The Palace Guard

by Charlotte MacLeod

  “Brown is a fraud and a fake! In the concert hall we had eighty-seven people. Always I count first thing before they start tiptoeing out. In other rooms must have been maybe a hundred more. The chapel is on the third floor. The Grand Staircase is the only way to go up and down unless you lower a rope in broad daylight from a window in front of everybody walking dogs and using pooper-scoopers on the sidewalk, quod erat absurdem. Down the Grand Staircase to lug a sackful of silver in front of so many people who could believe? Who could believe a liar like Brown if he swore on a genuine Gutenberg Bible which, entre nous, you will not find here. Brown sneaks a nap in the chapel during the concert, is all. He piles the silver for an alibi in case somebody catches him asleep. When you tell him about Joe he puts it for frosting on the cake like the louse he is.”

  “You know, Nick,” said Bittersohn, “that’s one explanation that never occurred to me.”

  “Because you do not know that slob like I do, Max. Anything, anything he would do to get out of an hour’s honest work. I”—Nick turned fiercely to Sarah—“am fat but not a slob. And I work. My God, how I work. So Joe Witherspoon dies and Brown is snoring like a pig in the chapel.”

  “Vieuxchamp says Witherspoon had dizzy spells. Can you corroborate that?”

  “Corroborate no. Believe yes. Joe was an old man, he took no care of himself. Up and down, up and down that murderous staircase he had to climb four, five times a day. Too far out he leans, a little vertigo, maybe, and over he goes.”

  “But why would he be on the balcony? He belonged in the Titian Room.”

  “My friend, how should I know? During the concert would maybe be not many people on the third floor. Maybe Joe goes to stretch his legs and watch the pretty peacocks, maybe to take a leak in the waterfall because in this crazy palazzo is only one bathroom and that in the basement. You think the guards go all the way up and down every time?”

  Bittersohn glanced at Sarah and changed the subject. “Did you ever hear Witherspoon talk about the big Titian?”

  “As much as he ever talked about anything. Lucrece was his sweetheart. Who could blame him? It is like Shelley, forever will he love and she be fat. So he could only look, big deal. At his age to look was probably all he could manage anyway and for this he got paid. Joe was a lucky man.”

  “Quite a philosopher, aren’t you, Nick? See that guard over by the pillar in the courtyard?”

  “Sonny they call him. So?”

  “He claims Witherspoon had been complaining lately that Lucrece had changed.”

  “Maxie, how could a painting change? Joe needed new glasses is all. Or maybe glaucoma or cataract, maybe just old age getting soft in the head. Maybe he was lucky he fell.”

  “Do you think Witherspoon could have become depressed enough to jump?”

  “Who knows? What should it matter jumped or fell? Dead is dead. You like to make mysteries, my friend, here is no mystery. Only a tired old man getting at last a chance to rest his feet.”

  Chapter 4

  “I SUPPOSE YOU’VE GOT to rush home and cook,” said Bittersohn as he helped Sarah into the elegant car he’d left parked along the Fenway.

  “Nope.” Sarah smiled in rapture and leaned her head back against the rich beige leather upholstery. “I’m off the hook tonight. Mrs. Sorpende’s doing supper.”

  “How come?”

  “She offered and I jumped at it. One does get tired of slaving over a hot stove.”

  “After three months?”

  “Closer to eight years. I cooked for the family practically all the time I was married to Alexander.”

  “You still think about him all the time, don’t you?” Bittersohn seemed to be having a little trouble fitting the key into the ignition.

  “No, not really. One can’t, you know. There’s always too much happening. Somebody else getting killed, for instance.”

  “Look, I’m sorry as hell about today.”

  “But why should you be?” said Sarah. “You couldn’t know this was going to happen. Anyway, according to the statistics, half the violent deaths in Massachusetts occur right here in Boston, and I’m a Bostonian born and bred, so what can I expect? Anyway, this one has nothing whatever to do with me, thank goodness. Unless you think Brooks—”

  He started the car a bit less smoothly than usual. “I told you my reasons for wanting to see your cousin this evening. I’ve never lied to you yet, have I? Maybe it would have been smarter of me to meet him somewhere else, though, instead of dragging you into it.”

  “Why shouldn’t you drag me into it? Can’t I be treated like a human being for once?”

  “What do you mean? Haven’t I been—?”

  “Oh, it’s not you. It’s been everybody, all my life. To my parents I was a child they weren’t really very interested in, something to be housed and fed and educated according to their ideas, not mine. To Aunt Caroline I was a necessary nuisance. Alexander loved me but he wouldn’t have married me if he hadn’t felt it his duty, and he acted toward me”—she smiled wryly—“well, when a man’s bought you your first ice cream cone and your first swanboat ride I suppose he couldn’t help having a sort of daddy knows best attitude, could he? To my relatives I’m just another Kelling, to my boarders I’m the landlady, to you I’ve sometimes wondered if I was an object of pity. This afternoon you treated me like—I suppose I could say a friend, someone you knew well enough to ask a favor of without wondering whether I’m mature enough to handle it. So please don’t spoil things by apologizing.”

  He shrugged. “What can I say? I don’t know where you got that object of pity stuff. Nothing could ever have been farther from my mind. Now shall we make polite remarks about the scenery or would you rather stop for a drink somewhere?”

  “I’d love a drink. Why don’t we park the car and stroll down to the Hampshire House? If it’s not too expensive,” Sarah added from force of habit.

  “Oh, I guess we can swing a scotch or two. Heard from the newlyweds lately?”

  They chatted about Sarah’s pontifical cousin Adolphus Kelling and his unlikely but so far blissful marriage to a retired department store saleslady who had been running a one-woman recycling program out of the trash barrels on Boston Common. They left the car in the vast concrete cavern under that same Common and walked down Beacon Street to the rather luxurious restaurant where Bittersohn had bought Sarah lunch on a day she would never forget. She wondered if he remembered, but wouldn’t have dreamed of asking after her unexpected burst of self-revelation.

  It was late for the early diners and early for the late ones, so they had the cocktail lounge more or less to themselves when they went in. The waitress was content to let them dawdle over their drinks. Sarah was enjoying herself until she happened to catch a glimpse of Bittersohn’s watch.

  “I really ought to be getting back. Mrs. Sorpende would be dreadfully hurt if I didn’t show up on time.”

  “Okay, you be the landlady and I’ll be the boarder.” Bittersohn dealt with the check and they walked up the hill to Tulip Street. They were in the nick of time. Cousin Brooks and his lady friend entered the vestibule just as Sarah and her escort were being formally admitted by Charles.

  Cousin Brooks had clearly spared no effort to do Sarah proud in front of the household he’d never met before. His sparse gray hair was slicked to pussycat perfection. His aged gray and green tweed suit was pressed until you could cut yourself on the creases. A tailfeather of the crested grebe was stuck into the band of the straw boater he wore to Harvard alumni gatherings.

  Dolores Tawne looked exactly as Sarah had pictured her: middle-aged, barrel-shaped, red-faced, red-haired, and belligerently good-humored, pleased at her unexpected treat but ready to squawk if it didn’t come up to expectations. She had on a sensible beige tweed coat, a sensible drip-dry beige shirtwaist dress, and sensible brown leather walking shoes. Her gloves were beige nylon, her purse hand-tooled cowhide. A good deal of hand-enameled copper jewelry clanked on wrists and bosom. She was delighted to be
there and said so even before Brooks could get her introduced.

  “And we’re delighted to have you,” Sarah replied as needs she must. “Shall we go in and meet the others? Brooks?”

  “What? Oh yes,” he replied without taking his eyes from a spot above and to the left of Sarah’s head. The attraction was, of course, their hostess of the evening Mrs. Theonia Sorpende.

  A while back, Sarah had given Mrs. Sorpende an armload of lingerie that had been part of her mother-in-law’s trousseau back when Georgette and crepe de chine were all the rage and everything was trimmed with six inches of expensive French lace. Out of the chemises, negligees, robes de nuit, and even the step-ins, Mrs. Sorpende had since been creating herself a wardrobe that would have made Mother Machree look like Theda Bara. Tonight since they weren’t supposed to be dressing she’d put on what Sarah’s grandmother would perhaps have called a tea gown.

  Theonia Sorpende was built along the general lines of the Venus de Milo except that she came equipped with soft white arms and exquisitely tapered hands and was more abundantly endowed around the bustline. Her age was a secret hidden behind a Gioconda smile. Her hair had once been raven but was now developing deep auburn highlights where uncharitable persons might assume silver threads would otherwise be starting to show. What she knew about cosmetics was nobody’s business. In clinging mauve Georgette and deep flounces of ecru lace she bore a subtle resemblance to Joe Witherspoon’s Lucrece, in a fresher, warmer, and even more opulently sexy way.

  Luckily Dolores Tawne’s skin must be as thick as her ankles. Quite unaware that she’d just been jilted, she greeted the ageless beauty with cheerful barks and failed to observe how long Mrs. Sorpende’s rose-tipped fingers remained clasped in those of Brooks Kelling. Sarah noticed, though, and thought she’d better divert Mrs. Tawne’s attention just in case.

  “Cousin Brooks tells me you’re tremendously clever about taking care of Madam Wilkins’s paintings.

  That, oddly enough, struck a sore spot. “I’m a painter myself,” snapped Dolores. “Didn’t Brooks tell you that?”

  “Why, I do believe he—”

  “I’ve done the portraits of many prominent people. All the presidents of Amalgamated Enterprises from the founder right down to the present chairman of the board. Six generations.”

  “My goodness! But surely you couldn’t have known them all?”

  “No, I’m not that old even if I do look it.” Mrs. Tawne slapped a beefy thigh at her own wit. “I work from photographs, of course.”

  “Oh, I see. It must be extremely difficult.”

  “Easier than live models. Photographs don’t wiggle around.” Mrs. Tawne thought that was pretty funny, too. “I always work from photographs.”

  No doubt Mrs. Tawne had her failings like other mortals but it became clear that excessive modesty was not among them. As they moved into the library for the preprandial sherry that was an invariable part of Sarah’s household routine, Dolores held forth on the things she knew how to do, the things she had in fact done, and the heights she might have reached were it not for professional jealousy and backbiting.

  During her recital boarders began drifting in: Mr. Eugene Porter-Smith in a navy blue suit with pinstripes and a lemon yellow shirt and tie; Jennifer LaValliere in nothing to speak of; Professor Ormsby in a new green turtleneck jersey that looked much like his old green turtleneck jersey; Mrs. Gates, the new inhabitant of the downstairs suite that was once the drawing room. Mrs. Gates had on a beautifully styled sheer wool dress of a delicate coral that brought out the pink in her cheeks and contrasted charmingly with her silver-white hair.

  As it happened, Mrs. Gates had once sat with Mrs. Tawne on a committee for an art exhibition to benefit Children’s Hospital. The two began renewing old acquaintance. Sarah eased herself away from them, wondering where Mr. Bittersohn had got to all of a sudden.

  Mariposa, Sarah’s confidante, general manager, and comrade, who also posed as the upstairs maid, had the day off to spend with her innumerable relatives. Charles, Mariposa’s mentor, roommate, and various other things, was passing around the sherry and hors d’oeuvres. As he offered a silver tray to Sarah, she murmured, “Where did Mr. Bittersohn go? He particularly asked me to invite Mr. Brooks and Mrs. Tawne.”

  “He is talking on the telephone to London, madam. Scotland Yard have been attempting to reach him for the past several hours.”

  “Good heavens! I hope he thought to reverse the charges.”

  Charles gave her the merest flicker of a pitying smile and moved on with his tray. Shortly afterward Mr. Bittersohn rejoined the company, looking more like an advertisement out of Fortune magazine than someone who had connections at Scotland Yard. Charles threw open the dining room doors and the company flocked in. As was the custom on Sunday nights, supper was set out in massive silver dishes on the buffet and the gentlemen helped the ladies, all but Professor Ormsby, who was much too preoccupied with helping himself.

  Mrs. Sorpende had done them proud. Sarah hadn’t the faintest idea what she’d prepared, but it all looked delicious. Brooks was gallantly shoveling food on Mrs. Sorpende’s own plate. His eyes were level with her magnificent lace-edged décolletage and he was obviously enjoying the view. Fortunately Max Bittersohn had set himself to bowling over Mrs. Tawne, so she was too beguiled to notice her escort’s defection. Charles was being attentive to Mrs. Gates, Mr. Porter-Smith to Miss LaValliere. Sarah shrugged and helped herself.

  Mrs. Sorpende was indeed a marvelous cook. They went through the buffet like a horde of locusts, then Charles cleared away the plates and brought in a many-layered torte flavored with chocolate, rum, and goodness only knew what else. They had their coffee with the dessert. As appetites grew sated, conversation became more brisk and general. Mrs. Tawne started laying down the law about what was wrong with modern art, which appeared to be a great deal. Young Porter-Smith, a gentleman of unconfined erudition and waspish nature, took exception. Mr. Bittersohn egged them on. Cousin Brooks ignored them and told Mrs. Sorpende all about the snowy egret. She smiled her Mona Lisa smile and made appropriate responses in a voice Sarah heard Brooks comparing favorably to that of the white winged dove, or Zenaida asiatica.

  Miss LaValliere, who was a well-brought-up child despite her clothes or lack of them, listened politely to whichever of her elders happened to be talking loudest at any given moment. Mrs. Gates sipped her tea since she wasn’t allowed coffee at night and poured oil on the troubled waters. Professor Ormsby had another large helping of torte.

  At last Mr. Bittersohn managed to work the conversation around to the paintings at Madam Wilkins’s palazzo. “Mrs. Tawne, what’s your opinion of that Romney hanging near the staircase in the Grand Salon?”

  “Academic tripe,” sneered Mr. Porter-Smith, who hadn’t been asked. ‘Terrible color, tasteless design, lifeless brush-work—”

  “It was my opinion the gentleman requested,” blazed Mrs. Tawne, “and for your information”—she leaned heavily on every word—“I consider that Romney one of the finest pieces in the entire collection. It represents the art of portraiture raised to an ultimate peak of grace and refinement. Romney’s poetic imagery in representing the sitter as Venus with roses and cupids—”

  “Theatrical poppycock! The subject was fifty-seven years old when she began posing.”

  “Fifty-six, and so what? Venus herself would have been a darn sight older than that, wouldn’t she?”

  “Ah, but Venus was immortal,” said Cousin Brooks with a languishing glance at Mrs. Sorpende.

  “Was immortal is a contradiction in terms.” As a certified public accountant, Mr. Porter-Smith did not like getting caught out in an arithmetical error.

  “My reason for asking the question, Mrs. Tawne,” Bittersohn said loudly enough to be heard above the dissension, “is that it’s been suggested to me by someone whose opinion I value highly that the Romney at the Wilkins may possibly be a copy. What is your feeling about that?”

  “I thought you wer
e supposed to be the art expert,” said Miss LaValliere, who had expended a great deal of effort on Mr. Bittersohn, got absolutely nowhere, and was inclined to nip at his heels as a result.

  “Oh, are you?” Mrs. Tawne elevated her sandy eyebrows into the corrugations of her freckled forehead. “Then if an expert like you can’t tell, what difference does it make?”

  Miss LaValliere giggled most unkindly. Mr. Porter-Smith decided to keep mum and look superior. Sarah thought it was high time to get off Romney.

  “Where is your studio, Mrs. Tawne?” she asked. “Do you work right in the museum?”

  “No, I’ve lived at the Fenway Studios for going on forty years now. Be there until I die, I suppose, unless they tear it down.”

  “Do you know I’m a professional illustrator of sorts myself, but I’ve never set foot inside a genuine fine artist’s studio in my life,” Sarah gushed. “I’d adore to see yours sometime.”

  There wasn’t much Mrs. Tawne could say to that but, “You’d be quite welcome any time.”

  “Then could I possibly come tomorrow, or am I being too pushy? It’s just that I happen to have an errand over your way and it’s always such a project for me to get away from the house that I try to bunch things together as much as I can. If you’re not going to be tied up at the museum, perhaps I could run in for a quick peek.”

  “When would you be coming?”

  “I could manage any time to suit you between ten and four.”

  They settled on three o’clock for early tea. Mr. Bittersohn surprised Sarah very much by giving her a surreptitious pat on her neat little derrière behind their chairs before he asked, “Kelling, have you learned anything more about the Witherspoon incident?”

  “Only that they managed to get hold of Mr. Fitzroy to tell him and he thinks it’s very odd.”