Seaweed on the Street (14 page)

She said, “Please sit down. If you'd like to join me with tea, I'll fetch another cup and saucer.”

I accepted and sank into one of the lumpy armchairs. As soon as she went out, I rose from the chair and went behind the bamboo screen. A silver picture frame lay face-down on her dressing table. I turned it over and saw a photograph of a young Charles Service. He was standing on a tennis court holding a racquet. The picture was inscribed, “To dear Iris. Love and kisses, Charlie.” I replaced the picture and put my hand on the dressing table's drawer knob, but was overtaken by a sense of shame. What did I expect to find? Faded love letters wrapped in pink ribbon? Contraceptives? A gun? Miss Naylor's footsteps sounded outside so I sat down, relieved.

Iris Naylor poured tea from a large bone-china pot into mismatched cups and saucers. She said, “I think morning tea is so much better than coffee, don't you?”

“It makes a change,” I said, without enthusiasm.

“I found these cups and saucers at a Sunday flea market. Paid 50 cents each. They're Royal Worcester.” She had an offhand air.

“I'm sure they're worth much more than you paid for them.”

She gave a satisfied smile.

I turned down a chance to share her bran muffin.

“I don't keep extra tea things here because I generally eat with the family,” she said and immediately corrected herself. “I mean, when there
was
a family. Now there's just Miss Sarah Williams, when she's here, and Mr. Service. Mr. Hunt takes most of his meals alone in his room.”

“Is there a large staff?”

“Adequate, hardly large, it's nothing like it was in the old days. We have a live-in cook, and another woman who comes in to do the cleaning. There's Mr. Hunt's old chauffeur-gardener-handyman. The butler is on vacation at the moment. Usually we have a maid. At present we have no maid so I'm answering the door and running about.”

“What happened to the maid?”

“I really can't say,” she said, looking at her hands. “Some fracas involving Miss Sarah Williams, I'm told.”

“I know you've been with the Hunts for a long time. Did you know Marcia Hunt well?”

“Pretty well.”

Miss Naylor sliced her bran muffin into precise halves with a pearl-handled knife and buttered it sparingly. She said, “I was close to Marcia's age, and our relationship was, I like to think, quite intimate.” She put an embroidered napkin on her lap and began to nibble the muffin.

“Were you surprised when she married Frank Harkness?”

She sipped tea before answering. “I'm not sure what I thought of Frank Harkness then. I was probably shocked. But I've thought of it often since. In hindsight, I shouldn't have been surprised, of course, because Marcia was impulsive, headstrong.”

“Was she intelligent?”

“Intelligent?” Miss Naylor echoed, as if my question demonstrated ill-breeding.

“Sure. Intelligent, bright. Quick on the uptake.”

“She was all of those things.”

“It looks as if she had a pathological lack of judgment.” I waved a hand at the surroundings. “Turning her back on all this to marry a roughneck.”

“But Marcia was in love,” she said, as if this explained everything. “People in love don't always show good judgment, do they?”

“You're right,” I said, thinking of the face-down picture of Charles Service lying on her dressing table. “What did you think of Frank Harkness?”

“I almost liked him. Frank was a breath of fresh air.” For the first time she laughed unaffectedly. “I didn't approve of him, not at all. He was, well, earthy.”

“Coarse?”

“A rough diamond, but he was well-mannered. At least he was well-mannered around me, and he loved Marcia.” She dabbed her lips with a paper napkin. “Manners make up for such a lot, don't you think?”

“Do they?”

“Of course,” she said, with a heartiness that sounded a bit forced to my ears.

I said carefully, “I understand that you're the one who saw Jimmy Scow prowling on the grounds recently and reported it.”

“Yes, I did,” she said. She dropped her gaze and added, “I was a bit on edge at the time.”

“May I ask why?”

She looked at me, her expression revealing a curious mixture of nervousness and bravado. “As I say, I was a bit on edge at the time. Perhaps I overreacted. Something happened here one night. Something odd.”

Miss Naylor dropped her gaze. She said softly, “This will sound ridiculous. I've never spoken of it till now. The fact is, I saw something. It frightened me terribly at the time. Even now I don't like to think about it. But the thing is, I'm perfectly sure that I saw a wolf on the grounds.”

“You're sure it wasn't a large dog?”

“I'm
sure
. I spent two years in the Northwest Territories. But all the same, perhaps I should describe the thing that I saw as wolf-
like
.”

She poured herself another cup of tea. Her hands were shaking; drops of tea slopped over into her saucer. In her nervousness, she forgot to offer me a refill.

I waited a minute and said, “How long have you been with the Hunt family?”

Her face smoothed itself out into blandness. “Getting on for 25 years.”

“You haven't been the housekeeper all that time, surely?”

“I began as Mr. Hunt's private secretary, when he still kept offices on Douglas Street. After he gave up day-to-day control of his business there was still plenty to do, so he asked me to stay on.” She held the cup and saucer above her lap and pulled down her skirt in a ladylike way. “Mr. Hunt was a good employer, but he was
very
demanding. Often we'd be working nights until long after the last buses had gone. I don't drive, so this room was set aside for my use when necessary. Eventually, as Mr. Hunt aged and his involvement with business affairs diminished, my duties changed. The Hunt family evidently found me agreeable because I ended up as housekeeper-companion to Mrs. Hunt.” She laughed, but not with amusement. It was a sudden, unbidden bray of bitterness. She raised the tea cup to her mouth, her little finger pointing daintily.

“Tell me about Mrs. Hunt. I understand that she was quite a martinet.”

“She was in some ways. She had very high standards. It was hard for people to live up to them at times.”

“Well, this is a beautiful house.”

“It is,” she agreed. “This was one of the last houses designed by Francis Rattenbury. Rattenbury was cheating on his wife while this house was being built … I suppose you know the story?”

She didn't wait for me to answer, just launched in to the tale.

“It was horrible. Rattenbury deserted his wife to marry somebody else. He was old and she was far too young so the marriage was doomed from the start. Soon the new wife was cheating on him. One of her lovers murdered Rattenbury. Sex and murder and scandal. Maybe this house picked up some of that bad energy. It's cursed with ill luck. People are never happy here for long. When Mr. Hunt dies, I'll leave here too.”

“You won't stay?”

“Certainly not. I shouldn't be welcome in any case. I'm only tolerated now because Mr. Hunt likes me. As soon as Sarah Williams gets her clutches on the place, I'll be out.” A note of hysteria invaded her voice, and another suppressed emotion rattled the teaspoon in her saucer. She put the cup and saucer on the table and tried to smile. “Yes. I shall move on. Find myself some nice rooms in James Bay or somewhere.”

“And Mr. Service?”

“What about him?” she said sharply.

“When Mr. Hunt goes, there'll be no need for him to stay here either, will there?”

She looked down and lifted her shoulders once, but did not speak.

I said, “You are the first person I've spoken to who has said anything positive about Frank Harkness.”

She looked up. “I don't want you to think I approved of him as Marcia's husband. I assumed he was a fortune hunter. But still, as I said before, he made Marcia happy. That counts for a lot.”

“Do you think Marcia is still alive?”

She shook her head. “I haven't the least doubt that Marcia is dead. Frank Harkness probably kept her happy for a while, but Marcia's a Hunt, remember. There's no possibility that Marcia would have stayed with him permanently.”

She saw me smiling and said in chilly tones, “Did I say something to amuse you?”

“Sorry, I just thought of something. If Marcia came back it would stir things up around here, wouldn't it?”

“What do you mean?”

“I'm speaking of the inheritance. You've been close to Calvert Hunt for a long time. You're part of the family, almost. Do you know about his will?”

She hesitated before replying. “In a general way, not the specifics.”

“If Marcia returned, it would change everything.”

Hope shone in her eyes. She leaned forward, clutching the arms of her chair. “But Marcia's been disinherited!”

“Marcia would contest the will.”

“But Charlie … Mr. Service, he said … ” She broke off.

“Yes,” I urged her, nodding encouragement. “Go on.”

“Mr. Service said that Mr. Hunt's will was unshakeable. I asked him.”

“There's too much money involved. If Marcia shows up before Mr. Hunt's death, he'll have to change his will. Either that or die knowing that his estate will be tied up in endless litigation.”

“But,” she exploded, “Calvert is practically senile. He has a few lucid moments in the morning, but much of the time he doesn't know what's happening under his nose. He's transferred the affection he once had for Marcia to that bitch, Sarah Williams!”

Iris Naylor's hand flew to her mouth in consternation. Losing all self-discipline, she burst into tears and fled behind the screen, where she flung herself upon the bed and sobbed.

I watched her in an awkward silence, seeing a woman whose repressed sexuality had aged into affectation and bitterness. But Iris Naylor's emotions could still burn brightly, given the right stimulus.

I left her weeping.

Alone in the main lounge I stared at the Emily Carr painting again — five moss-covered cedar poles standing before a Native longhouse. The sort of house that my ancestors lived in for thousands of years. My reverie was broken by the sound of gravel crunching on the driveway outside. Charles Service was arriving in a Lincoln town car. I let myself out of the house by a side door and walked quickly down the driveway toward the road. Instead of going through the gates I cut through shrubbery and looked across a stone wall. That green Toyota Corolla was parked on the tree-lined street. I wrote the licence-plate number in my notepad and walked to the front door of the house.

Charles Service was unloading luggage from the Lincoln's trunk. He turned when he heard my footsteps and his features stiffened. Then he smiled with an effort and said, “Silas! What are you doing here?”

“Waiting for you. As long as I was here I thought I'd walk in the gardens for a minute, admire this house again. It's a beautiful place.”

“Yes,” Service agreed amiably. “Well, it is a showplace. Francis Rattenbury was the architect. He was responsible for the Empress Hotel, amongst other things.”

“But people think this house is unlucky.”

“Who told you that?”

“Well, isn't it true? The story is that Rattenbury's wife was fooling around and somehow … ” I broke off and changed the topic. “You've been away?”

“Yes. Say, I've got things piling up. What did you want to see me about?”

“I need $5,000.”

Service's eyes narrowed. “Are you serious?”

“I've found somebody who knows where Marcia's hiding.”

Service was visibly, almost comically, startled. Gnawing his bottom lip, he glanced back at the house, then strode toward the pool, saying, “Follow me.”

We stood next to the swimming pool, out of earshot of the house. Me with my hands in my pockets, Service with his arms folded. His manner had hardened. Now visibly angry, Service snapped, “All right, let's have it, mister.”

I said, “I put an advertisement in the
Times Colonist
. Maybe it paid off.”

“Cut the small talk. What about this $5,000?”

“Reward money.”

Service's face grew red, his breathing was shallow and fast. He said, “Is this some kind of shakedown?”

“The money isn't for me. I'm paid by the city. I need to pay an informant.”

Service calmed down, but he stood there for a full minute, drumming his fingers against his upper arms. At last he said, “I apologize. For a moment there I thought you were trying to extort money. I see now that I was mistaken.”

“Think nothing of it,” I said. “Here's the deal. A man who claims to know Marcia Hunt called me. He said he knows where Marcia's living. He'll take me to her for $5,000.”

“And what did you tell him?”

“I told him he was greedy.”

“You've got that right. Anyhow, he's probably an imposter.”

I waited.

“Well come on!” said Service, his voice rising. “What do you think?”

“I think the man has genuine information about the life and times of Marcia Hunt-Harkness. I'm not so sure whether he knows where she is now, though. Still, you never know. It wouldn't hurt to give him something.”

“I don't like the sound of this,” Service snapped. “I thought I'd made it clear that we don't want our business broadcast all over town. Now strangers are making outrageous demands. This is the sort of thing I was afraid of. There'll be reporters knocking on these doors next.” He caught the edge of his upper lip between his teeth and worked his jaw from side to side.

“If reporters arrive, it won't be because of anything I did.”

“I'm disappointed,” said Service.