“As soon as you have a hint there’s anything illegal going on in that house, call me on my mobile, or let me know if you don’t find anything wrong. I’ll be waiting for your call. If they’re needed, I’ll get the right people to the house immediately. Be cautious. Criminals won’t hesitate to use violence against a person interfering with their profitable activities.” Heyward said.
“I’ll be careful,” Coleman promised.
“Good. Now fasten your seatbelt. We’ve started the descent to the Duke’s landing strip.”
•••
Coleman stared down at the narrow concrete landing strip running through acres of grass surrounded by woodlands. A large hangar and a small stone building were the only buildings in sight. She wanted to ask Heyward how big the Omnium estate was. If the Duke owned a private landing strip, surely he owned a castle, or at least a very large house. It wasn’t visible. Could the property be so immense that the castle was too far away to be seen?
The plane landed, and she grabbed her purse, which held her passport and Dolly’s papers, and with Dolly under her arm, followed Heyward off the plane. She put Dolly down on the grass, and the little dog vanished behind a nearby shrub. Coleman took a deep breath of fresh air—cool and scented with evergreen and other woodsy smells. After being enclosed in planes and a car for hours, air had never smelled better. She smiled to herself: her first smell of England. She’d make a note in her diary.
Dolly returned and the heavyset man in a khaki uniform who had been waiting outside the plane led them into the stone house. It was sparsely furnished with a desk, a file cabinet, a desk chair, and two metal chairs piled against the wall, presumably for guests. The man didn’t suggest that they sit down, but he offered Dolly a bowl of water. The little dog took a big drink, and wagged her tail in thanks.
He asked for their papers, glanced through them, stamped several, smiled, and handed Coleman her passport and Dolly’s papers.
“Welcome to England,” he said. “Your car is approaching.”
Coleman turned to look. Sure enough, a Bentley emerged from the woods and rolled up to the plane. The driver got out, and with the help of the man in the khaki uniform, removed her bags from the plane and stowed them in the car’s boot. Coleman smiled—she’d never heard an automobile trunk called “the boot”—a new word. Dinah had told her it would take a while to understand English. She’d start a collection of new words.
She looked out the windows on the drive to London, but the car was moving so fast she didn’t take in much. The hedges—she’d read that they were called hedgerows in England—were glowing with white blossoms. She’d have liked to stop and look at them, and see if the flowers were scented, but before she knew it, they had arrived at Heyward’s house.
•••
Coleman fell in love with Heyward’s house as soon as she saw it. The white marble half-circular porch, or portico, supported by white columns, stood out proudly against the rosy brick façade. A white-painted metal railing on the porch roof created a balcony on the second floor. The central window on the third floor gently echoed the curves of the portico.
Evergreen trees in large containers flanked the massive double doors. Shrubbery on both sides of the porch and the brick steps that led up to the little porch would lead the visitor to think Heyward had lived there for years. A semicircular drive allowed the car to pull up in front of the house.
Heyward went ahead to the doors, which had been opened when the car drove up. He ushered Coleman in, followed by Dolly, while what seemed like a crowd of people clustered on the porch, collecting her bags and carrying them up the stairs.
“You can take the elevator up, if you don’t want to walk up all those stairs,” Heyward called.
“No, I’ve been sitting all night. I’d rather walk,” Coleman said.
“Fine. My housekeeper, Mrs. Carter, will show you to your suite.”
Her bedroom was a dream, decorated in shades of green, taken from the hues of the exquisite green-striped wallpaper. The stripes hinted at a trellis, covered with creamy white roses in full blossom. A vase of white tulips stood on the bedside table, and she could smell a faintly spicy scent. She looked for the source, and spotted a silver bowl filled with potpourri on the dressing table. The wool carpet, also green, was softer than the grass it resembled. A white-painted door opened to a sparkling white bathroom, brightened with green towels and green glass accessories.
After Mrs. Carter opened the door to a cedar-lined closet where her clothes would hang, she escorted Coleman back into the hall, and opened another door, revealing a perfectly arranged office in the same shades of green, white, and cream as the bedroom.
“Mr. Bain thought you would prefer an office separated from your bedroom,” Mrs. Carter said.
“He’s right,” Coleman said. “Everything is perfect.”
She was reluctant to leave the beautiful suite, but Dinah was waiting. She took a quick shower, changed, grabbed Dolly, and hurried downstairs, where William, Heyward’s driver, stood by the Bentley, ready to drive her to 23 Culross.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Rachel
Friday, May, London
When Julia called to tell her about the second murder, Rachel had a horrible feeling of déjà vu. Everything was the same, except today rain was pouring down, and the air was colder than it had been on Tuesday. She wore a dark red wool suit—she couldn’t help thinking blood probably wouldn’t show on it, although she would make sure she didn’t touch anything—her Burberry raincoat, and Wellingtons. The taxi ride to the Little Palace, the serenity of the building, and Julia’s greeting were all exactly as they had been for the first death. Julia was even wearing the same strange apparel—she described it as her detective outfit.
The corpse, another swarthy young man, lay fully clothed on Stephanie’s balcony, which was twice as large as Julia’s and featured chairs and small metal tables, but no plants or flowers. His clothes—khaki trousers, a white shirt, and loafers—were soaked with rain, and diluted blood had spread all over the tiled floor of the balcony. Like the first man, his throat had been cut—the head nearly severed from the body—and the razor, a twin to the first one—lay near the corpse.
“Who is he?” Rachel asked.
“The Italian lover. His first name is Roberto or Robert. I’ll be interested to hear whether he, too, left Stephanie money,” Julia said. “If he did, I’d guess she’ll be arrested.”
“I hope Stephanie has an alibi. I think she is a self-centered little fool, but I cannot believe she is a murderer,” Rachel said.
Julia shrugged. “Who knows? Someone killed these men and she knew them both. One of them left her a small fortune. Are you going to stay to talk to the police and the Pal Pols, if they turn up?”
“No, I’m going to go home, sit by the fire, and try to get some work done. Wait a second, there’s some trash on the tiles near the body. I hope it didn’t come in on my boots.”
Rachel leaned over and, with a Kleenex, picked up what looked like a clump of hair or fur. She put it, wrapped in the Kleenex, in her raincoat pocket.
“You don’t think it’s a clue, do you?” Julia asked.
“No, I think it’s something I tracked in, probably picked up from the taxi floor. I’m in trouble enough without polluting a crime scene.”
“Where will you be the rest of the day in case the police or the Pal Pols ask?”
“I’ll be home all day. Why don’t you join me for lunch? I’ll be ready for a break, and you can update me on anything you learn between now and then.”
Julia accepted with alacrity, as Rachel was sure she would. She planned to confront Julia, as Heyward had suggested. This would be the perfect time. She felt guilty, as if she had set a trap for an innocent animal. But was Julia innocent? She had been quick to blame Stephanie for the murders.
She nearly ran out of the building to her waiting car. She berated herself all the way home. She was furious with herself for having come at Julia�
�s call, after Heyward’s warnings about Julia and the Little Palace. She’d have to tell him about the second murder, and what she had done. She’d also tell him about her theory about the crime scenes, which was the reason why she had gone to see the second crime scene. But was her suspicion a good enough reason for ignoring Heyward’s advice? She was afraid it wasn’t. From now on, she’d do what he told her to do.
Back at home, she called Heyward. She confessed that she had been at the Little Palace. Just as she feared, he was disapproving. He knew about the second murder. He had already heard she had been in the Little Palace and at the crime scene. But when she told him about her thoughts on the murders and the crime scenes, he was interested, and asked her to repeat what she had said.
“As I’ve told you, I’ve always thought the first murder looked staged, theatrical. The scene looked arranged. I still think that. I think the use of the razor is a clumsy attempt to make the murder look like suicide. I think someone arranged the scene to look like one in Dorothy L. Sayers’s Have His Carcase, in which the murdered man also had his throat cut. That murder was also originally thought to be a suicide.
“I knew I was right when I saw the second murder scene. It, too, looked arranged, theatrical. At first, I couldn’t think what book it reminded me of. Then I saw a bit of trash on the tiles—I thought I’d tracked it in, so I picked it up, and put it in my coat pocket. When it dried I realized it was gray hair. It was a clue: Whoever is arranging the murder scenes wants us to know what he’s doing. This scene was meant to remind us of Edgar Allan Poe’s “The Murders in the Rue Morgue.” The throat of one of the victims in that book was cut by a razor although the victim had been strangled to death—twice-murdered like the first man at the Little Palace. I’m guessing this second murder is the same: The poor man died of an overdose before he was ‘killed’ with the razor. It was the tuft of gray hair that convinced me. There were locks of gray hair near one of the bodies Poe’s story,” she explained.
“What do you think it means? Why would someone do this?” Heyward asked.
“Everyone is aware that both Julia and I are mystery fans, and would probably recognize these scenes. I think the killer is hinting that one or both of us is involved in the deaths,” Rachel said.
“You may be on to something,” Heyward said. “Have you mentioned your theory to anyone else?”
“No, just you,” Rachel said.
“Keep it that way. I’ll talk to the appropriate people, and let you know what they say.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Coleman and Dinah
Friday, May, London
Coleman, in a new tangerine wool suit she had designed, a beige silk shirt, and beige suede boots with three-inch heels, her sheared mink coat draped over her shoulders and Dolly in her arms, arrived at 23 Culross at exactly 11 A.M.
“Welcome!” Dinah said. “I am so glad to see you.”
Coleman hugged Dinah and looked around the foyer, where a magnificent vase of long-stemmed apple blossoms stood on a round table. An oriental rug in faded shades of red and blue covered the polished floor. “This is lovely,” she said.
Dinah led Coleman upstairs to the master bedroom, served her coffee, and showed her the makeshift kitchen she had designed for serving Jonathan breakfast in bed. She invited Coleman to sit in one of the two large overstuffed chairs near the fireplace, sat down opposite her cousin, and started talking. She told Coleman everything, much of which Coleman had already heard. Coleman listened attentively, recognizing Dinah’s need to go over it all.
When Dinah finally stopped talking, Coleman nodded.
“I think I understand the situation. We’ll take care of it today. But why is it so cold in here? And what is that dreadful smell?” she said.
Dinah sighed. “I turn the heat up, and they turn it down. The smell is some of the disgusting stuff they cook.”
“Why doesn’t Jonathan fire them?” Coleman asked.
“Ever since we got married, he’s wanted to buy a big fancy house, with a butler, a cook, a housekeeper, and probably more people, all live-in. It’s what he grew up with, what he’s used to. I love to cook and shop for groceries, and I like having a house to myself, or to be alone with him. He doesn’t want me to cook or do anything related to housekeeping. I believe he thinks it lowers his status for me to cook and buy groceries, and not depend on a house full of servants. He thought this house was the perfect place for me to learn how wonderful it is to be able to sit around and have someone wait on me. If only. He’s sure the reason this place isn’t working out is because I can’t manage the cook and the housekeeper properly, or worse, that I’m deliberately sabotaging them to get my way,” Dinah said.
“I see. Well, let’s go down and take a look at the rest of the house. Where will we find the enemy?” Coleman said.
“Probably in the kitchen,” Dinah said. “They spend the day there, eating.”
“Don’t they cook and serve lunch?”
“No, just breakfast and dinner, and they are the only people who eat the food they serve. In fact, I prepare our breakfast, eat lunch out, and shop for the take-out we have for dinner. Jonathan has lunch with people from his office. At this point we’re not eating anything Mrs. O’Hara prepares.”
“All right. Let’s tour the house first, then we’ll evict the witches.”
“I know you’re making fun, but I think they are witches, or at least they’re evil. They frighten me,” Dinah said.
Coleman shook her head. “I’m not making fun of you. This house has a bad feeling. I think ugly things have happened here. The women are a part of it. The sooner we get rid of them, the better. It’s good that the outside of the house hasn’t been infected with whatever is wrong inside. I like the exterior—the blue shutters and the purple flowers in the window boxes against the white façade are very attractive. The foyer is nice, too. That big vase is beautiful, and the little table is a very handsome piece.”
“I agree. I think Jane Ross, the owner of the house, must have designed the exterior. And that’s her vase in the foyer,” Dinah said.
“What about this beautiful antique furniture? Surely it isn’t hers. Didn’t you tell me she was poor?”
“Yes. James, our driver, who’s known her for a long time, says she has very little money. I have no idea who owns the furniture. I’ve never thought about it, or even looked at the furniture except to dust it. I don’t know anything about antiques. I didn’t know you did, either. It’s not like we grew up with them,” Dinah said.
Coleman smiled, remembering the empty rooms in their childhood home. Four Oaks, the big old house in North Carolina where they lived as children with their grandmother and aunt, was almost empty of furniture. The old ladies had been forced to sell nearly everything they owned. Most of the rooms held only dust bunnies. Coleman and Dinah had loved their grandmother and aunt, and had worked with them to support their little family. They had never missed the antiques that once decorated the house.
“We certainly didn’t. I’ve been studying furniture for First Home, both antiques and reproductions. I don’t know a lot yet, but some of these pieces are rare. I’ve seen museum pictures of furniture like them. I think all the furniture in here is valuable,” Coleman said.
She strolled through the drawing room and dining room, pausing occasionally to examine a chair or a table, bookcase or desk. “Didn’t you tell me these rooms were crammed with furniture, and filthy dirty? Everything looks look clean to me, and the amount of furniture is just right,” Coleman said.
“Yes, but we removed all the excess furniture, and cleaned these rooms to get ready for you,” Dinah said.
“What did you do with the extra furniture?” Coleman asked.
“It’s upstairs. Why do you ask?”
“I’d like to look at the rest of the furniture—see if it is as good as the pieces downstairs. But before we go upstairs, what do you know about this painting?” Coleman stopped in front of one of the few paintings she had seen
in her stroll through the house.
Dinah shrugged. “It’s dark and dull. I kept a few paintings downstairs, because the walls are so bare without them, but I dislike all of them, and most of them are upstairs with the furniture.”
“I think this dull and dark painting is hiding another very valuable painting. Come here: Look at the paint curling back here. Do you have a flashlight?”
“I have a torch,” Dinah said. “I tried for a while to buy a flashlight and was unable to find one until someone told me to ask for a torch. I’ll get it for you, but first tell me how you knew to look for that peeling paint.”
Coleman smiled. “Is that what they call it? A flashlight is a torch? Live and learn. Another word for my English collection. As to how I knew to look for the peeling paint, I read an article about thieves disguising stolen paintings by painting over them with easily removable paint. I need the flashlight to try to see the picture underneath.”
Dinah left the room, returned with the flashlight, and handed it to Coleman, who focused the light on the curling paint.
“See? Where the paint has curled back, you can see another painting under this one,” Coleman said.
“But you can’t see it very well. It might be as bad as the top one. Why do you think it’s valuable?” Dinah asked.
“Because the frame is valuable. It’s made of tortoiseshell, and it’s in very good shape. Tortoiseshell is no longer used for frames—its trade was banned worldwide in 1973. When it was used, it was expensive and fragile. This frame has been cared for. I’m sure there’s a treasured painting under the top picture. And this isn’t the only painting with an expensive frame. I’ve looked at the other three paintings on this floor and they’re all in valuable frames. Come look at them with the torch.”
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