Part 7 (1/2)
Feeling here more than elsewhere that he was intruding, Rex concluded his tour of the owner's rooms and succinctly noted: Mrs. Smithings' suite: Jewellery box containing one pair of pearl earrings; Rodney memorabilia; painkillers for rheumatoid arthritis.
”You didn't write much,” Mrs. Bellows observed.
”Didn't find much.”
The cook eased the door shut behind them and glanced at her watch. ”It's a quarter to ten. Just Rosie's room now, thank goodness-I'm ready for bed.”
Rex checked his own watch. ”The clock on Mrs. Smithings' mantelpiece must be fast.”
Mrs. Bellows lit the wall sconces and turned into a corridor skirting the east wall of the house. Behind a door at the end of the corridor rose a flight of narrow stairs, and Rex suddenly recalled the way to his old attic room through what he used to pretend was a secret pa.s.sage.
A warren of erstwhile servants' rooms burrowed under the roof.
”Most of the rooms are used for storage,” Mrs. Bellows explained.
When Rex opened a door upon a dark s.p.a.ce filled with sports equipment and a broken rocking horse, a squeaking horde of hump-backed shapes scurried away across the floorboards. One ran onto his foot and up his pant leg. Mrs. Bellows shrieked. Grabbing a broom, he swept the rat into the air and leaped out the door, slamming it shut.
”Now, why did you have to go in there for?” the cook asked, her bosom heaving with emotion. ”Clifford's supposed to keep the rats under control. They'll gnaw away at the timber until there's nothing left.” Whisking the broom from his hands, she s.h.i.+elded herself with it and hastened down the corridor.
Rosie's room was off to the left. Squeezing through the door to the sloping-walled room, Rex b.u.mped his head and careened into a walnut chest of drawers, sending a pile of Mills & Boon novels toppling onto the carpet. Above one of the twin beds hung a series of photos and an advent calendar sparkling with glitter. That day's paper window remained closed. As a boy, Rex couldn't wait to open the windows, each morning awaking in growing antic.i.p.ation of ever bigger Christmas scenes.
”That's Rosie's bed,” Mrs. Bellows said. ”No room to swing a cat in here, is there?”
Rex came to from his memories. ”What happened to Rosie's sister? I heard she used to work here.”
”Oh, it was a terrible tragedy. They were like two peas in a pod.” Mrs. Bellows lifted a corner of her ap.r.o.n and blotted her eyes. ”You'll have to forgive me-I get all teary when I think about it.”
”An illness?” Rex probed.
”Train wreck.” She peeked through the twill drapes on the dormer window. ”The snow's eased up at last.”
”Good. I'll take the dog out for a quick walk before bed. Which reminds me, where is the wee devil?”
”He must still be downstairs.”
After poking his head round the bathroom door in the corridor, Rex flipped to a fresh page in his notebook.
Rosie Porter (attic room): Romance novels, advent calendar, several photos of self.
He thought this quite narcissistic. Thanking the cook for her a.s.sistance, he made his way back down the narrow stairs, calling to the dog at intervals. He stopped by his room and with the aid of his magnifying gla.s.s deciphered the inscription inside the brooch before returning it to the honeymoon suite. It was only when he was halfway down the main stairway that the impact of what he had copied suddenly hit him.
With a tingly feeling that he might be on to something, he opened the guest book on the tripod table in the foyer and scanned the page until he found Lawdry's entry: Henry D. Lawdry, The Paddocks, Hillcrest, Surrey.
Rex compared the initials to the engraving from the locket. To my beloved girl-Eternally Yours, H.D.L.
What was a brooch inscribed with the dead man's initials doing hidden away in the Perkins' suite?
Rex wrote R.I.P. after Lawdry's name in the guest book, and did the same after Ms. Greenbaum's, hoping he would not have to write these letters again during his stay at Swanmere Manor-and that they would not be written after his name for a long time to come.
The remainder of the household sat in the drawing room cradling mugs of cocoa, with the exception of Mrs. Smithings, who dryly asked permission to retire to her rooms. Mrs. Bellows and Rosie then excused themselves, saying they had to be up early. A chill pervaded the room, and Rex voiced his surprise at finding the fire unlit. Wanda told him about the discovery of a pile of embers, possibly belonging to the lost ma.n.u.script.
”We didn't want to disturb anything until you came back,” Anthony said. ”There are a few sc.r.a.ps of paper with letters on them.”
”Well, let's get to work.” Rex declined the cocoa Helen offered him. ”Not right now, hen,” he said, using the Scottish endearment, ”but thanks anyway.”
”Another time when you're less busy?”
His gaze met her blue eyes. ”Aye, I'd like that.” Then turning to Yvette, he asked, ”Do you have a pair of tweezers?”
Following her out to the hall, he showed her the words he had copied from the locket. Yvette went pale. ”H.D.L.-Henry D. Lawdry, if I'm not mistaken ...”
At last she said, ”I know how it looks, but I didn't steal the brooch. When Henry died, Charley told me to hide it so people wouldn't ask questions.”
”How did you come by it?”
”Henry said I reminded him of his daughter and he wanted me to have it. Anthony told me it was worth over five hundred pounds and I should keep it in Mrs. Smithings' safe.”
”So Anthony Smart knew about the brooch, and yet you said you didn't want anyone asking questions.”
”That was after Henry died. Charley doesn't know I asked Anthony to appraise it. I was just curious as to its value.”
”Who else knows Mr. Lawdry made you a gift of the brooch?”
”You don't believe me,” Yvette accused. ”You think I stole it!”
”Calm down, la.s.s. I don't know what to think at present-about any of this.”
”That's probably why Charley said to hide it, so people wouldn't jump to the wrong conclusions!”
Rex was puzzled that her husband hadn't mentioned the brooch when he told him about the cyanide. After all, he had asked Charley to tell him everything he knew about Lawdry. He would have to confront him about it. In the meantime, there was the matter of the ma.n.u.script. ”If you're not too cross with me, could you fetch those tweezers?” he asked Yvette.
Pouting, she flounced off in the direction of the stairs. Rex gave a deep sigh. It had been a long day, and there was still work to do. If he could confirm the ma.n.u.script in the fireplace was the one Ms. Greenbaum had been working on-one she would never burn herself-it would suggest someone had an axe to grind.
Who under this roof could have bludgeoned the literary agent and poisoned a crippled old man?
Certainly, the murders were the work of a cunning mind: the first made to appear as though by natural causes, the second devised to look like an accident. Rex felt he might never get to the bottom of it, and yet try he must for Mrs. Smithings' and his mother's sake.
___.
”Here you go,” Yvette said, thrusting the tweezers into his hand.
Hitching up his trousers, Rex squatted by the fireplace and, with the care and precision of a surgeon, removed the charred sc.r.a.ps of paper and laid them out on cardboard. Delicate as moth wings, they were apt to fly away or else disintegrate at the slightest draft. ”Could someone please close the doors?” he asked, s.h.i.+elding the fragments with his hand.
He scrutinized the remaining typeface on the sc.r.a.ps. The digit ”one” appeared, followed by a s.p.a.ce and the letters ”Qa”-the rest of the word consumed by fire. All the Q words he could think of were followed by ”u”. Quant.i.ty, quarter, quick, quiet, quirk, quorum.
”Patrick, could you look for a dictionary in the library and see if there are any words beginning 'Qa'?” he asked.
The young artist returned within minutes holding a battered hardcover book with gold lettering. ”According to the Concise Oxford Dictionary, the only entries for ”Q” are words beginning ”qu” unless you count the abbreviations q.v. and qy.”
”Well, blow me,” Charley said. ”I never realized every word in the English language beginning with 'q' started 'qu'.”