by Laura Childs
Of course, sleuthing was exciting, she told herself as she passed by a marble statue of a weeping angel, a silent, solitary inhabitant of the graveyard. And trying to solve a murder did set one’s blood to racing.
Feeling her guilt slightly absolved, for the time being, Theodosia’s footsteps echoed softly as she moved quickly along the dark path as it wound behind the Charleston Library Society.
She realized full well that she was headed for Timothy Neville’s home not just for an evening of music. Her ulterior motive was to spy.
In a patch of crape myrtle there was a whir of cicadas, the rustle of some small, nocturnal creature, claiming the darkness as its domain.
Six blocks had seemed too short to drive, so Theodosia had walked, taking this shortcut through the cemetery and various gardens. Now, ducking through a crumbling arch with trumpet vine twining at her feet, the Gateway Walk suddenly seemed too dark, too secret, too secluded.
Stepping up her pace, she emerged two minutes later into soft, dreamy light cast by the old-fashioned wrought-iron lamps that lined Archdale Street.
Drayton had said he’d meet her at eight o’clock, just outside the gates of Timothy Neville’s Georgian-style mansion. And from the looks of things, she had only moments to spare.
Cars were parked bumper to bumper up and down Arch-dale, and lights blazed from every window of Timothy Neville’s enormous, sprawling home. As Theodosia hurried up the walk, she was suddenly reminded of the Avis Melbourne Home the night of the Lamplighter Tour. Its lamps had also been lit festively. Swarms of visitors had crowded the walks and piazzas.
She fervently hoped that an evening at this grand home would yield far better consequences.
“Right on time.” Drayton emerged from the shadows and offered her his arm. He was dressed in black tie and looked more at ease in formal attire than most mere mortals could ever hope for. When an invitation specified black tie, Drayton always complied with elegance and polish.
Theodosia had worn a floor-length, pale blue sleeveless dress, shimmery as moonlight. As an afterthought, she’d tossed a silver gray pashmina shawl over her shoulders. With her hair long and flowing and a dab of mascara and lipstick to highlight her expressive eyes and full lips, she looked like an elegant lady out for a night on the town.
But I’m here to spy, Theodosia reminded herself as she and Drayton climbed the stone steps.
They nodded to familiar faces standing in groups on the piazza, passed through elegant cathedral doors and were greeted inside by Henry, Timothy Neville’s butler.
Henry was dressed in full liveried regalia, and rumor held that Henry had been employed by Timothy Neville for almost forty years. There weren’t many people Theodosia knew who had live-in help or had help that stayed with them for so long.
“Cocktails are being served in the solarium,” Henry announced solemnly. He had the sad, unblinking eyes of an old turtle and the ramrod backbone of an English Beefeater. “Or feel free to join Mr. Neville’s other guests in the salon, where Mr. Calhoun is playing a piece from Scarlatti.” Henry gestured slowly toward a gilded archway through which harpsichord notes flowed freely.
Theodosia noted that the venerable Henry seemed to move in slow motion. It was like watching a Japanese Noh drama.
“Wine or song?” Drayton asked good-naturedly.
“Let’s get a drink first,” suggested Theodosia. She knew if they repaired to the salon, courtesy required them to pay strict attention to the music, not exactly her motive for coming here tonight. But if they grabbed a cocktail first, they’d be free to move about the house and greet other guests.
And get the lay of the land, Theodosia told herself. Try to get a better fix on the very strange Mr. Timothy Neville.
Although she had passed Timothy Neville’s house many times on her walks with Earl Grey, Theodosia had never before been inside this enormous mansion. She was in awe as she gazed around. This was splendor unlike anything she’d seen before. A dramatic stairway dominated the foyer and rose three floors. Double parlors flanked the main hallway, and Theodosia saw that they contained Italian black marble fireplaces, Hepplewhite furnishings, and ornate chandeliers. Gleaming oil paintings and copperplate engravings hung on the walls.
Built during the Civil War by an infamous blockade runner, this home was reputed to have sliding panels that led to secret passageways and hidden rooms. Some folks in the historic district even whispered that the house was haunted. The fact that Timothy Neville’s home had once served as residence for a former governor and was a private girl’s school for a short time, only added to the intrigue.
“Theodosia!” The shrill voice of Samantha Rabathan rose above the undercurrent of conversational buzz as Theodosia and Drayton entered the solarium. Then Samantha, resplendent in fuschia silk, came determinedly toward them, like the prow of a ship cutting the waves.
“I didn’t expect to see you here tonight,” cooed Samantha as she adjusted the front of her dress to show off just the right amount of décolletage. “Drayton, too. Hello there, dear fellow.”
Drayton inclined his head slightly and allowed Samantha to peck him on the cheek. “Our illustrious chairwoman from the Lamplighter Tour,” he said in greeting. “You’re looking lovely this evening.”
Samantha held a finger to her matching fuschia-colored mouth. “I think it best we downplay the Lamplighter Tour.” She grasped each of them by an elbow and started to haul them toward the bar. “That is, until this nastiness blows over.” She smiled broadly, seemed to really notice Theodosia for the first time, and instantly shifted her look of amusement to one of concern. “How are you holding up, Theodosia? So many rumors flying, it’s hard to know what to believe. And how is that poor, dear child... What is her name again?”
“Bethany,” replied Theodosia. Samantha was being incredibly overbearing tonight, and Theodosia was already searching for an excuse to escape her clutches.
Just as a waiter offered flutes of champagne from a silver tray, the perfect excuse arrived in the form of Henry, announcing that the Balfour Quartet was about to begin their evening’s performance.
“Got to run,” burbled Samantha. “I’m sitting with Cleo and Raymond Hovle. From Santa Barbara. You remember them, Theodosia. They also have a house on Seabrook Island.”
Theodosia didn’t remember Cleo and Raymond at all, but she smiled hello out of politeness when Samantha pointedly nudged a small suntanned couple as she and Drayton entered the parlor for the concert.
They found seats in the back row, not in cushioned splendor as did the guests at the front of the pack, but on somewhat uncomfortable folding chairs.
Unaccustomed as she was to wearing three-inch high-heeled sandals, Theodosia surreptitiously slipped them off her feet and waited for the music to start.
Chapter 27
Timothy Neville tucked his violin under his chin and gave a nod to begin. He had done a brief introduction of the other three members of the Balfour Quartet. The two men, the one who’d played the harpsichord earlier and was now on the violin, and a red-faced man on the viola, were also members of the Charleston Symphony. The fourth member, a young woman who played the cello, was from Columbia, South Carolina’s capital, located just northwest of Charleston.
As Timothy Neville played the opening notes of Beethoven’s Die Mittleren Streichquartette, he was surprised to note that the Browning woman was sitting in the back row. He gave a quick dip of his head to position himself for a slightly better view and saw immediately that she was sitting next to Drayton Conneley.
Of course. Drayton worked at the woman’s little tea shop. It was logical that she might accompany him tonight. His command-performance concerts were legendary throughout the historic district, and it wasn’t unusual for his invited guests to bring along guests of their own.
He frowned. The Browning woman was staring sharply at him as though she were waiting for something to happen. Silly girl. They had just begun the allegro, and there were a good fifty minutes to go. S
till, she had been bold to come see him at the Heritage Society and plead the young intern’s case. Even though he may have been dismissive of Theodosia Browning, it didn’t mean he didn’t admire her spirit. Lots of complacency these days. Hard to find the plucky ones. All the same, he would keep a close watch on her. She had stuck her nose in matters that didn’t concern her, especially her inquiry about the Peregrine Building. That just wouldn’t do at all.
The Balfour Quartet was very good, far better than Theodosia had expected they’d be, and she soon found herself lost in the musical depths of Beethoven’s Quartet no. 9.
It was haunting and evocative, pulling her in and holding her complete attention until it came to a crashing conclusion.
Theodosia, suddenly reminded of why she was there in the first place, applauded briefly, then dashed out the door ahead of the crowd. There would be a twenty-minute intermission, an opportunity for men to refill drinks and ladies to visit the powder room.
Theodosia headed up that grand staircase, her toes sinking deep into plush white wool, and dashed down the long, arched hallway when she hit the second floor. Peeking into several bedrooms along the way, she found that all were elegantly furnished, and yet none showed signs of being occupied. Finally, at what would be the front of the house, she found the set of double doors that led to Timothy Neville’s private suite of rooms.
As she pushed one of the massive doors slowly inward on its hinges, it emitted a protesting groan. Theodosia held her breath, looking back over her shoulder to see if anyone had heard or might even be watching her. No. Nothing. She swallowed hard, stepped inside Timothy Neville’s private office, and closed the door behind her.
A single desk lamp, what looked like an original Tiffany dragonfly design, cast low light in the suite. Massive furnishings were dark, shadowy lumps. Flames danced in the ornate marble fireplace.
Theodosia’s sandals whispered across the Aubusson carpet. Even in the dim light she could see portraits of Timothy Neville’s ancestors, various fiery Huguenots scowling down at her from their vantage point on the burgundy-colored walls.
Then she was standing at Timothy Neville’s Louis XIV desk, her hand on the brass knob, about to pull open the top drawer. She hesitated as a pang of guilt shot through her. This was snooping of the first magnitude, she told herself. Not terribly above board. Then she also remembered Timothy Neville’s incredible rage and Hughes Barron clutching his teacup.
She slid the drawer open.
Inside were pens, stamps, personalized stationery, eyeglasses, a sheaf of household papers, and Timothy Neville’s passport. Everything in an orderly arrangement, nothing of great interest.
What were you expecting to find? she asked herself. A little blue glass bottle of arsenic? A crackling paper packet of strychnine?
She padded back across the room to the door opposite the desk and sneaked it open. Timothy Neville’s rather splendid bedroom met her eyes. Four-poster bed draped in heavy wine- and rust-colored brocades. Small Chippendale tables flanking each side of the bed. An elegant linen press that looked as though it might have been created by the famous Charleston cabinetmaker, Robert Walker. Two armchairs in matching brocade sat next to the small fireplace. And, on the walls, more oil paintings. Not ancestral portraits but eighteenth-century portraits of women. Women in gardens, women with children, women staring out dreamily.
The paintings hinted at a softer, more humane side of Timothy Neville than Theodosia wouldn’t have guessed.
In the bathroom, next to a large walk-in closet, Theodosia hit the light switch. The bathroom was restful and elegant, replete with enormous claw-foot tub, dark green wallpaper, and brass wall sconces and towel racks. Without hesitation, Theodosia pulled open the medicine cabinet and scanned the shelves.
It was as predictable as his desk drawer had been. Shaving cream, toothpaste, aspirin, a bottle of Kiehl’s After Shave Balm, a bottle of prescription medicine. Theodosia reached for the brown tinted bottle and scanned the label.
Halcion. Five milligrams. Sleeping pills.
She pondered this for a moment. Incriminating evidence? No, not really, she decided. Timothy Neville was an old man. Older people often had difficulty sleeping.
Theodosia placed the medicine back on the shelf, swung the mirrored door shut, and turned out the bathroom light. She crossed back through the bedroom into Timothy Neville’s private office. She scanned the room again and shook her head. Nope, nothing unusual here.
Her hand rested on the doorknob when she noticed a tall English secretary just to the right of the door. Rather than housing fine porcelains behind its glass doors, as it had been designed to do, it now appeared to hold a collection of antique pistols.
Theodosia hesitated a split second, then decided this might be worth investigating.
Yes, they were pistols, all right. She gazed at the engraved plates that identified each weapon. Here was an 1842 Augustin-Lock Austrian cavalry pistol. And here an Early American flintlock. Fascinated, she pulled open one of the glass doors, slid her hand across the smooth walnut grip, and touched the intricate silver with her fingertips. These pieces were fascinating. Some had been used in the Civil War, the American Revolution, or quite possibly in gentlemen’s duels of honor. They were retired now, on display. But their history and silent power were awe inspiring.
In the stillness of the room, a slight noise, an almost imperceptible tick, caught her attention, caused her to glance toward the door. In the dim light, she could see the brass doorknob slowly turning.
In a flash, Theodosia flattened herself against the wall, praying that whoever opened the door wouldn’t peer around and see her hidden here in the shadows.
The heavy door creaked slowly inward on its hinges. Needs a shot of WD-40, Theodosia thought wildly as she pressed closer to the wall and held her breath.
Whoever had opened the door halfway was standing there now, silently surveying the room. Only two inches of wood separated her from this mysterious person who, quite possibly, had followed her!
Theodosia willed her heart to stop beating so loudly. Surely, whoever was there must be able to hear it thumping mightily in her chest! Her mind raced, recalling Edgar Allan Poe’s prophetic story, “The Tell Tale Heart.”
That’s me, she thought. They’ll hear the wild, troubled beating of my heart!
But whoever stood there—Timothy Neville, the butler, Henry, another curious guest—had peeked into the room for only a few seconds, then pulled the door shut behind them.
Had they been satisfied no one was there?
Theodosia hoped so as she slumped against the wall, feeling hollow and weak-kneed. Time to get out of here, she decided. This little adventure had suddenly gone far enough. She moved toward the door.
Then she remembered the gun collection.
Theodosia glanced quickly toward the cabinet. In the half-light, the polished guns winked enticingly. All right, she told herself, one quick peek. Then I will skedaddle out of here and join the others downstairs.
The guns were all displayed in custom-made wooden holders. Beautiful to behold. Probably quite expensive to create. A key stuck out from the drop-leaf center panel. She turned it, lowering the leaf into the writing desk position.
Tucked in the cubbyholes were polishing cloths, various gun-cleaning kits, and a bottle of clear liquid.
Theodosia squinted at the label on the bottle. Sulfuric acid.
It was a compound often used to remove rust and corrosion from antique bronze statues, metal frames, and guns. And, unless she was mistaken, sulfuric acid was also a deadly poison.
If Timothy Neville had slipped something toxic into Hughes Barron’s tea, could it have been this substance? That was the 64,000-dollar question, wasn’t it? And nobody was saying yet. Not the coroner. Not Burt Tidwell. Certainly not Timothy Neville.
The Balfour Quartet had resumed playing when Theodosia slipped into the room and took her seat beside Dray-ton. As she adjusted her shawl around her shoulders, she felt hi
s eyes on her.
“You look guilty,” Drayton finally whispered.
“I do?” Her eyes went wide as she turned toward him.
“No, not really,” he answered. “But you should. Where in heaven’s name have you been?” he fussed. “I’ve been worried sick!”
Theodosia fidgeted through the second half of the concert, unable to concentrate and really enjoy the Balfour Quartet’s rendition of Beethoven’s Opus 18, no. 6. When the group finished with a flourish and the crowd rose to its collective feet, cheering and applauding, she breathed a giant sigh of relief.
Jumping up with the rest of the guests, Theodosia leaned toward Drayton. “I’ll tell you all about it,” she finally whispered in his ear. “But first, let’s go back to the shop and have a nice calming cup of tea!”
Chapter 28
“You Look like the cat who swallowed the canary,” said Drayton. Haley was bent over the counter, artfully arranging tea roses in a pink-and-white-flowered Victorian teapot.
“Who me?” asked Haley with wide-eyed innocence. She tied a lace bow to the teapot’s arched handle and stood back to admire her handiwork.
Drayton had been asked to organize a bridal shower tea for that afternoon, and everyone was pitching in to help. Since a nasty squall had blown in overnight, causing the temperature to plummet and drenching Charleston with a frigid, pounding rain, it didn’t appear that many customers would be dropping by the tea shop anyway.
“Come on, what gives?” prompted Drayton. He had carefully wrapped a dozen bone china teacups in tissue paper and was gently placing them in a large wicker basket atop a white lace tablecloth. With the weather so miserable, he would have to add a protective layer of plastic to keep everything tidy and dry.
