The Mermaid in the Basement (21 page)

Dylan led her down a side street and pulled her to one side. She felt the warmth of his hand under her arm, and it gave her some reassurance. Ordinarily she would have been offended that a man would take her arm, but this was no ordinary night—and this was no ordinary man.

“There’s the house. You see it?”

“The big one there at the end of the road?”

“That’s it.”

“It’s dark. I don’t think there’s anybody up.”

“Probably not. Come along. Quiet now.”

The two moved as quietly as possible until they reached the house. “We’ll go around to the side,” Dylan whispered. The darkness was so dense after they left the main street that she could see nothing. Dylan must have had eyes like a cat, for he led her to a side door and guided her through a small garden. “Wait right here,” he whispered. She stood still, and he disappeared into the murky gloom for a moment. Far away she heard the sound of someone singing, but she could not understand the words.

Dylan was back then, appearing suddenly without a sound. “This way,Viscountess.”He led her to a short flight of stairs, and she groped her way along, feeling the rail. They stepped inside, and there was no light at all. “We’ll have to risk a little light,” he said, “but I think it’s all right. The house has been sealed by the police.”

“What does that mean?”

“Until the investigation is over, nobody can come in except the police.”

He fumbled in his pocket, and then she heard the sharp scratch of a match and saw the blue glow of a light. The light grew brighter, and she saw that he had lit a stub of a candle. He said, “Come this way. Her bedroom is on the second floor.”

Serafina had never felt so strange and so vulnerable in her life as when they crept through the dark hallway. The small light from the candle made flickering shapes of their shadows on the walls, and as they walked up the stairs, one of the treads creaked. It sounded like thunder to her, but Dylan paid no attention. He moved quickly, efficiently, and when they were at the top of the stairs, he turned and said, “This way.” They went down the hall and opened the door. “Not locked,” he said. “Come inside.”

They moved inside, and she found herself in the midst of a very large room. “This is the sitting room,” Dylan said.“Her bedroom is over there. We’re going to have to have lights for you to see anything. This candle won’t do it.”

“But someone might see!”

“We’ll have to take a chance, but I do know that there are heavy drapes over the outside windows. Let me make sure those are closed.”He moved catlike across the room, checked the windows, then said, “This way to the room where she was killed.”

Serafina moved into the room, which was almost as large as the parlor. It was one of the largest bedrooms she had ever seen. The headboard of a large mahogany bed loomed on her right. Across the room were two windows, and she watched as Dylan arranged the heavy dark curtains over them. He lit the gaslights, and as they flared on, she blinked and felt a moment’s fear. Still, she was a woman of strong nerves. “We’ll have to hurry, won’t we?”

“I wouldn’t want to stay too long.What are we looking for?”

“I won’t know until I see it,” Serafina replied. She began moving around the room. She went to the large armoire on one side and went through it thoroughly. She examined the dresser carefully, and bit by bit she went over all the furniture, aware that Dylan was watching her closely.

Serafina moved to a small bookcase beside one of the windows. “She was a reader,” she murmured.

“Are they classics?” Dylan asked.

Serafina laughed and held up one of the books. “Definitely not the classics. Look at this one.”

Dylan took the book and read the title. “
The Mermaid in the
Basement
—what a strange title!”

“It’s by a novelist named Regis Stoneman, a writer of romantic detective stories.”

“How would you know that?”

“My sister gave me this one for a gift. She’s read them all and thinks they’re wonderful.”

“And you don’t?”

“Of course not! They’re silly and childish—full of romantic nonsense.” She slipped the book back on the shelf and continued her search.

Dylan joined her, then suddenly said, “Look at this.”

Serafina moved over to the table. It contained the stub of a cigar burnt down to within an inch.

“She certainly didn’t smoke cigars.”

Serafina took the small glass tray that held the cigar.

“That could be anybody’s,” Dylan said. “Could even have been left by one of the policemen.”

“No, this is one of the most expensive cigars made. It comes from Cuba. It’s called Roi Blanco—which means ‘white king.’”

“How in the world do you know that?”

“I did a study on tobacco recently. I can identify over twenty brands of cigars, some just by the ashes. The man who smoked this is ostentatious.”

“What makes you think so?”

“This brand of cigar is made to show people that money is no object, just like some people buy houses that are ostentatious. They don’t buy them to live in; they buy them to make a statement about their wealth.

The same is true with jewellery, of almost any sort of object. A sensible person buys something that does the job. Only a man determined to display his wealth smokes Roi Blanco cigars.”

For over an hour Dylan watched as Serafina examined the room. She reminded him suddenly of a dog on a scent. There was nothing doglike about her movements, but there was about the intensity with which she touched and smelled and moved from point to point, looking at everything in the room. Finally she straightened and looked at him. “Something’s wrong here.”

“What’s wrong?”

“There are no personal papers.”

“Maybe she didn’t keep any.”

“Everybody has personal things.”

“Maybe she kept them in a bank in a steel box.”

Serafina did not answer. She looked all over the room again and then suddenly stopped and looked down at what appeared to be an elaborate doghouse. “Did she have any pets?”

“She had a small dog once, but it died.”

“That must be where the animal slept.”

Dylan turned and said, “Yes, she spent over fifty pounds for this. I remember how she made fun of a man once. She said he was little enough to sleep in the dog’s house.”

Serafina looked at the doghouse, remarking, “Why would she keep the doghouse after the animal died?” She went back to the doghouse and stooped down, then got on her knees. “It hasn’t been used recently.”

“No, I suppose not since the animal died.”

“Why did she keep it, then?”

“Maybe she was going to get another dog.”

The doghouse itself was approximately eighteen inches wide and perhaps twenty-four inches long. It was made of walnut and adorned with hand-carved, ivory dog heads. “Very fancy for a doghouse.”

“Katherine didn’t mind spending money. She apparently had plenty of it.”

“There’s nothing on the outside,” Serafina said. She pulled the pad out.

“What are you doing?” Dylan asked.

“There’s something odd about this doghouse.” She did not amplify her statement but pushed one arm in, and she was feeling around when suddenly she straightened up. “There’s a false bottom here.”

Dylan quickly knelt beside her. “What do you mean, Viscountess?”

“This floor is three inches above the bottom.” She felt around some more, then said, “Wait a minute.” Dylan heard a small click, and she said excitedly, “The bottom moved. It swings upward. It’s on a hinge.” Dylan peered inside and watched as she reached in. She came out with an elaborately carved wooden box some eight inches wide and twelve inches long. It was three inches thick, just the right size to fit in the false bottom of the doghouse.

“Now that’s something,” Dylan said. He watched as she opened the box, and the first thing she pulled out was a small leather notebook.

She looked at it and said, “It’s some kind of a journal.”

Dylan looked at the book she held open and said, “It’s all numbers.”

The two studied the first page, both noting that the numbers were in groups of three, each separated by a dash.

“I can’t make anything of it.”

“I’ve studied cyphers for some time. Hopefully I can figure it out.”

“Well, if it’s a diary, I hope I’m not in it.”

Serafina picked up a sheaf of banknotes and looked at the denominations. “Look, there’s a lot of cash here.”

Dylan whistled softly. “Well, devil fly off! There’s enough there to buy this house.”

Serafina also found several letters bound up with a ribbon. She scanned one. “The letters are from her lovers. This one is signed by Charles Atworth. Do you know him?”

“I know of him. He was interested in Katherine for a while. He’s a wealthy man.”

She scanned the letter and said, “He’s a fool to put down his feelings for an actress on paper.”

Dylan said, “I think we’d better get out of here.We can read those letters later.”

“I believe you’re right.”

She closed the secret floor and put the pad back in the doghouse, and the two got to their feet. Dylan picked up the ashtray with the cigar stub and went over to the door. He waited until she had stepped outside, then lit his candle. As soon as it was lit, he turned the lights off. They left the house quietly, and as soon as they were out on the street again, he said, “We’d better get a good distance away from here before we get a cab.”

“It’s not too far to my house in town.”

“Be better if we walked there.” He hesitated, then said, “How does it feel to be a burglar—or is it a ‘burglaress’ for a woman?”

Serafina could not see his face clearly in the darkness, and her voice was husky as she said, “I know it’s a crime to do this, but I’m going to see my brother walk out of that prison no matter what it takes! Come along, Dylan, let’s get away from here.”

They had reached the door of Serafina’s town house and she turned to him, saying, “Thank you, Dylan. I don’t know why you’d risk so much for a man you really don’t know.”

“I told you. God told me to do it.”

“It makes me feel uncomfortable when you say things like that.”

“Maybe you’ll not always feel that way.”

She hesitated, not knowing what to make of his words, then said, “I’ll study the journal, and tomorrow I’ll tell you what I make of it.”

“All right. Good night, Viscountess.”

An impulse took her, and she put out her hand.When he took it in his own, she was conscious of the warmth and the strength of his hand. She had not touched him up to this point and was surprised at the sudden comfort that the gesture gave her. She was also disturbed, for she prided herself on her iron self-sufficiency. She had never spoken of it, but she well knew her pride was in her ability to take care of herself—without having to trust any man. Now as her hand was enveloped by his, it was as if she had given up part of her independence, but somehow she felt strangely assured by his touch. She looked up and saw that he was smiling at her. She at once withdrew her hand and said brusquely, “Good night, Dylan.”

“Good night, Lady Serafina.”Amusement tinged his voice, and she saw that he was well aware of her reaction to his touch. “Go with God,” he said, knowing this was not something she wanted to hear.

She turned and entered the house, and as soon as she shut the door she leaned her back against it. She felt drained, for the tension of robbing a house had been great. But a sense of something else came to her. Her hand seemed to tingle, and she realised that she had acted like a weak woman, putting her trust in a man. The thought troubled her, and she moved away from the door, her mind not orderly but swirling with a vague confusion that was totally unlike her usual carefully controlled thoughts.
It’s just the strain—and it was just a handshake—it didn’t mean anything.
But her thoughts went back persistently to that moment when Dylan Tremayne’s hand had held her own—in an embrace that had shaken her so greatly that she could not put it out of her mind.

Inspector Grant appeared at ten in the morning, just as rehearsals began. He was met by the producer, Sir William Dowding. “What can I do for you, Inspector?” he asked quickly.

“I’m going to have to question the cast, Sir William.”