by Joan Smith
“Yes, I can see that,” he agreed, looking about at the little toy saloon.
“It would not do for a large family,” she added. She has the country habit of wanting to know all about any stranger met by chance. I found myself listening with keen interest for his reply. I also found myself wondering about the mischievous sparkle that suddenly invaded his eyes.
“It is not wanted for a family,” he said blandly.
This speech quite stymied me for about thirty seconds. Within half a minute, though, I realized what had brought this fashionable buck to my door. He was searching out a love nest for his mistress! My first reaction was revulsion that the house Graham had bought for us should be put to such a base use. He recognized the accusation in my stare and tried to smile it away.
“Who is the tour mistress?” he asked. I felt it was more than coincidence that he had chosen the word “mistress.” There was a certain playful quality in the way he said it. I was tempted to turn him out the door, but reason prevailed. What did it matter now? If he had the money and wanted the house, that was all that concerned me.
“Belle?” Mama said, calling me to my duty.
“I’ll conduct the tour,” I said briskly.
Mama and Esther remained seated, which meant I was to be allowed to accompany Mr. Desmond alone. I was glad they were there within shouting distance all the same.
“This is the saloon,” I began. “A rather nice marble fireplace.”
“Not Adams, though,” he pointed out.
“Perhaps not. Pretty leaded windows,” I continued, nodding at them. He gazed with mild interest at these treats.
“The room is rather small. Do you happen to know the dimensions?” he asked.
“No.”
“You could pace it out,” Mama said, “A tall man’s stride is about a yard.”
“That would be rather difficult ...” I objected. The difficulty arose from the fact that furniture occupied both ends of the room: sofas at one end, a heavy highboy at the other.
Undeterred, Mr. Desmond wedged himself in at the end of the sofa and paced the room, squeezing his long leg in between the highboy and a bookcase when he got to the far end. “I make it about six yards,” he announced. “And roughly five wide. Does the place come furnished?”
“If you like. Or I can sell the furniture separately— either way,” I said.
“I’d like to keep that highboy, Belle,” Mama said. “It would look fine in our own saloon at Bath. So much nicer than the great ugly cupboard we have there.”
“Ah, you’re from Bath!” Mr. Desmond exclaimed. “That would explain your beautiful complexions. I spent a week at Bath one day.”
Mama and Esther exchanged a perplexed frown while Mr. Desmond honored me with a quizzing smile, to confirm that I had properly interpreted his opinion of dull Bath.
“What price are you asking?” was his next question.
“Six thousand pounds,” I suggested tentatively, watching to gauge his response.
He nodded, neither delighted, dismayed, nor surprised, and said, “May I see the bedchambers?”
“Yes, they’re upstairs,” I said, and we walked from the safety of the saloon.
“A novel idea,” I heard him say in a soft voice as he paced behind me. “And—just a suggestion, Miss Haley—firm up your tone when you give the price. That doubtful glance is an invitation to the unscrupulous purchaser to haggle you down. What would you really take?”
“Six thousand pounds,” I said much more firmly.
“That’s better!” he complimented.
I was overly conscious of him behind me, following me up the stairs, down the hall. I was on pins and needles waiting for him to say or do something outrageous, but he just walked into each chamber, looked all around at ceilings, windows, wainscoting, personal clutter. I saved the master bedroom for the last, as it was the finest. A picture popped into my head of Mr. Desmond’s mistress lounging at her ease in Graham’s bed. She was a voluptuous blonde in a white lace peignoir. I disliked the image intensely. “No one using the master bedroom?” he asked.
“Not at the moment, but it would do equally well for a mistress’s bedchamber, don’t you think?” I gave him a bright, impersonal smile.
The sparkle from his laughing eye only hit me at an angle as he turned away to hide his face. Even the partial view made me realize I had strayed into suggestive waters. “Yes, indeed. What has sex to do with a bedchamber, after all?” He laughed lightly and strolled over to punch the mattress with his fists. “This is a demmed hard mattress.”
“Mattresses can easily be changed.”
“Oh, I like a good firm mattress. I’m an active—er, sleeper.’’
I refused to be bullied into embarrassment by this creature, who was trying his best to discomfort me. “There is some interesting carving on the wooden fireplace,” I pointed out. He walked to it and ran his fingers over the flowers and birds. “This also is not the work of Adams,” I said, for him.
“Nor of Grinling Gibbons either, though it’s not too crudely done,” he allowed. He turned back and surveyed the room at some length. “This is not bad.”
“I think she’ll like,” I said.
He picked up on it at once. “She?”
“Your—your wife,” I said, coloring briskly.
“Ah, yes, my wife, of course. She would no doubt like it immensely, if she existed.”
I showed not an iota of interest in his marital status, though I would relay my finding to Esther. “It would be ideal for a bachelor as well,” I replied.
“Ideal? It hardly complies with the highest perfection to be attained in bedchambers, but it is not bad. May I see the attic? Above the bedrooms, I expect?” he asked archly.
“Very likely. I haven’t been to the attic yet myself. I dread to think what state it is in.”
We went along the hall to the attic stairs. The most notable thing about the attic was that it was extremely cold. Mr. Desmond noticed my shiver and immediately drew off his jacket and hung it over my shoulders. The size of his shoulders was not much diminished nor the shape much changed by the removal of the jacket. The face, though, took on a bolder expression.
“That’s not at all necessary. I can get a shawl,” I protested. But I was grateful for its warmth.
“Aren’t you afraid I’d pilfer from your attic if you left me alone?” he joked.
“I doubt you could get any of those trunks into your pocket.” There wasn’t much but three trunks up there.
“Who knows what might be in them? Bags of gold, for all we know.” As he spoke he went forward and tried the lids. They were all locked.
“I hardly think so!” What an odd coincidence that he should name a bag of gold—just what Graham was supposed to have stolen. But it was only a coincidence; there was no knowing look from him.
When we returned below I made sure to give him back his jacket before entering the saloon, in case Mama would think it overly familiar of me to have accepted it. It was just at the door of the master bedroom that I returned it.
“Would you mind holding it?” he asked. “I can hardly squeak into it without my valet.”
I found myself holding Mr. Desmond’s jacket while he slid his arms into it. Without thinking what I was about, I automatically lifted my hand and eased out a crease while he pulled it down in front. When I realized what I was doing I pulled my hand away as if he were on fire. “Why, thank you, Miss Haley,” he said over his shoulder. “My valet and I are grateful to you. We have our sartorial reputation to maintain. Pipp would be furious with me if I appeared in public in wrinkles.” He spoke lightly.
I found myself smiling at this bold city gentleman, who smiled back readily in a way that set my blood racing. I felt the urge to flee back downstairs to safety. “Shall we go down and discuss the sale?” I suggested. “Over a glass of sherry, perhaps ...”
“By all means, but if you hope to get me tipsy and coerce an offer to purchase from me, I must warn you, you�
��ll look no how. I holds my liquor like a gentle mort. I bet a vicar’s daughter don’t.” On this speech he took my arm, and we soon entered the saloon in a fit of laughter over some foolishness or other.
It would be hard to say who was more astonished—Mama or Esther. Their startled faces brought us back to propriety with a thump. Mr. Desmond took charge of the conversation in a brisk, businesslike manner.
“I would like to bring a builder along to go over the place thoroughly before making an offer,” he said. “To see if the building is structurally sound, you know, I don’t want to get into the expense of having to put on a new roof or shore up crumbling walls.”
“Oh, it is not that bad, Mr. Desmond!” Mama assured him. “The windows are drafty, to be sure, and the closet doors poorly hung, but the walls are not crumbling.”
“But you will have no objection to my bringing a builder?” he repeated.
“None at all,” I said hastily, lest he take the idea we were trying to hide some flaw.
“Tomorrow, say, at eleven o’clock?” he asked. He pulled out a little appointment book, which gave me the notion he was a very busy man of affairs. But when I got a peek over his shoulder I saw his appointments were not so serious as that. It was “Tattersall’s, settling up day,” “Lunch with Boo at Whites,” “Dinner and rout party, Lady Higgins,” and similar important matters that filled his page. “Miss Haley—check house” was squeezed in between Tattersall’s and lunch with Boo.
There was no opportunity to relay Mr. Desmond’s state of single blessedness to Mama, so she instituted a quiz herself. “Will your wife also come to see the house?” she asked, slyly innocent.
“As I was telling your daughter, ma’am, I don’t have a wife yet.” Esther pursed her lips and smiled, but fortunately Mr. Desmond was looking at me at the time.
“The house is a good size for a bachelor, yet large enough that a young family could stay on till their nursery had two or three youngsters in it,” Mama said. “Is it handy to your place of work, Mr. Desmond?” she continued.
“Fairly close. I work at the Royal Exchange,” he answered, which did not enlighten us much. “You ladies are removing from London entirely, are you?”
“We never lived here,” Mama said. “We hail from Bath—remember I mentioned it. This is the first time my daughters have ever been to London. My eldest”—and she nodded at me—”inherited the house, but we shan’t live in it.”
Mr. Desmond settled in to humor her. “I think you would like London. Bath is not far—you could use the house for the Season, at least.”
Such high flights of sophistication were miles above us. Mama looked at him as if he were a Bedlamite. "Not far! It took two days to get here! As to liking London, it is no such thing. We have no opinion of it, I assure you. We just want to get our money and bolt back home.”
When Mr. Desmond recovered from her outburst, he admitted mildly that Bath was “nice.” “Did something in particular occur to give you this distaste for London?” he asked politely.
“You wouldn’t believe the state this place was in when we got here,” she began. “A house standing empty invites trouble, of course. A vandal got in and turned the place upside down.”
You would think Mr. Desmond had already bought the place, to see the wild leap of interest in his eyes. “Tell me about it!”
I jumped in to quiet his fears that the neighborhood was a low one, prone to these senseless attacks. “He did no damage to the house. It was just a prank—the furniture hauled about, you know, but no real damage.”
“That’s a pity. An unpleasant shock for you. Did the police have any word on the culprit?”
“Mrs. George thinks it was a ghost,” Esther said, her eyes wide with fear.
Mr. Desmond tossed me a quick look to see if she was joking. When he determined that she was as witless as she sounded, he said with admirably firm lips, “If the candle didn’t burn blue, then it could not have been a ghost.”
“That’s what I thought,” she nodded.
“About the police, Mrs. Haley ...” he continued, looking to Mama for common sense.
She was happy to vent her opinion of city law enforcement. “They were no help at all,” she assured him, and she related our experiences at the hands of Officer Harrow. “And he didn’t come around either, Belle, as he promised he would, to check us out. The Bow Street Crawler, Belle calls him.”
“I’m surprised. Bow Street has an excellent reputation,” Mr. Desmond said mildly. “Do you suppose there was any particular reason why someone broke in? I mean, as nothing was taken—if it had been a cove on the ken lay, he’d have snaffled the ...” He became aware that he had lost us. “Housebreakers usually steal things,” he interpreted.
Before Mama could begin the tale of Graham’s death, I spoke up. “No, Officer Harrow thinks it was just pranksters, because the house was empty. An invitation to them, really. I daresay a couple of bucks got in and had a party.”
“Why did you wait so long before disposing of the house?” was his next question.
“It was tied up in litigation,” I said briefly.
He finished his sherry, and I accompanied him to the front door to remind him of the appointment the next morning.
“I’ll be here—but I still think you should keep the house, Miss Haley, even if you’re not getting married.” He set his curled beaver on at a jaunty angle, picked up his gloves and cane, and left.
“Even if you’re not getting married.” How did he know that? Surely I hadn’t told him. No, of course I hadn’t. I went back to the saloon, where Esther was in alt, praising Mr. Desmond to Mama. “What were the two of you laughing about when you came downstairs, Belle?” she asked.
“Nothing—I don’t remember. Mama, did we tell Mr. Desmond I was to have been married?”
“No, dear, we didn’t. Did he seem to take a shine to you?”
“No, but he mentioned my not getting married. And upstairs he said something about Papa being a clergyman.”
“He must have heard of your father,” she decided. “And that would explain how he knew about your not getting married.”
But I knew Mr. Desmond, a city buck, had never heard of a minor clergyman in Bath. That wasn’t it. It was conceivable he knew Yootha Mailer. That was the only way he could possibly have heard of me and Graham.
“Do you want to go to the locksmith now?” Esther asked, eager to return to Bond Street.
We decided to do it while there was a lull in our customers, and while we were out we decided to tackle one more restaurant for lunch. We had better luck than before; the chicken was quite tasty. The locksmith agreed to come that afternoon and make us safe. So far as we could tell, no one had made free of the house during our absence. The only thing of interest was that the fire in the grate had gone out, and we had to rebuild it. The obstinate thing petered out in a fog of smoke within minutes.
Officer Harrow finally came, as he had promised. When he saw the locksmith at work he didn’t bother with any investigation.
“That’s the ticket. New locks,” he complimented us.
He was a very inferior officer of the law, but he built us a roaring fire in about two minutes and accepted a glass of sherry in payment.
“If you have any further difficulties, ladies, just give us a call at Bow Street. Always willing to oblige.”
He clamped his wide-brimmed hat on his head and went out whistling. I didn’t think we would have further need of Officer Harrow. He was useless as a policeman, and I had learned his trick for getting the fire blazing. He stuffed crushed newspapers under the grate. There was a good stack of old newspapers in a brass basket by the hearth. I had planned to throw them out, but would keep them.
Chapter Three
Mrs. Mailer, Graham’s aunt Yootha, came to call around four. We had the habit of calling her Aunt Yootha behind her back, as we so often heard Graham do, but to her face she is Mrs. Mailer. We had known her as Miss Almont, Mrs. Dunne, Mrs. Arnold, and most re
cently as Mrs. Mailer. She had three husbands in the grave and was hard at work looking for a fourth. I expected she would find one too, for she was attractive somehow, without actually being pretty. Her hair was a brindled shade, but always fashionably styled. Liveliness was her chief attraction and lent some charm to her ordinary appearance. It was impossible not to like Yootha, and equally impossible to admire her, for her concerns were all selfish and frivolous.
What endeared her to me in particular was that she was always so kind to Graham. He ran quite tame at her house in Bath, where I met him, and his letters told me he was every bit as welcome at Berkeley Square in London.
We were alerted to her call by a banging on the wood of the front door. The brass acorn knocker was awaiting the arrival of Hotchkiss, who would return it to its rightful place. Esther darted to answer the knock.
Mrs. Mailer brought a whiff of London glamour in with her. A delightful confection of ostrich feathers and satin ribbons adorned her head, adding a needed half foot or so to her diminutive size. She had on a sable-trimmed pelisse, a strikingly handsome brown crepe gown beneath, and a set of heavy gold chains and ear buttons.
“I got your note and came dashing over immediately,” she exclaimed, embracing Mama like a long-lost sister. Esther and I each received a peck on the cheek before she was invited to draw a chair closer to the grate. Harrow’s blazing fire was welcome in these dark, cold days. “Whatever possessed you to put the house up for sale, Belle?” she asked me.
“Oh, you’ve seen my sign.” I smiled, for we hadn’t mentioned selling to her.
“Sign? No, I didn’t see a sign.”
“How did you know, then?”
“I heard it somewhere or other. I believe Eliot was by and saw it. Graham’s cousin, you know. But you are foolish to sell the place. You ought to give these lasses a Season, Mrs. Haley,” she said, turning to address Mama.
“They are not interested in that,” Mama said firmly.
Esther objected noisily, “I am interested!”
“And well you might be, naughty puss.” Mrs. Mailer smiled. “So pretty, like a little china doll. This one takes up where Helen of Troy leaves off. And with the addition to their dowry of this place, your daughters are entirely eligible for presentation, in a small way.”
