The Adventuress (16 page)

“Excellent question,” Margaret said. “He would have thought this a capital joke.”

“Yes,” I said, “but he was at the boat before us, and the guards did confirm his departure through the gate. Would he have had time to do it?”

“He could have arranged it in advance,” Margaret said.

“I think, Kallista, it is best that we put the incident behind us. No harm would have come to you—despite Mademoiselle Wells's extremely dramatic cries of horror. Anyone who knows you is well aware of the fact that you would never have fainted in the circumstances. The soldiers, perhaps, did it to amuse themselves. These military men are not always so civilized as one would hope.”

“You are quite right, and there was no lasting harm done. My hands are not badly hurt—I did not need them bandaged—and it shall make for an excellent story.” The ferry had left the island far behind, parting the choppy lapis waters of the Mediterranean before us. Other vessels crisscrossed the Rade de Cannes around us, their passengers lining up on the decks to take in the spectacular views of sea, coast, hills, and distant mountains. Before long, we could start to make out the Hotel Britannia on the shore, and I knew that we would soon be back at the Quai Laubeuf. I did not entirely regret the end of this particular adventure.

Before we arrived, Cécile soundly scolded Jack and Mr. Fairchild for their unkind interpretation of her words, and told them that they each owed her a bottle of champagne by way of apology. They agreed without argument, and Jack suggested that I should receive the same bounty. Soon we were all laughing again, the mood restored.

“I do not like that island,” Mr. Fairchild said, leaning next to me on the railing as the boat approached the dock at Cannes. “No one is going to convince me that you would have staged that stunt, Lady Emily. I am heartily sorry about what you overheard—please believe me. I was only shocked at the idea that Cécile had so little faith in you. Of course it had to be a misunderstanding. I ought never to have given the notion even the slightest credit.”

“Thank you, Mr. Fairchild.”

“And what could you have meant to accomplish by doing such a thing?” he continued. “Would it not have been more dramatic to wait for someone to come looking for you than to rescue yourself? The whole thing is very odd. It is as if the goal of the instigator was to make you look bad.”

“It doesn't matter now,” I said. “Cécile is right—some soldiers may have done it, thinking it would be amusing.”

Jack, standing on my other side, frowned. “No. A soldier would not find that amusing. Take it from one who would know.”

*   *   *

Colin and I retired to our room shortly after dinner that night, neither of us in the mood for prolonged social interaction. My husband undid his tie, letting it fall loose on his white shirt, and tugged at his collar. “I am concerned about what happened on the island,” he said. “I cannot make the slightest sense of it.”

“I think it was Augustus,” I said, and detailed for him all my encounters with him.

“There is no question that he is strange,” Colin said, “malicious, even, but I do not see why he would attempt to harm you.” He opened the doors to our balcony and stepped outside. Below us, candles danced on the terrace, their light catching on the myriad diamond necklaces adorning the ladies sitting there. Lights from boats dotted the harbor, gliding along as if by magic, the vessels themselves hidden in darkness.

“A stroll through town wasn't my only purpose the day you were all picnicking,” I said, pulling a wrought-iron chair away from the matching table and turning it so that it faced the water. I confessed to him my visits to the apothecaries.

“Are you suggesting that Augustus Wells objects to you asking questions about Neville's suicide?” Colin asked.

“What if it wasn't a simple suicide?”

“Neville killed himself, Emily, there is nothing more to it.” The silver smoke from his cigar gracefully snaked up to the deep navy sky. “And if there were, it would be down to the Sûreté to deal with the investigation. We are not here in any sort of official capacity, and Neville's death is not likely to draw the palace's attention.”

“We have chosen to pursue cases on our own before, and we could now,” I said. “Amity sobbed through the funeral. What if she considered him more than just her fiancé's friend? And what if Mr. Neville poisoned the entire bottle because he expected Jeremy would find his body and then steel his nerves with a fortifying drink? What if he intentionally left the rest of the whisky where he knew Jeremy would drink it, ensuring that neither of them would have the woman they both loved?”

“We have exactly no evidence to support this theory,” Colin said. “Suppose it is true—Neville failed to do anything but take his own life. Would you have his reputation so slandered? And for what?”

“It is important to know the truth.”

“If Neville fancied himself in love with Amity and we expose that now, it will only serve to make Amity feel culpable for his death.”

“Maybe she was culpable,” I said. “She might have encouraged—”

“Stop.” He rose from his seat and stood behind me, putting his hands firmly on my shoulders. “Even if she begged him to elope with her and then changed her mind and refused to ever see him again, she is not responsible for his death. No one bears that blame but the man himself.”

“You are right.” I sighed, removed the cigar from his hand, took a long drag before returning it to him, and went back inside, where I flopped onto the bed. “I do not know why I am having such difficulties accepting what happened.”

“Let us analyze what is troubling you,” Colin said, lying next to me. “First, we have an entire bottle of poisoned whisky rather than a glass.”

“Second, we have the use of strychnine, a poison not readily available in Cannes, which suggests it was purchased before the start of this holiday.”

“And you believe Neville would not have deliberately planned his suicide to coincide with an engagement celebration?” Colin asked.

I stared at the ceiling. “Not necessarily. Let us imagine that he and Jeremy had some sort of spectacular falling out, and that it left Mr. Neville furious. Jeremy, with his carefree attitudes, did not so much as notice how deeply his friend took their argument, and invited him to this party.”

“Neville, outraged, decides to show Bainbridge once and for all that his disregard for everyone around him is unacceptable,” Colin said. “He decides to take his own life, not only because of the argument, but because of other things in his life that may have been catalyzed by it—the inability to pay debts, that sort of thing—and to do so in his friend's room, by poisoning his friend's favorite whisky.”

“No one who has spent more than half an hour with Jeremy would ever believe him capable of understanding the meaning of such a gesture unless it were accompanied by a very detailed explanation,” I said, rolling onto my side to face my husband.

“What if Neville did leave a note?” Colin asked. “And someone removed it from the room before the maid found him.”

“A moment. A maid found him?” I asked, sitting up.

“Yes. She had been sent up with extra pillows.”

“At five o'clock in the morning?” I asked.

“Not by Neville. He had already been dead for at least an hour.”

“Who requested the pillows?”

“The desk clerk said Bainbridge did, on his way into the hotel.”

“Jeremy didn't arrive until we were down for breakfast,” I said. “Are we to believe that he returned to the hotel, requested pillows, and went out straightaway?”

“Evidently he did,” Colin said. “I asked him about it.”

“Why would he do that?”

“He said that he was planning to walk along the beach and was afraid that Augustus might be lurking about somewhere—he does have a way of popping up at the most inconvenient times—and he wanted to see if he was in the hotel. He inquired at the desk, where he was told that the younger Mr. Wells had already retired to his room, and threw in the request for pillows as an attempt to make his question less memorable.”

This differed from the account of the evening he had given me. He had not mentioned pillows. “Why would he care if Augustus saw him on the beach?”

“That, my dear girl, is a question I am not at liberty to answer.”

“So he was with someone—presumably one of the dancers—and did not want to be discovered. The maid would have known that the duke was not in his room, and would have been instructed to go in and leave the pillows. If Jeremy had not asked for them, he would have found Mr. Neville upon his return.”

“Precisely.”

“Pillows? Really?” I looked at him in disbelief.

“I agree. It is inane, and wholly superfluous. The desk clerk would never have thought it odd for him to inquire after another guest.”

“Yet by acting as he did, Jeremy may have saved his own life. Had he found Mr. Neville, he almost certainly would have poured a glass of the tainted whisky for himself,” I said. “Our friend is most fortunate.”

 

Amity

Cannes, present

Chauncey Neville. Amity hated the man. Despised him. Wished she could shake him until his teeth chattered. That, of course, was not possible now that he was dead, and it was not—not at all—that Amity did not feel deeply sorry that the man had ended his own life. That was a horrible, unspeakable tragedy. She had, after all, liked Chauncey. He was handsome and sweet, always ready with a witty, though quiet, observation if one was able to coax him past his shyness. He even, on occasion, had ribbed Emily about her love of ancient Greece. Kindly, of course. He had been so downright kind it was nothing short of irritating.

It did boggle the mind that a lady—no matter how beautiful and how well-dressed—who spent most of her time buried in the study of ancient texts could attract the attention and admiration of so many gentlemen. Amity credited Earl Bromley for that—his rank ensured that everyone would adore his daughter, no matter what awkward interests she chose to pursue. Still, Jeremy? Amity would never understand their friendship—they seemed to have very little in common—but she accepted it, and although it was proving somewhat more difficult than she had anticipated, she was confident she would soon count Emily among her own closest friends. She only hoped she could do so without being forced to read
The Iliad
or some other wretched poem.

Now all that mattered was doing everything necessary to keep Jeremy's spirits up in the wake of his friend's death. The funeral had been a poky little affair, with no outward signs of grief from Chauncey's friends. Stiff upper lip and all that. Amity was the only one who had cried, and she was ashamed to admit, even to herself, she was crying more because her party had been spoiled than because Chauncey was dead.

It sounded cold; she knew that. But no one had forced him to drink that whisky. It was a wholly selfish act, spoiling all of their fun. Jeremy had balked at the idea of staying in Cannes after the burial, but she had insisted, and called on his English sensibilities. Surely the weakness of one man should not destroy those who remain? He had acquiesced, of course, and had convinced the others to stay. Jeremy would never deny her anything; it was his most attractive quality.

 

11

Colin, having learned that Mr. Neville's luggage had not yet been sent to his brother, employed all of his skills in the art of persuasion to convince the hotel manager that we needed to search it. It proved no small feat, as Monsieur Fortier showed admirable dedication to respecting the privacy of his guests. In the end my husband convinced him (it would take the strength of a demigod at least to resist his dizzying logic), but the manager asked that we keep our actions quiet. We agreed and followed him to a storage room in the basement of the hotel.

“I would never allow this if Monsieur Neville were still alive,” Monsieur Fortier said.

“Of course not,” Colin replied. “This is an unusual situation, and I very much appreciate your discretion.”

“I should perhaps tell you…” The man hesitated, and rubbed his hands together. “You are not the first to have asked to inspect Monsieur Neville's luggage.”

“Who else did?” I asked.

“Another member of your party. Monsieur Fairchild.”

“Did you allow him to do so?”

“I most certainly did not,” Monsieur Fortier said. “Unlike you, he had no sort of official identification. As I have already told you, even with that I would have hesitated were Monsieur Neville still alive. I take the privacy of my guests seriously.”

“You are a good man,” Colin said.

Mr. Neville's luggage consisted of a single trunk and a small suitcase. We had the keys to them both—they had been in his room and Monsieur Fortier had kept them in a separate envelope to send to his brother, along with the bags. We started by opening the suitcase. Its contents were unremarkable: toiletry items, a shaving kit, several books, a pair of binoculars, and various other personal items. I flipped through the books while Colin applied himself to inspecting the trunk.

“Clothes, boots, hats. Surprisingly, some pieces of local pottery. I suppose he bought them as souvenirs.”

“That is quite sad,” I said.

“It is. Anything between the pages of the books?”

“Nothing yet. There is a packet of writing paper and envelopes, but it does not look as if any of them have been used. I wonder to whom he had planned to write?”

“You are picturing him as lonely only because he has no family of which to speak—evidenced by the decision to bury him here,” Colin said. “That does not mean he did not have a life full of friends.”

“Did he have a sweetheart, do you know?” I asked.

“I do not. Bainbridge would be a better source of information than I,” Colin said. “I did not know him well.”