Free Murder Most Posh: A Mrs. Xavier Stayton Mystery by Robert Colton

Michael Emerson’s voice could be heard giving Rory stern orders to remain in his room before he came out and demanded to know what was happening.
       In a strange, faraway voice, Mathew Farquhar said, “My wife has thrown herself off the ship.”
     
       From bow to stern, the Olivia was searched. The Beaumonts had been awakened from their tonic-induced sleep, their cabin searched, and then ours, next the Emersons’, and then the crew moved on.
       Just after dawn, the ship’s captain came to our cabin, where Mathew sat silently with us, and told him, “I am sorry to tell you this, but there is no trace of the Countess Orlov on this ship.”
       The man’s eyes did not turn red, and there was no uncontrollable sob. He was in genuine shock. I was quite curious as to why he’d staged the scene of the locked room; his actions hadn’t fooled me. At first, I suspected him of foul play, but I could see in his eyes that he ’d had nothing to do with his wife’s disappearance.
     
     
       Much later in the morning, Lucy and I sat in the sunny café and silently ate a light meal. We were confounded just how we’d found ourselves in the midst of another tragedy. Lucy, at least, believed this to be a sad case of suicide. I suspected otherwise.
       We were just finishing our tea when the steward approached and, with an apologetic air, said, “I do beg your pardon, Mrs. Stayton, but Mr. Pace, the ship’s purser, has requested to see you.”
       Despite knowing the way to the man’s office, we were escorted there with much pomp by two uniformed men. To those who we passed by, Lucy and I either appeared very important, or highly troublesome.
       Within Mr. Pace’s outer office, we discovered Gerald Hurst pacing the floor. He came to an abrupt stop and exclaimed, “Mrs. Stayton, thank goodness.”
       The ship’s purser gave me an uncomfortable smile and told me, “I apologize, Mrs. Stayton, but Mr. Hurst insisted on speaking to you. He heard about…” the polite man became tongue-tied, and he finished by simply saying, “Countess Orlov.”
       I had been waiting all morning for Gerald Hurst to suggest just what he breathlessly exclaimed, “This flat tire here tells me it was a suicide. Dominika would never have killed herself. She was going to leave Mathew once they were in America—”
       “And marry you,” I finished for him, feeling very much like my fictional Mrs. X.
       “That was the idea,” Gerald replied humbly.
      “Was this trip planned just to escape from Mr. Farquhar, or does she in fact have a lost sister in New York?” I inquired.
       “She does have a sister there; Alisa is her name. Dominika had hoped to borrow money from her. She’d be done with that palooka, and we’d start a new life together.”
       Mr. Pace spoke up. “I don’t see why Mrs. Stayton should be troubled by this matter.”
       Gerald blurted out, “Mrs. Stayton knows her onions; she’s a sleuth, like one of them detective characters.” He looked to me. “I beg of you, find out the truth.”
       Sadly, the truth isn’t always what people desire in the end. I asked bluntly, “How long have you been having an affair with the countess?”
      “Over the past year. Dominika married Mathew thinking he was something that he’s not. She stayed because of the money, but now that doesn’t matter. She loved me.” His words rang of truth.
       “Did the countess know that her husband was also having an affair?” I asked, keen to see Gerald’s reaction.
       The man’s eyes grew wide, and he replied, “The louse! No, she hadn’t a clue.”
       “Mrs. Stayton!” said a shocked Mr. Pace.
       “Lucy and I saw him in the arms of a statuesque blonde woman, just yesterday morning; this was the same woman who caused a scene in the ballroom last night.”
       “It’s true!” retorted dear Lucy.
       “We must find out who she is.” I seriously doubted that Mathew Farquhar had