'Til Death Do Us Part (8 page)

“M
RS
.
F
ULTON
WAS
lying,” Trent said.

An invigorating sense of anticipation heated his blood. Something was amiss at the mourning goods shop. He was certain of it.

Calista had been gazing reflectively out the window as the cab rolled forward down the street. But at his words she turned quickly to fix him with an intent expression.

“Do you really think so?” she asked.

“I can't be positive,” he admitted. “I was trying to read upside down because we were on the opposite side of the counter. I couldn't see the entry she was pointing to clearly but I'm certain that the last letter of the surname ended in a
Y
or perhaps a
G
. It was definitely a letter that dipped below the line.”

“Why would she lie?”

He considered that briefly. “One reason might be that she simply wished to protect the identity of a good customer.”

“I must admit that I can understand that. In her shoes, I would be
strongly inclined to do the same. I am very careful with my client files. But surely we made it clear that there had been a mistake. We told her that the bell had been sent to the wrong address. At the very least one would think that she would have offered to take the bell and return it to her customer herself.”

“We need to get a closer look at Mrs. Fulton's financial records.”

“How do you propose to do that? I'm quite sure she would never agree—” Calista stopped, mouth parted in sudden shock. “Hang on, surely you don't mean to go into her shop at night when no one is around?”

“A quick look at that journal is all that's required.”

“What you are suggesting is quite impossible, sir. You might get arrested.”

“Give me some credit, Miss Langley. I am not without experience in this sort of thing.”

“Experience? You are an author, sir. How can you possibly claim experience in lock picking?”

He found himself unaccountably offended.

“I do a great deal of research for my novels,” he said evenly. “If you will recall, Clive Stone is an expert at picking locks. I don't claim to have his level of expertise but I should be able to manage the old-fashioned lock on the front door of Mrs. Fulton's shop.”

“This is not a work of fiction, Mr. Hastings. It is all very well to send Clive Stone out in the middle of the night to investigate a villain's lair, but I cannot allow you to take such a risk on my behalf.”

“I won't take the risk on your behalf. I shall do it for myself.”

“Have you gone mad?”

“Consider it research.”

“Rubbish. Let me make one thing very clear, Mr. Hastings. This is my problem—my case, as it were. If you insist on carrying out this wild scheme, I must insist on accompanying you.”

“There is not a chance in hell of that happening, Miss Langley.”

She gave him a steely smile. “You will need someone to keep watch. I shall take a whistle and use it to signal you if I see a constable approaching while you are inside the shop.”

“Huh. That is a rather clever idea.”

“Thank you. I got it from a Clive Stone novel.”

I
RENE
F
ULTON
WAITED
until the cab had disappeared down the street before she reached under the counter and retrieved the journal of business transactions.

With the volume tucked under her arm, she walked across the shop, turned the sign in the window to Closed, and then went upstairs to her private rooms. She set the journal on the table while she put the kettle on the stove. When the tea was ready she sat down, opened the journal, and studied certain sales she had made during the past year.

There was nothing a shopkeeper liked to encourage more than repeat business, but she'd begun to have a few questions about the customer who bought the same items again and again for various elderly relatives, all of whom were at death's door. And now a dangerous-looking gentleman and a woman who had received the gifts had come around asking questions.

The pattern was always the same—first came the order for a lovely tear-catcher. Next, the order for the hair-locket ring. That was followed by a request for a safety coffin bell and, finally, a coffin. The customer
specified that all of the items were to be inscribed with the initials of the soon-to-be deceased. The notes were always accompanied with payment in full. The customer never questioned the price.

With the exception of the earliest purchases, the memento mori and the bells were sent to the customer's address—not the home of the dying relative. The coffins, however, were delivered directly to various funeral parlors. Each of the deceased had been buried by a different funeral director.

Irene closed the journal and sipped her tea while she pondered how to proceed.

After some time she carried the journal back downstairs and placed it neatly in its customary position under the counter. She put on her cloak, went into the elegantly lit coffin display chamber, and made her way to the back door of the shop.

She let herself out into the service lane and set off for the first of the three funeral parlors on her list. She knew the proprietors. They might be willing to talk to her. They trusted her. After all, they were all in the same business—the business of death.

The first stop was a small funeral parlor in an unfashionable section of town. For a small gratuity the middle-aged proprietor was happy to discuss the arrangements.

“The deceased wasn't elderly,” he confided. “Not at all. Nineteen or twenty perhaps. And it wasn't a natural death. Murdered she was and that's a fact.”

Irene tensed. “Are you certain?”

“Throat was slit. Hard to mistake that sort of thing. The gentleman who brought her to me told me the story. Very sad. She was a governess who had lost her post after her employer caught her in bed with the master of the house. She found herself starving to death and facing a life on the streets. So she started selling whatever she had to sell to anyone who would pay for it.”

“She became a prostitute?”

“Not an uncommon story. I was told that she was murdered by one of her clients. Naturally the family wanted to keep the details out of the press.”

“Yes, of course,” Irene said.

“Murder is always awkward for a respectable family, especially a murder like that. The scandal, you know.”

C
ALISTA
WAS
IN
her study reviewing her notes in the files of the men she had rejected over the years when Mrs. Sykes appeared in the doorway.

“Sorry to interrupt you, ma'am, but there's a client here to see you,” she said.

“A client?” Calista glanced at the clock. It was nearly five. “But I don't have any appointments until tomorrow.”

“It's Miss Eudora Hastings, ma'am. She says she is here for personal reasons. She tells me it's quite urgent that she see you immediately.”

“Yes, of course.” Calista closed the folder she had just opened. “Please show her in, Mrs. Sykes.”

Eudora was ushered into the study a short time later. She was dressed in her customary quiet manner. The brown gown would have been more appropriate on a woman twice her age. It did nothing for her pretty eyes.

“Thank you for seeing me on such short notice, Miss Langley,” she said.

“Not at all.” Calista motioned toward a chair. “Please sit down.”

“Thank you.” Eudora perched on the edge of the chair. “I give you my word that I won't stay for more than a few minutes, but I felt it necessary to talk to you about my brother.”

“I don't understand. Is there a problem?”

“I'm not certain. The thing is, I know that he has called on you twice. I am aware that the first visit concerned me. Afterward, I made it clear to Trent that I intend to remain a client of your agency. I believed that the matter was settled.”

“That was my impression.”

“But today I understand that he called here again and then went out for a drive with you.” Eudora closed her eyes briefly. “Oh, dear, I'm making a dreadful mess of this.”

It was obvious that she was flustered and had no idea how to begin the conversation. It was far from the first time that Calista had dealt with a nervous client. She pushed the folder aside, folded her hands on top of her desk, and smiled her most reassuring smile.

“Take your time,” she said. “Perhaps I can help you. As I'm sure you're aware, your brother initially had some reservations about your association with my agency. But today he came to tell me that he has withdrawn his objections. I hope you now feel more comfortable with our arrangement.”

“Yes, I know you somehow put Trent's concerns to rest. I'm very glad because I had no intention of severing my association with your agency but at the same time I did not want my brother to worry about me.”

“If you and Mr. Hastings are now in accord, I must assume that it is some other issue that brought you here today.”

“To be quite blunt about it, I am worried about Trent.”

Calista stilled. “I see. He mentioned that he is assisting me in a private matter, then?”

“Yes. I'm sorry. I realize that it is none of my affair. Nevertheless—”

“Nevertheless, you are concerned about him.”

“Yes, exactly.”

“I understand. You fear that he may be arrested,” Calista said. “I have the same concerns. Trust me when I tell you that I tried to dissuade him from his plan.”

Eudora stared at her, shocked. “What are you talking about? Why on earth would anyone arrest Trent?”

Calista cleared her throat. “What, exactly, has your brother said to you, Miss Hastings?”

“It wasn't what he said, it was what he did.”

“I'm afraid I don't follow you.”

“I told you, he went for a drive in a cab with you today.”

“Yes, he did. Surely you are not alarmed by the knowledge that the two of us were alone together. We both know that I am of an age and station when that sort of thing no longer causes gossip. I do hope you are not about to tell me that you feel that I and my business have somehow been compromised by your brother. That would be going too far.”

“I am not afraid that you will be compromised, Miss Langley. My brother would never do anything to harm a woman. He is the one I am concerned about.”

“I see.” Calista nodded. “Then it is his safety that concerns you?”

“His safety? No, of course I'm not worried about his physical safety. It is the safety of his heart that concerns me.”

“I find myself utterly bewildered, Miss Hastings.”

“Trent appears to have developed a rather keen interest in you.”

The light began to dawn.

“Oh, dear,” Calista said. “I'm afraid there has been a serious misunderstanding.”

“I know my brother very well. His mood underwent a dramatic change after he returned from his first visit here to Cranleigh Hall yesterday. Mind you, he didn't seem particularly happy or pleased.”

“I see.”

“But he appeared to be more—I'm not sure how to put this—more energized.
Aroused
might be a more accurate word.”

“No,” Calista said quickly, “it wouldn't. Not accurate. Not at all.”

Eudora ignored her. “In recent years he has retreated more and more from daily life. He has always spent long hours in his study, writing, but lately it is as if he lives inside that room. He seems to be watching his own life pass by as though it were a rather dull play.”

I know the feeling
,
Calista thought.

“Just the other day my brother Harry suggested that Trent might be sinking into depression. But when Trent returned from that first interview with you, it was as though he had been given a strong tonic,” Eudora concluded. “I took it as a good sign.”

“Of what?”

“I wasn't sure at first. Trent was definitely in a fine temper. We had a great quarrel. It was quite refreshing—for both of us. We haven't argued in years. Nevertheless I confess I was bewildered. Today, however, when he made an excuse to call upon you again I realized that something odd had, indeed, happened between the two of you. And then I discovered that he actually invited you to go out for a drive. I can't recall the last time he went out for a drive with a lady.”

“That is not what happened. Well, not exactly.”

“I will be blunt,” Eudora said. “My brother is a healthy man. From time to time he has engaged in discreet liaisons with the odd widow. But that is the thing, you see. He is always discreet.”

“I see.”

“Generally speaking, the women he becomes involved with do not expect or even desire marriage. They are invariably ladies who enjoy their widowhood and their financial independence.”

“I see,” Calista repeated, for lack of anything more intelligent. She
tried to think of some way to put a halt to the conversation but she was mesmerized by Eudora's words.

“Trent's affairs tend to stagger along for a few months and then they simply collapse,” Eudora continued. “Either the lady grows bored or Trent loses interest. I have always told myself that I would be thrilled if he developed truly strong feelings for a woman. But now that it may be happening, I am uneasy.”

Calista tightened her clasped hands. With an effort she managed to keep her expression calm and reassuring.

“So that is what this is about,” she said briskly. “You have been plain with me, Miss Hastings. I shall be equally honest with you. When I was young I dreamed of marriage and a family as most women do. But that was not to be and I have directed my energies and my passions into my profession. I am beyond the age when I must be acutely concerned with my personal reputation. I have come to savor my freedom. I do not answer to any man and I consider that a great blessing, I assure you.”

Eudora appeared briefly distracted. “I do understand. The older one gets, the less one is willing to be ordered about by a man.”

“That is certainly true in my case. I am far from wealthy but my business provides me with a good measure of financial security. I do not need a man to support me. In short, Miss Hastings, I have no designs on your brother. He is quite safe with me.”

Except for his plan to commit a small burglary on my behalf,
she amended silently.

Eudora's mouth quivered. “That is what I'm afraid of, Miss Langley.”

“I don't understand.”

But Eudora was no longer paying attention. Tears were leaking from her eyes and she was fumbling for a hankie in her handbag.

Calista grabbed a clean handkerchief from her desk drawer, leaped
to her feet, and hurried around the desk. She thrust the linen square into Eudora's hand.

“What on earth is the matter, Miss Hastings?”

Eudora seized the handkerchief and blotted her eyes.

“I apologize for making a fool of myself,” she whispered. “I do not know what I hoped to accomplish by coming here today. It is just that I felt compelled to do something, you see, because it is all my fault.”

Calista took a step back. “I am quite lost now. What is your fault?”

“The fact that my brother has never married and never had a family of his own. Because of me, Trent's life has been ruined.”