Murder Most Posh: A Mrs. Xavier Stayton Mystery (12 page)

   “Mr. Beaumont took his sleeping tonic, and then Mrs. Beaumont waited, but not for too long. She had but one chance to silence Alisa, who, by random chance, had become a threat to her.”

   The captain could no longer hold his tongue. “But Mrs. Stayton, Mrs. Beaumont never reported her jewelry stolen.”

   “How could she?” I said with fine dramatic flair. “She entered the neighboring cabin through the promenade with her stolen master key, which she used to open all of the connecting doors. This gave the appearance that someone entered from the open deck beyond. Mrs. Beaumont took Alisa by surprise and strangled her with her bare hands, and she then put the sash of the bathrobe around the body’s neck, removing from our thoughts the idea of a powerful grip. Next, she placed the key on the dressing table so that she could grab Alisa’s jewelry; the temptation to take it all was simply too great. Perhaps Mr. Hurst knocked on the door and startled the killer turned thief, and in her haste, she left the key.”

  Lucy chimed in, “She couldn’t claim to have been robbed because when Mathew returned and found his wife missing, we all thought it was a suicide, not a murder.”

   Mr. Pace summarized another point, “Gerald Hurst came to the cabin to kill his lover and found that his work was done.”

   I raised a finger into the air. “Not quite all done, Mr. Pace. He placed the body into the empty steam truck and set out the fake letter. I’m sure, to him, it appeared that Mr. Farquhar had done the dirty work for him…”

   “If it had been Mrs. Beaumont who had the key, and left it in the room, how did Mr. Hurst get inside?”

   “I would venture to guess the door was unlocked. Mr. Farquhar left in a huff; one seldom stops to lock a door after a dramatic exit,” I suggested.

   The captain took a long breath before asking, “You’re saying on the night that this woman, whatever her actual name was, planned to fake a suicide that would then look as if her husband killed her, she was strangled to death by Maxie Beaumont.”

   “No. Ms. Wainwright should be able to validate my hunch, I believe that she and Gerald Hurst had planned for the scheme to be pulled off earlier this evening. This way, she only had to hide in the suite she’d booked under her own identity until we arrived in New York. Mr. Hurst and Ms. Wainwright had their own timetable. The finding of the body and the alleged disappearance of Simone Wainwright were all necessary to ensure Mathew Farquhar’s doom.” 

   “Balderdash, what a foolish lot they all were,” exclaimed the ship’s master.

   Mr. Pace asked the remaining question, “Why did Mrs. Beaumont do it?”

   “I have a hunch, but only she can confirm it,” I replied.

   The captain looked toward little Mr. Beaumont. “Is what Mrs. Stayton has suggested true? Is your wife’s jewelry fake?”

   Amongst a string of French words, I heard
no,
but it was said with little conviction as the man took the spectacles from above his nose and inspected the thick pieces of glass.

   “Mr. Pace, I think it is time that Mrs. Beaumont answers a few questions.”

    As the purser followed his captain’s orders, Lucy let out a loud gasp and cried, “Maxie Beaumont dropped Mr. Hurst from the ship on purpose!”

   Nodding my chin, I replied, “But, of course, Lucy. Her famous grip had kept me from tottering down a set of stairs. I find
it
hard to believe she couldn’t manage to hold on to Mr. Hurst.”

   Mr. Beaumont mumbled a string of words, and the captain replied, “With this Hurst chap drowned, your wife thought she had the deal cinched up.”

   “Captain Styles!” called the purser from the open door of our cabin.

   We all took off in the direction of Cabin A-1.

   Inside, we found the door to the promenade was wide open, and a cool breeze flooded the room with the scent of the sea.

   Catching sight of the broken-out window along the promenade, Mr. Beaumont cried out, “Maxie,
mon amour
!” and then crumpled at my side, sobbing a string of words that, although all said in French, I knew all too well.

Chapter Eleven

Lucy was the first to spot the letter left by Maxie Beaumont. The captain took it from her, and after reading it, he handed the piece of parchment to poor Mr. Beaumont.

    My inability to understand much of Jerome Beaumont’s speech did not hamper me from following the gist of what was said. (Now, here, I’m not sure that it is fair to the reader for me to summarize the events. However, I do not believe that one would consider that after four days at sea with the little man, I miraculously began to understand his strange interjection of the French language mingled with English—Canadian English, for that matter. Come to think of it, I made some mention about Canadian rifles in my previous manuscript. I hope that the country’s residents do not come to think I have anything against them, as I certainly do not.) 

     The letter left behind indicated a growing debt from a nasty gambling habit. Now retired from the life of the track, her husband’s random comments about horses and jockeys, which had so helped her addiction, had ceased. Poor Mr. Beaumont had never realized that his wife’s friendly wagers were, in fact, sizable bets. She admitted to selling off her jewelry after the last derby depleted her own stash of betting capital.  

   She did not admit to killing Alisa Sidorvo; however, she did write that she couldn’t bear seeing what the papers would make of her misdeeds. With her typical wit, she closed the letter by saying,
I’ve struck a different kind of iceberg, and I’m going down with the ship.

     The captain did his best to console Mr. Beaumont, although this was not the man’s strength. He looked like a timid fellow uncomfortable with hugging a child. (This was not meant to be a tasteless joke in regards to Mr. Beaumont’s stature.)

   The captain briskly ordered Mr. Pace to find other quarters for the new widower. He then took me by the elbow and led me back to our cabin. Rather apprehensively, Lucy followed close behind, holding Yara’s hand.

   Back in our room, the captain pointed a long finger at me and asked, “Mrs. Stayton, do you have tickets to return to South Hampton on this ship?”

   Nervously, I responded, “I do.”

   “I would like to see them.”

   The pointing finger was replaced with an out-reached palm, as Lucy went to the desk to fetch that which the man had requested.

   The captain took the two first-class tickets from my friend and examined them. “Mrs. Stayton, you are a menace to the seas. If this ship had a plank, I would have you walk it.”

   I watched with curious amazement as the man tore the tickets into pieces and allowed them to drop to the floor.

***

   Lucy and I bade farewell to Yara as we were escorted off the ship like two stowaways. An apologetic Mr. Pace explained as delicately as he might that the captain wanted us off the ship before we created any other disaster.

   After being rushed through customs, we were bustled off the ship, and before I knew it, sweet Mr. Pace was shaking my hand as I settled in the backseat of a taxi.

   Well wishes were exchanged, and then the motorcar drove on.

   “How did you know it all had to do with Mrs. Beaumont’s jewelry?”

   I was glad that Lucy asked. “After
the countess’s
death, Maxie was without her jewelry. She ceased to mention it and wear any. She wore silk scarves, and also bought Yara’s marble necklace to distract the keen observer.”

   “Oh dear, she was wearing that necklace when we frightened them out of their room.”

   I knew what Lucy was thinking: Maxie ‘Grip’ Beaumont had delivered one more necklace to the bottom of the Atlantic, this time in person.

   Rather spontaneously, Lucy remarked, “Mr. Hurst deserved his fate, and I suppose that it’s fitting that Maxie Beaumont joined him.”

  I had no response to my friend’s statement. It hadn’t been my desire to see them perish; I only wanted to decipher the truth. There was plenty of guilt to go around. Mathew Farquhar was an adulterer, Simone Wainwright was an adulteress and a would-be accomplice to murder, and for that matter, so were Alisa and Gerald.

   I felt a wave of melancholy. Poor Mr. Jerome Beaumont, he’d been innocent of all guilt, and now he would be punished with public shame and the sadness of losing his beloved wife.

   From my purse, I removed my little silver snuff box and took out a clove. Lucy tended to ignore this action, but on this occasion, she asked in a concerned tone, “Are you all right, dear?”

   “Such futility,” I replied.

   We arrived at our hotel, and I was seized by a moment of panic. “Our luggage?”

   Stepping out of the car, Lucy pointed toward the taxi that had pulled in behind us. I realized that Mr. Pace had instructed the Red Star Line’s staff to fill a second motorcar with our belongings. I am embarrassed to say, it appeared that they barely fit in the automobile.

   We walked on past several of the hotel porters, who eyed the laden vehicle with some trepidation.

   I wanted very much to make our way to the room and arrange my photographs of my dear Xavier on the mantel. His presence would bring me much-needed solace after the whirlwind of misadventure we’d braved.

   Lucy saw to the business of checking us into the hotel and we were quickly escorted to our suite. Deprived of sleep, Lucy and I agreed that a nap was in order, and we retired to our adjoining rooms. Neither of us awoke until late the following morning. 

   After Lucy placed a call to room service for brunch, she said, “Once we have eaten, would you like for me to place a call to Mr. Orenstein to set up an appointment?”

   Yes, Harold Orenstein, my prospective agent, my next storm to weather. “I think not. We should take him by surprise.”

   There was an unexpected knock on the door. Curious, I said to Lucy, “No one can scramble an egg that fast.”

   Standing in the hallway was a chipper young porter, who greeted me, “Morning, Mrs. Stayton. I have a few messages for you.”  

   With keen interest, I took the telegraphs, while Lucy appeared beside me with what I hoped was an adequate tip for the young man.

  “Who are they from?” she asked.

   I opened the first one and replied, “Michael Emerson.”

   “What does he have to say?” Lucy was very excited.

   I read the message aloud. “Dear Mrs. Stayton and Ms. Wallace, I had hoped to thank you in person for your assistance in regards to the incident with my brother and Miss Yara. I was unable to locate you once the ship reached port, but Mr. Pace was kind enough to let me know which hotel you had departed to.

   “Rory and I are setting off to the countryside now. He is the happiest that I have ever seen him. I have high hopes that this will be a tremendous improvement in the quality of his life.

   “My brother and I thank you both. May God bless you. Michael Emerson.”

   Lucy’s eyes looked a bit misty as she said, “Oh, how nice.”

   I opened the next. “Mr. Farquhar,” I told her.

  “If it weren’t for you, they’d be measuring his neck for a rope,” Lucy commented, unable to conceal her disdain for the adulterous fellow.

   “Dear Mrs. Stayton, I will forever be indebted to you for saving my life. I certainly hope that you never personally experience the sheer villainy that I have survived due to your quest for the truth…” My words trailed off, as the message became far more personal, far more in depth, than I thought Mathew Farquhar capable of composing.

   After refolding the telegraph, I dried a tear from my cheek.

   Lucy looked away, and seeing that the man’s words had touched me, my sweet friend had nothing more unpleasant to say about Mr. Farquhar.

   Our meal arrived, and we ate quickly, then departed for the office of Mr. Harold Orenstein.

***

   Sitting in a large wood-paneled outer office, a smart-looking secretary greeted us.

   Returning her pleasantries, I told her that I wished to see Mr. Orenstein.

   The woman’s shoulders slumped, and she said, “I am terribly sorry, but Mr. Orenstein is on vacation. He’s traveling abroad.”

   I felt my heart quiver, or perhaps the scrambled eggs did a little jig. “May I ask where he is going?”

  The friendly woman replied, “London. He’s traveling on the
Olivia
. I believe she sets sail this afternoon.”

   Lucy remarked, “Oh, dear.”

   The secretary’s eyes grew wide, and she grabbed for the newspapers on her desk. “You are Mrs. X, aren’t you?”

   Finding my voice, I replied, “Yes, that’s what the papers called me.”

   The woman handed me one of the newspapers and a pen. “May I have your autograph?”

   Dumbly, I took the paper and read the largest of the headlines.

Counterfeit Countess Murdered on the R.M.S
Olivia
!

   The excited woman snapped her fingers and said, “The ship doesn’t depart for another hour or so; perhaps you can catch up with Mr. Orenstein if you are traveling light!”

  I heard Lucy wince, and then the thought of our baggage caused me to feel a little strangling sensation.

   The helpful secretary stood from behind her desk and pointed to the next headline. “If you don’t mind, you could sign your name here.”

    I glanced to the bold print beside her slim finger.

Mrs. X nearly scuttles legendary luxury liner!

   Quite humiliated, I said, “These newsmen have it all wrong!”

   Lucy leaned over my shoulder and pointed to the next headline, farther down the front page. “Indeed they do; look at that. We both know that Mrs. Beaumont was wearing them when she killed herself!”

   I looked to the headline and felt quite awful that I was not able to suppress a shameful smile derived from Lucy’s faux pas.  

The Famed Maxie ‘Grip’ Beaumont loses her marbles at Sea!