Bath Belles Part 3

"What? Has someone broken into your house?" Mrs. Mailer demanded.

We described the shambles that had first greeted us and our precaution of having new locks installed, and as we spoke a crafty look stole over her face. "A wise move. He was after the money, certainly," Mrs. Mailer decreed.

"You said the thief came in and killed Graham and took the money," Mama reminded her.

"That was our a.s.sumption at the time. It seems we were mistaken. Why would he keep coming back, unless to look for the money? Graham was so sly there was no outwitting him. He hid the money somewhere, and the thief didn't find it. It is in this house, Belle, and if you have your wits about you, you'll get busy and find it. A fortune!"

"Not my fortune. It would have to be returned to the insurance company."

She looked at me as though I were a simpleton. I had not realized till then that she was as black-hearted as any inhabitant of Bridewell or Newgate. We stared at each other a long moment, each realizing with incredulity that the other was serious; then our eyes parted. "Yes, of course," she said, laughing nervously.

Over tea we talked about mutual friends in Bath, and after half an hour Mrs. Mailer rose to leave. At the door she said, "So you are determined to sell the house, are you, Belle?"

"Yes, my mind is made up."

Esther stood behind me, hoping to cajole an invitation from Yootha before she left. I was coming to the conclusion that her friends would not be agreeable to us. She was too racy, too Londonized, her character too unsteady.

"It happens I know someone who is interested in a small spot like this. I'll bring him around tomorrow, shall I?" Mrs. Mailer asked.

"By all means. There is no saying Mr. Desmond will take the house."

"What time does Desmond come?"

"At eleven."

"Hmm. Ten is too early. I'll bring my friend at twelve. We must get together soon for dinner or a play. We'll decide tomorrow after I look over my calendar. I have an engagement this evening."

"We're free any night!" Esther a.s.sured her.

"You'll have every rake and rattle in town camping on your doorstep once they get a look at you," Mrs. Mailer promised gaily.

"Not if I know anything. She's only seventeen!"

"Only seventeen! My dear, I had been married for over a year at the advanced age of seventeen. Only seventeen!" she repeated, and went laughing down the walk to her carriage.

While Mama and Esther discussed Yootha's pending invitation, I thought about her story of Graham's death-and, of course, about the possibility that we were sitting on ten thousand pounds. Before dinner, I searched the house from attic to cellar without finding the money. I found a ring of keys in the kitchen, and while I was in the attic unlocking those three trunks and discovering nothing but blankets stored in camphor, the lawyer sent over the parcel containing the clothing Graham had worn the night of his death. Mama put the bundle in the master bedroom, where it sat like a ghost, awaiting examination.

After dinner I planned to open the parcel but felt a p.r.o.nounced reluctance to do so. I took the absurd idea that some new horror would be unleashed if I drew the string. Evening wasn't the time for it. I'd confront that last ghost of Graham in the bright light of morning.

We retired at ten-thirty that night, in spite of our lovely gaslight. I lay in bed reviewing the curious events and people of the day. Bow Street Runner and nosy neighbors, locksmith and Yootha Mailer, who thought I should steal the ten thousand guineas, if I could find it. And last I thought of the most intriguing of them all, Mr. Desmond, who knew I was to have been married, who knew Papa was a clergyman, who had casually mentioned the possibility of a bag of gold being in the attic. Actually, Yootha had said it was banknotes. Ten thousand pounds in gold would be too heavy for one man to carry, but "gold" was a figurative way of saying "money."

Mr. Desmond also spoke that jargon not used by decent, law-abiding citizens. Thieves' cant, Harrow called it. Where did these fashionable bucks learn thieves' cant but from thieves? And if Mr. Desmond a.s.sociated with thieves-but it was a long step to accuse him of being involved in Graham's death. He didn't have the face of a thief or murderer, but of a fashionable flirt. Still, I'd bear it in mind tomorrow when he came with his builder.

One character Yootha mentioned whom I had not met yet also held interest for me. I was very eager to meet Graham's cousin, Eliot Sutton. He, at least, should be above any sort of suspicion. If he was to be a part of the social do Yootha would arrange to entertain us, I would accept. He might even provide a flirt for Esther-or for me.

Chapter Four.

The next day was a busy one. With no servants to help us, we three women had to bring the house to order for showing to two groups of people. I couldn't say which pair took a closer look, Yootha and Two Legs Thomson or Mr. Desmond and his builder. Among the four of them, there wasn't a nook or cranny of the building that escaped investigation. Mr. Desmond arrived with his man at eleven sharp, like a good businessman. His builder, Mr. Grant, was a small, dark person with a face like a gargoyle and a body all lean and wiggly, like a weasel. He carried the tools of his trade with him in a leather bag and spoke that strange cant language that Mr. Desmond occasionally slipped into himself.

They started at the attic and worked their way down a floor at a time. You could hear them tapping at the floors and walls with a hammer, and when I pa.s.sed once in the hall I saw Mr. Grant loosening a baseboard in the master bedroom.

"Take care what you're about, sir!" I called sharply. "You are only to examine, not to tear the place apart!"

Mr. Desmond came smiling to the door. "The baseboards are very loose. Grant is hammering a few nails in for you. You don't want mice scampering over your pillow while you sleep."

"Mice!"

"I don't think the crack was big enough for rats," he a.s.sured me.

"It will be by the time he's finished. He wasn't tightening the boards; he was loosening them." Even while I spoke, Grant stuck three nails between his teeth, another in the board, and began hammering up such a storm that I had to leave to save my ears.

No castle ever received such a thorough going-over as my doll house did from Grant and Mr. Desmond. It became quite a joke once they got down to street level, where the family was in their way and vice versa. I was in the saloon writing a few instructions home for the servants who remained there when Mr. Desmond started on that room. I could have moved, but I liked the fire. "Don't let me prevent you from what you're doing," I said to Grant.

"You've got a rum ken here, Miss," Grant informed me. "Nothing to fear but star glazers, maybe."

"I beg your pardon."

"Stubble it, Grant," Mr. Desmond said. Grant scowled and turned back to work.

I had a definite impression the men wished me elsewhere, but I felt that three quarters of an hour had been more than ample for their examination, and I sat on, watching Grant from the corner of my eye. Before long his employer took up a chair beside me to distract my attention. "I have a few questions to ask, Miss Haley, with your permission," he said, smiling politely.

"Certainly. Go ahead."

While Grant groveled around the floor pulling at quarter-round and wainscoting, Desmond posed a series of pointless questions I couldn't have answered if I'd built the house with my own two hands. What age was the building, what were the external measurements, was the paneling in the dining room oak or cherry or something else, was the paper in the master bedroom the original paper, and such things. I repeated that I did not know, could not really say, and finally I said bluntly that I knew no more about the house than he did himself.

"Probably a good deal less," I added pointedly. "I have been here less than forty-eight hours, and I have not hired a man to go down on his hands and knees and try every splinter. What are you looking for?"

"Termites, wood rot, poor construction-that sort of thing."

"Have you found any of these flaws?"

"Nothing serious. Water has gotten in around the upper windows. There's a suspicious brown mark on the ceiling of the east bedchamber. The doors are all poorly hung, and the stairs squawk like an unoiled hinge."

"I'm glad it's nothing serious!"

"Old houses always have imperfections," he said leniently. "Would you mind coming with me to the dining room? There's some irregularity in the paneling there."

I peered around his shoulder to see what Grant was up to. Using the sofa as concealment, he was sliding a screwdriver between the wooden panels. "We'll have greater irregularities in the saloon if you don't call Mr. Grant off."

"Take it easy, Grant," Mr. Desmond ordered.

Grant looked over his shoulder and said slyly, "Aye, the mort's whiddled beef on you, lad."

"What is he talking about?"

Mr. Desmond took my elbow and hastened me across the hall to the dining room. "Mr. Grant's from Ireland, He speaks a strange sort of dialect, related to Gaelic, no doubt."

"Or to thieves' cant, perhaps?" He frowned at me, as though not understanding my jibe.

"Now about this paneling," he said, gazing at it. The wood was imperfect to be sure, but no more so than any other paneled wall that's seen a few decades of use. "This side of the room is darker than the other," he pointed out, peering from one side of the room to the other.

"The darker side doesn't receive light from the window," I explained.

"Shall we just turn on the gaslight?"

"If you really think it's necessary."

He did, and still he imagined one wall to be darker than the other. "A different shade of stain was used, I expect. The difference is hardly startling," I said. "I hadn't noticed."

"You haven't been using the dining room."

"What makes you think so?"

"The toast crumbs on the living room carpet," he answered blandly.

"Our servants aren't here yet."

"How awkward for you," he said, oozing an inordinate amount of sympathy.

I peered back into the saloon. Grant had disappeared behind the sofa again. "It isn't the servants we miss so much as the carriage, actually. We hadn't planned to stay long."

"I will be very happy to deliver you anywhere you wish to go."

"That's kind of you, but I know you're very busy. We can always hire a hackney."

Sympathy escalated to flirtation to distract me from Grant's racket across the hall. "You rob me of the opportunity to know you better, ma'am."

I gave him a meaningful stare and said, "You already know me better than I know you, Mr. Desmond. You know my father was a clergyman and that I was to have been married. Were you acquainted with Graham Sutton?"

His head came forward a moment, and he frowned, as though not hearing, or not understanding. "With whom?"

"My late fiance, Graham Sutton."

"I'm afraid I had not the honor, but I should like to have met him. I admire his taste." The boldest pair of eyes in London roved admiringly over my face as he said this.

Aware of a warm flush creeping up my neck, I immediately pretended to misunderstand. "Now, that's odd. You've done nothing but disparage his taste in homes since you've come here."

"I think you knew it wasn't architecture we were discussing, ma'am. I plan to buy the house, and if I develop an interest in acquiring permanent rights to ..."

It was a great relief when this piece of impertinence was interrupted by a resounding crash from the saloon. "That wretched man is destroying my house!" I exclaimed, and dashed across the hall with Mr. Desmond hard at my heels.

Mr. Grant had taken the notion to detach a built-in cupboard from the wall. He had not quite succeeded in his aim but had managed to shake loose a pile of books from a shelf, which had caused the noise.

"Try to be more quiet, Grant," Mr. Desmond said severely.

"No need to ride rusty. Ain't I dirtying my finest duds for you?" Grant complained, but he picked up the books.

"About the furnishings, Miss Haley," Mr. Desmond said, and took my arm to leave the noisy saloon.

"With a few exceptions, they would be included in the price of six thousand."

"And the wine in the cellar?"

My eyes narrowed at this question. He hadn't been to the cellar yet, nor had he gone there yesterday. How did he know the cellar was full of excellent wines?

"What makes you think there's any wine in the cellar?"

"Where else would it be?" he asked. "Naturally I a.s.sumed a gentleman had put down a cellar.''

"Of course he did! The wine is not included," I said, because I was angry at being made to look foolish.

"Wine travels poorly," he cautioned playfully, haggling over it. "Except from cellar to table, and thence to gla.s.s, if a gentleman is lucky."

He seemed genuinely interested in buying the house, and to keep him in humor I offered a gla.s.s of sherry. Mr. Desmond might know something about Graham's business, but if he was disappointed not to find a bag of money when he moved in, it was hardly my fault.

Over the wine, conversation turned from business to mere social chitchat. "Are you an established resident of London, Mr. Desmond?"

"We are a Devon family, but I've been in London for upwards of ten years and consider myself a Londoner.''

"You must give me some idea what sights are worth seeing. My young sister is eager to tour the town."

"And are you, also being a young lady, not curious, Miss Haley?"

"I shall accompany her, of course.''

He regaled me with a list of attractions. Grant stuck his head in at the door and said he was going to "cast his glimms over the dungeon," after which he went to the cellar.

"How does it come you employ a man who doesn't speak English?" I asked politely.

"Grant's the best man at this sort of work. Every trade has its jargon."

"If I am not mistaken, that particular jargon is neither Gaelic nor related to the building trade. It is thieves' cant."

A look of surprise lit his face. "How did you recognize it? Pattering flash at Bath Cathedral these days, are they?"

"No, sir, I learned the rudiments of the language from Bow Street. I don't have to ask where you picked it up, and I do not appreciate your bringing a thief into my house. If Mr. Grant has rushed a dozen bottles of wine out the cellar window, I shall expect you to stand buff for it."

"I'll have to buy Jay a muzzle. I knew you'd be worried, so I didn't tell you the whole truth about Mr. Grant. You need not worry. The spanks he charges, he doesn't have to nab nowadays."

"And in English that would mean ... ?"