Murder Most Posh: A Mrs. Xavier Stayton Mystery (8 page)

   Lucy gasped as she looked down to the sensible patented black leather shoes that she wore.

   Michael went on, “It isn’t his fault; when he was young, he fell through an iced-over pond, and after he was revived, well, he just never grew up. My parents sent him off to an asylum…after…”

   “After what?” demanded Maxie, as she stepped uncomfortably close to the nervous fellow.

   “Rory loses his temper, when his feelings are hurt; he doesn’t understand…he’s like a child…”

   “He’s attacked other women, hasn’t he?” Maxie’s voice was cold and stern. “You brought a dangerous man aboard this ship, and set him loose on us women without any warning.”

   “No!” Michael protested and then wavered, “Yes, but I kept him in the room…”

  Mr. Pace asked, “Are you saying that your brother has a history of violence?”

   Michael became most overwhelmed, and I thought he might break down crying as he responded, “Yes, yes, he does.”

   Maxie pointed a thick sausage-like finger toward the cabin between ours and hers. “It was Rory who killed the poor countess.” Her eyes grew wide, and she exclaimed, “And you hid the body and left the suicide note!”

   Michael Emerson sobbed out, “No, no—that isn’t what happened at all.”

   The ship’s master appeared in the doorway and said in a calm and authoritative tone, “Then tell us what did happen.”

   Michael took a very long and deep breath. “I sleep in the parlor, on the davenport, so that Rory cannae
make trouble. I heard a wee bit of the fighting that everyone else heard, that was all. But later, something woke me, a noise on the deck out there. By the time I got up, looked about, tweren’t nothin’ to see.”

   I spoke just a breath before the captain could. “Are you saying someone passed through your balcony?”

  Michael reluctantly shrugged. “I just don’t know, but I did hear something, and I swear to the Almighty, Rory was sleeping the whole night, in his room.”

Chapter Seven

The ship rocked from side to side as the storm churned the sea. Lucy was forced to take to bed. Yara fared little better as the sedative the doctor had given her left her quite drowsy.

   I sat on the divan with my notebook in hand and stared toward the door to our promenade. We had too many suspects; this would never do in a brilliant whodunit.

   The unhappily married man was the prime culprit. Handsome and wealthy, but ill-bred, with a hussy on the side to boot—yes, this described Mathew Farquhar.
Where is the hussy?
I asked myself.

   Then we had the Emerson brothers. Poor Michael, he was only looking out for his brother. No wonder he’d booked the parlor suite for them; he couldn’t keep his brother cooped up in a single room day after day at sea.

  I thought about Rory’s childlike expression, and how he had peeked down at my feet.
What violence might he be capable of?

  I jotted down the question on my notepad, but it was quickly followed by another:
How could he get into her cabin?

   I rose from the divan and stepped into the private promenade. To my left was the Emersons’ cabin, to my right, Mathew and the countess’s. The connecting door to the Emersons’ had been unlocked, but I had thought the crewman with a passkey had to unlock the door connecting our balcony to allow Mathew inside his cabin.

   Another question struck me, and I crossed through our cabin and entered the hallway. A rather stocky fellow stood next to the door of Mr. Farquhar’s suite, as he had been politely confined to his rooms. I passed the curious guard and tapped at the Beaumonts’ door.

   Maxie bellowed for her husband to answer. He did so, and I suspect he greeted me in French as he straightened his thick glasses. The open velvet robe that he wore allowed me to see that he was nearly dressed for dinner; quite the dandy, all that was missing was his jacket.

   “Who is it now, Jerome? Has someone else been molested? That Brazilian girl never should have been allowed in first class.”

   What her husband said in response, I haven’t a clue other than his words ended with
Madame Stayton.
  

   Maxie’s bulk swung from behind a partially closed door, and she gave me quite the embarrassed smile. “Oh, I didn’t mean that the way it sounded; your friend is lovely, just lovely.”

   I felt my eyes narrow as my tongue thoroughly ignored my brain and said, “And so is her jewelry.”

   One of Maxie’s satin-gloved hands reached up to strum the colorful Brazilian marble beads around her ample neck. “Aren’t they unique? Well, it didn’t take a mentalist to surmise the poor child needed cash. I bought them from her. No one in Quebec will have seen anything like these before,” she said triumphantly, her shame quickly gone.

   “I’m sure.” Pointing toward the door that led out to the promenade, I asked, “May I test a theory, Mrs. Beaumont?”

   Utterly perplexed, she responded, “Why, please,” and with a degree of condescension, she added, “I’ve never seen a sleuth at work.”

   Briskly, I paced past the Beaumonts, doing my best to ignore the familiar surroundings, and entered the private balcony. Hesitantly, I went to the door separating this promenade from the countess’s. I placed my hand on the door handle, and it turned. This meant that all of the doors that connected the private promenades had been unlocked. I can’t say that I was any less confused.

***

   At my summons, Gerald Hurst met me in the purser’s office. Dear Mr. Pace appeared too worn down to resist my insistent request.

   Without formal greeting, Mr. Hurst exclaimed, “I don’t believe what I’ve been told; a deranged Irishman might have killed Dominika!”

   “It is possible, but the theory leaves many questions unanswered.” I looked him in the eye and said, “I believe that you lied to me before. Understand me, Mr. Hurst, when I say this: only the truth will bring your beloved countess justice.”

   The man’s expression darkened. “Yes, Mrs. Stayton, of course you are right…but what lie did I tell you?”

   “When I asked you how the countess managed to make her way into the second-class promenade, you told me that Dominika bribed a member of the ship’s crew, but that wasn’t true, was it?”

   Gerald glanced to Mr. Pace, and then back to me. “Honest to God, it was the truth. How else could she have?”

   “With a master key,” I retorted, watching the man’s eyes.

   Mr. Pace’s voice cracked as he cried out, “Where did she obtain a passkey?”

   Gerald shrugged his shoulders. “How could she get her hands on one of those?”

   “You’ve spent a good amount of time in the States, haven’t you, Mr. Hurst?” I asked.

   “I lived there for a few years, what of it?” he asked, cautiously.

   “This isn’t your first trip aboard the
Olivia
, is it?”

   Gerald’s eyes narrowed, and he replied, “Nor is it yours, Mrs. Stayton.”

   I looked to Mr. Pace. “Would you know if a master key went missing?”

   Mr. Pace nodded. “I say, a maid claims to have lost her keys, just a few weeks ago, but she was stealing from the cabins. Otherwise…”

   Mr. Hurst let out a sly chuckle. “A few weeks ago, I was in Paris. I haven’t been aboard this ship in six months.”

   I produced my most innocent smile and responded, “The question had to be asked.”

   Gerald pointed at me. “I appreciate your efforts, even if you did just accuse me of swiping a key. No one else on this tub seems to care about what happened to Dominika.”

    Before Mr. Pace could argue with Mr. Hurst, I asked, “Did the countess ever make mention of her husband being violent?”

   The man’s eyes narrowed, and he considered his answer. “The term she used was
volatile
.” 

   “I have but one last question: do you have an address for the countess’s sister?”

   Gerald scratched his chin. “No, come to think of it, I don’t. I know that Alisa is staying in Manhattan, but nothing more.”

    “Thank you, Mr. Hurst,” I replied.

   His eyes lit up. “Was that all helpful?”

   “Very,” I replied, and gave him a smile that indicated our conversation was concluded.

   Reluctantly, Gerald left the purser’s office. I looked Mr. Pace in the eyes and told him, “I must speak to Mr. Farquhar.”

   “Every detail, Mr. Farquhar; nothing but the truth will solve this most confounding puzzle,” I told the man sternly.

   He sat rigidly on the divan, and nodded his head glumly.

   “For reasons unknown to you, your lover showed herself to your wife, and Dominika did not believe this to be a chance encounter. You returned to your room and fought, denying the truth, but she wouldn’t have it, and you stormed out of your room—yes?”

   “Yes,” he agreed with little emotion.

   “When you left this cabin, you went to confront Ms. Wainwright, didn’t you?” I asked.

   He sucked in a deep breath, and nodded. “Yes.”

   Mr. Pace, seated in a chair behind the path I paced, lurched forward. “What happened then?”

   “I went to her room; she was expecting me,” he admitted.

   “You were furious with her, weren’t you?” I knew the answer.

   “At first.” He swallowed hard and shrank a little.

   “Her affections distracted your anger,” I suggested, feeling quite bold.

   “That is one way to put it,” Mathew responded, unable to look into my eyes.

   “Rage turned to lust, and you were a prisoner, but for how long?” I pushed on.

   “An hour, an hour and a half…I can’t say for sure,” he admitted.

   “You returned to you room. What did you find? And remember: every detail, Mr. Farquhar.”

   “I was going to tell her that it was over. I was done lying. Neither of us loved each other anymore, so what did it matter? I found the door to the cabin unlocked, which I thought was odd. I figured she would have locked it after I left. I thought maybe she had gone off searching for me. I was relieved, thinking the blasted encounter might be put off…”

   The hardness of Mathew’s character was crumbling; I could see his eyes were turning red. He looked hopelessly to me and said, “You were right; you were right all along. I found the letter. I sealed it up in a fresh envelope, and I put it by the lamp—”

   The man gasped for a deep breath, trying not to cry.

   “He’s already admitted all of this,” said Mr. Pace.

   “There are still a few details,” I responded, then, turning back to Mathew, I asked, “Did you find anything besides the letter, anything odd?”

   His eyes fixed on mine. “Yes, a key. It was on the dressing table.”

  “What did you do with it?” I asked.

   He shrugged. “I tossed it overboard.”

  “You what?” exclaimed Mr. Pace, knowing that this key was the master passkey.

  “I tried it in the door, and it unlocked both bedrooms—”

   I interrupted Mathew. “You then tried it in the promenade doors, didn’t you?”

  Unsure of why I was asking, he responded, “Yes.”

  “You realized that you could pass through the balconies using the master key, and block the door to your room?”

   “He told us that,” said a weary Mr. Pace.

   Defensively, Mathew retorted, “Yes, but they were already unlocked.”

   I pointed toward my cabin and said, “You locked the door separating our promenades?”

  “No. The crewman put his key in the door and opened it; he didn’t realize the door was unlocked,” explained Mathew.

   “Simone Wainwright, do you know where she is?” I volleyed the question like a true detective.

   “No!” Mathew said, emphatically.

   “Just how well do you know this woman?”

   Mathew didn’t care for my question. “What the blazes does that mean?”

    Before I could explain my question, there was a hard knock on the door, and then it swung open. The captain of the ship strode inside and laid his eyes on me in the manner of a schoolmaster catching a youngster explaining to her classmates that the stork has nothing to do with where babies come from.

   “Mr. Pace, you are needed in your office. Mrs. Stayton, might I speak to you?”

   I batted my eyes and applied my sweetest of smiles. “Of course, sir.”

   “Well, I never meant to ruffle the man’s feathers…” I paused to explain the expression, but it seemed Lucy understood me.

   My friend, somewhat less green now that the storm had passed, looked at me with amazement. “The captain said that?”

   “Mind my own business, like a
good girl
!” I took a sip of sherry and then added, “I shall be writing a stern letter to the Red Star Line’s home office.”

   Lucy started to toss the blanket away from her. “I’ll type it up right now. Doesn’t he realize your talents for deduction?”

   I rested a hand on Lucy’s shoulder and replaced the blanket. “What he doesn’t realize is that we must solve this mystery while we are still at sea. Once in New York, Mr. Farquhar will be charged with the murder of not only the countess, but also Ms. Simone Wainwright.”

   “Ms. Wainwright? But why?”

   “She is his alibi, and she is missing; it is a logical conclusion.” I explained.

   Lucy asked a very sensible question, “Well, if it is such a logical conclusion, why couldn’t it have happened?”

  I looked into my friend’s eyes and asked, “If you were a big, strong man, and you killed your wife but wanted everyone to think she’d killed herself by leaping from the ship, how would you be rid of her body?”

   Without a second thought, dear Lucy replied, “I’d chuck her overboard.”

   “Yes, that is what Mathew Farquhar would have done had he killed his wife,” I agreed.

   Lucy’s brow rose, and she reached for her notebook. After jotting something down, she asked, “What of the Emerson brothers?”

  With a wry smile, I responded, “Red herrings, my friend.”

   Lucy giggled.

   From the open doorway, Yara asked in a groggy voice, “Are you two still awake?”

   We beckoned her inside the bedroom. “How are you feeling?”

   She clasped the dressing gown to her throat and replied, “Better. I was so frightened.” She gave an apologetic laugh and said, “It was my own fault. I shouldn’t have gone out there.”

   “Now that’s nonsense. You had every right to go out to the promenade,” I assured the woman.