Dangerous Dalliance (2 page)

As Mrs. Lovatt was a childless widow, she had welcomed the offer to live with us. I soon filled the hole in her life left by her lack of children. She could not have loved me more had I been her own flesh and blood. Neither of us was the maudlin sort who prated of love, but genuine affection was there in plentiful supply.

“Good day, Mr. Smythe,” she smiled. “What must you break to Aunt Lovatt, Heather?” she asked, turning a sharp eye in my direction. She saw the open case, and drew back a step. “Those are Harold’s things?” she asked.

“Yes, I asked Williams to send them down,” I replied. “Sit down, Auntie. I’m afraid you will receive a dreadful shock.”

Aunt Lovatt’s face turned quite pale. She sank onto a chair, clutching her heart. Papa’s death had been shock enough for one spring. The mystery of his carriage coming from Brighton had added to it, and just when we had decided that he had lent the rig to someone, his traveling case had come landing in from Brighton. Now I had to tell her about the murder.

Aunt Lovatt saw the brown stain on the white shirt, and knew at once that Papa had not died a natural death, as the report had stated. Heart failure, the death certificate had said. And the body already nailed into a sealed coffin to hide the truth. My aunt had insisted on having the coffin opened. It had seemed so incredible that Papa was dead. We had stood with the undertaker, just long enough for one peek at Papa’s rigid, livid face. Then we had both turned away without even glancing at the rest of him.

“Was he stabbed?” she asked through grim lips.

“Shot,” Bunny said, and rose for the wine decanter. He poured Mrs. Lovatt a glass and handed it to her. He waited until she had taken a sustaining sip before adding, “In the back.”

“Murdered!” Mrs. Lovatt gasped.

“Yes, Auntie, and that is why we must go to Brighton to look into this,” I said.

“Of course,” she said at once. “We cannot leave it hanging like this. We must discover who did this heinous thing, and see he is punished.” We three exchanged silent looks of dread. “We shall leave early tomorrow morning,” she said.

“Bunny has offered to accompany us,” I told her.

“How very kind of you, Mr. Smythe.” Tears glazed her eyes. She rose on unsteady legs and said, “I shall ask the maid to remove the valise. Perhaps you will put your father’s things back into it, Heather. We’ll take it to Brighton with us for evidence.”

“I’ll handle it,” I said, patting her arm.

“Poor Heather,” she said, with tears in her eyes. I knew what was in her mind as she turned and went up to her room. She would be brooding over how this affair would affect my matrimonial chances. Like a concerned mother, she had hoped to see me make a grand match. I was becoming a trifle old to make my bows in London, but there were less demanding cities. Bath, for instance, received many visitors from the ton, and she had a wide field of connections there, where she had lived for many years. She had mentioned the visit before Papa’s death, and while she was too refined to speak of it so soon after, I knew she meant to go after our year of mourning.

But a girl whose father had caused a scandal wouldn’t stand a chance of being accepted in staid Bath. Perhaps we could keep the inquiry quiet. A few discreet questions at the hotel first, to see just what Papa had been up to, that he got himself killed. Very likely a woman
was
involved. Papa was still young enough to want female companionship. Or it might have been a card game with a Captain Sharp. That, while disastrous, at least cast no slur on Papa or his daughter. Any gentleman might fall amongst thieves.

But why the chicanery about moving his body to London before sending it home? There was something deep going on here. We must proceed with the greatest caution.

Chapter Two

When Aunt Lovatt left
,
Bunny said, “You was going to have a word with Snoad. Might be a good idea to see if he knows anything.”

“He’ll be up in the loft.”

“There’s another servant you can be rid of,” Bunny said, hoping to cheer me by thoughts of the saving in money. “What will you do with the pigeons?”

“I have no idea. If Mr. Pelletier were still here, he’d take them. It was Pelletier who got Papa interested. He was Belgian, you know. He returned home years ago. They are very keen on racing pigeons in Belgium. Perhaps Snoad will take them off my hands.”

“Take them? Buy them, more like. Your papa paid a tidy sum for some of those birds, and sold the ones he bred. Don’t let Snoad get the better of you, my girl.”

“What on earth would I do with them?” I asked as we went toward the staircase.

It was a long climb. Papa had glazed the widow’s walk of Gracefield, and turned it into a loft. It ran along the south facade of the mansion, looking across the Channel to France. From its lofty height the wives of the house of Hume had strained their eyes for a sight of their husbands’ ships since the days of Queen Elizabeth. In spring the glazed panels had been raised, leaving only a wire mesh to keep the birds in. The door to the widow’s walk opened onto a bartizan. The bartizan was unscreened and unglazed. From it, one could see for miles.

On a clear day the blue haze in the far distance was called France. On that afternoon, as on so many days on the coast of England, the air was foggy. The sea breeze carried a cold Atlantic moisture that penetrated my gown and laid waste my coiffure.

The cooing of pigeons was audible as soon as we entered the loft. Some birds had left their perches and strutted along the floor at their ungainly pigeon gait, necks extending at every step. Snoad kept the loft tidy, but a pigeon’s feathers are easily dislodged, and one floated on the breeze. A dozen birds sat on various perches arranged for their comfort. The loft even boasted one tree, a miniature apple tree planted in a huge wooden barrel, which was the private preserve of a bird called Caesar, and which was occasionally shared by his mate, Cleo. The tree, I noticed, was empty that day.

The birds came in a wide variety of colors. Some were gray or brown, others glinted with iridescent hues of green and pink and gold. My father knew the pedigree of every one of the hundred plus pigeons, but truth to tell, I found it all a bore. I would have preferred if Papa had raised horses, or even parrots, if he must raise birds. Pigeons are such stupid-seeming birds. I knew that they were monogamous. I remembered that because it had seemed strange that these little balls of feathers mated for life, like people.

I also knew that the undisputed stars of the collection were Caesar and Cleo. Caesar raced, and Cleo was a breeder. Papa didn’t usually race his breeders, although Cleo had won a few races in her youth.

A swarthy young man in shirt sleeves was examining some bags of feed at the far end of the loft. He turned to greet us with a curt “Good day.” I never felt entirely comfortable with Snoad. There was something unsettling about the man. He did not dress as a servant should, for one thing, but wore a dilapidated jacket of blue worsted, which looked like the castoff of a gentleman. In warmer weather he wore shirt sleeves and sometimes a vest. He carried his wide shoulders in a swaggering motion. His flashing black eyes were too clever by half. He had never shown a proper respect to Papa, nor to me. Snoad was more than half the reason I came so seldom to the loft. Papa said he was the most knowledgeable man in England where pigeons were concerned, and no doubt that was why he gave himself airs.

It was typical of Snoad that he did not join us, but continued with his work, waiting for us to go to him. Nettled, I said, “I would like a word with you, Snoad.”

“In a minute, miss,” he said over his shoulder, and continued his work.

“I am in a hurry,” I called sharply. It annoyed me that he called me miss instead of ma’am. I particularly disliked that he belittled me by his inattention in front of Bunny. Really, the man was insufferable. One would think he owned the loft.

Snoad turned and came forward at a leisurely gait, shoulders rolling as he walked. “What can I do for you, Miss Hume?” he asked. His accent was good, though where he had acquired it was a deep mystery. I knew that before coming to Gracefield, he had been employed by the Duke of Prescott, in Wiltshire, to tend his wife’s aviary. If I had been the duke, I would not have let this man within a mile of the duchess.

“I have a few questions about Papa’s last trip. Who was he seeing?” I asked.

“He was attending a meeting of the Columbidae Society,” he replied, with a look that said, “as you very well know.”

“No, he was not. Did he mention anyone in particular?”

“A Mr. Jones,” Snoad said. He did not quite smirk, but there was an insolent unsteadiness about his lips.

“In Brighton, or London?”

“In London, miss.”

“Would you have Mr. Jones’s address?”

“No, miss. I’m afraid not.”

“His first name?”

“Mr. George Jones, I believe.”

After several decades of King Georges, George was the most common man’s name in England, and Jones was not far behind. “It turns out that Papa was not in London at all,” I said. “He was in Brighton. Whom did he sell to in Brighton?”

“In Brighton, you say?” he asked, mildly curious. “How did you hear that?”

I stared him out of countenance. “You can take my word for it. He was in Brighton. Whom did he sell to there?”

“No one, as far as I know.”

“You must know something!” I said angrily. “You are supposed to be the expert.”

“I
am
the expert, but I only train the darlings, Miss Hume. I don’t sell them,” he replied boldly.

“That is a pity,” I said, raking him with my eyes. “I had hoped you might tell me whom I could profitably sell the collection to.”

That jolted Snoad out of his insolence. “Sell them!” he exclaimed, eyes flashing. “You can’t sell them!”

“Can I not? Papa left me his entire estate, which includes this loft. I shall sell the birds and pull this horrid wire down. It destroys the looks of the house.”

“You can’t!” he repeated, his voice louder than before.

“If you can come up with a name of a buyer, he might hire you, Snoad,” I said, enjoying my victory. “You will not be needed here, once the birds are gone.”

“But the birds would be useless anywhere else. Racers are trained to return to their own loft. This collection is extremely valuable, Miss Hume. Your father spent years building it up.” He spoke earnestly, all haughtiness vanished.

“I am well aware that my father spent all his time and most of his money on this loft. I have other priorities. I shall be rid of the birds and dismantle the loft immediately,” I said grandly.

Snoad rubbed his hand over his mouth in consternation. His dark eyes glowed with banked fires of frustration. “Don’t do it yet,” he said. “Give me a few weeks to make some arrangement. Somewhere else to take the birds.”

“Did you wish to buy them then?” I asked. I would gladly give them to him to be rid of them, but only wanted to repay him for his impertinent behavior.

“Yes, I’ll buy them,” he replied, without a moment’s hesitation.

“Said they was no good without this loft,” Bunny reminded him.

“We have several valuable birds brooding. The new chicks could be trained from a different loft,” he explained. “You must give me some time to make arrangements, Miss Hume.”

“Are you quite sure you can afford to buy the collection, Snoad, as you speak of it as being so valuable?” I said. I had always been curious about this enigmatic man. Now it sounded as though he had more money than I would have thought. It immediately darted into my head that Papa was paying him too much.

It had been the cause of angry muttering between Aunt Lovatt and myself that Snoad had been given the entire top floor of the house. This consisted of only two rooms, to be sure, but they were large, bright rooms. Papa said he required a study for his scientific work. It was news to me that a man who cleaned out pigeon nests was a scientist.

The sly look had returned. “I pick up a few pounds on the races,” Snoad replied. “Why, I might even make you an offer on Gracefield. I know you’ve always wanted a Season in London.”

“So I have.” I smiled, taking it for an attempt at humor. “But it will not be necessary for me to sell Gracefield to have a Season. I shall be going to Brighton tomorrow, for a few days. You cannot give me any names of customers that I might speak to?”

His handsome face took on a conning expression. “Now, why would you want to do that, Miss Hume? I thought we’d agreed I’d buy the collection.”

Bunny said, “Mr. Hume was murdered.” I gave him a rebukeful look. “Don’t see any point in keeping it mum. We’re looking into it. Any help you can give us would be appreciated, Snoad.”

Watching Snoad, I felt in my bones that he was not surprised at the announcement of my father’s murder. He was wary, but he was not surprised. “Is that so?” he asked, brows rising over his sharp eyes. “Where did you get that notion, Mr. Smythe, if you don’t mind my asking?”

“From the bullet hole in the back of his jacket.”

Snoad considered this a moment in silence. “Where did the jacket come from?” he asked.

“The Royal Crescent Hotel, in Brighton.”

“We mean to learn where the bullet hole came from, too,” I told him.

Snoad gazed steadily into my eyes. There was some hypnotic
force in his gaze. His eyes were so dark that even the whites of them looked an iridescent gray. “I’d be very careful if I were you, Miss Hume. It might be best not to go digging into it. I had a great respect for your father, but it’s unusual for a man who is going about his own business to get himself murdered.”

“Are you saying my father was involved in something dishonest?” I demanded.

“Not minding his own business was what I said. I’m not accusing him of anything dishonest. I believe your father’s trips involved more than bird business, if you read my meaning.” Something in his manner, or voice, suggested sexual doings. The eyes glinted recklessly, and his voice held an undertone of innuendo. Snoad always looked as if he had sex on his mind. It was one of the things about him that made me uneasy. One was always aware of being a woman when in his presence.