Bath Belles

by Joan Smith

  My nose was put out of joint by this heaping of praise on Esther without a drop for myself. It wasn’t many years ago that Yootha had hailed me as the year’s new Incomparable.

  “That is Belle’s money,” Mama pointed out. “And in any case, we are not properly connected to carry out a presentation.”

  “I would be happy to present the pair of them. I should love it. No daughters of my own—there is nothing I would prefer to presenting them. Find you both good partis too, I guarantee,” she said, tapping her knee with her gloves.

  “Don’t encourage the child,” I implored her. ”Never mind finding us partis—find us a buyer, Mrs. Mailer.”

  She cocked her head to one side and frowned. “That would be difficult—the place is so small. I can’t imagine what maggot Graham got in his noggin to buy you this toy box when he had every intention of filling a nursery. Most people would require more space.”

  “We have already had a few lookers,” Mama told her.

  “We have a man coming back for the second time tomorrow, bringing a builder. That augurs a serious interest.”

  Mrs. Mailer looked alert. “What price are you asking?”

  I told her and asked her opinion. “High, but then you want to ask the moon and you might get a few stars. Certainly, ask six thousand, but be prepared to take five.”

  What was uppermost in my mind all the time now was to learn about the money Graham was supposed to have had when he was killed. I managed to get the question out without choking over the word “killed.”

  She nodded her head knowingly. “The insurance money. Yes, I knew about it but could not trouble you with the story at the time, Belle, for you were so terribly depressed and disturbed. There is no great mystery in it, after all. I meant to tell you one day. It was insurance money Graham had, money belonging to Lloyd’s of London.”

  “The neighbors implied he had stolen it,” I told her.

  “Bah, nosy Parker neighbors, what do they know? I was directly involved, Belle, and Graham was no more stealing it than you were. It happened like this. I had my emerald necklace insured with Lloyd’s for twenty-five thousand guineas. The one Mr. Arnold gave me, dear Horace, so very generous,” she added contentedly. "It was stolen, and I applied to the agent for the claim money.”

  Esther’s eyes grew wide, and she said, “You mean Graham had as much as twenty-five thousand guineas?”

  “No, my pet, not that much. The agent from Lloyd’s was an extremely nasty man. He implied, though he did not dare to actually say it, that I had arranged the theft myself to get the claim money. He could not prove it, of course, for it was an infamous lie. It happened I had lost a ring a year before and gotten insurance money for it, but it wasn’t the same agent that time. The agent dragged his heels about paying for the necklace, and eventually he got lucky. Some criminal got in touch with him and offered to get him back the necklace for a fraction of its worth. Ten thousand pounds in banknotes was the price the insurance agent had to come up with. They struck some bargain to have the necklace returned in a gin mill in Long Acre in exchange for the ten thousand. I knew all about it and told Graham. Graham conceived the foolish notion of loitering about behind a fence or some such thing, and he followed the man who got the money from the agent. He knocked him out, grabbed the bag of money from him, and ran home—here, to this very house. He meant to return it to Lloyd’s, you see, but he never could do it. The villain managed to follow him home and killed him. He snatched up the money and got clean away. They never caught him. That is why dear Graham was murdered. I felt so awfully guilty, though I told him a dozen times not to involve himself, and Eliot told him the same thing. Graham and Eliot were very close friends—well, first cousins. Eliot would have been killed as well, but fortunately he had a horse running somewhere that day and wasn’t in town. What was it to Graham if Lloyd’s had to pay up for my necklace? That is what we pay them for. But you know Graham,” she finished sadly.

  “How do you know all this if Graham was dead before he could tell anyone what happened?” I asked.

  “We pieced the story together from what we knew. The insurance agent told me about the exchange he had arranged—to pacify me, I daresay. I had threatened to hire a solicitor. I knew Graham planned to intercept the man with the bag of money. Next day Graham was found dead; the money was gone—obviously the thieves had followed him and killed him. Certainly it happened that way. What else could account for it?”

  Mama was nodding her head in a pensive way, reviewing the gruesome tale, as I was myself. “That sounds logical,” Mama said.

  “That is the conclusion Bow Street came to, in any case,” Mrs. Mailer said. I had my own opinion of Bow Street, but before I could voice it, she spoke on. “I got my necklace back, Lloyd’s had to pay ten thousand pounds instead of twenty-five thousand guineas, and Graham got murdered. It is a sad story and best forgotten. I have never worn the necklace again. In fact, Lloyd’s have become so very sniffy about insuring my jewelry that I no longer wear any of it. I have it all locked up in a bank vault and make do with these old gold chains. I’ve been frightened to death to put on anything valuable since the night I was robbed.”

  “What? You never mean it was taken off yourself!” Mama gasped. “I thought it must have been stolen from your house.”

  “Devil a bit of it. It was ripped from my neck, on my own doorstep. I was returning from a party with a gentleman friend. Mr. Thomson, a very good friend. Two Legs Thomson, folks call him.”

  “Why do they call him that?” Esther asked.

  “Because he has two legs, goose! His twin brother has only one. It saves calling poor Limpy ‘One Leg,’ you see. Rather thoughtful, really. Mr. Thomson and I had gotten out of the carriage. He was with me at the door saying good night when a very tall man appeared from behind the bushes. He reached down and wrenched the thing from my neck, leaving me with a dreadful braise.” She rubbed her neck as though it still hurt two years later. “He had on a mask. He darted off toward the back of the house. I was so distraught I clung to Mr. Thomson for a moment, and by the time he could give chase the man was gone. Got away clean as a whistle, and no amount of hinting by the insurance agent ever proved I had a thing to do with it. I never saw the thief before in my life, or since. All I can say is that he was very tall and quite thin. Not an old man, to judge by the speed of his flight after he had stolen my necklace. It was a common thief. The few words he spoke were hardly intelligible, though Mr. Thomson seemed to understand his jargon. Those thieves have a cant all their own. Many of the fashionable bucks are imitating them nowadays. Strange, is it not, how such disreputable persons can set a fashion? But young Sedgley actually had his front teeth filed down so he can whistle like the mail coach drivers. And they call us women vain and foolish!”

  I remembered Mr. Desmond using the same incomprehensible lingo that morning, and while the detail was in my mind I asked Mrs. Mailer if she knew him, since he appeared to know a little something about me.

  “Mr. Desmond? No, I don’t recall anyone by that name. But then one meets so many people.”

  Mama blinked at the thought that she could have forgotten the name of an acquaintance. “London is a shocking place,” she said. “I always heard it was wicked, but I never knew how bad it was till we spent these few days here. People coming into your house, turning it upside down, stealing your jewels, murdering poor Graham.”

  “What? Has someone broken into your house?” Mrs. Mailer demanded.

  We described the shambles that had first greeted us and our precaution of having new locks installed, and as we spoke a crafty look stole over her face. “A wise move. He was after the money, certainly,” Mrs. Mailer decreed.

  “You said the thief came in and killed Graham and took the money,” Mama reminded her.

  “That was our assumption at the time. It seems we were mistaken. Why would he keep coming back, unless to look for the money? Graham was so sly there was no outwitting him. He hid the money somewhere, and th
e thief didn’t find it. It is in this house, Belle, and if you have your wits about you, you’ll get busy and find it. A fortune!”

  “Not my fortune. It would have to be returned to the insurance company.”

  She looked at me as though I were a simpleton. I had not realized till then that she was as black-hearted as any inhabitant of Bridewell or Newgate. We stared at each other a long moment, each realizing with incredulity that the other was serious; then our eyes parted. “Yes, of course,” she said, laughing nervously.

  Over tea we talked about mutual friends in Bath, and after half an hour Mrs. Mailer rose to leave. At the door she said, “So you are determined to sell the house, are you, Belle?”

  “Yes, my mind is made up.”

  Esther stood behind me, hoping to cajole an invitation from Yootha before she left. I was coming to the conclusion that her friends would not be agreeable to us. She was too racy, too Londonized, her character too unsteady.

  “It happens I know someone who is interested in a small spot like this. I’ll bring him around tomorrow, shall I?” Mrs. Mailer asked.

  “By all means. There is no saying Mr. Desmond will take the house.”

  “What time does Desmond come?”

  “At eleven.”

  “Hmm. Ten is too early. I’ll bring my friend at twelve. We must get together soon for dinner or a play. We’ll decide tomorrow after I look over my calendar. I have an engagement this evening.”

  “We’re free any night!” Esther assured her.

  “You’ll have every rake and rattle in town camping on your doorstep once they get a look at you,” Mrs. Mailer promised gaily.

  “Not if I know anything. She’s only seventeen!”

  “Only seventeen! My dear, I had been married for over a year at the advanced age of seventeen. Only seventeen!” she repeated, and went laughing down the walk to her carriage.

  While Mama and Esther discussed Yootha’s pending invitation, I thought about her story of Graham’s death—and, of course, about the possibility that we were sitting on ten thousand pounds. Before dinner, I searched the house from attic to cellar without finding the money. I found a ring of keys in the kitchen, and while I was in the attic unlocking those three trunks and discovering nothing but blankets stored in camphor, the lawyer sent over the parcel containing the clothing Graham had worn the night of his death. Mama put the bundle in the master bedroom, where it sat like a ghost, awaiting examination.

  After dinner I planned to open the parcel but felt a pronounced reluctance to do so. I took the absurd idea that some new horror would be unleashed if I drew the string. Evening wasn’t the time for it. I’d confront that last ghost of Graham in the bright light of morning.

  We retired at ten-thirty that night, in spite of our lovely gaslight. I lay in bed reviewing the curious events and people of the day. Bow Street Runner and nosy neighbors, locksmith and Yootha Mailer, who thought I should steal the ten thousand guineas, if I could find it. And last I thought of the most intriguing of them all, Mr. Desmond, who knew I was to have been married, who knew Papa was a clergyman, who had casually mentioned the possibility of a bag of gold being in the attic. Actually, Yootha had said it was banknotes. Ten thousand pounds in gold would be too heavy for one man to carry, but “gold” was a figurative way of saying “money.”

  Mr. Desmond also spoke that jargon not used by decent, law-abiding citizens. Thieves’ cant, Harrow called it. Where did these fashionable bucks learn thieves’ cant but from thieves? And if Mr. Desmond associated with thieves—but it was a long step to accuse him of being involved in Graham’s death. He didn’t have the face of a thief or murderer, but of a fashionable flirt. Still, I’d bear it in mind tomorrow when he came with his builder.

  One character Yootha mentioned whom I had not met yet also held interest for me. I was very eager to meet Graham’s cousin, Eliot Sutton. He, at least, should be above any sort of suspicion. If he was to be a part of the social do Yootha would arrange to entertain us, I would accept. He might even provide a flirt for Esther—or for me.

  Chapter Four

  The next day was a busy one. With no servants to help us, we three women had to bring the house to order for showing to two groups of people. I couldn’t say which pair took a closer look, Yootha and Two Legs Thomson or Mr. Desmond and his builder. Among the four of them, there wasn’t a nook or cranny of the building that escaped investigation. Mr. Desmond arrived with his man at eleven sharp, like a good businessman. His builder, Mr. Grant, was a small, dark person with a face like a gargoyle and a body all lean and wiggly, like a weasel. He carried the tools of his trade with him in a leather bag and spoke that strange cant language that Mr. Desmond occasionally slipped into himself.

  They started at the attic and worked their way down a floor at a time. You could hear them tapping at the floors and walls with a hammer, and when I passed once in the hall I saw Mr. Grant loosening a baseboard in the master bedroom.

  “Take care what you’re about, sir!” I called sharply. “You are only to examine, not to tear the place apart!”

  Mr. Desmond came smiling to the door. “The baseboards are very loose. Grant is hammering a few nails in for you. You don’t want mice scampering over your pillow while you sleep.”

  “Mice!”

  “I don’t think the crack was big enough for rats,” he assured me.

  “It will be by the time he’s finished. He wasn’t tightening the boards; he was loosening them.” Even while I spoke, Grant stuck three nails between his teeth, another in the board, and began hammering up such a storm that I had to leave to save my ears.

  No castle ever received such a thorough going-over as my doll house did from Grant and Mr. Desmond. It became quite a joke once they got down to street level, where the family was in their way and vice versa. I was in the saloon writing a few instructions home for the servants who remained there when Mr. Desmond started on that room. I could have moved, but I liked the fire. “Don’t let me prevent you from what you’re doing,” I said to Grant.

  “You’ve got a rum ken here, Miss,” Grant informed me. “Nothing to fear but star glazers, maybe.”

  “I beg your pardon.”

  “Stubble it, Grant,” Mr. Desmond said. Grant scowled and turned back to work.

  I had a definite impression the men wished me elsewhere, but I felt that three quarters of an hour had been more than ample for their examination, and I sat on, watching Grant from the corner of my eye. Before long his employer took up a chair beside me to distract my attention. “I have a few questions to ask, Miss Haley, with your permission,” he said, smiling politely.

  “Certainly. Go ahead.”

  While Grant groveled around the floor pulling at quarter-round and wainscoting, Desmond posed a series of pointless questions I couldn’t have answered if I’d built the house with my own two hands. What age was the building, what were the external measurements, was the paneling in the dining room oak or cherry or something else, was the paper in the master bedroom the original paper, and such things. I repeated that I did not know, could not really say, and finally I said bluntly that I knew no more about the house than he did himself.

  “Probably a good deal less,” I added pointedly. “I have been here less than forty-eight hours, and I have not hired a man to go down on his hands and knees and try every splinter. What are you looking for?”

  “Termites, wood rot, poor construction—that sort of thing.”

  “Have you found any of these flaws?”

  “Nothing serious. Water has gotten in around the upper windows. There’s a suspicious brown mark on the ceiling of the east bedchamber. The doors are all poorly hung, and the stairs squawk like an unoiled hinge.”

  “I’m glad it’s nothing serious!”

  “Old houses always have imperfections,” he said leniently. “Would you mind coming with me to the dining room? There’s some irregularity in the paneling there.”

  I peered around his shoulder to see what Grant was
up to. Using the sofa as concealment, he was sliding a screwdriver between the wooden panels. “We’ll have greater irregularities in the saloon if you don’t call Mr. Grant off.”

  “Take it easy, Grant,” Mr. Desmond ordered.

  Grant looked over his shoulder and said slyly, “Aye, the mort’s whiddled beef on you, lad.”

  “What is he talking about?”

  Mr. Desmond took my elbow and hastened me across the hall to the dining room. “Mr. Grant’s from Ireland, He speaks a strange sort of dialect, related to Gaelic, no doubt.”

  “Or to thieves’ cant, perhaps?” He frowned at me, as though not understanding my jibe.

  “Now about this paneling,” he said, gazing at it. The wood was imperfect to be sure, but no more so than any other paneled wall that’s seen a few decades of use. “This side of the room is darker than the other,” he pointed out, peering from one side of the room to the other.

  “The darker side doesn’t receive light from the window,” I explained.

  “Shall we just turn on the gaslight?”

  “If you really think it’s necessary.”

  He did, and still he imagined one wall to be darker than the other. “A different shade of stain was used, I expect. The difference is hardly startling,” I said. “I hadn’t noticed.”

  “You haven’t been using the dining room.”

  “What makes you think so?”

  “The toast crumbs on the living room carpet,” he answered blandly.

  “Our servants aren’t here yet.”

  “How awkward for you,” he said, oozing an inordinate amount of sympathy.

  I peered back into the saloon. Grant had disappeared behind the sofa again. “It isn’t the servants we miss so much as the carriage, actually. We hadn’t planned to stay long.”

  “I will be very happy to deliver you anywhere you wish to go.”