Digital ISBNs
EPUB 978-1-77362-213-2
Kindle 978-1-77145-194-9
WEB 978-1-77362-214-9
Copyright 2014 by Victoria Chatham
Cover art by Michelle Lee
All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the publisher of this book.
*~*~*
To my critique partners A.M. Westerling and Brenda Sinclair for their invaluable insights and to the various librarians, museum staff and agencies that helped me with my research into the early days of flight.
“Our lives couldn’t be any more perfect than they are right now.”
“Shh,” Lord Randolph Buxton warned his wife. “Let’s not tempt fate.”
He took Serena’s hand and intertwined their fingers, lifted hers to his lips and brushed a kiss across the back of her knuckles.
“But wasn’t it fate that tempted you out of your office to rescue me from our children?”
“No, more like boredom with having to review contracts on such a beautiful day.”
“How ungallant of you.” Serena pulled a face at him. “Nevertheless, I am so glad you suggested that Nanny Rachel take Daniel and Frances in for tea. Our children quite wore me out.”
“I would never have thought it.” Randolph smiled with pleasure at the vibrant glow in her eyes and the youthful flush in her cheeks. He tucked her hand into the crook of his elbow as they strolled along a gravel path which circled a carefully manicured lawn. When they turned back towards their house, Serena shook Randolph’s arm.
“Look, Hobart is waving to us.”
Randolph frowned and checked his wristwatch. “It’s too early for dinner. What can he want?”
The gravel scrunched beneath their feet as they hurried towards the terrace steps down which their elderly butler made his way.
“You have a visitor, my Lord,” Hobart huffed, clearly out of breath. “I invited him to step into the library.”
“Who is it, Hobart?” asked Serena.
“A Mr. Montgomery, milady.”
“Montgomery? Good Lord, what’s he doing here?” Randolph released Serena’s hand, sprinted up the steps and disappeared through the doors into the house.
“It’s alright, Hobart.” Serena noticed the look of uncertainty at the impromptu visit on the butler’s face. “Mr. Montgomery is a friend from the United States of America. You’d better set an extra place for dinner and have Mrs. Griffiths prepare the Blue Room. I suspect Mr. Montgomery will be staying, if only overnight.”
Hobart stood to one side as Serena thoughtfully followed her husband. Montgomery, a Pinkerton agent, had been employed to investigate a fraudulent situation at the Cold Creek gold mine in northern California in which Randolph was a major shareholder. The two not only worked together but also become fast friends and maintained their friendship through casual correspondence.
She liked Stuart Montgomery, but she shivered as a chill that had nothing to do with any breeze raised the small hairs on the back of her neck.
Had Randolph been right? Had she spoken too soon?
*~*~*
Randolph pushed the library door open.
“Montgomery, good to see you.” He extended his hand in greeting as he rushed in. “What brings you here?”
Stuart Montgomery stepped forward and shook Randolph’s hand, a smile of greeting splitting his face. “Just in the neighborhood, Buxton. Thought I’d drop in and say hello.”
“If you were just in the neighborhood, then I’m an Irishman,” Randolph scoffed, not believing him for one moment. “Drink?”
“Would you happen to have a whisky and water?”
“I knew you were a man after my own heart.” Randolph hefted the whisky decanter and poured a generous measure of four fingers each into two cut crystal glasses. “Help yourself to water.”
Once they adjusted their drinks to their liking, Randolph indicated the deep leather chairs beside the fireplace. Montgomery sank into one of them and looked around. Floor to ceiling shelves, each shelf packed with books, lined the walls. Running on a set of rails in the oak parquet floor, a ladder reached to the highest shelves. A brass balustrade surrounding its top step gleamed with the luster of much use.
“You’re never likely to be short of reading material, are you?” Montgomery waved his hand at the shelves.
“Never. And the rate at which Serena continues to stock it amazes me. She is a voracious reader.”
Serena came into the library in time to hear this comment and nodded her head in agreement. She gave Montgomery as warm a smile as she could muster, hoping he would not see her apprehension.
“How nice it is to see you again,” she said as Montgomery rose to greet her and shook her proffered hand. “What brings you here?”
“He says he was just in the neighborhood,” Randolph remarked drily.
Serena shook her head. “No, no, Mr. Montgomery, that will not do. Everyone who comes to our neck of the woods has a reason to be here, especially someone like yourself who is from so far away.”
She poured herself a drink from the decanter on the buffet, then perched herself on the arm of Randolph’s chair as their guest regained his seat.
“Well . . .” Montgomery paused and swirled the whisky in his glass. “I will admit to having something of an ulterior motive.”
He peered into the golden liquid as if it might give him inspiration. Finally he looked up.
“What do you know about aeronautics?” he asked.
“Not very much,” Randolph replied promptly. “Seemed rather a madcap idea when those Wright brothers of yours got their aircraft off the ground back in . . .oh, when was that? 1901?”
“December 1903, actually,” Montgomery replied. “And I couldn’t help noticing your wristwatch. A Cartier Santos, if I’m not mistaken?”
Randolph glanced at his watch, the handsome Roman numerals stark against the white face. “Yes, but what’s that got to do with aeronautics?”
“Cartier designed that watch for his friend Alberto Santos Dumont.”
“Oh, I remember that name.” Montgomery saw Serena’s face light up as if proud of her recollection. “Didn’t he win some competition or other for flying a dirigible around the Eiffel Tower?”
Montgomery cast her an appraising glance. “That he did. He wanted to be able to tell the time without having to remove his hands from the flight controls. His friend, Cartier, solved the problem for him by designing that watch.”
“That’s all very fascinating, but what’s that got to do with anything?” A vertical line creased Randolph’s brow as he concentrated on Montgomery’s reasoning.
“That watch means you already have a connection to aeronautics and that, my friend, is the wave of the future.”
“You really believe that?”
“Absolutely I do.” Montgomery took a sip of his whisky. “Back in 1911, Fred Wiseman flew a letter from John Olmstead, the postmaster and mayor of Petaluma, California, from there to the mayor in Santa Rosa. As far as I know, it was the first commercial airmail flight.”
“Forgive me for changing the subject, Mr. Montgomery,” Serena finished her drink and replaced the glass on the buffet, “but where are you staying?”
“In Stoneton, at the Wagoner. It seemed a tidy establishment.”
“Oh, it is, but I’m sure you will be far more comfortable here.” She rang the bell set in the wall beside the fireplace. In answer to the summons, the butler soon let himself quietly into the library. “Hello, Hobart. Please send John or Owen to collect Mr. Montgomery’s luggage from the Wagoner and have Mrs. Watkins send the accounting here.”
Montgomery stood up. “Lady Buxton, that’s too much.”
Serena shook her head. “No, it’s not. You helped save my husband’s life in Cold Creek and I can’t thank you enough for that. And please, do call me Serena. I feel we know each other well enough to forgo the formalities.”
She sat down again on the arm of Randolph’s chair, aware of an undercurrent of expectation between the three of them. The moment Randolph sprinted up the terrace steps to greet their visitor she sensed that Montgomery must have some purpose, a purpose yet to show its face.
Her stomach clenched as she took a breath and as calmly as she could asked, “So why are you really here, Mr. Montgomery?”
“It’s Stuart.” Montgomery returned the first name courtesy Serena offered him, but there was a hint of hesitancy in his voice as he added, “I’m here to ask for your help.”
“Well, you know you can rely on us to help in any way we can.” Randolph lifted his glass in a cheerful salute.
Serena’s heart lurched at such a sweeping statement. She shot Randolph a warning glance and tried to control the censure in her voice. “Careful, my darling, you may want to revise that decision when Stuart tells us what he’s working on.”
After a moment’s thought Randolph asked, “So whatever it is has to do with aeronautics?”
“An aircraft development company, to be exact.” Montgomery sipped his whisky before continuing. “The company is owned by Hiram R. Stillwater whose very loose connection with the Wright brothers sparked his interest in the possibilities of flying. He gathered a group of associates with similar interests together to raise money for his project, but the terms of the contract were odd to say the least.”
“In what way?” Serena’s raised eyebrow emphasized her question.
“If one of the partners died, his shares were then distributed between the remaining partners rather than going to the deceased’s family.”
“Oh.” Serena thought for a moment. “You mean like a tontine.”
“A what?” Her comment puzzled Montgomery.
“A tontine,” Serena repeated. “It’s a type of investment plan devised ages ago by a Neopolitan banker, Lorenzo de Tonti. Actually, he didn’t really invent it, only modified it from other types of investment schemes of the time. Each investor pays into the plan and gets an annual dividend on his or her capital, with the shares going to the remaining partners as they die.”
“Serena, there are times when you astound me,” Randolph admitted. “However did you discover that fact?”
Serena waved her hand at the stacks of books around them and smiled. “There is a world of information lining these walls. I read it a while ago when I was looking for something else. The thing about a tontine is, whoever remains gets the whole pot.”
“That sounds exactly the same as with Stillwater’s business.” Montgomery stroked his chin as he mulled the thought over. “There were six investors, now there are only two left. Stillwater himself and Sir Hilary Blenkinsop-Brown.”
“Hilly?” Serena opened her eyes wide in surprise.
“You know him?” Montgomery asked.
“We hunted together with the Quorn and Berkeley and . . .” Serena stopped, noticing for the first time the calculating gleam in Montgomery’s eyes. “But you knew that, didn’t you?”
“I must admit, Sir Hilary did mention your name but I thought it better at that stage to not disclose our association.”
“Why ever not?”
Montgomery looked at Serena, then Randolph, and took a deep breath.
“Stillwater has a security team in place at his manufacturing premises. The head of that team is someone you both know.”
Serena and Randolph looked at each other.
“Who?” they asked in unison.
Montgomery took a deep breath.
“The deputy sheriff from Cold Creek. The same man who I’m sure hit you over the head, Buxton, and left you for dead in that mine shaft,” he said. “Namely, George Stiles.”
“Stiles?”
Randolph and Serena both started at the name. Randolph instinctively rubbed a contusion on the back of his neck, a constant reminder of that vicious attack. Both he and Montgomery had been positive that Stiles was the perpetrator but, without proof, could not charge him with the crime. Nor could they prove that he acted on orders from the man under investigation for fraud, Douglas King, whom Stiles shot and killed.
Randolph remembered how Stiles brushed past him and Montgomery after that incident in the most insolent way. His jaw tightened. He heard the slow, steady thump of his blood in his ears as he remembered that single shot. A shot meant to kill rather than stop King from escaping and which prevented them from bringing King to justice.
The room fell silent as they each ruminated over the past events and how they might affect the present.
Serena looked up at Montgomery with an expression of understanding on her face. “So you turning up and asking questions about these deceased partners would have already put Stiles on his guard?”
“Exactly.”
“And then Stiles finding out that Sir Hilary and I are friends might rattle him even more?” she continued.
“In a nutshell.” Montgomery paused to formulate his thoughts. “If Stiles knew that you and Sir Hilary are friends, as well as the connection we already have, I wouldn’t put it past him to do something rash.”
“You mean he might be a danger to Hilly?” A knot of worry formed in Serena’s stomach.
“That’s a strong possibility.” Montgomery rolled his whisky tumbler between his palms. “But if you both decide to accompany me, Stiles can’t fail to realize that we are all connected.”
Serena looked gloomy as she considered the possibilities. “Isn’t he likely to view Randolph’s presence as a threat to his freedom and maybe make another attempt on his life?”
Montgomery caught the unsteady timbre in her voice. His first reaction was to allay any misgivings she might have but he opted, instead, for honesty.
“Unfortunately that can’t be ruled out,” he said softly.
“So you think my head could be on the chopping block again, so to speak?” A tone of incredulity framed Randolph’s words.
“I certainly hope not,” Montgomery replied. “And we will do everything we can to prevent you coming to any harm.”
“What happened to the rest of Stillwater’s investors?” Randolph heaved himself out of his chair and Serena slipped into the space he left.
Montgomery wished he could make space for Serena anywhere, at any time but brushed that covetous thought aside and, as if he were counting on his fingers, said “One drowned. Two died in an automobile accident. The fourth hung himself and it was his wife who contacted the Pinkerton Agency. The police, you see, did not believe that Elliott Thompson was murdered but Mrs. Thompson did.”
“And you think Stiles is behind all those deaths?” Serena asked.
“By all accounts Arthur Hannet was a reasonable swimmer. It was ruled an accidental death. But who do you suppose was in the boating party that day?”
“Stiles.” Randolph’s tone held a grim edge.
Montgomery nodded. “Then Chester Watson and Edward Emery died when their car lost traction on a sharp bend during a mountain road race. Stillwater was behind them on the road with Stiles as his co-driver. That was also deemed an accidental death. How could Stiles be responsible when he was following them down that road? The mechanics who checked the car found the steering linkage had snapped. Which begs the question, had it been tampered with prior to the race?” Montgomery spread his hands as if he expected the answer to drop into them. “There was no evidence suggesting it, but my suspicion is that the steering linkage was replaced with one that was so worn it simply could not stand the rigors of the terrain the race was run over.”
“And Mr. Thompson?”
“From the records and what was described to me, Thompson could not have hung himself nor was there a suicide note. The officer in charge of the case considered Mrs. Thompson too distraught to question her at the time the body was found and then, when he did go to speak to her, he didn’t believe her. She insisted that her husband was in sound mind and would never have committed suicide, so must have been murdered.”
“And where was Stiles when this supposed suicide took place?” Randolph asked.
“Well, funny you should ask that,” Montgomery said with a wry smile. “Just like in Cold Creek the day you were spirited away, Buxton, no one saw Stiles or knew where he was. When questioned about his whereabouts for that day, he simply said he was ‘here and there around the airfield but nowhere in particular’.”
“That’s a bit vague,” Serena commented.
“To say the least.” Montgomery scowled with displeasure as he recalled his interview with Stiles. “It was all quite plausible. He checked out of one hangar, walked across to another, walked part of the perimeter and checked the front gates, then went back to his office in the administration building. No one recalled seeing him, apart from when he arrived at work in the morning and again when he left about seven o’clock in the evening.”
“And during that day Mr. Thompson supposedly hung himself?”
“That’s about it,” Montgomery told Serena. “I keep thinking how Stiles could possibly have left the plant, rigged the suicide, and got back again without anyone seeing him.”
“Could he have left in a vehicle?” Serena asked. “Surely, the security personnel would have a record of all traffic that went in and out that day?”