The Black Diamond

by Joan Smith

  He pulled a chair from the table for me, and sat on the far side with the expanse of wood between us. “Are you all right? No ill effects from the drink? Not sick to your stomach, convulsive, nothing like that?”

  “I had a ripping headache. It’s gone now.”

  “Any fever?”

  “None to speak of.”

  I’ll call a doctor if you think...”

  “No, I would not like to spread the rumor I am a confirmed alcoholic.”

  “I understand Mrs. Palin gave you some work to do today, during my absence. I did not think to tell her I had given you a holiday.”

  “That is quite all right. She paid me extra for it. I hope she is satisfied with the work. Cook and Molly were kind enough to compliment me on my stitches,” I said deliberately. I could not know what feud was going on between the man and wife, but in any case, he would know she had lied about the gown, and my work.

  “I’m sure she is,” he lied easily, but I took the notion he knew I knew he was prevaricating. He was looking ill at ease, hesitant, in a way that was not customary with him.

  “How did the visit with the doctor go?” I asked, to return the meeting to normalcy, to pretend I had forgotten the more interesting interlude.

  “Fine. The bone-conductor horn is to be used, as we thought. A wasted day, actually. I am damned sorry I went.”

  “I’ll resume our work tomorrow then,” I said, beginning to arise.

  “Yes, but before you dash off—are you quite sure you feel well now?”

  “Perfectly sure.”

  “It is somewhat unusual for you to have a drink with Mrs. Palin, is it not?”

  “Martin was not feeling well. She wanted company.”

  “What did you two find to discuss?”

  “Fashions, the ring she wore—the mourning ring.”

  “She wore the ring?” he asked, interested.

  “Yes, she does not believe in superstition. She showed me the panel beneath it; We discussed the old tradition of mourning jewelry.”

  “I have asked her not to wear it.”

  “Do you believe in the old legend of its ill luck?”

  “No. It has unpleasant memories for me. My wife was wearing it the afternoon she died.” His tone was different when he spoke of April. It was nostalgic, sad.

  “May I go now?” I asked abruptly.

  “Of course. There’s just one more thing... The day Huck died, do you happen to remember if Mrs. Palin had been playing with the kitten?”

  The nature of the question baffled me. “I don’t believe so. That was the day she left for her visit to Bath. She was gone when I got back from my walk. Bobby had the kitten, abovestairs, for the dog had nipped its paw. No, I’m sure she had nothing to do with Huck.”

  He frowned, dissatisfied. “I see. That is all, then. Goodnight, Jane. I am sorry about—everything,” he said, with a futile gesture of his open hands.

  “Goodnight, Mr. Palin.”

  I left him behind, alone in the dim, gloomy room. I closed my door silently behind me and lit my taper. The odor of wine was dissipating, but the aftermath of the incident would linger much longer. My newly found knowledge sat heavily on my heart, causing a pain so strong I could feel it in a physical way as a weight in my chest.

  It was Mr. Palin I had to learn to distrust. I would a hundred times have preferred Regina to have been the culprit. Some infantile daydreams had slipped unbidden into my mind over the past weeks, some dreams in which she was in some manner removed from the house, crowning me in her place. What a foolish, foolish creature is woman.

  I went over the forbidden conversation heard from the attic, searching it for clues as I undressed and climbed into my cold, narrow bed. Madame had intimated there was a dangerous streak of madness or violence in the Palin family, but I had seen no evidence of it. Till tonight, Mr. Palin had never behaved erratically in my presence. Neither had those few meetings with him been of the sort she imagined. As to hints he had been in my bedroom, that was beneath contempt. She revealed more of herself than of me or him by such speeches.

  And here was I defending him again. What treachery was I up to? Remember Rosalie, I told myself. You know now that he did it. “Murder me and dispose of the body.... You have a good idea how to set about it now, after dealing with Miss Thompson....” How had he disposed of the body? Finding it was still my best bet for proving murder. Regina knew. Mr. Palin of course knew. But the two of them were in an unholy alliance. A wife blackmailing her own husband, and he so guilty he must pay to keep her silent. A mere outsider had a slim hope of finding out the truth.

  I wondered what Regina had said to him before I began to listen in. Apparently she had not told him about my letter, if she had my letter, which was not certain. But if not, why did she suddenly wish to be rid of me? Was she actually jealous that I might be gaining attention from her husband? I could not think so. Plain, sensible Jane—never. Was it possible then she knew I was trying to uncover the murder, and chose purposely not to tell him, her husband? This monstrous thing, beyond the pale almost of human behavior, would not be beyond a woman who blackmailed her husband. It was hatred that held them together, not love. Blackmail that got for her her every heart’s desire—the portrait by the most expensive artist, the Tor Bay house renovated, the bower that was her bedroom, and the bulging closets of clothing.

  She was devious enough for anything, with her tales of concern for her husband’s nerves. If I proved Mr. Palin a murderer, she could not have this hold over him any longer. He would be hung, and she linked in the public eye with a murderer. She liked the dignity of being Mrs. Robert Ranke Palin, had said so.

  On the other hand, perhaps she did not have my letter at all, and if she did not, then why did she want me turned off? Was she really jealous? Was she possessive, resenting me even though she didn’t love him herself? I must write to Aunt Harriet, and ask her to reply care of the post office, to learn the truth. I should have done that in the first place, but I had never foreseen such dangerous developments as were turning up. I had not believed then that I was coming into a house of mad murderers and blackmailing wives. If I got out alive it would be a small miracle. Yet how could I leave now, when I knew they (no, he!) had killed Rosalie? How could I abandon dear innocent Bobby to such people?

  I lay in bed, listening for the inevitable creaks and squawks that invade an old house at night. Had Rosalie been this frightened, I wondered, before he killed her? The pattern of my life at the Park was following dangerously in hers. Both of us nursemaids, both thinking Bobby was deaf, both causing madame to suffer a jealous outbreak, her trying to be rid of us both. I could not repress a shiver as I remembered the next step in Rosalie’s history. I could not but wonder too if he had kissed her, as he had me. As though he meant it.

  Chapter Twenty-two

  I dreaded the morning, but when it came, nothing had changed much in my life. Bobby was in unimpaired spirits. He spoke enthusiastically of yesterday’s trip with his father. Madame did not come to the nursery, nor did she send Martin to pester me. The servants seemed to remain unaware of my disgrace. Molly inquired how my headache was, and worried a little that they occurred too often. Mrs. Steyne had told the others I was in bed with a headache while I was actually knocked out with drink, or whatever madame had put in it, for sherry was not the culprit, and I would have recognized it if brandy had been added. I had a sure notion my headaches would step up in pace if I did not get to the bottom of my mystery.

  Things could not go on as they were. Eager to get a letter off to Aunt Harriet, I wrote it in the nursery, and slipped it into the hands of the grocery boy when he came to deliver flour and staple goods to Cook, rather than waiting till my Saturday visit to Widecombe.

  For two days the usual routine continued, with Mr. Palin coming to the nursery after our dinner. He stayed a shorter time, and he concentrated his attention more on his son. His very aloofness was disturbing. He hardly looked at me, but when he did, the interest was the
re in his eyes. There was a self-consciousness of the shared embrace, of the mutual attraction that refused to be routed out by my knowledge and his ineligibility. It crouched, ready to spring if we let down our guard. I do not know if he was aware of it, but he always positioned himself so that Bobby was physically between us. Once his fingers brushed mine as we reached simultaneously for a drawing we were examining. We both pulled back as though we had been burned. The tension was agonizing. I wanted him to come, waited for him, then felt a pronounced antipathy when he walked through the door, and wished only to see him leave.

  On Wednesday, we awoke to leaden skies, with a cold wind keening in across the moors. “It wouldn’t surprise me much to see snow,” Cook declared, as the wind whistled in under her backdoor.

  “Put some rags under that door, Molly,” she ordered. “That old black coat no one wears will do. I should get busy and stuff a stocking with rags. It lays neater against the bottom of the door. Here am I over a stove all day wearing two shawls, with my head dripping sweat and my feet frozen. It’s a wonder I don’t come down with pneumonia.”

  “It’s a caution,” Molly answered, taking Cook’s motto for her own.

  “Ah well, we’ll soon be too busy to be frozen. Madame has a dinner party on this evening. That Frenchie, Arouet, is to come today with her picture, and she’s got neighbors coming in to celebrate the occasion. Get that leg of mutton out of the larder, Molly, and see if they have a couple of dozen of eggs for me at the henhouse. I’ll make up my puff paste this morning, and you can whip up the cream for me this afternoon. You’ll have to get a bottle of brandy from upstairs for the sauce. She wants brandy put in the fruit, like a dashed foreigner. That would be because of the Frenchie coming.”

  “I’ll come to the kitchen and help during my break,” I offered. “It’s too cold to go out for a walk anyway.”

  “I’ll not say no this time,” Cook replied. “It wouldn’t have hurt her to let me know before nine o’clock last night she had planned a party. She’s known for a week, I wager, but it’s her way. Thoughtless. She’ll be the first one to complain if all isn’t just as she likes, too. Where’s that lazy whelp of a Bess? Up pulling the wrinkles out of a sheet, when she knows there’s work to be done in the kitchen.”

  My chore, when I joined the kitchen staff at three o’clock, was so attractive as to be a pleasure. Mrs. Steyne was there, ascertaining the menu from Cook, to ensure the table was done up in the proper style. “Would you mind doing the table centerpiece for me, Jane?” she asked. “With this storm worsening, I want to see some extra bedrooms are ready. I have a feeling our company will have to stay the night, if they manage to arrive at all.”

  The threatened snow did not come, but a cold, lashing rain had taken its place. It was of that consistency that did not quite know whether to freeze or not. It landed in blobs of ice slivers, laced with water, to splutter against the windowpanes.

  “Nobody but a madman would venture out in such weather,” Cook said. “There won’t be a soul but the master and mistress to eat up this entire feast.”

  “Monsieur Arouet is here at least,” Mrs. Steyne told her. “He arrived just before the rain started. He is in the gallery now, looking at the portraits.”

  “I don’t suppose he’s alone?” Cook asked in a significant voice.

  “No, Mr. Palin is with him,” was the unexpected reply.

  “Madame has got her hair done up in rags for the party. That’s why she’s not there,” Molly explained.

  “I’ll go to the conservatory and help select blooms,” Mrs. Steyne said to me. “The vases are kept in a cupboard in the kitchen. It won’t have to be anything elaborate. It’s only a small party.”

  It was pleasantly warm and humid in the conservatory, the air scented with the aroma of flowers. The bouquet, described as not elaborate was large enough that we both carried back flowers piled high in our baskets. There were ferns and carnations, and white hellebore, the dainty Christmas rose.

  The arrangements, one large for the table’s center, two smaller for either end, were done at the spacious kitchen table, where Molly whipped cream at its other side. I was surprised to see a footman hop up on the table, in his stocking feet, to place the flowers, when we took the arrangements up to the dining room.

  The scents in the kitchen were reaching a pitch to make the mouth water when Bobby returned from the stable. Cook slid a plate of sweets into his hand, with a wink and a nod. I let him indulge in them to his content, as I knew our dinner would be late, with all the busy work going forth. He was enough of a nuisance under Cook’s feet that I took him, reluctantly, up to the nursery to let him eat his treat. He was just devouring the last of them when Mrs. Steyne and Mr. Palin entered, speaking in low voices.

  After some joking talk with his son, Mr. Palin turned to me. “I have an unusual request to make of you, Miss Bingham. How would you like to come to a dinner party?”

  “What do you mean?” I asked, bewildered at the suggestion, and finally deciding it was a joke.

  “Our dinner party is in a shambles. All the guests except Monsieur Arouet have sorrowfully declined to strike out into the teeth of the storm. They have sent their regrets with assorted villagers on their way home, who had to pass by the Park. We have a large fatted calf ready for the table, and no one to consume it. Mrs. Steyne has consented to fill up one chair. We want you to occupy another.”

  “I couldn’t,” was my first, instinctive response.

  “Why not?” he asked.

  “It would look so odd, in my position.”

  “Artists are accustomed to the unconventional. Monsieur Arouet will not object to your occupation, as long as he has a pretty young girl for a dinner companion. Mrs. Steyne agrees with me that you are the only one of our employees who could attend.”

  This was an oblique compliment on my manners, speech, general upbringing. I had attended larger dinner parties in London, to be sure. My real objection was that madame would be incensed at it. I could not know to what extent Mrs. Steyne was in Mr. Palin’s confidence, but as a friend from the cradle, I suspected there was little going on in the house she did not know. “Mrs. Palin would account it a favor if you would,” she mentioned offhandedly, thus removing my disinclination. Yet I could not but recall how madame had repaid my last favor.

  “I have nothing suitable to wear,” I reminded them.

  “Wear your best bib and tucker,” Mr. Palin suggested. “It is not a very formal do, as it turns out.”

  “Your Sunday gown will be fine,” Mrs. Steyne agreed.

  “Is Bingie going to a party?” Bobby asked, smiling with pleasure at this novel happening.

  “We hope so,” his father said. “You try your hand at persuading her, Bobby. Tell her she must.”

  “Bingie go,” was the child’s manner of persuading.

  “There, it is settled. We dine at seven,” Mr. Palin informed me. “That is, we meet in the saloon at seven for a glass of sherry.” There was a quick flicker of the eyes to Mrs. Steyne at this speech. I knew then she was privy to my last taking of sherry, and its outcome.

  “We’ll see the drinks are not doctored,” he added, with a sheepish smile. “And if you decide to get roaring drunk, I personally shall escort you out, before you make a spectacle of yourself.”

  An excess of demurring did not seem a good idea. I wanted to go, so agreed without further prompting. When Mr. Palin took his leave, Mrs. Steyne remained behind a moment.

  “What are you wearing?” I asked, voicing the age-old concern of women, from time immemorial.

  “I’m in luck. I have a new black gown. I used to hostess Mr. Palin’s parties long ago, before he was ever married, and have been in the custom of having a suitable gown for such occasions. I have one that would perhaps suit you, but you would not want to wear an old lady’s outfit.”

  The idea was startling, but as I glanced at her figure, I observed it was not so different from my own. She was tall and thin, like me. “What is it li
ke? I didn’t bring any party gown with me.”

  “It’s nothing fancy. Come along to my room and have a look at it. You too, Bobby. Come with us.”

  She drew from her clothespress a hanger covered by a dust sheet. The gown beneath the covering was of black crepe, very simple with long sleeves, a V-neck, buttoned from collar to hips. It looked rather austere, but if it fit...

  “Try it on,” she urged. “I’ll take Bobby for a walk down the hall while you change.”

  It was one of those welcome small miracles when the gown fit like a glove. The bodice and waist hugged my body, lending an unaccustomed touch of severe elegance to my appearance. Had it not fit, it would have looked quite dreadful. The fit was all. I called her back to view the results.

  “Perfect!” she said enthusiastically. “Have you any jewelry to lighten it?” .

  “I have a golden locket. Maybe a touch of lace at the throat...”

  The sewing basket was drawn out, rifled for an odd scrap of lace or ribbon. There was a foot of fine Belgian lace that did the trick. “I’ll have to stitch this on. I had better go and begin preparations. Bobby…”

  “Let him loose in the kitchen. He’ll love it, and Molly can put him to bed later,” Mrs. Steyne said.

  “Bingie looks nice. Pretty Bingie,” he congratulated.

  “Must you wear the spectacles?” Mrs. Steyne asked hesitantly.

  “Why, Mrs. Steyne! Monsieur Arouet will think I am setting my cap for him! No, of course I shan’t wear them. Do I look too funereal in black?”

  “You look lovely, dear. Elegant.” She smiled. “Run along now and make your toilette. I’ll see to the boy.”

  When I made myself ready, I stood back and observed the results in my mirror. I did not look lovely, but I looked better than usual—sophisticated, almost worldly; I was none of those things, however, and did not plan to make a fool of myself by pretending to be. There is nothing wrong with being young, innocent, or even imperfectly informed. It is only when one tries to pass for what she is not that the result is comically vulgar.