Free The Illusion of Murder by Carol McCleary

out of my heel and have a spirited discussion about it, but my instinct is that if I give it to Lord Warton the key will find its way to the bottomless pit of British bureaucracy.
    Learning the truth about Mr. Cleveland’s death and carrying his last word to his loved one are a responsibility I have accepted … not to mention Lord Warton made a mistake when he set out to make me look ridiculous.
    What other malice he has toward me is still to be decided. At the very least, he has appointed himself protector of whatever involvement his country has in the marketplace incident, a task I sympathize with because I would do it myself if I felt Mr. Cleveland was American. But two thorns are under my claws—the truth needs to be exposed to ensure that there was no skulduggery involved by men or their governments. And, more than anything else, a man was murdered before my eyes, a man who selected me as the recipient of his last wish, to carry an object to his beloved.
    Regardless of my feelings, I am an invited guest and it would be rude of me to say anything, especially since the Wartons have a business relationship with Von Reich, who is doing his best to make me feel welcome. But the matter has not dropped with me.
    Von Reich points to the two-hundred-foot tall, brick-walled lighthouse near where the canal meets the Mediterranean.
    “The Statue of Liberty, that colossal statue the French put up in New York Harbor three years ago, was originally meant to be placed here to commemorate the Suez Canal. The original design was that of a fellah, an Egyptian peasant, with beams of light from a headband and a torch he held.”
    “How did it end up in New York?” I ask.
    “Money. The khedive of Egypt ran out of it and the Light of Asia peasant turned into the goddess Liberty and became Liberty Enlightening the World in New York Harbor.”
    I make a mental note of the Egyptian connection to the Statue of Liberty to include it in a cable back to my editor. Everyone knows that the statue was a gift from the people of France and that Monsieur Eiffel had built the frame in much the same fashion he did his much-criticized tower in Paris, but the fact that the concept made its way from Egypt will be of interest.
    As we leave the city, Lady Warton turns the conversation to me. The woman seems slightly bemused—or amused, I’m not sure which—by the fact that I am a working woman who is making a daring trip around the world.
    “My dear,” Lady Warton says, “you must tell me so I can advise the ladies I play bridge with … Why would any young woman work in a man’s profession and race around the world to beat a man’s record?”
    I smile politely. “It’s a challenge and I believe I am as capable as any man.” Personally I would have liked to ask her if she ever goes outside without asking her husband about the weather.
    Lord Warton’s face again contorts with displeasure as if my very existence sours his stomach. “We can all hope that women will stay in their place and not attempt to imitate men.”
    “Now, now, dear.” His wife pats his arm again. “We must not pick on our guest. She’s still young, but will someday learn what really matters in life.”
    I return a very forced polite smile and resist the urge to be catty. How dare they judge me and the other women who have to work for a living! What keeps me from lashing out besides politeness is that I know these pompous snobs have had so much given to them—and have accomplished little themselves.
    Unlike Lady Bluenose, I have had to work for my daily bread and it has never struck me as God’s will that I should labor as hard as a man for less money or opportunity.
    My impression of these two is that their noses are blue because they are stuck up so high. Their mannerisms strike me as that of two aristocrats who are mildly amused by the customs of the unwashed masses.
    The first time I saw Lady Warton as we passed each other on deck, rather than meeting my eye and my