Lost Among the Living(79)

“Yes, it is.”

I had no chance to ask Alex what he meant, as Mr. Wilde was close enough to hear. “Mrs. Manders,” he greeted me. He turned to Alex. “Mr. Manders. What a pleasure to see you home from the war. Mrs. Forsyth telephoned me this morning with the news.”

“That was quick of her,” said Alex.

“I am closely concerned with the Forsyths’ business.” I wondered at the distinct coolness between them as Mr. Wilde turned to me. “Mrs. Manders, you look well this morning. I quite enjoyed our dance last night. You dance elegantly.”

David Wilde was shorter than Alex, darker of complexion, and older—though the gray in his hair exaggerated the effect, and I had felt for myself his strength when I’d danced with him. With his deformed hand clad, as before, in its gray glove at the end of his sleeve, he looked distinguished, though I noticed that the villagers around us did not look at him as they passed. I recalled how tipsy I’d been in his grasp the night before, his one hand on my waist.

“Thank you,” I said. “You were very kind.”

“You seem to be having a leisurely morning,” Alex said to Mr. Wilde. “Not particularly busy today?”

“I find taking walks refreshing,” Mr. Wilde replied. “My days are very quiet, as I have explained to Mrs. Manders.” He bowed slightly, the tilt of his head almost sarcastic. “It’s good to see a true, honest-to-goodness war hero come home, Mr. Manders. I wish you good day.”

“What in the world did I just witness?” I asked Alex when he was out of earshot again.

“How much do you know of David Wilde?” he asked in return, his expression blankly grim.

“Hardly anything.”

“Then you know about as much as the rest of us. He’s only been Aunt Dottie’s solicitor for five years, since her last one died and he took over the practice. There are conflicting stories of where he came from, and he seems to have no other clients.” He glanced at me. “He’s a womanizer.”

I looked at him openmouthed. “You can’t possibly know that. And he has a wife.”

“I’m a man, so yes I do. And marriage has nothing to do with womanizing, though few people have ever seen the elusive Mrs. Wilde.”

“Dottie trusts him,” I said.

“Perhaps she does, but I don’t, and he knows it. He was at Wych Elm House that day, meeting with Aunt Dottie about business matters.”

I frowned. “But Dottie said she was on the terrace when it happened. She thought she heard a sound.”

“And Wilde was sitting in the library, waiting for her to return, or so he says. There was no one in the room with him when Franny died.”

I pressed a damp, gloved hand to my forehead, under the brim of my hat. “This is terrible,” I said. “I thought there would be too few suspects to make a convincing case for murder. Now I find there are too many. I think I am the only person we can safely say could not possibly have murdered your cousin.”

“I still haven’t convinced you that I didn’t do it, have I?” Alex said. “Do you trust me so little?” He shook his head. “Don’t answer that. I’ve known this would happen since I saw your face that day in Victoria Station, when I left you alone, sick with influenza.”

I recoiled away from him, moving out from under the umbrella and into the rain. I’d never told him about the influenza. “I had a cold,” I said.

“No,” Alex said, his voice going dark and bleak. “You didn’t. You had influenza. I knew it when I looked at your face, when I felt the fever burning you up.” We had stopped walking, and he stepped closer to me, looked down at me with his features hard and unforgiving. “Do you understand? That is the sort of husband you chose. A man who could walk away and leave you in a crowded train station, suffering from a deadly illness, so he could return to the Front as a German. A man who did not defy his orders to send you a single telegram or make a single phone call to end your misery. No wonder you aren’t happier to see me.”

“Stop it,” I said. He was in the grip of that icy anger again, the unfamiliar despair that I had seen last night. “You said yourself you’d have been shot for treason.”

He took my arm, his grip solid, though even in his rage he did not hurt me. “Our business is done here,” he said. “I think we’ve put on enough of a display for the village of Anningley, don’t you? Let’s go.”





CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE



After a quick supper, bolted in the kitchen to avoid Alex and the family in the dining room, I was on my way to the stairs when I heard low, whispered voices. I detoured down the corridor and looked through the open door of the morning room.

Martin stood framed in the doorway to the terrace, his back to me. The French door was open, and he was leaning out, speaking in harsh undertones to someone outside. I could not hear the words, but the hostility in his voice made me stop, surprised. From the darkness outside, a woman’s voice answered, low and angry.

“Go,” Martin said.

I saw a shape through the window—a woman in a dark skirt and coat, retreating. Martin straightened and moved to close the door. I took a step back to turn and leave.

“Cousin Jo,” he said.

I stopped still.