MOSTLY MURDER: Till Death: a mystery anthology Page 9

  And then he smiles—a slow smile that I love, a smile he reserves just for me.

  “You waited up for me, my dear wife?”

  I am breathless, doubts and questions colliding in my mind. “I did.” Do I demand to know where he went? Am I to be a petulant wife?

  He continues up the stairs, and as he nears, I smell a bit of brandy, but it’s not overly strong. And he isn’t swaying or stumbling like a drunkard. Before I can analyze what the marks on his sleeves might be, he wraps an arm about me and steers me down the hallway toward our bedchamber.

  “You are sweet, Vivian, to worry about me so,” Simon says in a low voice.

  A pleasant shiver runs along my skin, warm at his touch, yet a bit of wariness accompanies it. I try another question. “Were you out walking? Perhaps riding? Thinking of your business dealings?”

  His laugh is soft. “Yes, I was,” he says, not exactly answering my question. “And now I’ve made you lose sleep.” He stops me and spins me toward him. I nearly drop the oil lamp that has long since burned out. The corridor is dim, the only light coming from the space by the stairs. But his blue eyes are bright enough to capture my own. His eyes look less tired now, and perhaps I’ve imagined the redness I thought I saw.

  “I can’t have my bride miss her beauty sleep,” he says, kissing me on the forehead then pulling me close. “In the future, when I become a wanderer in the night, do not worry.”

  I don’t know what he means about being a wanderer. He leads me by the hand back to our bedchamber, and even as I finally fall asleep in the new dawn of morning, I can’t forget my apprehension.

  SIX

  The invitations are endless, and I sort through them by making two piles as I sit in my private drawing room. In the first pile go invitations that I must—or want—to accept, which consists mostly of ladies’ luncheons. The second pile comprises invitations that I’ll consult with Simon about.

  We have been back in New York for two months now, and the hot stickiness of summer is in full bloom. Simon was gone again last night and twice the week before. I said nothing to him, but this morning I discovered that he’d crawled back into his own bed. And with noon approaching, I finally hear him walking around upstairs. I straighten the stacks and then wait.

  I tell myself I should be glad that I’m the one who Simon seeks out first thing when he awakens, and that he is always pleased to see me. Frankly, he spoils me, but he still hasn’t told me what he’s doing on the nights he leaves.

  “Vivian,” Simon’s voice sails through the room, and I rise from my chair to greet him. He crosses to me, and kisses my cheek, lingering for a moment, and I feel tingles rush through me.

  I try to tamp them down, because I should focus on discovering where my husband goes at night. But Simon has a way of making me forget what my intentions are, and I become swept up in all that is him.

  “Invitations?” he asks, stepping toward the desk where my two neat piles lay.

  I explain the separated piles, and he quirks a brow at me in amusement, then he sorts through the invitations for the ladies’ luncheons. “Mrs. Lovell’s is tomorrow afternoon,” he observes. “Are you going to her home?”

  “Yes, I’d like to,” I say, wondering at his interest. “Her husband is soon to be one of your partners.”

  “Correct,” Simon says with a smile, setting the invitation back on the stack. “She is a quiet woman, very withdrawn. I think she could use a friend.”

  My husband is very observant and very sweet. “I quite agree,” I say. And we spend the next half hour going through the rest of the invitations and deciding which ones we are able to accept.

  By the time Simon leaves my drawing room, he has promised to accompany me to the Phillips for an evening musicale. “I’ll return before the appointed hour.” He gives me a quick kiss, then is gone.

  I smile to myself, pleased with my married life for the most part. I push any further worries to the back of my mind.

  SEVEN

  “Simon,” I call out in a breathless voice as I enter his bedchamber. I have run up the stairs, my full skirts clutched in my hand. He is with his valet, John, preparing for the evening musicale, and both men turn.

  I look from one to another, and Simon says to John, “I’ll call for you in a moment.”

  John nods, glances at me, then exits the room.

  “I’ve just returned from visiting with Mrs. Lovell,” I say, even though I now think of her as poor Bethany.

  Simon’s blue gaze is curious as he watches me, listening.

  “As you suggested, I took extra care to befriend her, and we spent time together after the other women had left the luncheon,” I say, remembering the beautiful white and gold parlor we sat in while we shared our backgrounds. “It was when she was pointing out the miniature portraits of her family members that I noticed a dark bruising above her wrists. When I asked her about it, she acted as if she didn’t know what I was talking about.”

  Simon grasped my hand, concern in his gaze, and I found myself clinging to his strong warm fingers.

  “When I pressed my case, Bethany broke down,” I say, tears coming to my own eyes, and my voice hitching with emotion. “She told me that her husband… Mr. Lovell… can be quite strict and controlling.”

  My shoulders begin to shake, and I start to cry, thinking of how awful Bethany’s married life has been. She is so sweet and elegant and her husband seems so dignified. But all is not always as it appears.

  Simon pulls me into his arms and holds me, whispering soothing words.

  “I’ll find a way to speak to Mr. Lovell,” he says. “But for now, your friendship will be invaluable to Mrs. Lovell.”

  I nod against Simon’s chest, knowing that he’ll have to change into a fresh shirt. I’ve quite soiled his current one. Somehow I need to pull myself together, trust in my husband, and attend the Phillips’ musicale as if we have no concerns in the world.

  EIGHT

  The silence wakes me, and I turn immediately toward Simon to find his side of the bed empty. He is gone. I push up onto my elbows and scan the dark room. The moon is waning tonight, and there’s only a sliver of light across the floor. The door adjoining our bedchamber is closed, but I can’t remember if it was open or closed when we tumbled into bed the night before, Simon scooping me into his arms and kissing me.

  I listen to the sounds of the house for a moment and hear nothing. I know that it’s futile to look in the library or his adjoining bedchamber. My husband must be on one of his night walks.

  I pull the covers about me and close my eyes, trying to get back to sleep so that I’m not a tired hostess for all the commitments I have the following day. But my mind will not rest, and my stomach twists and turns at the questions running through my head as I wonder what Simon does on his nightly walks.

  And then I hear a quiet click. I sit up again, not moving, not breathing, but listening intently. A creak, then a whisper of cloth, and a light spills beneath the crack of Simon’s door.

  Before I can talk myself out of it, I climb out of bed and reach for my robe. Tying it securely about me, I walk barefoot across my floor and open the adjoining door. My breath stalls at the sight of my husband, his shirt stripped and discarded on the floor, and his naked back sporting several prominent bruises. He’s bent over the washbasin, scrubbing his face.

  I gasp, and the sound causes him to turn. His eyes are wild, his hair a mess, his jaw clenched, his lips twisted, and there are more bruises on his neck.

  “What’s happened?” I say, rooted to the place where I stand in the doorway. He reminds me of a wild animal, and fear shoots through me—fear of my own husband. “Were you mugged?”

  His eyes flash away from me, and his gaze goes to the shirt on the floor. I look at the shirt as well, and a new horror rises in my throat. A great deal of blood stains the shirt.

  “Simon?” I whisper. My body has started to tremble.

  He’s looking at me again, and something almost imperceptibl
e changes in his eyes. They are calmer now, and his face relaxes back into something that I recognize. He reaches for a nearby towel and rubs it along his face and neck. “Yes,” he says in a raspy voice. “I was mugged near the park.”

  “Oh my poor dear.” I move toward him.

  He holds up his hand. “I need to get cleaned up.”

  I hang back as he dips his hands into the water time and time again and proceeds to clean his face, neck, and torso. And when he is finally clean and has dried himself, he picks up the discarded shirt and rolls it into a tight bundle. “I should burn this.”

  “What happened, Simon?” I ask, still trembling from distress that my husband was attacked and injured. What if the outcome had been worse?

  “I didn’t get a good look at the man.” He glances at me before he opens the door to the hallway. “I’ll return in a moment.”

  I sink onto the edge of his bed while I wait. I look over at the basin of water, darkened now with his washing off of dirt and blood. The sight of it constricts my stomach enough that I think I might grow sick. I look away and focus on my breathing. But that only makes my head throb.

  When Simon returns, it seems that ages have passed, and he takes my hand, pulling me to my feet. He leads me into my bedroom. It’s a long time before I fall asleep to my husband’s steady breathing.

  NINE

  Mrs. Phillips calls on me soon after the breakfast hour. I am surprised to have a visitor so early, but when I see her pale face, I shoo the maid out of the drawing room.

  “It’s so terrible,” Mrs. Phillips says, her round form quivering as tears spill down her cheeks.

  “Whatever has happened?” I cross to her and take her hands in mine.

  “Mr. Lovell—have you not heard?” she asks.

  I shake my head and wonder what news she’s brought. My heart starts to pound before she speaks again.

  “He was found strangled in the stable behind his house,” Mrs. Phillips says in a choked voice.

  The first thought that cuts through my mind is sympathy for his wife Bethany. Although her husband was abusing her, as a widow she will be devastated.

  “The police have yet to find the… murderer,” Mrs. Phillips’ tone drops to a whisper on the last word.

  I shudder along with her, and then it’s as if the sky has suddenly filled with clouds, and the drawing room had grown dark. When Simon returned last night, he had bruises on his neck. Had the same man who’d killed Mr. Lovell attacked my Simon? Had I almost lost my husband?

  Simon promised me he would put in a report with the police this morning. Perhaps he is there now and they’re comparing the two events.

  I lead Mrs. Phillips to the sofa, and we sit together, clasping hands, as we try to decide how to help our friend Bethany Lovell.

  A maid knocks and enters, bringing the society paper as I’ve asked her to do each morning.

  The headlines scream the announcement of Mr. Lovell’s tragic death. I scan the two articles on the front page. One details how Mr. Lovell’s body was discovered, another says that there are several suspects, including Mrs. Lovell. Not for a moment do I think that someone as sweet and shy as Bethany could commit murder.

  I turn to Mrs. Phillips. “We must stop the delivery of the newspapers to the Lovell’s home for the time being,” I say. “News of the investigation and other details of her husband’s death printed in the papers will be too distressing.”

  “I can send a note to the newspaper office,” Mrs. Phillips says, drying her eyes.

  “What about Bethany’s family?” I ask. “What sort of help does she have?”

  “Her parents and father-in-law are in good health.” Mrs. Phillips says. “They will be putting together the funeral arrangements.”

  “We must be Bethany’s support then.” Firm resolve courses through me. While the Lovell family members take care of the details of the funeral, I can be Bethany’s friend.

  TEN

  “I don’t want you over there,” Simon tells me that afternoon as I am preparing to visit Bethany.

  I turn from my vanity mirror. “Why ever not? She’s grieving and needs a friend.”

  Simon crosses the room and places his warm hands on my shoulders. He leans down to kiss my cheek. “You may write to her, but the house and grounds are still an investigation area for the police. Until they finish their examination, it’s not a good idea for us to be there in the way.”

  What he says makes sense but I feel sorry for Bethany, in that mansion of hers, unable to receive friends who would comfort her. “I’ll send her a note then,” I say, wondering if I can be satisfied with just that.

  I look up at Simon, wondering why he is home so early.

  “Did you meet with the police?” I ask.

  His eyes seem to blank out for a moment, and then he says, “I did. I gave them as many details as I could, but I’m afraid I can’t identify the man.”

  I take a deep breath. “What if the man who attacked you was the one who killed Mr. Lovell?” My voice cracks as the emotions spills out.

  Simon’s smile is soft, and he draws me to my feet and wraps me in his arms. When he is holding me like this, it’s hard to remember my fears and worries. When I’m in Simon’s arms everything is all right in my world.

  “Whoever it was, the police are now on the lookout.” He runs a hand along my back in a comforting motion, and I close my eyes and try to forget my fears. Here, now, my husband is safe. I need to be grateful for that. “Promise me you’ll stay away from the Lovell’s home for now,” he says again.

  If I wasn’t feeling so relaxed, I might have protested. As it is, I’m determined to send a note right away to Bethany. But Simon distracts me, and before I know it, it’s time to prepare for our dinner guests. Although such a terrible thing happened in the Lovell family, Simon tells me that we must continue forward with all of our plans.

  I feel odd about hosting guests when I can’t imagine what Bethany is going through. She and her husband were supposed to come tonight as well. But it takes only moments for the maids to clear away the two extra place settings.

  ELEVEN

  The music, the laughter, and the combined scents of ladies’ perfumes begin to create a throbbing in my head. I’ve drunk too much wine, that I know with assurance. And I’ve smiled for far too long, pretending that I’m enjoying our guests and that I’m not begging inside for them to go home.

  The men are in deep conversation, likely discussing the Lovells, and the women are discussing the upcoming horse race—the first of the season.

  My gaze flits to Simon, to see how he is faring. His eyes are bright and attentive, his posture erect, his high collar hiding his bruised neck, and I realize that perhaps I’m the only one in the room feeling weighed down. I desperately want to make my excuses and return to my bedchamber, but as hostess, I cannot. Finally, when the midnight hour draws near, our guests make their motions to leave and it’s all I can do not to push them out the door. After the last goodbyes are given, Simon touches my elbow. “I’ll be up later.”

  As a recent bride, I should probably feel affronted, but my weariness overrides any other potential emotion. “Goodnight, love,” I say, and start up the stairs.

  I pause once halfway up the stairs, catching my breath as if I’m overtired, and wonder if I’m becoming ill. Continuing up the stairs, I think I might sleep in my gown and not take the time to remove it before crawling into bed. The shock and the emotions of the day have taken their toll.

  I open the bedchamber door, and as I reach the bed, I realize I’ve walked into Simon’s room. My foot knocks against something hard beneath his bed, and I bite back a sharp cry. I move, slowly, and turn on the lamp by his bed, then crouch down.

  It’s only a book. Probably something that Simon has been reading in bed in the mornings. I pick up the book and turn it over, curious to see that both sides are blank. There is no title. So I open the pages, expecting to see rows of black inked text. But it’s a handwritten ledger o
f sorts.

  No. Not a ledger, but a diary.

  I begin to read and know that while I’m reading Simon’s handwriting, I do not recognize the voice of the person writing. Some pages are very rushed and disjointed. Many words are spelled wrong, as if the person hasn’t even graduated from primary school. I turn to the next page, and the writing becomes more and more sloppy.

  Perhaps it isn’t Simon’s handwriting after all, for on the second page, the words are chilling. But then the script becomes neater and more legible. I sink to the bed and re-read the page, as if to convince myself that I read the words right the first time. He describes in detail the murders that have happened around the city, as if he’s a reporter or a police officer. As if he knows even the most minute details.

  I turn page after page of accounts. I am no longer tired, every bit of my body is on alert, but my head continues to throb. When I arrive at the last written page, my breath stalls. Simon has written about Mr. Lovell. Here, the handwriting is unmistakable.

  Cause of death: asphyxiation by strangulation

  Time of death: 2:15 in the morning

  James Lovell and I argued about his treatment of his wife, which had been brought to my attention by my own wife. James laughed at first and tried to deny his abusive ways. But when I plied him with more brandy, his tongue became loose. It took only a half hour for James to tell me in detail the way that he keeps his home in order. I was angry upon arrival at the Lovell home, but then I became livid. I changed the subject to the new stallion James purchased last week. Even though it was well after midnight, I convinced him to show me his stables. It was there that I took the opportunity to avenge a helpless woman.

  The door to the bedchamber swings open, and I snap the book closed. Simon stands there, staring at me.