Moriarty Returns a Letter (26 page)

“Have they already arrived?”

“Yes.”

“Did you check their credentials?”

“They were unmistakable, sir.”

“And who are these in yellow?”

“Other guests who have already arrived.”

Nigel perused those.

“You recognized all of them—as being who they claimed?”

“Yes, sir. I am nothing if not fastidious in my study of the society pages.”

“And the names that are not highlighted are the guests still to arrive?”

“Yes.”

“I see a name has been crossed off,” said Nigel.

“That was Lord Buxton, sir. The publishing magnate.”

“Yes,” said Nigel. “I know who Buxton is.”

“Miss Rankin said that he was sulking and not likely to attend. We were in danger of having an unbalanced seating arrangement, but now we have someone to take his place. Lady Darby was insistent that we have at least one magnate, of some type. And one called just yesterday and said he would be in the area. So now those places are filled. Lady Darby does very much appreciate the occasional serendipity.”

“Who’s the stand-in?”

“Harold Redfern,” said the butler. “The hotel magnate. And his sister.”

“What, the fellow couldn’t find a proper date?”

The butler raised an eyebrow at Nigel, who had arrived at the castle quite obviously alone.

“Don’t give me that look,” said Nigel. “I’d have had a date, if the airline was offering a twofer, but it wasn’t. But she’ll be here when it comes time for the wedding. Mara will be the maid of honor, in fact.”

“Of course, sir.”

“Seriously,” said Nigel. “I absolutely have a life. It just isn’t in London so much anymore.”

“Of course, sir. I was not intimating anything to the contrary. But be aware that the hotel magnate’s sister accompanies him to this occasion because they are business partners. Apparently the hotels are a family operation.”

“Two magnates for the invite of one, then,” said Nigel. “A bargain rate.”

“My very words when I heard,” said the butler.

“All right,” said Nigel, satisfied with the names remaining. “I guess you understand how important it is that no one who is not on the list be admitted?”

“That is always important, sir.”

“Well, even more so this time. What about a band? Were musicians retained for this event? A string quartet, or something?”

“That was necessary, sir, given that we have no karaoke machine.”

“And you verified them as well?”

“They are all second-great-nieces and -nephews, or cohabitors of second-great-nieces and -nephews, of Lady Darby. I know them as if they were my own, and I am almost that fond of them.”

“All right then,” said Nigel. “I suppose I’d better find my room and get ready for dinner. You’ll let me know when Reggie and Laura arrive?”

“Of course. And I will show you the way.”

Nigel followed the butler toward the main stairs, in the center of the great hall. They passed a small room, where an open door revealed half a dozen men in drivers’ uniforms, smoking and playing cards.

One of them, the tallest of the several men, glanced up briefly as Nigel and the butler passed by.

The butler escorted Nigel up the stairs, and then along the third-floor corridor.

The walls were wood panel on the lower half, painted plaster on the upper, and every few feet or so in the upper half—almost as if in a museum—there was an oil portrait, or a small tapestry, or some grim and impressive artifact, usually framed and behind glass, but sometimes not.

It didn’t surprise Nigel, now that he thought about it, given that the castle was beginning to host tour groups.

“What’s this?” said Nigel, at the top of the stairs.

“It’s a broadsword, sir. The lady says it belonged to the first Earl of Darby, whose father built the castle, or at least the first edition of it, in the sixteenth century.”

“I see it’s chipped. Saw some action, did he?”

“No, sir. My understanding is that the blade was quite pristine until the third earl used it to chop wood.”

They walked on down the hall, but then Nigel paused again.

“And this one?”

The butler sighed, probably because it was so obvious, but Nigel was fascinated, and had to ask.

“A crossbow, sir.”

“A family history to it, or is it just generic?”

“Purely for show, sir. For the tour groups. It was purchased at a reenactors’ faire.”

Nigel nodded, and then hurried on as the butler proceeded impatiently down the hall. Nigel tried to ask about other items on the wall, but the gentleman’s replies got shorter and shorter.

“Wait, just a moment. This one?”

“Dueling pistols, sir, and yes, they were fired, and no, no one died except for the poor fellow who was holding the horses.”

“And this one?”

“A shotgun, used by the current Lady Darby’s father to annoy quail before the family became acquainted with the Ashton-Tates at a dinner party and everyone became devoted to barbless fly-fishing and saving red squirrels.”

“And this—”

“Those are candlesticks, sir, please don’t tell the lady, I removed them from the library for polishing, and I’ve been stowing them in that little display ledge until I have time to get them done. And here is your room, sir, thank you very much, dinner is at seven, and I advise you not to miss it, because if you want something later from the kitchen you will have to pull on that velvet rope, and I assure you that no one is likely to come. Oh, and what they say about the third floor is true—if you don’t want to use a chamber pot, you’ll need to go down the stairs to the shared loo on the second floor.”

29

A short while later, dinner was ready to begin. Nigel managed to get there on time, in jacket and tie. A tuxedo, fortunately, was optional.

The dining room was formal and bright. The light from the overhead lamps prismed through crystal chandeliers, and reflected off the silver and white linen and translucent china. As the guests were escorted to their seats, a conversational dinner murmur and clinking of utensils began to grow.

As the butler escorted Nigel to his seat, Aunt Mabel came over for a word.

“I’ve seated you at the far end,” she said, indicating the end of the table farthest from where she and Reggie and Laura would be seated. “It’s intentional. I hope you don’t mind.”

“No,” said Nigel. “But any particular reason I should be aware of?”

“I was obliged to send Lord Buxton an invite, for some social and political reasons that I find too embarrassing to explain, but mainly because he owns half the media and Laura’s publicity agent insisted on it. I hoped he would decline, given his past attempts toward Laura; one hates to have rejected suitors sulking at an engagement party. But in case he did not, I put his seat at the far end, and I put you there to contain him.”

Nigel nodded.

“Some people never find each other at all,” continued Aunt Mabel. “And some people find each other just in the nick of time. When I see that second thing happen, I don’t like anything to come along to ruin it. So my thought was that if you should notice Buxton trying to put a tarnish on my niece’s lovely glow, you would tell him to drop by the library after dinner and have a brandy with me, after which I would whack him with the fireplace poker if need be.”

“A sound plan,” said Nigel.

“Yes,” said Aunt Mabel. “Mercifully, Buxton had the good sense to decline. He did send a reporter or two, for a media event after, whom we are accommodating at the insistence of Laura’s publicity agent. But one must have a magnate of some kind at the dinner table, just for social variety. And so in our seating arrangement, we replaced Lord Buxton, and whichever German lingerie model he planned on bringing, with a hotel-chain owner who volunteered at the last moment.”

“Yes,” said Nigel. “The butler told me.”

“You’ll also have a paparazzo and a token Tory Member of Parliament to contend with. I hope you don’t mind.”

“Piece of cake,” said Nigel.

“And now,” said Aunt Mabel, “I am beginning to wonder just where the guests of honor could be. Laura is always so punctual. And she loves a good meal.”

“I’m sure they’ll be along,” said Nigel, though he was getting worried. He considered and rejected the idea of alerting Aunt Mabel to the danger from Darla Rennie. If anything, disrupting the dinner would make it more difficult to keep an eye out.

Nigel took his seat as Aunt Mabel went back to the head of the table.

Across from Nigel was the hotel magnate that Aunt Mabel had warned of. The man was tall, in his early sixties perhaps, with a lean face and a faint red birthmark that ran along the side of his right jaw.

Next to him there was an empty chair, where presumably his sister would sit when she arrived.

Dinner was about to begin—it was well past the scheduled starting time, even though the two chairs next to Aunt Mabel were still empty.

Aunt Mabel, beginning to look discomfited but unable to delay the start of things any longer, tapped a silver fork rather aggressively on a crystal wineglass. Everyone stopped murmuring.

“Ladies and gentlemen, welcome all. As some of you may have noticed, our guests of honor have not yet arrived. I do try to make the weather cooperate for these little soirees, but sometimes it displays a mind of its own.”

There was a polite collective chuckle from the hungry guests.

Nigel wished the weather were a reasonable explanation. But it wasn’t. At least not yet. It hadn’t stopped any of the other guests from arriving. Except for perhaps the hotel magnate’s sister.

Nigel checked his watch: It was twenty minutes after.

“And time, tide, and creamy tomato bisque wait for no man. Or woman,” Aunt Mabel continued. “So we will proceed with our first course, and when Laura and Reggie do arrive, we shall rap them on the knuckles with a reminder of what they have missed, and perhaps next time they become engaged—or whatever—they shall know to arrive on time.”

There was slight laughter again after the engagement or whatever remark, and then the table resumed its general murmur, as two staff people—a middle-aged, portly woman in charge and a gray-haired, slightly built woman wearing unflattering eyeglasses and obeying commands—entered the room and began the service.

As a bowl was set in front of Nigel, he had the distinct feeling that someone was staring at him. He looked up and across the table.

The man seated across—Redfern, the hotel magnate—was indeed staring directly at Nigel.

“Heath, isn’t it?” said Redfern, in a voice that was sharp and direct.

“Yes,” said Nigel. “I don’t think we’ve met.”

“No,” said the man. “But I learned when I arrived that I would have the privilege of sitting directly across from Reggie Heath’s brother. But quite far away from the main celebrities, I see. Reggie Heath and Laura Rankin are to be at the other end, are they not? Is there a reason for the distance? A recognition of sibling rivalry, I suppose?”

“No,” said Nigel. “Laura’s aunt Mabel—Lady Darby, to you—is fond of Heaths, and she thought it would be fair to distribute us about evenly.”

“Ahh,” said the man. “Well. I am Redfern.”

“The hotel magnate,” said Nigel.

“Really? Is that how I am referred to? The magnate?” The man laughed, with a pretense of humility, but just a pretense—Nigel knew he was boasting.

“For purposes of dinner table seating, I think that’s the case,” said Nigel. “And I believe you have a sibling who shares that honor?” Nigel nodded toward the empty seat next to Redfern.

“You are well-informed, Mr. Heath. I do. But my sister will be late. She was called away on an urgent … maintenance issue on one of our properties.”

“Oh. So you let her be the one to get her hands dirty. Nicely done.”

Nigel said this lightly, and then was surprised at the man’s initial reaction—which was a frown, then a pause and a loss of eye contact, and then a recovery and a casual denial.

“Not at all,” he said. “She was simply nearby, and I wasn’t.”

“Of course,” said Nigel, knowing he had touched a nerve, and wondering what sort of nerve it was.

Now the staff was back. The soup was taken away by the portly woman, and the slighter, gray-haired woman came around with the salad.

Just for an instant, Nigel caught the scent of something familiar—he twisted in his chair to look in back of him—and could not locate it.

Surely the serving staff was not wearing such a perfume.

But now the first course was done, the second was beginning, and Reggie and Laura had still not arrived.

“Something wrong?” said the hotel magnate.

“No,” said Nigel. “I just…” And now he paused. He wasn’t sure why—it might have been the tone of voice, or it might have been something in the man’s expression—but suddenly Nigel did not want to reveal more than he needed, and he said, not seriously, “I was hoping for seconds on soup.”

“I take it you’re unclear on the concept of a formal dinner?”

Nigel sat up in his chair and looked directly across at Redfern. Was the man prying for some reason?

Or was he just obnoxious and trying to start a verbal dinner-party war?

Nigel was about to respond appropriately—but now the petite gray-haired server with the unstylish spectacles was bringing the beef bourgignon.

She avoided looking directly at Nigel as she set his serving down. But when she put a plate in front of Redfern, she seemed to linger—staring at the man when he wasn’t looking.

Then she caught Nigel noticing, and she quickly moved on.

One course after another played out this way—until now, finally, the only remaining course would be dessert.

Nigel was certain now. It wasn’t really a bad disguise, but given a long enough look, and enough time to study over it, pretty much anyone would see through it. Darla Rennie’s appearance was that distinctive; she could not disguise it completely from someone who knew the face and was genuinely looking for it.

Nigel had no doubts about the gray-haired server at all, and he knew that after she served the dessert he would have to not let her out of his sight. He couldn’t take the chance that she might escape again.

But this had made him wonder about something else.