This Side of Murder

Book 1: Verity Kent Mystery

by Anna Lee Huber

Genres: Historical Mysteries

Synopsis

England, 1919. Verity Kent's grief over the loss of her husband pierces anew when she receives a cryptic letter, suggesting her beloved Sidney may have committed treason before his untimely death.

Lured to Umbersea Island to attend the engagement party of one of Sidney's fellow officers, Verity mingles among the men her husband once fought beside, discovering dark secrets and the shattering possibility that her husband may not have been the man she thought he was....

Release date: September 26, 2017

Publisher: Kensington Books

Print pages: 300

Sample

They say when you believe you’re about to die your entire life passes before your eyes in a flurry of poignant images, but all I could think of, rather absurdly, was that I should have worn the blue hat. Well, that and that my sister would never forgive me for proving our mother right.

Mother had never approved of Sidney teaching me how to drive his motorcar that last glorious summer before the war. Or of my gadding about London and the English countryside in his prized Pierce-Arrow while he was fighting in France. Or of my decision to keep the sleek little Runabout instead of selling it after a German bullet so callously snatched him from me. In my mother’s world of rules and privilege, women—even wealthy widows—did not own motorcars, and they certainly didn’t drive them. She’d declared it would be the death of me. And so it might have been, had it not been for the other driver’s bizarre bonnet ornament.

Once my motorcar had squealed to a stop, a bare two inches from the fender of the other vehicle, and I’d peeled open my eyes, I could see that the ornament was some sort of pompon. Tassels of bright orange streamers affixed to the Rolls-Royce’s more traditional silver lady. When racing down the country roads, I supposed they trailed out behind her like ribbons of flame, but at a standstill they drooped across the grille rather like limp seagrass.

I heard the other driver open his door, and decided it was time to stop ogling his peculiar taste in adornment and apologize. For there was no denying our near collision was my fault. I had been driving much too fast for the winding, shrubbery-lined roads. I was tempted to blame Pinky, but I was the dolt who’d chosen to follow his directions even though I’d known they would be rubbish.

When my childhood friend Beatrice had invited me to visit her and her husband, Pinky, at their home in Winchester, I’d thought it a godsend, sparing me the long drive from London to Poole in one shot. I hadn’t seen either of them since before the war, other than a swift bussing of Pinky’s cheek as I passed him at the train station one morning, headed back to the front. All in all, it had been a lovely visit despite the evident awkwardness we all felt at Sidney’s absence.

In any case, although Pinky was a capital fellow, he’d always been a bit of a dodo. I couldn’t help but wonder if he’d survived the war simply by walking in circles—as he’d had me driving—never actually making it to the front.

I adjusted my rather uninspired cream short-brimmed hat over my auburn castle-bobbed tresses and stepped down into the dirt and gravel lane, hoping the mud wouldn’t damage my blue kid leather pumps. My gaze traveled over the beautiful pale yellow body of the Rolls-Royce and came to rest on the equally attractive man rounding her bonnet. Dark blond hair curled against the brim of his hat, and when his eyes lifted from the spot where our motorcars nearly touched, I could see they were a soft gray. I was relieved to see they weren’t bright with anger. Charming a man out of a high dudgeon had never been my favorite pastime.

One corner of his mouth curled upward in a wry grin. “Well, that was a near thing.”

“Only if you’re not accustomed to driving in London.” I offered him my most disarming smile as I leaned forward to see just how close it had been. “But I do apologize. Clearly, I shouldn’t have been in such a rush.”

“Oh, I’d say these hedgerows hold some of the blame.” He lifted aside his gray tweed coat to slide his hands into his trouser pockets as he nodded toward the offending shrubbery. “It’s almost impossible to see around them. Otherwise, I would have seen you coming. It’s hard to miss a Pierce-Arrow,” he declared, studying the currant-red paint and brass fittings of my motorcar.

“Yes, well, that’s very good of you to say so.”

“Nonsense. And in any case, there’s no harm done.”

“Thanks to your colorful bonnet ornament.”

He followed my pointed stare to the pompon attached to his silver lady, his wry grin widening in furtive amusement.

“There must be a story behind it.”

“It just seemed like it should be there.”

“And that’s all there is to it?”

He shrugged. “Does there need to be more?”

I tilted my head, trying to read his expression. “I suppose not. Though, I’ll own I’m curious where you purchased such a bold piece of frippery.”

“Oh, I didn’t.” His eyes sparkled with mischief. “My niece kindly let me borrow it. Just for this occasion.”

I couldn’t help but laugh. Had he been one of my London friends I would have accused him of having a jest, but with this man I wasn’t certain, and told him so. “I’m not sure if you’re quite serious or simply having a pull at me.”

“Good.” He rocked back on his heels, clearly having enjoyed our exchange.

I shook my head at this teasing remark. He truly was a rather appealing fellow, though there was something in his features—perhaps the knife-blade sharpness of his nose—that kept him from being far too handsome for any woman’s good. Which was a blessing, for combined with his artless charm and arresting smile he might have had quite a devastating effect. He still might, given a more susceptible female. Unfortunately, I had far too much experience with charming, attractive men to ever fold so quickly.

I pegged him at being just shy of thirty, and from his manner of speech and cut of clothes, undoubtedly a gentleman. From old money, if I wagered a guess. A well-bred lady can always tell these things. After all, we’re taught to sniff out the imposters from the cradle, though it had begun to matter less and less, no matter what my mother and her like said about the nouveau riche.

He pulled a cigarette case from his pocket and offered me one, which I declined, before lighting one for himself. “If I may be so bold . . .” he remarked after taking a drag. “Where precisely were you rushing to?”

“Poole Harbor. There’s a boat I’m supposed to meet.” I sighed. “And I very much fear I’ve missed it.”

“To Umbersea Island?”

I blinked in surprise. “Why, yes.” I paused, considering him. “Are you also . . .”

“On my way to Walter Ponsonby’s house party?” He finished for me. “I am. But don’t worry. They won’t leave without us.” He lifted his arm to glance at his wristwatch. “And if they do, we’ll make our own way over.”

“Well, that’s a relief,” I replied, feeling anything but. Some of the sparkle from our encounter had dimmed at this discovery. Still, I couldn’t let him know that. “Then I suppose if we’re going to be spending the weekend together we should introduce ourselves.” I extended my hand across the small gap separating our motorcars. “Mrs. Verity Kent.”

His grip was warm, even through my cream leather glove, as he clasped my hand for a moment longer than was necessary. “Max Westfield, Earl of Ryde. But, please, call me Ryde. Or Max, even. None of that Lord business.” Something flickered in his eyes, and I could tell he was debating whether to say something else. “You wouldn’t by chance be Sidney Kent’s widow?”

I’m not sure why I was startled. There was no reason to be. After all, I’d just discovered we were both making our way to the same house party. A party thrown by one of Sidney’s old war chums. There were bound to be one or two of Sidney’s fellow officers attending. Why shouldn’t Lord Ryde be one of them?

My eyes dipped briefly to the glow at the end of the fag clasped between Ryde’s fingers, before returning to his face. “You knew him?” I remarked as casually as I could manage, determined not to show he’d unsettled me.

“I was his commanding officer.” He exhaled a long stream of smoke. “For a short time, anyway.” His eyes tightened at the corners. “I’m sorry for your loss. He was a good man,” he added gently.

I tried to respond, but found alarmingly that I had to clear my throat before I could get the words out. “Thank you.”

It was the standard litany. The standard offer of condolences and expression of gratitude that had been repeated dozens of times since Sidney’s death. I’d developed a sort of callus from hearing the words over and over. It prevented them from overly affecting me, from making me remember.

Except, this time was different.

“Did you know Sidney before the war?” I managed to say with what I thought was an admirable amount of aplomb. They were of an age with each other, and both being gentlemen it seemed a safe assumption.

“Yes, Kent was a year behind me at Eton and Oxford. Same as your brother, if I recall. They were chums.”

I nodded. “Yes, that’s how we met. Sidney came home with Freddy to Yorkshire one school holiday.”

“Love at first sight?”

“Goodness, no. At least, not for him. I was all of eleven to his sixteen. And a rather coltish eleven, at that. All elbows and knees.”

He grinned. “Well, that didn’t last.”

I dimpled cheekily. “Why, thank you for noticing. No, Sidney didn’t return to Upper Wensleydale for six more years. But by then, of course, things had changed.”

My chest tightened at the bittersweet memories, and I turned to stare at the bonnet of my motorcar—Sidney’s motorcar—gleaming in the sunshine. I’d known this weekend was going to be difficult. I’d been preparing myself for it as best I could. Truth be told, that’s why I’d nearly collided with Lord Ryde. I’d been distracted by my recollections. The ones I’d been ducking since the telegram arrived to inform me of Sidney’s death.

I’d gotten rather good at avoiding them. At calculating just how many rags I needed to dance, and how much gin I needed to drink so I could forget, and yet not be too incapacitated to perform my job the following morning. And when I was released from my position after the war, well, then it didn’t matter anymore, did it?

But this weekend I couldn’t afford the luxury of forgetfulness.

As if sensing the maudlin turn of my thoughts, Ryde reached out to touch my motorcar’s rather plain bonnet ornament, at least compared to his. “Kent used to talk about his Pierce-Arrow. Claimed it was the fastest thing on four wheels.”

“Yes, he was rather proud of it.” I recognized the turn in subject for the kindness it was. He’d sensed my discomfort and was trying to find a gracious way to extricate ourselves from this awkwardness. I should have felt grateful, but I only felt troubled.

I lifted my gaze to meet his, trying to read something in his eyes. “I suppose there wasn’t much to talk about in the trenches.”

His expression turned guarded. “No, not that we wanted to. Motorcars were just about the safest topic we could find.”

I nodded, understanding far more than he was saying. Though, I also couldn’t help but wonder if that was a dodge.

Almost reflexively, I found myself searching Ryde for any visible signs of injury. I’d learned swiftly that those soldiers fortunate enough to survive the war still returned wounded in some way, whether it be in body or mind. The unluckiest suffered both.

As if he knew what I was doing, he rolled his left shoulder self-consciously before flicking his fag into the dirt. He ground it out before glancing down the road toward Poole. “I suppose we should be on our way then, lest our fellow guests truly leave us behind to shrift for ourselves.”

“It does seem rude to keep them waiting longer than necessary,” I admitted, suddenly wishing very much to be away, but not wanting to appear overeager. “Is it much farther?”

“Just over the next rise or two, you should be able to see the town laid out before you.”

“That close?”

“Yes, and as I said, I suspect Ponsonby will have told them to wait for us all before departing. He was always considerate about such things.”

“You know him well then?” I asked in genuine curiosity.

He shrugged, narrowing his eyes against the glare of the midday sun. “As well as one can know another man serving beside him during war.” It was rather an obscure answer. And yet Ponsonby had thought them friendly enough to invite him to his house party to celebrate his recent engagement to be married. Of course, the man had also invited me, a woman he hardly knew, though I assumed that was because of Sidney.

As if sensing my interest and wishing to deflect it from himself, he added, “I know he and Kent were great friends.”

“Yes, since Eton. I met Walter once or twice before the war. And, of course, he attended our wedding.” One of the numerous hasty ceremonies performed throughout Britain during the months at the start of the war, between Sidney’s training and his orders to report to France as a fresh-faced lieutenant. I’d only just turned eighteen and hadn’t the slightest idea what was to come. None of us had.

I looked up to find Ryde watching me steadily, as if he knew what I was thinking, for it was what he was thinking, too. It was an odd moment of solidarity under the brilliant June sky, and I would remember it many times in the days to come.

Because who of us ever really knows what’s coming? Or what secrets will come back to haunt us in the end? The war might be over, but it still echoed through our lives like an endless roll of thunder.

True to Ryde’s assurances, we crested the second hill and the city of Poole appeared before us, spreading out along the rounded shoreline. The water of the natural harbor sparkled in the midday sun as flocks of birds dipped and wheeled over its surface. I breathed deeply, invigorated by the rush of the wind against my cheeks as the motorcar raced downward. The thrill of its gathering speed sang in my blood. The concentration required to drive the speeding vehicle steadied me, allowing me to regain control of the nerves that had been frazzled by my first encounter with a fellow guest.

A glance in the wing mirror revealed I hadn’t left Ryde in the dust. Though whether he was enjoying himself or merely determined to keep up was difficult to tell. I didn’t peg him as the reckless sort. Not like Sidney, anyway, whose devil-may-care driving had been somewhat legendary. But even the chariest can be seduced by the power of a good engine. In any case, I forced myself to ease the Pierce-Arrow down to a more reasonable pace, lest I actually cause a collision.

Poole was larger than I’d expected, but still easily navigable when one’s destination was the harbor lined with tall-sailed yachts and large Channel-crossing ships. We skirted the shore of a lake and passed the train station, where most of our fellow guests had disembarked from their journeys down from London or elsewhere in England. I could have taken the train as well. After all, there were stops in both Winchester and Epsom, where I’d attended the Derby before driving on to Beatrice’s. But I’d wanted the freedom of being able to come and go as I pleased, of flight should it become necessary.

My hands tightened around the driving wheel. Though, how that would be possible when we were all about to be ferried out to an island I didn’t know.

I shook the worrying thought aside, slowing the motorcar as we approached the quay. I wasn’t at all certain we would be able to pick out Walter’s boat among all of the ships lining the waterfront, but true to his assurances I spotted the brilliant scarlet and yellow checked flag flying above the yacht’s sails. The sight of the boat and its fellow passengers standing along the rails with drinks in their hands relieved me far more than it should have. I’d had mixed emotions about attending the house party, but apparently missing it was no longer to be borne.

Ryde insisted on hefting my larger case as we made our way down the dock toward the waiting boat while I carried my valise and hatbox. But I was relieved of even those burdens as a dark-haired man smartly dressed in a brown pin-striped suit descended the gangway to take them from me.

“Here you are,” he proclaimed, passing my parcels up to one of the sailors. Taking my hand, he grinned broadly and insisted on helping me aboard. “We were just about to leave without you.”

“Then it’s lucky we arrived when we did. I would so have hated to have to swim across.”

His eyes gleamed with interest as he scoured my features at a closer proximity.

Deciding it would be best not to overly encourage his forward behavior, if that was all it was, I extracted my hand from his and glanced over my shoulder at Ryde. “What about you, Max?”

His lips quirked, not having missed my deliberate use of his given name when I hadn’t done so earlier. “I don’t know. A dip in the water might be quite refreshing. Of course, then we would be battling pneumonia. So perhaps it’s for the best we won’t need to.”

The man in the pin-striped suit smiled, but I also noted the tightening of his brow as he studied Max. “You and Westfield know each other, I see.”

“Oh, yes. For all of three quarters of an hour now,” I drawled. “I’m afraid I nearly ran him down in my motorcar.”

“Really?” A smirk tightened his mouth. “I think a number of us would have quite cheerfully saluted you for that but a year ago.”

It was spoken in jest, but I sensed there was something behind the words that wasn’t altogether in good fun. I could tell Max did, too, though he didn’t even flicker an eyelash at the barbed comment.

“That’s what comes of allowing females to drive motorcars,” another man muttered from his chair nearby.

I stifled a sigh, far too familiar with this narrow-minded opinion. However, I could hardly chide the man when I’d practically prompted him by announcing I’d almost crashed. Though I did turn a weary glare his way.

An effort that was wasted as he wasn’t even looking at me. He was too busy glowering at the deck for some unapparent offense. The right sleeve of his coat was folded and pinned, hanging just below the bicep of the arm he’d lost from the elbow down. “And he’s Lord Ryde now, remember?” the seated man snapped, turning icy blue eyes on the smartly dressed man who had helped me board the boat. “Heaven forbid, you should read the papers.”

“Not if I can bloody well help it,” he sneered.

I glanced at Max, who was sparing far too much effort conferring with the steward. I suspected so that he wouldn’t have to address the topic at hand. His father, the previous Earl of Ryde, had been quite a prominent figure in politics until his death seven months ago, just weeks before the armistice he’d fought so hard to help secure. The newspapers had speculated endlessly on whether the late earl’s son and heir would attempt to step into the void left by his father or accept a quieter role in Parliament.

“Gentlemen,” he chided the other men as he swiveled to pass me a flute of champagne he’d taken from the steward’s tray. “Perhaps, rather than bickering, you’ll allow me to introduce Mrs. Verity Kent.” His eyes twinkled with mischief. “And these two sorry souls are Felix Halbert”—he dipped his head toward the man in the pin-striped suit and then the man in the chair—“and Jimmy Tufton.”

“Charmed, I’m sure,” I murmured, seeing the curiosity in their gazes as I sipped my champagne.

Apparently, Max had, too, for he confirmed all our suspicions. “They served in the Thirtieth with your husband as well.”

I nodded at both men. How many of the guests had fought alongside Sidney in France? First Walter and Max, and now Felix and Jimmy. Surely Walter’s friends were not all veterans of the Thirtieth?

Or had so many of his friends from before the war died that these men were all that was left? I’d met a man one evening at a nightclub who’d confided in me while we were dancing and both half bosky that he was the only man from his circle of eight friends who had survived the war. A few weeks later, I’d read in the paper that he’d shot himself.

As if in answer to my unspoken query, a voice called out behind me. “Verity?”

I swiveled around, delighted by the sight of a familiar face. “Tom!” I hurried forward, grateful in more ways than one to see my childhood friend and neighbor. He wrapped me in a fierce hug. “I didn’t know you were going to be here,” I gasped as he released me.

“I could say the same to you.”

There were fine lines around his eyes that hadn’t been there the last time I’d seen him. The same fine lines I’d been surprised to see marked my brother Freddy’s face when he’d stepped onto the train platform in London after the war ended. But in this case at least, they only seemed to emphasize Tom’s happiness.

His hands held me away from him so that his gaze could sweep up and down my figure. “You are a sight for sore eyes, Pip,” he proclaimed, using the shortened form of Pipsqueak, the nickname my older brothers and their friends had taken to calling me long ago. “I’m glad to see you’re all in one piece.” His smile dimmed. “Though I was sorry to hear about Sidney. Rotten luck, my girl. He was a dashed fine fellow. We all thought so.”

I pressed a reassuring hand to his chest, feeling the same emotion I’d choked down in front of Max fist in my throat. “Thank you.”

His lips curled in a reflexive grimace of commiseration; then he turned, draping his arm around my shoulders as we walked toward the opposite side of the deck. Until he’d done so I hadn’t noted his limp, but with every step I felt the jolt of his body compensating for the weakness in his left leg.

“So who is it you’re friendly with? Ponsonby or his fiancée?” he asked.

“Walter stood up with Sidney at our wedding.”

He nodded. “Of course. I think your brother mentioned that. Once upon a time.”

“But what of you? I didn’t think you served in the Thirtieth?”

Tom’s eyes cut sideways at me. “Noticed that, did you?”

“It’s hard to miss.”

“Yes, well, Ponsonby seems to have gotten along with his fellow officers rather better than most, if this sampling of the weekend’s guest list is anything to judge by. For my part, when the war ended I was more than happy to never have to see the sullen, puppy faces of a couple of lieutenants and the ugly mug of one Welsh corporal ever again.” Then he added as almost an afterthought, “It was always the good ones who clicked it.”

I had no response for that. Everything I could think to say sounded too trite.

In any case, he wasn’t waiting for a reply. “But to answer your question, no. It’s Nellie who received the invite.” He glanced up, drawing my attention to his wife standing beside the rail. “The fiancée, Helen Crawford, is her cousin.”

I’d forgotten Tom had married. A rather rushed affair in the midst of the war. When a few months later my brother wrote to tell me Tom had a newborn son, I’d suddenly understood the haste. Not that I blamed them. After all, I remembered how feverish Sidney’s and my couplings were when he was home on leave.

Even so, Tom’s choice in a wife smarted.

“Nellie, darling,” I murmured, stepping forward to embrace her loosely. “You look well.”

“Thank you. Likewise.”

If Tom noticed the stiltedness between us, he was intelligent enough not to comment.

Nellie and I had been friends when we were younger, though admittedly, never very close ones. However, she’d never gotten over the fact that Sidney had chosen me over her, quite without my interference. The last time we’d spoken we’d both said a number of nasty things to each other, but there was one thing she’d shrieked that time had only hardened within me. One thing I wasn’t certain I would ever be able to forgive.

Her eyes drifted toward the opposite side of the deck, where the trio of men who had served in the Thirtieth had been joined by a fourth man. They all looked on as the gangway was removed and the anchor lifted by a pair of sailors.

“I’m sorry about Sidney.”

I glanced over at Nellie, trying to tell if she was sincere, but she refused to meet my eyes, and her porcelain features remained as smooth as stone. Ignoring her, I turned back toward Tom, taking another sip from my glass. “Where is Walter? Didn’t he come to meet us?”

“No, I imagine he’s waiting to greet us on the island. From what I gather, some of the other guests will have already arrived.”

“It’s his leg,” Nellie interjected, turning to stare out into the harbor as the boat moved away from the quay. “He can’t get around as well as Tom. Has to use a cane. And Helen says on bad days, he doesn’t even try to leave his chair.” Something in her tone made it sound as if it was a competition. One that Tom was winning.

But Nellie had always been like that.

“Yes, well, it will get better,” Tom replied. “It’s only been nine months since his injury. I’ve had the better part of two years to reach this point.”

Nellie lifted one shoulder negligently.

“What of Umbersea Island?” I asked, deciding it was time to change the subject. “What do you know of it?”

“It’s just there.” Tom pointed toward a large landmass, rather closer to shore than I had expected, though still too far away for anyone but the strongest to swim out to, even in calm weather.

The larger part of Poole Harbor formed a sort of diamond, with Poole at the top tip, and the passage into the English Channel lying at the middle of the bottom right side. Umbersea Island sat more or less at the very center. From this vantage, it appeared thick with trees and vegetation, more a haven for animals than the opulent country retreat of a wealthy businessman, as I knew Walter’s father to have been.

“From what I understand, it was fortified in Henry the Eighth’s time and then largely used as a pirates’ haunt until some well-heeled gentleman bought it and fixed up the island as his country estate. There was a pottery business based there for a short time in the nineteenth century”—Tom shook his head—“but not much else to tell.”

“Helen says it doesn’t look like much from Poole. That the quay and all the buildings and beaches of any note lay on the far shore.” Nellie sighed. “I certainly hope so. Because I did not come here intending to rusticate.”

I had to agree with her, though I would never have been so rude to say so out loud. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see Tom’s brow furrowed with displeasure, and I decided it would be best to excuse myself. For some reason, Nellie was apparently indulging in a fit of the sulks—something she had done as a child, but should have long since grown out of—and I felt absolutely no compulsion to charm her out of them.

I strolled down the deck in the direction I’d seen the gentleman I’d yet to meet disappear. Ostensibly this was done to introduce myself, but in truth I wanted a few moments alone.

I sipped the last of my glass of champagne, which had begun to grow warm in the sun, and paused to lean against the railing, staring out across the harbor encircling us. The white sails of other yachts dotted the water in the distance, far removed from the. . .