Death of a Cozy Writer: A St. Just Mystery (10 page)
“Me?” Albert had begun turning a table knife over and over, as if considering the best angle with which to stab Ruthven through the heart.
“Yes, you. It’s only fair. If we put up the money, you—”
“I do the dirty work. And if she refuses? Is insulted? Goes running to Father in high dudgeon with the tale that his no-good sot of a son tried to buy her off? Then I’m the one neatly out of the running, even if I happen to mention who put me up to it.”
Anger, whether at Ruthven’s clumsy attempt to set him up as a patsy or at the stupidity of the plan itself, had a salutary cleansing effect. He rose from his chair like a member of parliament during a Q-and-A session, riding the crest of a surge of intense dislike for his brother.
“Wait, I haven’t told you—”
“Told me what? Why I was chosen? Oh, I know why. Sarah hasn’t the guts to do it. George can’t be trusted any more than your average addict can be. You thought my own—fondness for drink—might make me malleable. Well, surprise. If you think this is such a hot idea, do your own dirty work. Or get one of your ‘men’ to do it for you.”
“Albert, wait—”
When Albert had been four and Ruthven about six, he’d locked Albert in the cellar overnight, threatening to do worse if Albert told on him. Interestingly, none of the adults in the house had noticed Albert’s absence—his mother had been long gone by then, but where, Albert wondered now, had been the nanny? The cook? Someone? But Albert eventually did tell—his father—who had only laughed. And Ruthven had kept his promise to do worse.
Whenever Albert was tempted to think in terms of cause and effect—their mother’s leaving in relation to Ruthven’s general shit-tiness— he remembered that Ruthven had always been like this. From the cradle, so far as Albert knew. The loss of their mother had perhaps just accelerated the effect, like throwing manure on a weed patch.
Now Albert slapped his napkin down on the table, disarranging the tableware and startling Paulo, who was just making his belated appearance with a second coffee urn. Albert thought it might be time for something a little stronger than coffee. A reward for having stood up to Ruthven—this time.
Albert paused on his way out only long enough to wonder how long Paulo had been standing behind the door, listening.
_______________________
SARAH WAS AT A
loss. After getting herself out from under Lillian’s wheels, she had wandered into the library (as distinct from her father’s study, which she would not have dared enter at any hour). Opening off the great hall with its macabre display of weaponry, the book-lined room always had an enormous fire crackling in the fireplace, and she often had it to herself. Only Albert shared her passion for books, one reason her bond to him was stronger than it was to the others. But Sarah’s magpie penchant for collecting esoteric tidbits of knowledge was something she felt she alone had inherited from Sir Adrian.
There was a second entry to the library via the smoking room, seldom used now. The layout of the house was a leftover from the days of clearly defined male and female territories: Across from the smoking room was the billiards room, where men at the turn of the nineteenth century often would repair after the ladies had gone to bed. Her father’s study was just next to that all-male bastion, but playing billiards was of course forbidden while Sir Adrian worked. The stairs to what had been called the “bachelor bedrooms” ran along the other side of the study, allowing easier access to the upper floors of the house.
Sarah now stood surveying the content of the shelves. Her father’s collection ranged widely among the classics, from Plato through Shakespeare, but then leapt the centuries to Fitzgerald and Hemingway, stopping somewhere in the 1950s. Few outpourings from the great minds of the last half or so of the twentieth century were in evidence, and only the Hemingway novels and Golden Age mysteries looked well-thumbed.
But Hemingway’s macho style held little comfort for Sarah today, and having Violet in the house, she felt, provided enough real-life mystery. She was turning away when she heard the door behind her opening from the hall.
“Oh! I’m so sorry; I didn’t mean to disturb you.”
The American accent was unmistakable, sounding rough to her ears, like the blat of a car horn. But the smile was friendly, the face open and guileless.
“Not at all. I was just leaving. I can’t seem to settle to anything this morning.”
“Yes, I know how that can be.” He came forward, hand outstretched. “It’s Miss Beauclerk-Fisk, of course. I’m Jeffrey Spencer. Your father’s assistant. Well, secretary, officially. Although in the States ‘male secretary’ is freighted with so many connotations I try to avoid the term.”
She smiled. “It’s Sarah. Pleased to meet you. How do you do?”
Having gotten through the conventions, she was at a loss to know what to say next. Fortunately, Jeffrey seemed anxious to talk. He sat down in one of the leather chairs by the fireplace and leaned forward on his elbows, his expression indicating he couldn’t wait to hear what she had to say for herself. He so clearly wanted company, she sat down across from him.
“Sarah, then,” he said. “Thank you. Wonderful name. It means ‘princess,’ you know.”
A man after her own pedantic heart. Sarah blushed to the roots of her hair.
“In Hebrew. Yes, I know. How extraordinary of you to know that. Doesn’t suit me, though.”
“Oh, I don’t know about that. I would have said it suited you wonderfully.”
“Only in the sense that my father is rather like a king, or thinks he is. I suppose that’s where it came from. I never bothered to ask him.”
“No, it’s just … I don’t know. Perhaps it’s your way of carrying yourself. ‘Queenly’ might be a better word.”
Sarah, completely unaccustomed to flattery, was dumbfounded. Her thoughts suddenly filtered through white noise, all she could register was the transparent grayish-blue of Jeffrey’s wide, candid eyes; everything else ceased to exist. She attempted to smooth back her hair, which as usual made the fringe stand on end. To her dismay, her lips emitted a little squeak of nervous laughter.
Shut up!
she commanded herself. He’ll think you a fool.
Lips pressed firmly together, she glared at him, eyes wide with the effort of self-control.
Jeffrey was alarmed. “I say. I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to give offense.”
“No!” she croaked. He jumped, startled.
Damn!
Clearing her throat, she tried again. “I mean, what I meant to say was, erm, thank you.”
After a long moment when Jeffrey, afraid to say anything more, did not speak, she mumbled again, “Thank you,” wondering if the little skip in her heart was happiness or an impending seizure. She turned away in confusion, stammering:
“I should go and help Mrs. Romano. Luncheon. Or dinner. She’ll—she’ll need me.” She jumped from her chair and scuttled crablike out of the room, unfortunately clearing only part of the open, carved double doors leading into the library. One of them crashed loudly against the inner wall on her exit.
Jeffrey, feeling he had once again somehow stepped into a bottomless puddle of British reserve, called after her.
“I say! I am sorry. I didn’t mean …”
She didn’t, couldn’t, turn back to look at him.
“Damn it all,” he said, under his breath.
“Sod it all,” said George. “Parking in Cambridge always was impossible.”
Natasha braced herself, neck whiplashing, as George again attempted to jackknife his car into a too-small space on St. Andrew’s Street.
“Ouch! Park in the garage, for God’s sake.”
“What’s wrong with you?”
George, as Natasha knew by now, had a high tolerance for pain—other people’s pain.
“Oh, forget it. Look, where shall we meet up? And when?” While she could usually trick George into giving his plans away, he had been maddeningly close-lipped about his reasons for this trip into town.
“The Eagle. In about an hour. Maybe two.”
Which meant closer to three.
“George, I really don’t fancy hanging around a pub by myself.”
“I’ll be there when I get there. Cheer up. Who knows? You might get lucky and meet another rich bloke.”
With an unpleasant laugh, he retrieved a Gucci backpack from the back seat, got out of the car, and slammed the door. A small avalanche of snow fell from the bonnet.
It took all her considerable control not to tell him to sod off. Something like prudence won out as she decided the better course of dealing with George—usually—was to ignore him. It was a long taxi ride back to Waverley Court and he was more than capable of leaving her stranded.
Not looking back, she started down Sidney Street, headed toward Market Square and the shops, preparatory to doubling back to see which way George was headed. A half-dozen awestruck undergraduates watched her silken progress. One of them wrote a highly derivative sonnet about her that night, something about women lovely in their bones.
She ignored them. She ignored traffic, with near-fatal consequences. One day, she thought, George would go too far. With the wrong person.
Violet was bored. Bored, bored, bored, and wondering how soon she could decently make an escape.
Redecorating Waverley Court, top to bottom, to which she had initially looked forward as the ultimate challenge, could wait, although as she looked around her sitting room now, she knew it couldn’t wait forever. With a delicate shudder—purple velvet draperies with gold tassels. Really!—she returned her gaze to the
Vogue
through which she had been flapping in a desultory way for the past half hour. That was boring, too, as she already owned nearly everything pictured in the issue worth owning, thanks to Adrian.
She stood up and stretched her lithe dancer’s frame. Smoothed her hair. Checked her makeup. Perfect, as always. Simple perfection. But … what, she wondered, peering closer, had happened to the girl who had set all of London on end? Where most people saw only the taut, transparent skin, Violet saw crow’s feet, the nap of loosening flesh at the jaw, and lines etching the brow and upper lip, despite the best efforts of the creams advertised on every other page of her magazines.
A phrase from a poem she had once read drifted into her thoughts. Something about “thy mother’s glass.”
When Violet had been young and aspiring to join the Aristocracy, as she thought of it, she had read straight through an anthology of famous poetry, trying to make up for her lack of formal education. But once she had breached the portals of the upper classes and realized most of them were far stupider than she was, she had given it up, specializing instead in the small talk that greased the wheels of cocktail and weekend parties, along with copious amounts of alcohol. Not that she really drank—bad for the complexion—but she had perfected the art of carrying around the same half-full highball glass for hours, flitting from group to group, laughing maniacally at jokes she only half understood. For some reason, this had gained her a reputation for wit.
What a long time ago it all seemed now. Looking back on the path her life had taken, she could only say now that she wouldn’t have changed a thing. Not really. Not even Winnie …
Perhaps a cruise …
