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

sake, they’ve already sent one man to the gallows.”
        I spoke before the captain could reply, “Pardon me, sir, but Mr. Hurst’s presence would be of benefit. There was something odd about the suicide note, and I would like for him to see it.”
       Skeptically, the ship’s master gazed at me and nodded. Our curious little party went at once to Cabin A-2.
       Mr. Pace rapped at the door, while the captain stood at attention. Rapidly, the door swung open, and a disheveled Mathew Farquhar looked at us all with great uncertainty.
      “I’m sorry to disturb you at this time, Mr. Farquhar. However, I have a few questions that must be asked.”
       Puzzled, he invited us all inside the room, his eyes lingering briefly on Gerald. “Yes?”
       The captain went straight to the point. “This man, Gerald Hurst, claims that he was in a relationship with your wife.”
       Standing so close to each other, I noted that Mr. Hurst and Mr. Farquhar shared a resemblance. Dark hair, swarthy complexion, and hard features; it seemed there was a certain type of man that appealed to the countess.
       Mathew struggled for words as his eyes darted back and forth from the captain to Mr. Hurst. I had anticipated Mathew would rush toward Gerald and attempt to lay his hands on the man. Instead, he gave a little wobble and remained otherwise frozen. I can’t say that I was disappointed by Mathew’s restraint. 
       As a way to confirm the captain’s statement, Gerald boldly said, “Dominika planned on leaving you once she met her sister. She hoped that Alisa would share her funds; then she wouldn’t need your money anymore.”
       Still dressed in his black tuxedo from the night before, the unshaven man stumbled backward until he fell into a chair. Mathew mumbled, “Of course, that does explain…”
       Softly, I asked, “What does it explain, Mr. Farquhar?”
       He looked in my direction, but he didn’t seem to see me as he replied, “She had been so cold, so distant.”
       While he was still very far away, I picked up the suicide letter from the nearby table, and the torn envelope. I only gave the letter to Gerald.
       In an instant, he exclaimed, “This isn’t her handwriting.”
       Mathew looked toward the man, quite numb, and responded, “No, it isn’t.”
       The captain inquired, “You knew this? You recognized the fact and didn’t mention it to Mr. Pace?”
       Mathew simply nodded. I flashed the envelope into the air, and pointed at the lettering. “This bears the Red Star Line’s ensign; however, the parchment used for the letter is different. Can you explain this, Mr. Farquhar?”
       He shook his head like a child refusing to admit he’d broken a porcelain figurine.
       I stepped beside him and turned to face Lucy, Gerald, the purser, and the captain. “I suspect that Mr. Farquhar found the suicide note, and sealed it in the envelope in a panic when he realized it wasn’t his wife’s handwriting.”
       The distraught man craned his neck to look up to me. “Yes,” he said, almost under his breath.
       As I watched Lucy reach into her purse for her notebook, I went on, “Your wife was furious with you after the embarrassing incident in the ballroom. Returning to your room, you two had a nasty row, then you stormed off. Hours later, you returned. Your wife was missing, but the letter was lying on the table under the lit lamp. You read it and knew it wasn’t actually hers.”
       I pointed at the chair he sat in. “You required a witness who would agree to your story of returning to the cabin to find her gone, and this note in her place. After folding the letter and placing it in a fresh envelope from the writing desk, you wedged the chair under the door handle. You then passed through the door of the promenade into ours, and then through to the Emersons’ so that you could make it appear the cabin was locked from within.”
       “But why?” asked