steward to her room, the fellow returned to tell us, “The door was unlocked, and when I knocked, it came open. No one is in the cabin, but something has occurred.”

   Lucy, Gerald, and I followed Mr. Pace to Ms. Wainwright’s cabin. Just a few steps before we reached it, I asked Gerald, “How did the countess slip into the second-class promenade?”

   “How’s that? Oh, she bribed a porter to let her pass through a gate,” Gerald replied.

   We came to the room, and it was immediately obvious that there had been a struggle. Although located within the first-class section of the ship, this single room was much smaller than ours, but lavish in décor all the same.

   The bed was unmade, a lamp was knocked to the floor, and a single suitcase was upended in the corner of the room.

   The purser, in a grave voice, told the steward who had followed us, “Start searching the ship for Ms. Wainwright.”

   I began to open the drawers to the dresser, and Mr. Pace asked, “What are you doing?”

  Lucy replied for me, “She’s looking for clues.”

   There were very few articles of clothing in the dresser. They were flashy, but cheap. Beside her bed, I found only two pairs of shoes, both rather plain compared to her brightly colored dresses.

   On a dressing table, there were two pairs of beaded earrings, a necklace of costume jewels, and a single tube of lipstick. I picked up her set of hairbrushes. A few golden threads clung to them, but they showed little wear.

   “Lucy, look at her shoes,” I said as I placed the brushes neatly on the table, just as I had found them.

  “The soles are quite worn,” she remarked after examining them.

   Gerald asked, “What does that mean?”

   “I would say she got her money’s worth out of them,” I retorted, attempting to sound mysterious. Before another question might be asked, I said, “I have seen all there is to see. I suggest the room be locked until Ms. Wainwright is located.”

Chapter Six

At my request, nothing was said to Mathew Farquhar regarding Simone Wainwright until a discreet but thorough search failed to locate the missing woman.

   We waited many hours in the purser’s office until the ship’s captain arrived and said to me, “I’m most sorry that this affair has troubled you, Mrs. Stayton.” Despite the politeness of the comment, I rather believe he was irritated that I had become involved.

   “Think nothing of it. I lend my talents of deduction most earnestly,” I replied.

   The man’s eyes grew wide, and he fumbled for something else to say.

   Lucy quickly uttered a helpful suggestion, “What if Ms. Simone is in Mr. Farquhar’s cabin?”

   Gerald bolted from his chair, nearly knocking it over. “A damned good notion.”

   The captain blew out a long breath and admitted, “Yes. Well, it is a thought, if, as you’ve told
Mr. Pace
(Mr. Pace’s name was said in a way that told all who had gathered that the captain was not pleased with the man.) there is some sort of relationship between these two individuals.”

   “There is,” I assured him.

   The captain gave me a pained smile and said, “I do believe it would be for the best if Mr. Pace and I go alone.”

   “Now wait a damned minute! This all has to do with Dominika; I have every right to be there when you confront the bastard.”

   The captain took a step back, and in a hushed voice, remarked, “There are ladies present, Mr. Hurst.”

    Gerald gave me a coy grin and responded, “Shucks, these two women are quite worldly. For heaven’s sake, they’ve already sent one man to the gallows.”

    I spoke before the captain could reply, “Pardon me, sir, but Mr. Hurst’s presence would be of benefit. There was something odd about the suicide note, and I would like for him to see it.”

   Skeptically, the ship’s master gazed at me and nodded. Our curious little party went at once to Cabin A-2.

   Mr. Pace rapped at the door, while the captain stood at attention. Rapidly, the door swung open, and a disheveled Mathew Farquhar looked at us all with great uncertainty.

  “I’m sorry to disturb you at this time, Mr. Farquhar. However, I have a few questions that must be asked.”

   Puzzled, he invited us all inside the room, his eyes lingering briefly on Gerald. “Yes?”

   The captain went straight to the point. “This man, Gerald Hurst, claims that he was in a relationship with your wife.”

   Standing so close to each other, I noted that Mr. Hurst and Mr. Farquhar shared a resemblance. Dark hair, swarthy complexion, and hard features; it seemed there was a certain type of man that appealed to the countess.

   Mathew struggled for words as his eyes darted back and forth from the captain to Mr. Hurst. I had anticipated Mathew would rush toward Gerald and attempt to lay his hands on the man. Instead, he gave a little wobble and remained otherwise frozen. I can’t say that I was disappointed by Mathew’s restraint. 

   As a way to confirm the captain’s statement, Gerald boldly said, “Dominika planned on leaving you once she met her sister. She hoped that Alisa would share her funds; then she wouldn’t need your money anymore.”

   Still dressed in his black tuxedo from the night before, the unshaven man stumbled backward until he fell into a chair. Mathew mumbled, “Of course, that does explain…”

   Softly, I asked, “What does it explain, Mr. Farquhar?”

   He looked in my direction, but he didn’t seem to see me as he replied, “She had been so cold, so distant.”

   While he was still very far away, I picked up the suicide letter from the nearby table, and the torn envelope. I only gave the letter to Gerald.

   In an instant, he exclaimed, “This isn’t her handwriting.”

   Mathew looked toward the man, quite numb, and responded, “No, it isn’t.”

   The captain inquired, “You knew this? You recognized the fact and didn’t mention it to Mr. Pace?”

   Mathew simply nodded. I flashed the envelope into the air, and pointed at the lettering. “This bears the Red Star Line’s ensign; however, the parchment used for the letter is different. Can you explain this, Mr. Farquhar?”

   He shook his head like a child refusing to admit he’d broken a porcelain figurine.

   I stepped beside him and turned to face Lucy, Gerald, the purser, and the captain. “I suspect that Mr. Farquhar found the suicide note, and sealed it in the envelope in a panic when he realized it wasn’t his wife’s handwriting.”

   The distraught man craned his neck to look up to me. “Yes,” he said, almost under his breath.

   As I watched Lucy reach into her purse for her notebook, I went on, “Your wife was furious with you after the embarrassing incident in the ballroom. Returning to your room, you two had a nasty row, then you stormed off. Hours later, you returned. Your wife was missing, but the letter was lying on the table under the lit lamp. You read it and knew it wasn’t actually hers.”

   I pointed at the chair he sat in. “You required a witness who would agree to your story of returning to the cabin to find her gone, and this note in her place. After folding the letter and placing it in a fresh envelope from the writing desk, you wedged the chair under the door handle. You then passed through the door of the promenade into ours, and then through to the Emersons’ so that you could make it appear the cabin was locked from within.”

   “But why?” asked Gerald.

   “He planned on breaking out the window of the promenade, to make it look as if she had flung herself from the ship.”

   Mathew let out a heavy sigh.

   “Why didn’t you, then?” asked Mr. Pace, spellbound by the unfolding story.

   I replied, “Because he saw that our cabin was lit, and we might still be awake; we might have heard the glass breaking.” I rested my hand on the man’s shoulder and added, “I had fallen asleep on the divan without switching off the lamp.”

   The captain asked, “This is all true, Mr. Farquhar?”

   In a low voice, he responded, “It is. I don’t know what happened to my wife, or who wrote that note.”

   I spoke before anyone else might. I felt it was my prerogative as the sleuth, “Perhaps the culprit is Ms. Simone Wainwright?”

   The haggard man slumped even deeper into his chair. “How do you know about her?”

   “Even before her brazen stunt in the ballroom, the two of you had been witnessed together,” I informed him.

   Mathew shrugged. “I don’t know what came over her. We had been so discreet, and then she appeared on the dance floor. I felt sick, as if I were having a hallucination. The two of them, face-to-face…” He gave a strange laugh and finished, “I don’t know why she did it. I think she went mad.”

   The captain asked, “Have you seen Ms. Wainwright since the incident?”

   Mathew closed his eyes and shook his head.

   “She is now missing, and there appears to have been a struggle in her cabin,” said the captain, gravely.

   This information caused Mathew to rise to his feet. “You don’t think…”

   Gerald sternly suggested, “He’s hiding her.”

   Mathew forced an ugly laugh. “Why would I do that?”

   “If we could just take a quick look around the rooms?” said the captain, with polite authority.

   “Suit yourselves,” Mathew replied offhandedly. 

   The captain gestured for Mr. Hurst to remain where he was, while the purser opened one of the two bedroom doors. I noticed that the couple’s luggage was stacked in the unused room.

   My stomach soured, and my eyes went blurry for a moment. It took me a second before I found my voice and said, “Mr. Farquhar, that steam trunk that was delivered to my cabin.  I recall you arguing with the porter that it wasn’t yours.”

   Mathew’s eyes narrowed, and he glanced toward the large piece of luggage. “I don’t recall seeing it before. It doesn’t match Dominika’s other cases.”

   The purser recalled my words from the time he came to inspect the odd object. He lifted the smaller cases off of the steam trunk and opened it.

    As Mr. Pace leapt back, gasping from shock, I rushed forward. Just before poor Lucy fainted, I caught sight of Countess Dominika Orlov’s crumpled body.

   As predicted, the
Olivia
encountered a mighty storm at tea time. Lucy and I sat in dreadful silence, nibbling on buttered toast in a nearly deserted parlor as we watched the rain beat against the windows.

   The ghastly sight of the countess’s body remained in my mind’s eye. She had been fully dressed in an evening gown, high heels, and a little beaded headband with a black feather. The sash of a bathrobe had been spun around her neck; it appeared that she had been strangled.

   At last, my dear friend said, “I can’t fathom what has happened.”

   I sipped at my tepid tea before telling her, “We must review the facts. The countess is penniless and married Mathew Farquhar for his money. Mr. Farquhar grew up poor before inheriting his wealth. Once the countess began giving her affections to Mr. Hurst, Mr. Farquhar found a lover more suited to the social class he came from.”

   Lucy nodded as she jotted down these points in her notebook.

  I went on, “The countess planned on leaving her husband and starting a new life in America with Gerald Hurst; that is, according to him.”

   Lucy’s wide eyes raised from her notebook. “Do you think that he is lying?”

   “I have no reason to believe so.  In fact, I’d dare to guess he’s recently spent time in the States.”

   “Why do you say that?” asked Lucy.

   “I’m sure you’ve noticed the same clues I have,” I suggested.

  “All the American slang he’s used!” she exclaimed.

   “Indeed,” I agreed.

   “Go on,” said Lucy, tapping her pencil to the paper.

  “Ms. Simone Wainwright, for reasons unknown to us, forgoes discretion and causes a scene in the ballroom. Afterward, it would seem that just before Mr. Farquhar left his cabin, he killed his wife and placed her body in the empty chest to stage her suicide, or he departed from the cabin, and she was killed by persons unknown, who then left the phony letter and put the body in the steam trunk.”

   “Possibly Ms. Wainwright?” asked Lucy.

   “Perhaps; and now she herself is missing, and she has been left with a ramshackle room.” I paused and then added, “But it wasn’t, actually.”

   Lucy dropped her pencil. “It wasn’t?”

   “No, it was left to appear so. You saw how small the room was, yet nothing was disturbed on the dressing table. Ms. Wainwright disheveled the room herself, and afterward, she sat down at the dressing table, touched up her lipstick and brushed her hair, placing all the items neatly on the table out of habit.”

   Lucy smiled and nodded her chin, very impressed with my deductions. “Why?”

   “That is our true mystery,” I responded.

   Before we could ponder more, Maxie Beaumont rushed into the open parlor. Her bulk wasn’t easily controlled when she attempted to come to a halt.

   “Mrs. Stayton, Ms. Wallace, there you are! Something dreadful has happened to that Brazilian friend of yours,” she exclaimed.

   She rushed from the room, and we followed her back to the little hallway connecting our berths. The sound of a man crying could be heard from the open door of the Emersons’ cabin as we rushed past.

   Within our own cabin, we found Yara reclined on the divan, attended by the ship’s doctor. Mr. Pace was standing beside them.

   “What has happened?” I demanded.

   In a low tone, Mr. Pace replied, “Mr. Emerson, Rory Emerson, that is…attacked Ms. Yara.”

   Still flushed, the woman’s glassy eyes met mine. The doctor quickly informed me that he’d given her a sedative and that she was unharmed, just frightened.

   Michael Emerson edged inside our cabin, stepped behind me, and said with his Irish brogue, “I can explain this.”

  I spun around and replied, “Then do so, Mr. Emerson.”

   With all eyes on him, his freckled face reddened. “You see, my brother has a…fetish…a foot fetish.”

  I felt my own face growing red. Looking to Lucy, I could see that she appeared as distressed as she had been on our first day at sea. 

   Michael pointed toward Yara, or rather to her feet, which were clad in beach sandals. As he stuttered, I recalled how he had a habit of glancing down to the floor when we encountered him, and his brother had done the same the single time we had met. Neither had been looking at the floor. Michael had been inspecting our footwear, and Rory had been attempting to catch glimpses, I suspect, preferably without footwear.

   “The lad can’t control himself; when he sees women’s toes, he loses all control…”