The Mistress - an Erotic Noir Novel (9 page)

Approaching the form there was no response, the cold night deathly
silent As she neared some of the light from inside the manor
illuminated it enough that she could see who it was. The tight, grey
curls were so distinctly familiar from the scene at the dinner table.
Sylvia Sinclair lay there in the dead of night, her eyes wide and
open, gazing up at the sky with a glassy stare.

Eva took a step back from Sylvia Sinclair’s form, her mouth
falling open in shock. It was a few long, cold moments before she
turned on her heel, running back on the path she had so recently
traversed to the warmth and security of her Professor’s
hideaway.

It was on the way that a thought occurred to her, the body lay
beneath the room that she’d overheard the two Sinclair’s
arguing in earlier that evening.

Returning to the guest house in such a hurry, it drew the
attention of Gregory from the back room. Peeking back out he looked
to her, “Eva?” Sounding quite surprised, “What’s
the matter?”

“I...” she had tried to find some kind way to tell
him, some manner that it wouldn’t sound crass and horrible, but
there wasn’t one. “Your wife is dead on the lawn.”
Her eyes were wide, though they weren’t glassy or panicked. She
was a pragmatic woman, involved in the sciences and mature beyond her
age, and all that bubbled to the front of her mind was how this would
make the dear man look.

Despite their arguing, despite their animosity, there was one
thing she was certain of. He would never leave a body for her to
find.

Gregory’s eyes went wide, and the mild-mannered professor
strode towards her at such a pace, “Wh-what?” He
stammered then stepped around her towards the door and peered out
before looking back to her, “If this is some kind of joke,
Eva,” he began, his words trailing off.

“I would never,” she shook her head, sympathy pouring
through her for the older man. “This really doesn’t look
good for either of us though...”

He, however, looked beyond the cool rationality of her part.
Instead he went to the door, “You can’t be sure,”
and opened it up, heading out into the night.

“Sinclair!” she spoke loudly, not following directly
after him. Instead she stayed inside, hidden by the door. The last
thing she needed was for both of them to be caught around her lover’s
corpse.

She watched the man head on up the trail, looking about
frantically and taking much longer to find her body without aid of
knowing where exactly it was. When finally he came to her, he ran
over, kneeling down in the snow and checking her for vital signs.

She couldn’t hear anything from where she was but when the
glass doors of the library opened up and one of the maids looked out,
she could imagine the sound as the woman covered her mouth and
backtracked into the manor looking horrified.

Eva’s heart beat loudly in her chest, and she knew she had
to get out of here, unseen. She couldn’t remember if anyone had
seen her enter the library, all those hours ago. The champagne had
been making her less cautious, after all, but she felt certain no one
knew she was out there. The thoughts of police interviewing her, of
asking where she had been and what she had seen...

She snapped herself out of her fears. She had seen nothing. She
had heard nothing. She just needed to find some way to make this seem
less suspect.

Despite her attempts to compose herself, the whole situation was
too much. Seeing the dead body of her lover’s wife, the
prospect of being exposed and having her reputation—and
doubtlessly her career—ruined while saying nothing of potential
jail time, muddled her thoughts far too much.

Before she could think up something, she saw guests were coming
out the back exits to stare at the two Sinclair’s, and as more
and more of them ran back inside she knew police must have already
been informed.

The room still stank of sex, and Sinclair had only just begun to
tidy up. Her wide eyes were frantic as she stared across the scene,
seeing her dismal future begin to play out in front of her. Her heart
was racing as she watched the guests gawk, and she knew there was no
way out. Not here. Not for her.

How much did they know? Had they noticed her missing? Panic had
settled in, and she could feel herself begin to hyperventilate,
unmoving against the wall of the smaller house.

When she managed to get herself together next, she saw out the
window that Sinclair with the aid of another was ushering the people
inside the manor. The distraction brought her a moment of clarity and
she realized that the path led by a copse of trees that wound by the
side of the manor itself, perhaps able to give her some cover.

It was risky, but then, so was staying in the house. She had no
thoughts in her mind but finding a way to clear herself—and
hopefully Sinclair—from such a horrific ordeal. It was only for
the briefest moment that a thought ran through her mind of the
conversation she had so recently with the older man, but she pushed
it aside. She would handle all else once she was properly extricated
from the situation.

Sliding open the door, she was grateful that she wore so much dark
clothing. Her dress, the jacket, her stockings and hat all blended
easily into the night as she tried to escape her doom.

The moment she left the guest house she could hear the wail of the
sirens coming from the other side of the manor. The downside—for
her predicament—of this occurring in the wealthiest
neighbourhood of the whole of Stocktun was that the police were
exceptionally prompt. Though with her daze she had no idea how long
she’d been wallowing in the guest house to begin with.

Skulking through the trees she managed to avoid nearing the
windows and doors of the back of the manor, and heard nobody
approaching. As she began to pass the side of the building so
successfully she was stopped abruptly by a very tall and broad man.

With a heavy hand touching upon her shoulder, she looked up and
saw a ruggedly handsome blonde man, with eyes so bright an emerald
she could make it out even in the dark of night. Dressed in a trench
coat he spoke down to her with a deep voice, “Are you lost,
miss?”

Her eyes looked so wide and panicked, her hand going to his chest.
“I drank too much and when I woke up, I was here... I’m
so cold,” she shivered, her face dropping down and allowing her
hat to cover her face. “I’m so ashamed. I couldn’t
stand for my parents to find out! Please don’t tell them!”

The tall man, with his working class suit and tie beneath that
jacket, gave her a look over then took hold of her shoulder. “C’mon,”
he said in a friendly manner, guiding her around the side of the
building towards the front. “This is not the night to be
wandering around this party drunk, miss,” he said as she could
see the lights of the police cars and the mass of people moving
about, most of them leaving as she was.

“What’s happened?” she asked, as if suddenly
aware of what was happening, her eyes looking up at him and flushing
brightly, “Is something wrong?”

Obviously much older than her, likely in his thirties, the trench
coated man took her through the police, the officers paying him no
heed except for one who nodded to him familiarly. Looking down to her
he asked, “What’s your name, miss? I’m Max,”
he introduced, “detective Max Eisen.”

“Eva,” she said meekly, seeming as though the lights
and the people were all too much for her, “I’m Eva.
I’m... I’m a student at Clarford. What’s... why is
there a detective here?”

In the bright lights of the front of the manor he looked her over
again, “You have a ride, Eva?” He asked congenially, “Or
should I have one of the officers escort you back to your place? I’m
afraid there’s been a terrible incident here, and we’ll
be investigating.”

“I... No, I don’t have a ride,” she shook her
head, her wavy hair bouncing off her temples. She wanted to say
something to help Sinclair, but she could think of nothing that
wouldn’t implicate her. “I would really appreciate that.”

Nodding to her he gestured to one of the officers who went and got
in his car. “Just tell the officer where you live, alright?
He’ll take you on there,” he gave her a warm smile.
“What’s your last name anyhow, Eva?” The tall
blonde man radiated a degree of warmth and friendliness, seeming
rather sensitive to her position—her perceived position—as
a young student overwrought at some high society party.

“Perkins,” she murmured as she slid herself into the
backseat of the police car, feeling her entire body tense, “Eva
Perkins, detective.”

With a nod he patted the officer on the shoulder, “Take Miss
Perkin’s home, Jim. She lives out by Clarford I imagine,”
he gave her a warm smile. “Don’t worry, just try and
avoid these things in the future, huh?” he cautioned before
shutting the door for her.

She would, without a doubt, be trying to avoid dead bodies and
implications beyond her reasoning in the future.

Giving Jim her address, she looked sullen, though it could have
easily been passed off as regret. Though there was regret there as
well. She had never wanted this, not for herself, not for Sinclair.
To think of both of their careers going up in smoke, and hers having
not even started yet.

Despite the stress of the evening Eva slept solidly that night.
When the next day began not even a good night’s rest could wipe
away the worry however, and the realization that she had an
appointment to meet with Dr. Turing later in the day struck her.

She was not in the mood to entertain, especially not in the mood
to discuss pharmacology. The thought filled her with dread and
loathing, and her footsteps were heavy as she went to grab the paper.
Surely there wouldn’t be anything in it yet, but the high
society news always did seem to be the first thing on those grubby
reporter’s minds.

Her fears were shown true, however, for when she opened up the
front page of the paper—left in the kitchen by the old lady for
her—she saw the headline, “Murder at Sheaworth Heights?”
The article was very preliminary, vying for sensationalism from
little information. Though she gleaned a few things from the paper:
Gregory was taken in for questioning, and there was at least
suspected foul play, though police were making no statement just yet.

She felt like her limbs were heavy weights, and she thought about
all that had happened. She was absolutely certain that Sinclair
wasn’t the killer, though that did little good for either of
them. Her word as his mistress would hardly be convincing, after all.
She took the paper up to her room and tossed it on top of the stack
of books, beginning to boil some water.

The thought sprang to her mind unbidden that perhaps Mrs. Sinclair
had found out about her husband’s proclivities, and offed
herself. How long had she been lying there in the snow? She didn’t
recall seeing her before entering the guest house, and if she had
been there, she would have. Besides, someone would have noticed such
a prolonged absence of the gracious host.

She mused so long that the sound of the kettle boiling shocked
her, and she realized quickly that she should reschedule with Turing.
Certainly she was of no use to anyone today, and she’d hate to
accidentally give away more information of last night.

Getting the kettle she heard the sound of knocking at her door
from downstairs.

She dreaded it, and with a sleepy, sullen gaze she went back down,
her dressing robe pulled around her tightly. A knot formed deep
within the pit of her stomach as she pulled open the door.

Standing there before her was the detective from last night. A hat
on this time, he had his thick dark trench coat on over a grey suit
and black tie. With the stubble upon his face it looked like he
hadn’t had a chance to clean up and rest since she last saw
him, but he looked ruggedly handsome and alert none the less. “Miss
Perkin’s?” he said, “Max Eisen. Was wondering if we
could have a talk.”

She felt herself flush, unable to contain it as she nodded,
pulling her robe around her full figure more modestly. “Absolutely,”
she nodded, motioning up the stairs. “I recall detectives
usually have coffee, but I’m afraid I only have tea. The kettle
just boiled, though,” she murmured, sounding groggy.

Stepping on inside he tipped his hat to her cordially. “Sorry
if I caught you unprepared,” he said, referring to her still
being in her dressing robe. “I’ll try not to take much of
your time, I just wanted to check up on you while I was here,”
he said, heading up into her parlor as invited.

“I’m a little bit worse for the wear,” she
sighed as she followed him up, quickly making some tea for him as
well. “Though I can’t say I expected a detective on my
doorstep this morning, even after your kindness last night.”
She smiled a little, her large eyes working over his tired face, “I
did have the grace to remember you.”

Smiling warmly to her and nodding his head once more he pulled a
bundle from underneath his arm. The roughness added to his firm
jawline had the effect of making the handsome, tan blonde look more
attractive. He had to be in his thirties, much older than her by far,
and when he extended the dark offering she could see a wedding band
on his finger, “You left this at the party, I understand.
Wanted to return it to you.”

She accepted it back graciously, hugging the coat to her large
chest as she sighed, “I feel like I should be apologizing to
you for my recklessness. I’m not usually like that.”
Shaking her head, she put the coat into her closet, and settled down
in the chair, raising her teacup to her lips and blowing on it. The
paper was still on the table, and she couldn’t help but glance
over at it before returning her gaze to his face.

Accepting her offer of tea he sat down across from her and took
off his hat. “I don’t suppose it is,” he said,
“being a student of a prestigious school like Clarford, one
doesn’t usually get there by being careless,” he said.
Sipping the drink and looking around casually.