Deadly Affair: A Georgian Historical Mystery (Alec Halsey Crimance) (35 page)

Alec opened an eye and with a toss of his head swept aside a dark heavy curl that had fallen into his eyes, not from having sensed the valet’s soft-footed presence but to an audible and irritating tap-tapping sound. Hands crossed in front of him, the fingers of Jeffries’ left hand tapped incessantly on the back of his right, yet his long pale face, with its upturned pinched nostrils and cleft chin, was devoid of his inner thoughts. Mouth set in a thin line, Jeffries gazed at a point on the polished floorboards some two feet in front of his perfectly polished shoes. The slight rise to the thick straight brows and the persistent tapping alerted Alec that someone or something had displeased the normally impassive Hadrian Jeffries.

With a deep breath, Alec slid his shoulders up the side of the bath until he was sitting straight and ran a hand over his damp face and through his wet hair, knowing his internal musings and short respite of solitude were at an end. He asked for the fresh hot water and Jeffries instantly came to life.

Rinsed, dried, his naked body wrapped in the silk banyan, Alec sat on the dressing stool and toweled moisture from his shoulder-length black curls, an eye on Jeffries who hadn’t said boo. Alec smiled to himself, knowing the man was bursting to speak but would keep his tongue well and truly between his teeth until given permission to do so; the perfect gentleman’s gentleman. But did Alec want perfection? John, who had been his valet before Tam, had been as close to perfection as was possible for a valet to be but he had also been a complete bore. Was Hadrian Jeffries a bore? He had no idea. In fact he knew nothing about Hadrian Jeffries other than he had been a footman in his household for two years. When most noblemen could care less than a tester for knowing more than their valet’s name and that the servant did his job well, not knowing anything but the man’s name disturbed him. No doubt his uncle would have something to say about his lack, or more correctly, his lapse of interest in his household. His uncle always made it his business to know his servants as people, and had instilled the same eccentric habit in his nephew. Alec smiled. His uncle also made it his business to know other people’s servants as people too, which meant he would know all there was to know about Mr. Hadrian Jeffries.

Alec tossed the damp towel aside and scraped back his curls to tie them at the nape of his neck with a riband he found on the well-ordered dressing table. Well, that was a first! The contents of his travelling toiletries case: Tortoise shell hair brush, clothes brush, ivory comb, sharpened razor, engraved silver etui with its hinged lid slightly ajar should Alec wish to use the implements within the case, a neat coil of black silk ribands, nail file at right angles to the set of brushes, sandalwood cologne from Floris, two pairs of polished shoe buckles; even the engraved silver button belonging to the Cleveley livery Tam had given him (he must have left it in a frockcoat pocket) all were set out neatly, rather too neatly, and in an order known only to Jeffries by the exact positioning of each personal grooming implement.

“So, Jeffries, who is it that requires an urgent word? Or is it something far more entertaining you wish to tell me? Has Mr. Fisher started a fire in the kitchens or Mr. Halsey insulted one of the guests with his apostrophizing on the immorality of Bristol’s slave traders?”

Hadrian Jeffries did not move a facial muscle. He did however lower his eyebrows.

“Mr. Barr wishes a word with you at once, my lord. He was most insistent. I told him he must await your lordship’s pleasure, and sent him away. Would you care for me to dress you now, my lord?”

Alec saw the quick frowning glance directed at his bare feet and stood, removing his hands from the banyan’s pockets. “Very well. I must look my sartorial best for dinner with Mrs. Bourdon or my uncle will never forgive me.”

“It was about Mrs. Bourdon that Mr. Barr wished to have words, my lord,” Jeffries said, taking the banyan and offering stockings and smalls.

“Have words? That sounds ominous. Was Barr ominous?”

“Yes, my lord. He tried his best but was in such a state of agitation that he failed to convey his wishes in any meaningful way.”

Alec threw a crisp white linen shirt over his head and slipped on a pair of velvet breeches, saying once he had tucked in his billowing shirt and buttoned the falls, “Agitation? With being denied an audience with my esteemed self or something else?”

“He was already agitated when I answered his incessant rapping on the outer door, my lord. Being denied an audience with your lordship’s esteemed self only increased his distress.”

Alec mentally rolled his eyes as he stood before the long looking glass and expertly tied the linen stock about his throat. Did the man not recognize irony?
Esteemed self
indeed! Tam would have smiled. Perhaps Jeffries was nervous and he should give him the benefit of the doubt? He allowed Jeffries to shrug him into an oyster silk waistcoat with embroidered pockets and buttons and to fuss for a moment with its fit then waved him aside to sit on the dressing stool to slip his stockinged feet into a pair of polished black leather shoes; Jeffries securing the plain silver buckles.

“Do you know why Barr was in a state of distress?”

“One of the guests... No it was a visitor to one of the guests. Yes, that was the right of it,” the valet explained with satisfaction as he rose up to stand by the dressing table. “A gentleman visiting the guest in the Arch apartment caused an uproar—”

“The Arch?” Jeffries had Alec’s full attention. “Mrs. Bourdon’s rooms?”

“Yes, my lord. That was why Mr. Barr insisted he must speak with you. He says you are known to Mrs. Bourdon and—”

“First tell me about Mrs. Bourdon’s visitor.”

“As I said, my lord, the visitor caused a bit of a fracas amongst the guests. According to the water boy... Apologies, my lord,” Jeffries said abruptly, a tinge of color in his cheeks, “I should not repeat what I did not myself see.”

“You may if you think the source a reliable one. And, Jeffries, it is ‘sir’ not ‘my lord’. You are my valet.”

To Alec’s surprise Jeffries blushed, smiled and nodded.

“This visitor..?” Alec said with as much aloofness as he could muster, for he was confident that Mrs. Bourdon’s visitor was none other than Sir Charles Weir. “Don’t spare the details if you think them pertinent.”

“According to the boy who carries the hot water,” Jeffries said, bringing his features under control, “one of the lads who was at the base of the stairs helping an elderly dowager with her portmanteaux, witnessed the visitor come charging down the main staircase two steps at a time and without a care for who was coming up them. The visitor rudely bumped the Miss Musgraves, two elderly spinsters who I am told are the aunts of the Baron Stoke and regular habitués of this establishment, and one of the Miss Musgraves fell back against the railing and dropped a hatbox, two hats crushed under a footman’s feet who went to her aid. The lad said the visitor had his left arm folded up across his chest and was clutching his wrist as if he’d broken it, or he’d scalded his flesh with boiling water. But that wasn’t the worst of it, my—sir,” he said, finally drawing breath. When Alec nodded, he continued. “The visitor had a look upon his face that the lad said could only be described as sheer terror. Like the face of a murderous dog who is about to swing from the end of a Tyburn rope and knows that he is for Hell. It was that sort of face.” Jeffries frowned. “One of the footmen, a very irregular fellow who was taken to task the moment he uttered the question, was bold enough to enquire of the terrified gentleman if he had seen a ghost!”

When Jeffries paused for effect Alec realized it was his cue to ask the obvious.

“And had the visitor seen a ghost?”

The valet nodded, eyes wide. “Yes, sir. That was precisely what he replied. That a ghost had come back to haunt us all!”

“That was the visitor’s exact words?
A ghost had come back to haunt us all
?”

“To the word, sir.”

Alec could not hide his surprise; not at the thought of a specter haunting the premises, but that Sir Charles Weir, one of the most self-possessed men he knew, would react in such a melodramatic fashion had he indeed been in the presence of an apparition. Alec was inclined to the opinion that Weir was more likely to coolly question the specter as to whether it was indeed a ghost, rather than show any signs of panic, even if he was convinced he was in the presence of the supernatural. So what had his old school friend seen in this apparent apparition that had so shocked him as to cause a momentary lapse in reason and usual behavior?

“Do you know what the visitor did next, sir?”

Alec had no idea; what he did know now was that Jeffries was partial to the melodramatic and that he expected him to ask the question, so he did:

“What did the visitor do?”

“I am embarrassed to say, sir, but he covered his face with his hands and burst into tears, like a child who had fallen and hurt itself or perhaps been taken to task by its nurse for its bad behavior. It was truly shameful. Sir,” Jeffries added in a whisper, a quick furtive glance over his shoulder, “do you think Barr’s is haunted?”

Not only partial to the melodramatic but a believer in ghosts! He was glad to amend his initial impression of Jeffries: not dull, merely nervous at trying his best to be the perfect gentleman’s gentleman. He glanced at the faultless alignment of his personal grooming items and stopped at the razor. Still, the last thing he needed was a valet prone to nerves, in any situation.

“No,” Alec replied flatly, “I do not believe Barr’s to be haunted. Did the fellow who confided this mention where the visitor saw this specter?”

“The visitor did not mention a specific room, sir, but a person.”

“Person?” This did surprise Alec. “He
recognized
the ghost?”

Jeffries nodded vigorously, eyes wide.

“Yes, sir. I suppose that must be the reason Mr. Barr was so insistent he speak with you.”

“With me? About a ghost? Why?”

Jeffries moved closer to the dressing stool, as if he did not wish to be overheard by the living or the dead.

“It’s the occupant of the Arch apartment,” he said in a loud whisper, gaze darting left and right and then back at Alec. “Mrs. Bourdon: She’s the ghost.”

Plantagenet Halsey grimaced with the pain of straightening his arthritic knees but he was determined to stretch to his full height to stare the barrel-chested footman who blocked access to the apartment eye-to-eye. The servant was as wide as he was tall and filled the doorframe; stockinged legs with their impressively large calf muscles were splayed and his muscular arms with their thick forearms were crossed against his massive chest. He was just the sort of strongman to be found keeping the peace in a local Bristol cathouse when merchant seaman were given their shore leave, except this hulking brute wore livery and the frockcoat had silver buttons. What was he doing at Barr’s? But the old man did not have the time or the inclination to find out. He just wanted the fellow removed from obstructing access to Mrs. Bourdon’s rooms, and he wanted him gone at once, and so he had demanded of the mute bulk and every servant sent to pacify him until the owner of the esteemed establishment, Mr. Barr himself appeared before him, countenance schooled to be as retractable as the old man’s was intractable.

“Get that brute out of the way,” Plantagenet Halsey ordered, menacing his Malacca headed cane about, “and open that door!”

Tam and Janie ducked out of the way of the swishing cane, to stand behind the old man as the proprietor threw his head back, the tip of the cane narrowly missing connection with his pointy chin. A couple of footmen standing by the staircase took a few steps forward, eager to bear witness to an altercation between their nose-in-the-air employer and the feisty old guest. With a visitor earlier screaming down the stairs that he had seen a ghost, the day was shaping up to be one worth talking about over a pint at the local.

“I must regrettably inform you, sir, that it is not possible for me to open that door,” Mr. Barr said at his most conciliatory and with a frozen smile reserved for visitors who enquired as to the cost of staying a night at the exclusive lodging house; if one had to ask one did not stay.

“Not possible? Of course it’s possible, damn it!” growled the old man. “Mrs. Bourdon has asked for our presence and so she shall have it!” He glared at the impassive barrel in the doorway and back at Mr. Barr and swished his cane from the proprietor to the servant. “Tell this oaf to move his large carcass!”

Mr. Barr cupped his hands at his chest and continued to smile yet was aware of the growing crowd in the passageway at the top of the stairs. Joining the two inquisitive footmen, who pretended to be about their duties of standing and waiting in the passageway should a guest require their services but with ears very much open, was one of the Miss Musgraves whose gloved hand was dug deep in her velvet lined reticule as if searching for something and behind her her maid. And at the old man’s back was his young redheaded companion and for a reason unfathomable to the proprietor, Mrs. Bourdon’s wan-faced maid stood beside him.