“One of the servants must be keeping the flowers alive. Mr. Granger didn’t much care for them,” said Robert, stooping to finger a pot of blue trailing bellflower.
Chloe hadn’t known about Camille’s love of plants. Her friend had mentioned the greenhouse, and even mentioned some of the plants that she particularly liked. Their letters had centered on mechanics and Chloe had never realized just how much her friend had liked growing things. From the corner of her eye, she saw Ambrose studying her, gauging her emotional state. He offered his arm and she took it, biting back the tightness in the back of her throat.
They moved with the line of mourners into the house. They passed the stately portraits and the crepe-covered mirror in the hallway. The parlor clock was stopped, and the room was filled with flowers and mourners. Chloe glanced around to see if she could recognize any of the wealthier people she had seen at church. She spotted a group of them to one side, though the majority of the people were common townsfolk. They formed a slow-moving line past the walnut coffin.
As they approached the coffin, Chloe pulled back. She could not bear to see her friend again. Ambrose let her stop and then moved gently forward, his hand on hers.
Camille Granger had been transformed. The dirt had been washed from her skin and hair, which was wheat-gold and arranged in pleasing curls. Her head rested on a pale blue satin pillow, surrounded by a wreath of peonies, possibly to disguise her injury. Loosely clasped in her hands was a single white lily, perhaps from her own greenhouse. Her eyes were no longer open and encrusted with mud, but were closed as if in sleep. But she did not look asleep, not really.
Chloe’s vision blurred with tears as she bent down to brush a kiss on Camille’s forehead. Ambrose pressed a handkerchief into her hand. The push of the crowd moved them into an adjoining room where other mourners were sharing cucumber sandwiches, pastries and hot tea.
When Ambrose left her to fetch refreshments, Dora approached. “I was hoping to speak with you alone.”
Chloe nodded, cautiously.
“I’m sorry if our words hurt your feelings the other night at supper. My father was furious with me, and said I ought to apologize.”
“Think nothing of it,” said Chloe. “It’s forgotten. I know that the difference in ages between Ambrose and I may seem strange.”
“Not so strange, no. Many widowers marry younger women.” Dora sipped her tea and looked into the crowd. “Marie was a bit younger than Uncle Ambrose. I think by ten years or so.”
Marie, Ambrose’s first wife, had died while giving birth to their firstborn, a son. The infant had not survived. Chloe knew that after Marie’s death, Ambrose had descended into a darkness so complete that his friends thought he might follow Marie and the child to the grave. It was Chloe’s father who dragged Ambrose from the opium dens and paid for his stay at a sanitarium in the country.
When Ambrose had first proposed marriage to her, Chloe was certain he only did it in repayment to her father for his past kindness. Why else would a man of fortune and intelligence make an offer to an eccentric spinster? Later, she had accepted his offer. Their marriage was not a great romance, but she thought of it as quite a pleasant partnership.
She knew that Ambrose was content as well. Even so, on occasion he would see a petite brunette or a little boy and get a faraway look. She would take his hand or ask about a bird or plant, and once she got him talking, he would be himself again.
“Marie was a good person,” said Dora. “Gentle and quiet. A bit like Beatrice.”
Chloe had been anything but gentle and quiet the other night. Or on the airship. His first wife had been all sweetness and propriety, painting silk screens and embroidering samplers, decorating their home in pleasant fabrics and colors. When Chloe had taken over the household, she had done nothing more than instruct the housekeeper to do things the way they had always been done.
Chloe made eye contact with Ambrose across the room and he smiled and lifted the cups of tea and large slice of Battenberg cake that he had balanced on a plate. They found a set of chairs, and Chloe picked at the cake.
People around her were chatting amiably, plates heaped with pastries. One woman wrapped a teacake in a cloth napkin and snuck it into her handbag. Another was chatting with her husband about the finery of the house. Chloe scanned the crowd for anyone who looked saddened by Camille’s death. Boys dashed past the window outside. Nearby, a man laughed uproariously and his companion fanned herself with her hand, her cheeks pink. It looked like most of the mourners had come out of curiosity. Unless they were from a few select families, it wasn’t often that they would get a chance to see the interior of one of the area’s finest houses. And courtesy would prevent the master of the house from throwing them out for anything less than the most egregious behavior.
It was appalling that Camille’s funeral would be treated in such a way. Chloe felt a hot surge of anger, wondering if Camille’s killer were here somewhere, stuffing his face with cake.
At the far end of the room stood a stocky man, with ruddy skin and thinning blond and gray hair. With his thick beard, he looked like an aging Viking, grown fat and soft with age. Make that a disagreeable, aging Viking, Chloe thought. He was scowling at the guests.
Robert seated himself beside her and, following her gaze, said, “That’s Mr. Granger.”
Mr. Granger seemed to be looking over the crowd with the same scrutiny as Chloe. His gaze caught on the refreshment table for a few moments, then he suddenly turned and vanished through the door.
“Would you like to see the greenhouse?” Robert asked, looking at both Chloe and Ambrose.
“I don’t think we ought to,” said Ambrose and looked at the door through which Mr. Granger had passed.
“I’m sure it’s all right,” said Robert. “There are some other guests outside, wandering the grounds. And we still have half an hour until we leave for the church.”
“I’ll go,” said Chloe. She needed to get away from the people and the festive atmosphere. The plants may not miss Camille, but they wouldn’t be celebrating her death either. Ambrose asked about the plants, and after Robert told him that the greenhouse was filled with only ordinary plants and had nothing exotic, he declined to join them. Robert and Chloe passed into the hallway, and out a pair of double French doors. The air outdoors was chilly, and a bit of wind whipped Chloe’s skirts.
“Over there,” said Robert, hurrying toward the large greenhouse at the edge of the grounds. He had been correct about a few souls walking through the garden, but no one appeared to be inside the greenhouse. Perhaps they shouldn’t go, Chloe thought. She despised the idea of being one of the guests who acted as if this were a garden party. But Robert was so eager, and with others wandering around, she hoped no one would mind. Robert held the door and they entered the greenhouse together.
The warm humidity of the interior was a comfort after the cold outside. Moisture beaded on the windows and the air was thick with the scent of wet soil, mulch and growing things.
“I like to come here when we visit the Grangers,” Robert said. “The people are pleasant enough. But it’s so quiet here.” She could tell he was more relaxed in this place than among people.
“The plants are indeed quiet,” she said, leaning over a miniature pink rose.
“I think I’d like a greenhouse like this someday.”
They spent a quarter of an hour examining the plants, noting which were sprouting and the very few in need of repotting.
“I think I’m going to go back inside,” said Chloe.
“I’ll be inside in ten minutes.”
As Chloe rounded the greenhouse to go back inside, she discovered an aging mechanical parked under a potting bench. It looked like an older model garden mechanical. You could load it up with soil and pots and it would follow you around the garden. But it was rusted. How odd that Camille would allow such a thing. Chloe’s household mechanicals were always in perfect working order, and she could not imagine someone like her allowing
one to fall into such a state of disrepair. She dragged it out from its place. While Robert poked around at the plants, she pulled it open, examined and prodded inside. He noticed her looking at something and came out.
“I can have this working in two shakes of a lamb’s tail. It only needs oil and a good cleaning, but mechanically, the regulator is the only faulty part,” she said.
Robert nodded, but looked uncomfortable at her poking around in a mechanical.
“Here,” she pried out the regulator box. “A few minutes, and it will be all fixed.”
Robert’s eyebrows rose at the sight of her filthy hands and the grease-covered box. She sighed.
“Wouldn’t you like to go back inside?” he said.
“Just give me a minute.” She rotated a piece until she heard a satisfying click.
“Are you certain you don’t want to go in?” Robert asked.
“You can go on without me.”
Robert didn’t move. Of course, he didn’t want to return to the festivities any more than she did. He returned to the greenhouse.
She was careful to keep the oil and grease off her dress as she worked. She needed a small spanner and one of the gears was stripped. She had the parts at home, but then, Camille had a laboratory. She looked up at the house’s windows, wondering which one might be the right room. Maybe it was not even on this side of the house. It would be the height of rudeness to be discovered wandering around a house uninvited, during a memorial gathering. But the laboratory—it was here. All of Camille’s work was here.
It was too much to resist. She wrapped the regulator in an oily cloth from the bench and held it out carefully. If anyone asked her, she could explain her presence with it and she would still be clean enough to go to the funeral. She took a quick glance around the lawn, judged that no one aside from Robert was close enough to see her, and rushed inside and up the servants’ staircase in back. Thankfully, it was empty, as was the long upstairs hallway. She hurried along, past empty rooms and then into what she knew must be the main house. She glanced into doorways as she went, but had to skip a few when she heard voices within.
One of the doors was almost completely closed, and she eased it open a crack. It was a woman’s bedroom, all decorated in shades of apricot and cream. Books filled a small bookshelf and she longed to take a look. The paintings on the walls were all of idyllic pastoral landscapes that reminded her of the French countryside. Camille’s bedroom. A door at the side of the room was ajar, and she slipped inside the bedroom to investigate just as a maid turned the corner. She sped through the side door and into the next room.
This was the laboratory. She set the regulator on a workbench and waited. The maid had, of course, followed her.
“Mum, are you in need of anything?” The maid was young and doe-eyed, but her look was keen and sharp.
“The garden mechanical had a problem, and I was going to fix it.”
The maid looked doubtful.
“I’m Mrs. Sullivan. Mrs. Granger and I were correspondents. I build things too.” She motioned around the laboratory. “I’m sure I can find what I need, thank you.” She turned away, and felt a guilt-pang at her unladylike dismissal.
The maid left, but Chloe knew that her time was limited. She took a look around the laboratory, which was much messier than her own, with unfinished projects covering most of the work surfaces.
There were two large tables in the shape of an L, one along a side wall with the other leg running under the window. The other two walls were covered in shelves, some filled with books stacked willy-nilly, and others with boxes, most of them unlabeled. A desk stood in one corner, covered in parts and papers.
She started with the desk, rifling through papers, keeping a few in a stack to the side. She found a number of note pages, a few diagrams, but nothing on the hound. There were, however, a few notes on advanced data spool recording and retrieval, and one on battery design. She kept those.
She pulled open the drawers, but the jumbles of papers and parts made it difficult to sort through them quickly. Well, at least no one would notice more mess, she thought, removing a few pages and jamming things back into the drawers. She tapped her stack of papers on the desk and folded them as tightly as she could, cramming them into her reticule which bulged from the pressure. She wished she had her satchel with her, but she would have to make do.
Next she moved to the two long tables. She guessed that this would be where Camille’s current projects were. Near a roll of tubing, a box of ph test strips and a spare mechanical limb of some sort, she found a prototype of Camille’s battery. She knew that Camille had been working on a cadmium and nickel battery that could be used over and over again. But to see it was extraordinary.
According to the notes, the cadmium and nickel electrodes were placed in a potassium hydroxide solution. An aqueous electrolyte that was alkaline? She had never heard of such a thing.
She took these notes also and crammed them in with the rest, immediately regretting it, as the reticule became impossible to close. She pulled a few pages out, folded them and slipped them into the top of her stocking. She mashed the reticule under her palm until it was small enough to pull the drawstring closed. She would have to remember not to open it until she was in her own room.
She looked back at the battery. Potassium hydroxide was expensive to obtain, though not prohibitively so, for someone of Camille’s or her own station. She glanced around the room and found a shelf containing a few bottles. Rummaging through, she saw that the small potassium hydroxide bottle was almost empty, though nearby was a bottle of murky fluid marked “13.5.” Curious.
She grabbed the box of ph strips from the work table. She opened the 13.5 bottle and was greeted by a murky, watery smell. She dipped one strip into the 13.5 liquid and set the strip aside. Then she tipped the potassium hydroxide bottle until she could wet the other strip, which she set beside the first. She looked over Camille’s books and through other shelves and boxes while she waited. Finding nothing but assorted wiring and gears, she came back to the strips. The strips were nearly identical shades of deep blue. Interesting.
Returning to the workbench, she noted with interest that many of the parts used in the projects were unevenly worn. Old parts were mixed with new, indicating that some were re-used from elsewhere. She could even spot rust on some, especially a spool playback machine similar to the one Ambrose owned and a household mechanical that stood in one corner. The Grangers were wealthy. Why would Camille need to re-purpose old parts? Perhaps Mr. Granger kept her on a restricted allowance. And if he was as controlling as Chloe imagined, Camille was fortunate to have a room to build in at all.
Footsteps came down the hall, but passed by. Time was short. She tore through boxes, finally finding one with a notebook. It was too large for her to take with her and she cursed under her breath. She paged through it and tore out a few pages, which she folded and crammed into the bodice of her dress. Her eye caught a small black wooden box which had been hidden beneath the notebook and assorted parts. Opening it, she found a stack of bills resting in the red velvet interior. She thumbed through it. It was a handsome sum. And all of the bills faced the same direction. Odd to have such care taken when the rest of the room was a disaster.
She heard footsteps, and threw the box back and tossed the notebook on top.
“Pardon me,” said a voice. Chloe spun around to see the housekeeper in the doorway, scowling. “Guests are not allowed in Mrs. Granger’s rooms.”
“I was merely trying to help. You have a broken garden mechanical, and I can fix it easily enough. Save you a trip to Lydford’s to repair it.”
“That is not necessary, thank you. I must ask you to rejoin the guests downstairs.”
“Thank you. I will do that shortly. I only need a minute or two more.” She grabbed a handful of wiring and moved back to the workbench.
“Please, mum.” Something in the housekeeper’s voice was plaintive. Chloe looked up. “You really mustn’t be here.
The master will be furious. He doesn’t want anyone in this room.”
Chloe hesitated.
“Please.”
She couldn’t afford to anger Mr. Granger, not when there was so much she wanted here. She put down the wiring, cleaned her hands on a nearby rag and followed the housekeeper downstairs.
Chapter 10
Downstairs, Ambrose was waiting for her. “Robert returned twenty minutes ago. Where were you?”
“I’ll tell you later,” she said, and took his arm.
They proceeded with the group to the waiting carriages. The gleaming black hearse was four carriages ahead of theirs. Matched horses pulled the hearse, their sleek black sides shining in the sunlight. Their harnesses were festooned with black ribbons and feathers. The driver was finely dressed and the hearse itself was beautifully decorated in black and silver. If Mr. Granger had suspected his wife of having a lover, he had not retaliated by scrimping on funeral expenses.
The group that assembled at the church was smaller than the one that had been at the Granger home. For the second time in as many days, Chloe found herself in the Aynesworth pew. At the front of the church, Mr. Granger sat in the first pew. He did not look to the right or the left, but kept his eyes fixed on the vicar, his hymn book or on the floor.
Chloe was torn. She half pitied him. Aside from herself, he had been the only person who appeared saddened by Camille’s death. He had allowed her to have a whole room of the house as a laboratory and had thrown her a lavish funeral. She remembered the books on Camille’s laboratory shelves, and how completely unsuitable they were for a woman. Aside from Ambrose, she had never thought a man could allow such freedoms for his wife. It was his sacred duty to guard her, physically, mentally and spiritually. But Mr. Granger had allowed it.
Hounds of Autumn Page 6
