by Amanda Quick
The note was a message, and Ursula knew it had been intended for her. Anne had been well aware that no one else could decipher her unique stenography.
Behind water closet.
Ursula sat down at her desk and drank a little more brandy while she contemplated the items. After a while, she pushed the empty perfume bottle aside. She had found it on Anne’s little writing desk, not with the other things. It was unlike Anne not to have mentioned the purchase of new perfume but aside from that there did not appear to be anything mysterious about it.
The notebook, the jewelry pouch and the seeds, however, were a very different matter. Why had Anne hidden all three items behind the water closet?
After a while she opened the stenography notebook and began to read. Transcribing Anne’s cryptic shorthand was slow-going but two hours later she knew that she had been wrong about one thing that afternoon. Paying for the funeral was not to be her last act of friendship.
There was one more thing she could do for Anne—find her killer.
TWO
Slater Roxton regarded Ursula through the lenses of his wire-rimmed spectacles. “What the devil do you mean, you won’t be available for the next few weeks, Mrs. Kern? We have an arrangement.”
“My apologies, sir, but a pressing matter has come up,” Ursula said. “I must devote my full attention to it.”
A disturbing hush fell on the library. Ursula mentally fortified herself. She had been acquainted with Slater for less than a fortnight and had worked with him on only two occasions but she felt she had an intuitive understanding of the man. He was proving to be a difficult client.
He had very nearly perfected the art of not signaling his mood or his thoughts but she was increasingly alert to a few subtle cues. The deep silence and the unblinking gaze with which he was watching her did not bode well. She sat very straight in her chair, doing her best not to let him know that his unwavering regard was sending small chills down her spine.
Evidently concluding that she was not responding as he had anticipated to his stern disapproval, he escalated the level of tension by rising slowly from his chair and flattening his powerful hands on the polished surface of his mahogany desk.
There was a deceptively graceful quality about the way he moved that gave him a fascinating aura of quiet, self-contained power. The dark, unemotional manner characterized everything about him, from his calm, nearly uninflected speech to his unreadable green-and-gold eyes.
His choice of attire reinforced the impression of shadows and ice. In the short time she had known him she had never seen him in anything other than head-to-toe black—black linen shirt and black tie, black satin waistcoat, black trousers and a black coat. Even the frames of his spectacles were made of some matte black metal—not gold- or silver-plated wire.
He was not wearing the severely tailored coat at the moment. It was hanging on a hook near the door. After greeting her a short time ago, Slater had removed it in preparation for working on the artifacts.
She knew she had no right to critique the man on the basis of his wardrobe. She, too, was dressed in her customary black. In the past two years she had come to think of her mourning attire—from her widow’s veil and stylish black gown to her black stacked-heel, ankle-high button boots—as both uniform and camouflage.
It flashed across her mind that she and Slater made quite a somber pair. Anyone who happened to walk into the library would think they were both sunk deep into unrelenting grief. The truth of the matter was that she was in hiding. Not for the first time, she wondered what Slater’s motives were for going about in black. His father had died two months ago. It was the event that had brought Slater home to London after several years of living abroad. He was now in command of the Roxton family fortune. But she was quite certain that the black clothes were indicative of a long-standing sartorial habit—not a sign of mourning.
If even half of what the press had printed regarding Slater Roxton was true, she reflected, perhaps he had his reasons for wearing black. It was, after all, the color of mystery, and Slater was nothing if not a great mystery to Society.
She watched him with a deep wariness that was spiked with curiosity and what she knew was a reckless sense of fascination. She had anticipated that giving notice, especially in such a summary fashion, would not be met with patience and understanding. Clients frequently proved difficult to manage but she had never encountered one quite like Slater. The very concept of managing Slater Roxton staggered the mind. It had been clear to her at the start of their association that he was a force of nature and a law unto himself. That was, of course, what made him so interesting, she thought.
“I have just explained that something unforeseen has arisen,” she said. She was careful to keep her voice crisp and professional, aware that Slater would pounce on anything that hinted at uncertainty or weakness. “I regret the necessity of terminating our business relationship. However—”
“Then why are you terminating our arrangement?”
“The matter is of a personal nature,” she said.
He frowned. “Are you ill?”
“No, of course not. I enjoy excellent health. I was about to say that I hope it will be possible for me to return at a later date to finish the cataloging work.”
“Do you, indeed? And what makes you think I won’t replace you? There are other secretaries in London.”
“That is your choice, of course. I must remind you that I did warn you at the outset that I have other commitments in regard to my business which might from time to time interfere with our working arrangements. You agreed to those terms.”
“I was assured that, in addition to a great many other excellent qualities, you were quite dependable, Mrs. Kern. You can’t just walk in here and quit on the spot like this.”
Ursula twitched the skirts of her black gown so that they draped in neat, elegant folds around her ankles while she considered her options. The atmosphere in the library was rapidly becoming tense, as if some invisible electricity generator was charging the air. It was always like this when she found herself in close proximity to Slater. But today the disturbing, rather exciting energy had a distinctly dangerous edge.
In the short time she had known him she had never seen him lose his temper. He had never gone to the other extreme, either. She had yet to see him laugh. True, he had dredged up the occasional, very brief smile and there had been a certain warmth in his usually cold eyes from time to time. But she got the feeling that he was more surprised than she was when he allowed such emotions to surface.
“I do apologize, Mr. Roxton,” she said, not for the first time. “I assure you I have no choice. Time is of the essence.”
“I feel I deserve more of an explanation. What is this pressing matter that requires you to break our contract?”
“It regards one of my employees.”
“You feel obligated to look into the personal problems of your employees?”
“Well, yes, in a nutshell, that is more or less the situation.”
Slater came out from behind the desk, lounged against the front of it and folded his arms.
His sharply etched features had an ascetic, unforgiving quality. On occasion it was easy to envision him as an avenging angel. At other times she thought he made a very good Lucifer.
“The least you can do is explain yourself, Mrs. Kern,” he said. “You owe me that much, I think.”
She did not owe him anything, she thought. She had taken pains to make her terms of employment clear right from the start. As the proprietor of the Kern Secretarial Agency she rarely took assignments, herself, these days. Her business was growing rapidly. The result was that for the past few months she had been busy in the office, training new secretaries and interviewing potential clients. She had accepted the position with Slater as a favor to his mother, Lilly Lafontaine, a celebrated actress who had retired to write melodramas.
She had not expected to find the mysterious Mr. Roxton so riveting.
“Very well, sir,” she said, “the short version is that I have decided to take another client.”
Slater went very still.
“I see,” he said. “You are not happy in your work here with me?”
There was a grim note in his voice. She realized with a start that he was taking her departure personally. Even more shocking, she got the impression that he was not particularly surprised that she was leaving his employ, rather he seemed stoically resigned, as if it had foreseen some inevitable doom.
“On the contrary, sir,” she said quickly. “I find your cataloging project quite interesting.”
“Am I not paying you enough?” Something that might have been relief flickered in his eyes. “If so, I am open to renegotiating your fee.”
“I assure you, it is not a matter of money.”
“If you are not unhappy in your work and if the pay is satisfactory, why are you leaving me for another client?” he asked.
This time he sounded genuinely perplexed.
She caught her breath and suddenly felt oddly flushed. It was almost as if he were playing the part of a jilted lover, she thought. But of course that was not at all the case. Theirs was a client-employer relationship.
This is why you rarely accept male clients, she reminded herself. There was a certain danger involved. But finding herself attracted to one of her customers was not the sort of risk she had envisioned when she established the policy. Her chief concern had been the knowledge that men sometimes posed a risk to the sterling reputations of her secretaries. In the case of Slater Roxton, she had made an exception and now she would pay a price.
All in all, it was probably best that the association was ended before she lost her head and, possibly, her heart.
“As to my reasons for leaving—” she began.
“Who is this new client?” Slater said, cutting her off.
“Very well, sir, I will explain the circumstances that require me to terminate my employment with you but you may have a few quibbles.”
“Try me.”
She tensed at the whisper of command in his tone.
“I really do not want to get into an extended argument, sir—especially in light of the fact that I hope to return to this position in the near future.”
“You have already made it clear that you expect me to wait upon your convenience.”
She waved one black-gloved hand to indicate the jumble of antiquities that cluttered the library. “These artifacts have been sitting here for years. Surely they can wait a bit longer to be cataloged.”
“How much longer?” he asked a little too evenly.
She cleared her throat. “Well, as to that, I’m afraid I cannot be specific, at least not yet. Perhaps in a few days I will have some notion of how long my other assignment will last.”
“I have no intention of arguing with you, Mrs. Kern, but I would like to know the identity of the client you feel is more important than me.” He broke off, looking uncharacteristically irritated. “I meant to say, what sort of secretarial work do you feel is more critical than cataloging my artifacts? Is your new client a banker? The owner of a large business, perhaps? A lawyer or a lady in Polite Society who finds herself in need of your services?”
“A few days ago I was summoned to the house of a woman named Anne Clifton. Anne worked for me for two years. She became more than an employee. I considered her a friend. We had some things in common.”
“I notice you are speaking in the past tense.”
“Anne was found dead in her study. I sent for the police but the detective who was kind enough to visit the scene declared that in his opinion Anne’s death was from natural causes. He thinks her heart failed or that she suffered a stroke.”
Slater did not move. He watched her as though she had just announced that she could fly. Clearly her response was not the answer he had expected but he recovered with remarkable speed.
“I’m sorry to hear of Miss Clifton’s death,” he said. He paused, eyes narrowing faintly. “What made you summon the police?”
“I believe Anne may have been murdered.”
Slater looked at her, saying nothing for a time. Eventually he removed his spectacles and began to polish them with a pristine white handkerchief.
“Huh,” he said.
Ursula debated another moment. The truth of the matter was that she wanted very much to discuss her plan with someone who would not only understand, but possibly provide some useful advice—someone who could keep a confidence. Her intuition told her that Slater Roxton was good at keeping secrets. Furthermore, in the past few days it had become blazingly clear that he possessed an extremely logical mind. Some would say he took that particular trait to the extreme.
“What I am about to tell you must be held in strictest confidence, do you understand?” she said.
His dark brows came together in a forbidding line. She knew she had offended him.
“Rest assured I am quite capable of keeping my mouth shut, Mrs. Kern.”
Each word was coated in a thin layer of ice.
She adjusted her gloves and then clasped her hands firmly together in her lap. She took an additional moment to collect her thoughts. She had not told anyone else, not even her assistant, Matty, what she intended to do.
“I have reason to suspect that Anne Clifton was murdered,” she repeated. “I intend to take her place in the household of her client to see if I can find some clues that will point to the killer.”
For the first time since she had made his acquaintance, Slater appeared to be caught off guard. For a few seconds he stared at her, clearly stunned.
“What?” he said finally.
“You heard me, sir. The police do not see fit to investigate Anne’s death. As there is no one else available, I intend to take on the task.”
Slater finally managed to pull himself together.
“That’s sheer madness,” he said very quietly.
So much for hoping that he would understand. She got to her feet and reached up to pull the black netting down from the brim of her little velvet hat. She started toward the door.
“I would remind you of your promise to keep my secret,” she said. “Now, if you don’t mind, I really must be going. I will send word as soon as I have resolved the situation regarding Anne’s death. Perhaps you will consider hiring me again to assist you.”
“Stop right there, Mrs. Kern. Do not take another step until I have worked my way through this . . . this tangled knot of chaos that you have just tossed at my feet.”
She paused, one hand on the doorknob, and turned around to confront him. “Tangled knot of chaos? A foreign expression, perhaps?”
“I’m sure you know full well what I meant.”
“There is nothing to be worked through. The only reason I confided my intentions to you was that I hoped that you might be able to offer some advice or assistance. Yours is an eminently rational, logical mind, sir. But I see now that it was foolish of me to expect any understanding of my plan, let alone some assistance.”
“Primarily because what you intend is not a rational, logical plan,” he shot back. “It bears no resemblance to a coherent strategy.”
“Nonsense, I have given the problem a great deal of thought.”
“I don’t think so. If you had, you would realize that what you are proposing is a reckless, possibly dangerous, and, no doubt, utterly futile, endeavor.”
She had known that he might not be enthusiastic about her decision to investigate Anne’s murder but she had expected him to understand why she had to take action. So much for thinking that she and Slater had formed a connection based on mutual respect.
Now, why did that realization depress her spirits? He was a client, not a potential lover.
&n
bsp; She managed a chilly smile. “Please don’t hold back, sir. Feel free to express your true opinions of my plan. But you will have to do so to yourself. I don’t intend to be your audience.”
She started to open the door but he was suddenly there, closing it very firmly.
“A moment, if you please, Mrs. Kern. I am not finished with this conversation.”
THREE
Victory. Perhaps.
Relief spiked with a flicker of hope shot through Ursula. She raised her brows at the cold steel in Slater’s words.
“You have made it clear that you do not approve of what I intend to do,” she said. “What more is there to discuss?”
He eyed her for a long, steady moment and then he seemed to remember that he was holding his spectacles in one hand. Very deliberately he put them on—and she was suddenly quite certain that he did not need them. He wore them for the same reason she wore a widow’s veil, as a shield against the prying gaze of Society.
“What makes you so sure that your secretary was murdered?” he finally asked.
At least he was asking questions now, she thought. That was progress.
“There are a number of reasons,” she said.
“I’m listening.”
“I’m quite certain that Anne did not take her own life. There was no evidence of cyanide or any other poison in the vicinity.”
“Poisons can be subtle in their outward effects.”
“Yes, I know, but even so, Anne was not the least bit depressed. She had recently moved into a nice little house that she was looking forward to purchasing. She had bought new furniture and a new gown. She seemed very happy in her work with a client of long standing and she was making an excellent salary. In addition, Anne hinted that she was occasionally receiving handsome gratuities from her client. In short, Anne was not suffering from any financial problems.”