“The size, at least, must have been apparent before you entered,”
I pointed out. She simpered and looked around the room once more.
She cleared her throat and said, “Is this the room where—it happened?”
I knew perfectly well what she meant, but decided to make her confess her morbid and ill-bred curiosity. “Where what happened?”
“Ah, you do not know the house’s history, Miss Haley. The fact of the matter is a man was murdered here!”
She looked triumphant at telling me so. She thought I’d bought the house unawares and she was thrilled to point out my folly. “Yes, in this very room, I fancy. The papers said the saloon, at least. A very grisly business it was, too. There was some theft involved—a huge sum of money the man had embezzled.”
I gave her an icy stare. “You are mistaken. Mr. Sutton was robbed; he had stolen nothing. I am quite aware of the matter. And as you were only interested in looking, Mrs. Seymour, perhaps you will want to leave now. I expect your husband is waiting for his breakfast. I know I am ready for mine.”
She looked at the kettle boiling on the hob, the plates on the sofa table, shook her head in weary disdain, and left. She was about as impressed with our housekeeping as we were with her manners.
“The nerve of that creature!”
I exclaimed.
“I thought her very curious—vulgarly so,”
Mama said mildly.
Esther put a piece of bread on the fork and resumed making our breakfast. When another woman appeared at the door half an hour later, with no evidence of a carriage, I took for granted she was another nosy neighbor. She confessed as much on the doorstep. She lived on our other side.
“I’m Mrs. George,”
she said. “I noticed you have the house up for sale.”
“Yes, are you in the market for a very small house in some disrepair, ma’am?”
I asked coolly before inviting her in.
“Oh, no, I only came over to get acquainted, to see if I could be of any help. It’s nice to have someone to point out the shops nearby, and so on.”
My short temper had led me into unintentional rudeness. As I let her in I noticed that she was altogether a better class of person than Mrs. Seymour, which is not to say that she was above a few prying questions as to where “it”
happened. Of course, she didn’t know of my relationship with Graham or how painful it was to speak of it. During the course of our conversation Mama mentioned that someone had gotten in and made a mess of the house.
“Is that what he was up to?”
Mrs. George asked. “My daughter had some notion it was ghosts. They will often haunt a place where there has been a violent death,”
she informed us with perfect seriousness. “I have seen the lights moving about in here at night. I sent off for a constable the first time, but by the time he came the ghost had left. That was just after poor Mr. Sutton was killed. Then the lights did not appear again till just recently. One night about a week ago I saw the light. I mentioned it to my husband, but he said it was none of my business; it was probably the new owner having a look around. As if the owner would not have entered by the front door! I tell you no one did, for my sewing corner gives a very clear view of your door. And the ghost didn’t leave by the front door, either. I kept a sharp eye, and no one came out, even after the lights vanished.”
“A week ago, you say—and no lights since?”
I asked.
“Not a one. And I kept an eye peeled.”
“That is odd,”
Mama allowed, with a little frown.
Mrs. George nodded her head and said, “Perhaps it was someone looking for the money.”
I assumed she had been gossiping with Mrs. Seymour and prepared to give her a setdown. “Mr. Sutton was not a thief! He was the victim.”
"But there was talk at the time that he had gotten hold of some huge sum of money—I don’t know exactly what it was. It wasn’t in the papers, but there were police officers searching the house for money—a whole bag of it. They asked me if I had seen anything of it, but I could not learn from them how that nice Mr. Sutton came to have such a sum. It stands to reason he was not rich, buying a tiny little place like this for his wife. He was to have been married very soon.”
She didn’t leap to the conclusion that I was to have been the bride, and I saw no reason to tell her. My mind was occupied with her more interesting statements. She soon rose to leave and said she hoped we could all come to call on her after we had settled in.
“Or will you be staying at all?”
she asked, remembering the sign in the window.
It began to seem we might be staying longer than we had planned. I meant to discover what this bag of money was that Graham was supposed to have had the night he was murdered.
When we were alone again, Esther said, “What can it mean?”
“It must have something to
do with his legal business,”
I decided. “I thought it odd anyone would kill him only for the contents of his purse.”
“And leave his little diamond stickpin behind, too,”
Mama reminded me.
“Graham had no partner—there is no one to ask.”
Mama was frowning, biting her bottom lip. “If the man came back several times and came again just last week, Belle, it looks as though he did not get
the money,”
she pointed out.
I felt a moment’s weakness from fright, but it was the tyrant’s job to be in charge, so I assumed a bold front. “How nice! Then we can look forward to more visits from him. I shall have the locks changed this very day. We shan’t sleep tonight in a house without safe locks.”
“Mrs. George said he didn’t use the door,”
Esther reminded me.
“Mrs. George is a goose. He used the back door—or that cellar window. We’ll have the locks changed anyway, and a bolt put on the cellar door as well.”
After a frowning pause, Mama said, “I do wish Hotchkiss were here.”
I pointed out that Hotchkiss would not even have my letter yet and couldn’t reasonably be expected for a few days. “I’m going down to Bond Street this, minute to see if I can find a locksmith.”
“I’ll go with you,”
Esther volunteered eagerly.
Mama blanched and shrieked, “I’m not staying here alone!”
“We cannot all go and leave the place empty. Someone might come to see the house,”
I reminded them. “I’ll stay.”
“Not alone, Belle,”
Mama objected. “There is no saying all the customers will be ladies.”
“Very true. We haven’t had a real lady so far,”
I said, but of course it was a gentleman caller she feared, and I had no wish to tour the place alone with a gentleman. “We’ll all go together this afternoon. It won’t take more than an hour.”
Just after we got the breakfast debris cleared away, we heard a third tap at the door. Things move quickly in the city. At home, the Barrows had their house up for a month before they had a caller. It was Esther who pranced to the door, gold curls bouncing, when she spotted the handsome black carriage in the street and the elegant, many-caped greatcoat emerging from it.
“This is Mr. Desmond,”
she said, showing him in. “He wants to see the house.”
Why?
was the first thing that popped into my head. A gentleman who drove that elegant carriage outside our door and who emanated such a strong air of wealth and fashion did not belong in this toy house on Elm Street. He belonged in a mansion in the very heart of fashionable London. He was exceedingly handsome in a dashing way that was new to me, and to Esther, too, to judge from her adoring gaze.
The thing that set Mr. Desmond apart from Bath gentlemen had to do with his manner as well, his open way of appraising us all, not trying to hide his curiosity; yet the manner was friendly enough. Short, dark hair sat smoothly on a well-sculpted head. The word “sculpted”
suited his entire body, for it was of ideal proportions. The carving of the face was particularly fine, from the high cheekbones and strong jaw to the slightly sensuous lips. It was his liveliness and a pair of dancing dark eyes that removed the look of a Grecian statue. Those bold eyes, that mobile expression, had nothing to do with cold marble. A flirtatious smile began and then subsided as his glance flitted from Esther to me to Mama.
The vision opened its lips, and a deep, melodious voice spoke. “Good morning, ladies. I hope I haven’t dropped in at an inconvenient hour. When will it be best for me to return and tour the house?’’
“Now!”
I said swiftly, “You may as well look now, Mr. Desmond. We plan to go out this afternoon,”
I explained
,
but in a voice suffering from discomposure, that we had just arrived without servants and that the place wanted a good cleaning.
“That suits me.”
He removed his outer coat, revealing a blue jacket exquisitely molded to broad shoulders. Sparkling linen and a discreetly patterned waistcoat were also displayed.
Something about this elegant Adonis robbed me of my wits. Instead of taking his coat and getting down to business, I just went on looking and smiling back at him, for his flickering gaze had finally settled on me. Only Mama proved immune to the man’s charm. She said, “The house is small.”
“Yes, I can see that,”
he agreed, looking about at the little toy saloon.
“It would not do for a large family,”
she added. She has the country habit of wanting to know all about any stranger met by chance. I found myself listening with keen interest for his reply. I also found myself wondering about the mischievous sparkle that suddenly invaded his eyes.
“It is not wanted for a family,”
he said blandly.
This speech quite stymied me for about thirty seconds. Within half a minute, though, I realized what had brought this fashionable buck to my door. He was searching out a love nest for his mistress! My first reaction was revulsion that the house Graham had bought for us should be put to such a base use. He recognized the accusation in my stare and tried to smile it away.
“Who is the tour mistress?”
he asked. I felt it was more than coincidence that he had chosen the word “
mistress.”
There was a certain playful quality in the way he said it. I was tempted to turn him out the door, but reason prevailed. What did it matter now? If he had the money and wanted the house, that was all that concerned me.
“Belle?”
Mama said, calling me to my duty.
“I’ll conduct the tour,”
I said briskly.
Mama and Esther remained seated, which meant I was to be allowed to accompany Mr. Desmond alone. I was glad they were there within shouting distance all the same.
“This is the saloon,”
I began. “A rather nice marble fireplace.”
“Not Adams, though,”
he pointed out.
“Perhaps not. Pretty leaded windows,”
I continued, nodding at them. He gazed with mild interest at these treats.
“The room is rather small. Do you happen to know the dimensions?”
he asked.
“No.”
“You could pace it out,”
Mama said, “A tall man’s stride is about a yard.”
“That would be rather difficult ...”
I objected. The difficulty arose from the fact that furniture occupied both ends of the room: sofas at one end, a heavy highboy at the other.
Undeterred, Mr. Desmond wedged himself in at the end of the sofa and paced the room, squeezing his long leg in between the highboy and a bookcase when he got to the far end. “I make it about six yards,”
he announced. “And roughly five wide. Does the place come furnished?”
“If you like. Or I can sell the furniture separately—
either way,”
I said.
“I’d like to keep that highboy, Belle,”
Mama said. “It would look fine in our own saloon at Bath. So much nicer than the great ugly cupboard we have there.”
“Ah, you’re from Bath!”
Mr. Desmond exclaimed. “That would explain your beautiful complexions. I spent a week at Bath one day.”
Mama and Esther exchanged a perplexed frown while Mr. Desmond honored me with a quizzing smile, to confirm that I had properly interpreted his opinion of dull Bath.
“What price are you asking?”
was his next question.
“Six thousand pounds,”
I suggested tentatively, watching to gauge his response.
He nodded, neither delighted, dismayed, nor surprised, and said, “May I see the bedchambers?”
“Yes, they’re upstairs,”
I said, and we walked from the safety of the saloon.
“A novel idea,”
I heard him say in a soft voice as he paced behind me. “And—just a suggestion, Miss Haley—firm up your tone when you give the price. That doubtful glance is an invitation to the unscrupulous purchaser to haggle you down. What would you
really
take?”
“Six thousand pounds,”
I said much more firmly.
“That’s better!”
he complimented.
I was overly conscious of him behind me, following me up the stairs, down the hall. I was on pins and needles waiting for him to say or do something outrageous, but he just walked into each chamber, looked all around at ceilings, windows, wainscoting, personal clutter. I saved the master bedroom for the last, as it was the finest. A picture popped into my head of Mr. Desmond’s mistress lounging at her ease in Graham’s bed. She was a voluptuous blonde in a white lace peignoir. I disliked the image intensely. “No one using the master bedroom?”
he asked.
“Not at the moment, but it would do equally well for a mistress’s bedchamber, don’t you think?”
I gave him a bright, impersonal smile.
The sparkle from his laughing eye only hit me at an angle as he turned away to hide his face. Even the partial view made me realize I had strayed into suggestive waters. “Yes, indeed. What has sex to do with a bedchamber, after all?”
He laughed lightly and strolled over to punch the mattress with his fists. “This is a demmed hard mattress.”
“Mattresses can easily be changed.”
“Oh, I like a good firm mattress. I’m an active—er,
sleeper.’’
I refused to be bullied into embarrassment by this creature, who was trying his best to discomfort me. “There is some interesting carving on the wooden fireplace,”
I pointed out. He walked to it and ran his fingers over the flowers and birds. “This also is not the work of Adams,”
I said, for him.
“Nor of Grinling Gibbons either, though it’s not too crudely done,”
he allowed. He turned back and surveyed the room at some length. “This is not bad.”