“Probably a good deal less,”
I added pointedly. “I have been here less than forty-eight hours, and I have not hired a man to go down on his hands and knees and try every splinter. What are you looking for?”
“Termites, wood rot, poor construction—that sort of thing.”
“Have you found any of these flaws?”
“Nothing serious. Water
has gotten in around the upper windows. There’s a suspicious brown mark on the ceiling of the east bedchamber. The doors are all poorly hung, and the stairs squawk like an unoiled hinge.”
“I’m glad it’s nothing serious!”
“Old houses always have imperfections,”
he said leniently. “Would you mind coming with me to the dining room? There’s some irregularity in the paneling there.”
I peered around his shoulder to see what Grant was up to. Using the sofa as concealment, he was sliding a screwdriver between the wooden panels. “We’ll have greater irregularities in the saloon if you don’t call Mr. Grant off.”
“Take it easy, Grant,”
Mr. Desmond ordered.
Grant looked over his shoulder and said slyly, “Aye, the mort’s whiddled beef on you, lad.”
“What is he talking about?”
Mr. Desmond took my elbow and hastened me across the hall to the dining room. “Mr. Grant’s from Ireland, He speaks a strange sort of dialect, related to Gaelic, no doubt.”
“Or to thieves’
cant, perhaps?”
He frowned at me, as though not understanding my jibe.
“Now about this paneling,”
he said, gazing at it. The wood was imperfect to be sure, but no more so than any other paneled wall that’s seen a few decades of use. “This side of the room is darker than the other,”
he pointed out, peering from one side of the room to the other.
“The darker side doesn’t receive light from the window,”
I explained.
“Shall we just turn on the gaslight?”
“If you really think it’s necessary.”
He did, and still he imagined one wall to be darker than the other. “A different shade of stain was used, I expect. The difference is hardly startling,”
I said. “I hadn’t noticed.”
“You haven’t been using the dining room.”
“What makes you think so?”
“The toast crumbs on the living room carpet,”
he answered blandly.
“Our servants aren’t here yet.”
“How awkward for you,”
he said, oozing an inordinate amount of sympathy.
I peered back into the saloon. Grant had disappeared behind the sofa again. “It isn’t the servants we miss so much as the carriage, actually. We hadn’t planned to stay long.”
“I will be very happy to deliver you anywhere you wish to go.”
“That’s kind of you, but I know you’re very busy. We can always hire a hackney.”
Sympathy escalated to flirtation to distract me from Grant’s racket across the hall. “You rob me of the opportunity to know you better, ma’am.”
I gave him a meaningful stare and said, “You already know me better than I know you, Mr. Desmond. You know my father was a clergyman and that I was to have been married. Were you acquainted with Graham Sutton?”
His head came forward a moment, and he frowned, as though not hearing, or not understanding. “With whom?”
“My late fiancé, Graham Sutton.”
“I’m afraid I had not the honor, but I should like to have met him. I admire his taste.”
The boldest pair of eyes in London roved admiringly over my face as he said this.
Aware of a warm flush creeping up my neck, I immediately pretended to misunderstand. “Now, that’s odd. You’ve done nothing but disparage his taste in homes since you’ve come here.”
“I think you knew it wasn’t architecture we were discussing, ma'am. I plan to buy the house, and if I develop an interest in acquiring permanent rights to ...”
It was a great relief when this piece of impertinence was interrupted by a resounding crash from the saloon. “That wretched man is destroying my house!”
I exclaimed, and dashed across the hall with Mr. Desmond hard at my heels.
Mr. Grant had taken the notion to detach a built-in cupboard from the wall. He had not quite succeeded in his aim but had managed to shake loose a pile of books from a shelf, which had caused the noise.
“Try to be more quiet, Grant,”
Mr. Desmond said severely.
“No need to ride rusty. Ain’t I dirtying my finest duds for you?”
Grant complained, but he picked up the books.
“About the furnishings, Miss Haley,” Mr. Desmond said, and took my arm to leave the noisy saloon.
“With a few exceptions, they would be included in the price of six thousand.”
“And the wine in the cellar?”
My eyes narrowed at this question. He hadn’t been to the cellar yet, nor had he gone there yesterday. How did he know the cellar was full of excellent wines?
“What makes you think there’s any wine in the cellar?”
“Where else would it be?”
he asked. “Naturally I assumed a gentleman had put down a cellar.’’
“Of course he did! The wine is not included,”
I said, because I was angry at being made to look foolish.
“Wine travels poorly,”
he cautioned playfully, haggling over it. “Except from cellar to table, and thence to glass, if a gentleman is lucky.”
He seemed genuinely interested in buying the house, and to keep him in humor I offered a glass of sherry. Mr. Desmond might know something about Graham’s business, but if he was disappointed not to find a bag of money when he moved in, it was hardly my fault.
Over the wine, conversation turned from business to mere social chitchat. “Are you an established resident of London, Mr. Desmond?”
“We are a Devon family, but I’ve been in London for upwards of ten years and consider myself a Londoner.’’
“You must give me some idea what sights are worth seeing. My young sister is eager to tour the town.”
“And are you, also being a young lady, not curious, Miss Haley?”
“I shall accompany her, of course.’’
He regaled me with a list of attractions. Grant stuck his head in at the door and said he was going to “cast his glimms over the dungeon,”
after which he went to the cellar.
“How does it come you employ a man who doesn’t speak English?”
I asked politely.
“Grant’s the best man at this sort of work. Every trade has its jargon.”
“If I am not mistaken, that particular jargon is neither Gaelic nor related to the building trade. It is thieves’
cant.”
A look of surprise lit his face. “How did you recognize it? Pattering flash at Bath Cathedral these days, are they?”
“No, sir, I learned the rudiments of the language from Bow Street. I don’t have to ask where
you
picked it up, and I do not appreciate your bringing a thief into my house. If Mr. Grant has rushed a dozen bottles of wine out the cellar window, I shall expect you to stand buff for it.”
“I’ll have to buy Jay a muzzle. I knew you’d be worried, so I didn’t tell you the whole truth about Mr. Grant. You need not worry. The spanks he charges, he doesn’t have to nab nowadays.”
“And in
English
that would mean ... ?”
“He’s being well paid.”
A shapely finger was waggled in front of me. “A clergyman’s daughter should entertain more charitable thoughts than encumber your head, Miss Haley. I am endeavoring to reform Mr. Grant and a few of his confreres. And here you thought I was in league with the scapegallows fraternity. Jay used to be on the ken lay—he robbed houses after he had carefully inspected them in his regular line of business. I caught him with his daddies in my safe one night. While I was delivering him to Bow Street he told me such a tale of woe that I decided to give him a chance to go straight. That was three years ago; he hasn’t stolen anything since, to my knowledge.”
“You’re quite a philanthropist,”
I said doubtfully.
“I believe in practical benevolence—Jay provides good services for his keep. And along the way we’ve learned a little of each other’s language.”
Grant soon joined us and said, “There’s rum quids in the hole, lad.”
“Much good it will do us. The wine don’t come with the house. I’ll meet you in the carriage, Jay.”
Grant ducked his head in what was meant to be a bow and left.
“Are you ready to make me a firm offer, sir?”
I asked.
"I shall have to go over the report with Grant first. When may I return?”
“As soon as you make up your mind. I should caution you that someone else is coming to look at the house today.”
A blaze of interest flashed in his dark eyes. “Who is that?”
“I don’t know the gentleman’s name—he’s a friend of a friend.”
“I see.”
Before he got out, Mrs. Mailer and her friend were in. I first assumed the hostile looks they exchanged were due to their competition for my house. It was no such thing! They were acquainted, and to judge by their scowls, the acquaintance was not a happy one.
“Mrs. Mailer, Mr. Thomson,”
Mr. Desmond said, with a curt bow.
They nodded, more curtly still, but didn’t speak.
As Mr. Desmond left, Yootha and her friend charged into the saloon, their eyes wide with indignation.
“What is
he
doing here?”
Mrs. Mailer demanded.
“He’s the man who is thinking of buying our house,”
I explained.
“Mr. Maitland? No such a thing!”
“His name is Mr. Desmond,”
I said, but already I knew I had been taken in.
“Desmond Maitland, that’s who he is,”
Yootha said.
Mama, looking all bewildered, asked, “Do you know him well?”
“He is the agent who insured my necklace and was so unpleasant about giving me my money when it was stolen,”
Yootha announced.
“Do you mean to tell me the man is an insurance agent?”
I gasped, and fell into a fit of giggles. He with his office at the Royal Exchange and his philanthropy, his fine carriage and jackets, and he was only an insurance agent. He couldn’t buy a dog kennel, let alone a house. He probably owed every merchant in town to maintain his carriage and jackets.
“Not just any agent,”
she continued. “Mr. Maitland is the man who put up the ten thousand pounds the night Graham was killed.”
We went into the saloon, and before we were seated Mrs. Mailer presented her friend to us. It was Mr. Two Legs Thomson, her latest flirt. Besides his two legs, he had two arms, two sharp gray eyes, one head, and so on, none of them exceptional. He was white-haired and wore the sort of red nose commonly associated with a liking for wine. He had a tendency to stoutness and was in every way a gentleman in his appearance and manner.
“Is it some sort of stunt Mr. Desmond was playing off on us in coming here?”
Mama demanded.
“Of course it was. Maitland no more plans to buy your house than I do,”
Yootha exclaimed angrily. “That is..."
“We know you aren’t interested in buying it,”
I said, as she appeared to have become embarrassed at her speech. I looked with suspicious interest to decide by Two Leg’s jacket if he could afford the house.
“He only came to see if he could find the money," Mrs. Mailer continued. She shook her head firmly at Two Legs as she spoke. “It’s here, I tell you. Right in this house, and Mr. Maitland knows it. He is probably your burglar. He associates with the worst riffraff in town.”
“It will be a fine bonus for whoever buys the house. Perhaps Lloyd’s will give the agent a reward when it is returned,”
I said, to remind Yootha what was to be done with the money. “Very likely that’s why Mr. Maitland was looking so hard.”
“He seemed such a nice young fellow, and he was full of deceit all the time,”
Mama said, surprised into plain speaking. “He told us he worked at the Royal Exchange.”
Two Legs drew his brows together and frowned at us. “Eh? You have got it mixed up, ladies. Lloyd’s offices
are
at the Royal Exchange. You sound as though Maitland were some demmed clerk. It is nothing of the sort. Each Lloyd’s agent is an independent businessman—they buy a license for some enormous sum of money. They all finance their own losses. The ten thousand came out of Mr. Maitland’s pocket. They all belong to Lloyd’s, but they work on their own, take their own risks, keep their own policy money, and pay their losses out of their own pockets.”
“He must be very rich!”
Esther said bluntly.
“A regular nabob,”
Two Legs assured her.
“Which is not to say he has the right to be searching Miss Haley’s house for the money,”
Yootha said firmly. “That was an ordinary business loss, to be expected. That’s why we pay them so much to buy our insurance.”
I began to perceive all the same that with such people as Yootha Mailer involved, Mr. Maitland was wise to try to recover his money. My only resentment was that he hadn’t been more straightforward about it. It was a slight against my character for him to feel the necessity of so much lying and conniving. I would gladly have given him permission to search to his heart’s content and would tell him so next time we met—if we met again. I had a strong feeling it would take more than disclosure as a liar to keep Mr. Maitland away.
“Did he find it?”
Mr. Thomson asked eagerly.
“No, he didn’t, and he ransacked the house from top to bottom,”
I assured them.
Assurance wasn’t enough. Mr. Thomson had to repeat the procedure for himself, using the pretext that he was just examining the house closely with an eye to buying it. I went with him and Yootha every step of the way. If anyone was going to find that money, it was going to be me. Graham’s honor was not really at stake, but I wanted to perform this last office for him. I noticed scratch marks on the locks of the trunks in the attic. Clearly the redoubtable Grant had pried them open and seen the blankets. The search convinced us all that there wasn’t so much as a comb hidden in the house.
After the tour we returned to the saloon for sherry. Mr. Thomson displayed not the slightest interest in offering for the house. All he wanted to talk about was the money. He and Yootha reiterated that the money must be here, or why did people keep coming to look for it? But in the end we all realized that the only one who knew was the man who had killed Graham; and as no one knew who that was, the rest was mere conjecture.
“The servants might be able to tell us something,”
Mama thought.