Mrs. Johnston’s side, the one closest to the door, was decorated in soft colours. A dressing gown and plush robe hung on the back of a small chair in front of a vanity that was covered in various make-up products and several bottles of perfume. The large closet sat partially open, stuffed with dresses.
Before investigating further, Irene took a picture of the entire side of the woman’s room, then turned to Mr. Johnston’s side.
His layout was similar, except for the collection of pictures he had on his table and dresser.
Irene took a picture of his side, then looked between the two of them. Mr. Johnston’s section of the room appeared much more personal, with photos and trinkets dotting every surface. She opted to investigate his section first, if only because he was acting the strangest out of the two of them.
She approached his bedside table and crouched next to the pictures. A photo of Mr. Johnston in a nice suit and Hughie in his uniform sat in the centre and Mr. Johnston appeared to be the epitome of a proud father.
Beside it was a smaller photo of a young woman that took Irene by surprised.
Miss Chloe Flagner.
She was clothed in the same dress that she wore today, and she smiled at the camera. She looked younger by at least a few years but often photographs blurred imperfections and wrinkles in the skin.
Why did Mr. Johnston have a photograph of Chloe on his side table?
As Irene stared at the picture, disappointment grew in her belly. Had she hypothesized wrong? Could Mr. Johnston simply be in love with Chloe but couldn’t profess his love because of his family’s stature with the wealthy London crowd? Perhaps his plan was to marry Chloe and Hughie to secure her permanence into the family and then he would pursue her more.
But why would Mrs. Johnston seemingly go along with his plan? Perhaps she didn’t love her husband and simply didn’t care what he did.
Irene was tempted to sit down and go over the picture with a fine-tooth comb in an attempt to dispel her current thought, but she needed to hurry on with her investigating. She snapped a photo of the picture, keeping the camera as still as possible to ensure the image was in focus.
Irene then moved on to Mr. Johnston’s dresser. More pictures sat on the expensive piece of furniture, but they were all of Mr. Johnston with either his wife or son and no more of Chloe.
Irene turned around to view the entire room again. Mrs. Johnston’s side had no pictures at all, and if Irene had just been looking at Mrs. Johnston’s half of the room, she would’ve sworn that the lady lived here alone, with no family or friends.
She didn’t even have a photo of her son, or a wedding picture of her and her husband.
It was very odd, indeed.
Irene studied the wear patterns on the carpet, finding nothing out of the ordinary. Door to the bed. Door to the closet. Bed to the dresser. All criss-crossing in predictable ways. When she studied the carpet at Mr. Johnston’s closet door, however, something caught her eye.
The closet, though large, was not a walk-in or a separate room, yet the wear pattern went right into the closet as if he’d entered and exited through it like a passage way.
As Irene studied the closet door, heavy steps thumped down the hallway. They sounded angry and heavy, like a man’s, but not as large at Mr. Johnston’s.
Irene yanked the closet door open and darted inside. She pulled the door almost closed, leaving a small slit to peek out of, and pressed herself into the clothes.
Mrs. Johnston trudged into the room, slouching, mumbling words under her breath. She went right for her closet and flung the doors open, pulling a white dress from the back of the rung with such anger that Irene expected the garment to soar across the room. The old wedding dress was kept on a standard hanger, not tucked in a cloth bag to preserve it or keep it from moths.
Highly curious.
Weren’t married women supposed to cherish their dresses? Weren’t they supposed to keep them for their daughters to wear? Or at least treat them with some fond memory?
Mrs. Johnston apparently did none of that.
She scowled at the dress.
“Dreadful thing.” She snorted in disgust, then turned on her heel and marched out of the room. Irene listened closely, making sure Mrs. Johnston’s footsteps carried all the way downstairs before she opened the closet door.
As she did, a whiff of a particularly foul odour filled her nose, and she paused. It came and went so fast that Irene questioned if it was even there in the first place.
Irene pushed aside the clothes, waiting for the smell to puff off one of Mr. Johnston’s jackets or shirts, perhaps from outdoor pleasantries or horseback riding through the forest.
Nothing.
She tried again, shoving the clothes far to the right, trying to catch the smell once more. She inhaled deep and the scent came to her. It smelled of something turned bad, like meat left out too long.
The closet was dark so Irene couldn’t see much, but she looked on the floor through the racks of shoes and smelled nothing but leather. She checked the back wall of the closet and came up empty-handed once more.
Shoving the clothes to the right, she studied the wall between the closet and the outside of the house.
A wooden door, no taller than five feet, was built into the sidewall. Irene retrieved her magnifying glass again and studied the doorknob.
The metal was shiny and worn as if someone frequented whatever lay behind the door. There couldn’t be much space, as the closet was located close to the outer wall. Perhaps there was a small staircase, leading either up or down.
Irene thought of the sealed attic and the desperation that Mr. Johnston showed to Chloe regarding the secrecy of the upper part of the house. Could this door lead upwards into the locked room?
She tried the knob, but it wouldn’t budge.
Curiosity burned inside her. What was this family keeping locked up in the attic? She stood among Mr. Johnston’s clothes for at least a minute, thinking, trying to put together the clues she’d gleaned from her quick investigation.
Irene snapped two pictures of the door.
Finally, she grunted in frustration. She needed more pieces of the puzzle, more observation of the family, and more time.
She glanced at her watch. She needed to get back to Joe and help him finish their task so they could go back to Baker Street and develop these pictures.
Chapter IV
Not Quite a Professional Repairman
Joe had no idea what he was doing. He’d spent countless hours poring over books about cookers and their features and apparently didn’t retain any of the information. He picked up a large pipe, turned it over in his hands, then set it between a smaller pipe and a grill.
He wiped the sweat from his brow and felt ash from the cooker stick to his skin. He’d already cut his finger somehow and wrapped a piece of cloth around his hand, and he’d dropped the cooker door on his leg, a bruise now blossoming on his thigh.
He checked his watch. Irene had been gone for almost a half-hour and minute by minute he worried one of the Johnston’s would walk in and question where his mute assistant had run off to, and why various pieces of the cooker were scattered around the room.
Luckily, just as another moment of panic set in, the door behind him opened and Irene slipped back into the room.
“Some assistant you are,” he said.
Irene crouched down beside him, and he instantly recognized the look on her face. Her brows were pulled together, her jaw working back and forth, eyes unable to focus and bouncing off every object as her mind raced through her thoughts.
“You look like a hound after a successful hunt.” He observed, keeping his voice low. “What did you find?”
“Nothing,” she sighed.
“Nothing?” he snapped. “I’ve had a battle with this cooker–and lost, mind you–and you return with nothing?”
Irene looked at him in surprise, as if finally realizing just how tattered he appeared. “You could’ve just tinkered
around with the innards of the cooker until I returned. Why did you take two of the doors off? And what are those pieces over there?”
Joe looked at a pile of parts he’d pulled out from the bottom of the cooker sitting next to the door and shrugged, throwing his hands up. “Me and this...contraption do not get along.”
Irene’s lips twitched, and she turned her head, but Joe caught the smile, her shoulders bouncing up and down in silent laughter.
“Stop laughing,” he said but felt a smile tug at his own lips. “This was not a good choice as an undercover job for me.”
He shoved her playfully, and she toppled over into the pile of pipes and parts. They clanged against the floor and scattered every which way. Irene quickly regained her composure, nose wrinkled in disgust at the long grease stain now on her wrist.
“You didn’t let me finish,” she murmured, still trying to hide her smile as her eyes flicked to Joe’s bandaged hand. “I discovered many points of interest. We need more time in this house, and we need longer access to the upstairs quarters.”
Joe hoisted himself to his feet and sat on a nearby wooden stool. “How? This family barely trusts us as it is. I doubt they’ll willingly let us wander around upstairs.”
Irene sat beside him, finger pressed to her lips.
Joe’s eyes scoured the room, hoping an idea would pop out at him. Then, he saw the gas cooktop, sitting askew on the burners.
“Did you see any heaters upstairs?’ he asked Irene.
“None.”
“Excellent,” Joe nodded, an idea coming to him. “In their latest letter to me, my parents mentioned that they were putting a heater into the second story of their house. We must procure a new cooker for the Johnstons, anyway. We could offer to install a heater in their bedroom as well. If we are met with any push-back, Miss Flagner could convince them to put one in her room if she is to reside here from now on.”
A grin spread across Irene’s face. “Joe, you are brilliant.”
She threw her arm around his shoulder and pulled him toward her, giving him a swift kiss on the top of his head. She recoiled, her face wrinkling in disgust as she rose to her feet.
“Out of excitement,” she began with a grimace. “I forgot you slicked your hair back. That is a foul taste. Come, let’s find the Johnstons.”
She paused before heading to the door. “You did make quite the mess.”
“You are the queen of making messes.”
“Exactly,” she said. “And I am impressed by this one.”
She flashed him a cheeky grin before walking out of the kitchen. Their boots left dark spots and bits of ash as they traipsed through the house to the front door. The rain had held off, but the wind was chilly, a reminder that it was autumn and winter was right around the corner.
The family gathered outside at a picnic table set on a flat piece of still-green grass, blankets and jackets draped over them. Miss Flagner stood with her arms outstretched, and Mrs. Johnston held a white garment up to her body.
As Joe and Irene neared the group, Joe realized it was an old wedding dress.
“Poor woman,” he muttered, thinking about the predicament Miss Flagner was in. She saw them and gave a small wave, causing Mr. Johnston to stand. He met them halfway across the lawn.
“Is it fixed, gentlemen?” he asked.
“Unfortunately not,” Joe replied hopelessly, almost forgetting to play up his northern accent. “There is a piece so rusted out there is no fixing it without a full replacement.”
The more he spoke in his disguise, the more confident he became, but now he needed to sell a brand new cooker and heaters, all under the disapproving gaze of Mr. Johnston.
“If it’s got to be done, then we’ll do it,” Mr. Johnston grumbled.
“There is another thing.” Joe tried to remember all the times he’d been coerced into buying something from a salesman, and just how he was talked into it. Fortunately, many individuals seemed to believe that Joe was an easy target and tried to convince him to purchase every item on this side of the River Thames. “We can take a look at your heaters upstairs and make sure those are in working order, as well.”
At the lengthened conversation, Mrs. Johnston and Miss Flagner came over.
“We don’t have any heaters,” Mr. Johnston said, stiffly.
“Oh dear,” Joe said, palms sweating now that he had a bigger audience. “Well, that won’t do, especially with winter coming. You don’t want the ladies to freeze, do you?”
Mr. Johnston looked to the ladies behind him. Mrs. Johnston shrugged, but Miss Flagner must have caught on to their plan because she clasped her hands together.
“I would adore a heater for my room,” she swooned. “If I’m to stay here, I would definitely need that to feel warm and comfortable. I’m sure you’d love one too, wouldn’t you, Mrs. Johnston?”
“I suppose,” Mrs. Johnston sighed. “As long as it’s not a big to-do.”
“Not at all,” Joe promised. “A days work, maybe two. Then you’ll have your new cooker, and two new heaters for the cold nights.”
“That’s a lot of time spent in our private quarters,” Mr. Johnston huffed.
“I understand, sir,” Joe said. This was a crucial part of the conversation–the point where he had to convince them that the heaters were worth the small invasion of privacy. “Miss Flagner described the discretion you folks would want. In fact, that’s why she hired us. We don’t get into anyone’s business but our own.”
Mr. Johnston studied Joe for a moment, eyes tracking the dirt and grease, pausing on the bandage, then jumping over to Irene.
“You boys seem to have worked hard today,” he observed before finally giving in to the pressure of everyone’s gaze. “Fine. Bring me some information, and we shall pick one to suit us.”
“Yes, sir,” Joe said. “We shall gather the information for you right away. Good day to you all.”
He pivoted and returned to the house to collect their bags, Irene at his heels.
The kitchen door was open when they arrived back in the house, and a small gasp came from the room.
The maid stood in the middle of the mess, hand clutched to her chest, slowly turning on her heel, eyes so wide they looked as if they’d fall right out of her head.
Joe stopped at the threshold, and Irene bumped into him. The maid spotted the duo and waggled an angry finger.
“You boys have done quite a number to this room!” she exclaimed. “How am I supposed to cook dinner in this mess? Did you take apart the whole kitchen?”
“Sorry ma’am,” Joe said with a weak smile, stepping into the room.
Irene silently packed up their bags as Joe kicked the parts away from the one remaining working cooker. The pipes and grill left dirt and grease wherever he pushed them, but he cleared a space for the maid to work. Then he turned to the counter. How that much dust and filth got on the counter was beyond him, but he attempted to wipe it away with his hand, only seeming to make it worse.
“Oh, just leave it!” the maid yelled.
“Yes ma’am,” he replied quickly, grabbing Irene’s wrist, and urging her to flee the room.
* * * * *
Joe drove them down the laneway and away from the Johnston property. As he turned on to the main road into London, he let out a deep sigh.
“I didn’t know if that would work or not,” he admitted.
“I am so impressed with you, Joe,” Irene said with a huge grin. “I was nervous that you would muck it up and we would be made, but you actually got through it.”
Joe let loose a small chuckle. “Always dolling out the compliments.”
Irene took off her hat and scratched her head through her pinned-up hair. “It is hard to stay so silent sometimes.”
“And at other times, I can’t get a word out of you for all the gold in the world.”
Irene laughed, then started untying her boots, kicking them off onto the floor of the automobile. “Give me Oxfords over these any day.”
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br /> It didn’t take them long to arrive in London, but as they did, the traffic thickened immensely as everyone headed home from work, and buses flooded the streets for their nightly routes. Joe slowed the Vauxhall and merged with the automobiles, slowly moving down the road.
“I didn’t know your parents wrote to you.” Irene looked at him curiously and started removing the pins from her hair, the curls falling around her face.
Joe nodded. “A couple times a month. My sisters write, as well. Though not as often.”
“You’ve never shared that with me,” she muttered and Joe could’ve sworn that he caught a hint of sadness in her words.
“I keep the letters to myself,” he shrugged. “I honestly thought you wouldn’t be interested in my family matters.”
“I show no interest in boring matters,” she said. “And normally, trivial family business would put me to sleep, but if it is your family, that’s different.”
“Is it?” He wanted to laugh because he didn’t quite believe her. She’d become more observant of him since she’d found out he was a veterinarian during their last case, and she’d asked him more personal questions. Still, she’d stayed away from asking him about his family, and he didn’t know if that was purposeful or not.
“They are your family, Joe,” she added. “And if you care about them, then I suppose I can make an attempt to care as well, if only for your benefit.”
As he rolled along with the traffic, he tried to decipher her sentence, figuring out if it was a compliment, an insult, or her infamous combination of both.
“What are your parents like?” She asked the question so suddenly as if she was desperate to know the answer. It caught him off guard and took him a moment to answer.
“They are wonderful,” he finally said. “Supportive, loving. When I came back from the war, I swear they weren’t ever going to let me leave the house again. My father is so soft-spoken and kind, all our animals flock to him. And my mother was born to be a mother. Well, I suppose all mothers are.”
The Happy Family Facade Page 4
