by Sara Rosett
In the drawing room, Lady Holt suggested bridge, but Serena waved off the idea. “No, we did that last night. Let’s have something different.”
I scooted across the room to a table covered with jigsaw puzzle pieces and sat down by Anna. If Lady Holt insisted on bridge, I didn’t want to be her partner. I imagined she’d play with a drive to win and be unforgiving of mistakes. Serena held firm on not playing bridge and read a scientific periodical instead, so Lady Holt played a game of patience while Anna and I gradually fitted together the pieces of an alpine meadow.
I slotted a piece of green dotted with white flowers into place. “How did you decide to become a typist, Miss Finch?”
“Oh, call me Anna, please. Everyone assumed I would become a nurse to help Dad, but I can’t stand the sight of blood. I faint straightaway at a single drop. I’m quite useless. Training to be a typist was a way to help Dad and gain a little experience working for him at the same time. I eventually moved to London, but when my position at the insurance company was eliminated, I couldn’t find another job. Unfortunately, it’s more about who your connections are than what your qualifications are.”
“That’s been my experience as well.” I’d worked for Aunt Caroline when I couldn’t find work anywhere else, and I was only at Blackburn Hall because Jasper had put me in contact with Mr. Hightower.
“At least I found a little work around here to keep me busy,” Anna said.
“So you still work for your father?”
Anna nodded. “There’s also the Women’s Institute. They have bits and bobs that they need typed up—minutes and the like. I’m so much faster than Henrietta.” She grinned. “More accurate too. And I have my own typewriter. I don’t have to use the one at the Institute. Then there’s the golf course. Occasionally, they need extra help during the busy season. But Mr. Mayhew keeps me busy most of the time.”
I resisted the urge to swivel fully toward her and merely took a sip of my coffee. “Mr. Mayhew? What do you do for him?”
“I type his manuscripts.”
“He’s a writer? Lady Holt said there were no other writers in the village.”
Anna dropped a puzzle piece, a flush creeping into her cheeks. “Surely you know . . . don’t you? I mean—” She lowered her voice as she leaned down to pick up the puzzle piece from the floor. “You’re with Hightower Books. I assumed you knew Mr. Mayhew is . . .” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “. . . R. W. May.”
“Well, yes. I was aware of that.”
“Oh, good.” She sighed and brushed her hair away from her cheek.
I couldn’t believe my good luck at having Mayhew’s name dropped in my lap during a conversation after dinner. Was it really going to be that easy? “I didn’t know anyone else here in Hadsworth knew Mr. Mayhew wrote novels.”
“No one knows he’s the novelist R. W. May. Everyone in the village knows he has some sort of writing job. Everyone thinks he writes technical manuals, and they think I type them.”
“You must see a lot of him.”
“Actually, no one does. Because of his . . . well . . . you know.”
“No, I don’t. I’m new to Hightower Books.” A true statement if there ever was one.
“I didn’t realize.” Anna glanced around the room. “It’s no great secret, so I don’t suppose it will hurt to tell you. He wears a tin mask.”
“Oh, I see.” Many men had returned from the Great War with facial disfigurements, and specially designed masks hid their injuries. “I can see why he might want to keep to himself,” I said, but my thoughts were racing. The photograph Mr. Hightower had shown me of Mr. Mayhew was one of a man without any disfigurement or injury. I’d seen veterans on the streets of London in their masks, which were quite lifelike. They were painted to match the soldier’s skin tone, but one could usually see the edges where the mask ended. The man in the photograph hadn’t been wearing a mask.
“He mostly keeps to his cottage,” Anna said.
“Where’s that?”
“East Bank Cottage, near the river that separates Blackburn Hall from the golf course.” She pointed vaguely in what would be the direction of the golf course. “It was an old workman’s cottage. Lady Holt had it converted and completely modernized. She even had electric run from the plant here at Blackburn Hall for it. She had planned to lease it to holiday people—golfers, I think. But then Mr. Mayhew took it. That was several years ago.”
“But you’ve met him?”
“I work for him, but I don’t talk to him.”
“I don’t understand.”
She tried to fit a piece into the puzzle, then removed it. “He leaves me his handwritten manuscripts outside his cottage in a basket by the door, and I type them up. I drop them through the post slot at his cottage a few chapters at a time. If he has changes, he leaves those for me in the basket. I retype everything and drop it off again.”
“Interesting system. Surely you’ve seen him out and about occasionally?”
“Only a few times, and that was from a distance. He does like to walk in the evenings. Sometimes I see him walking on the paths around the village, but he’s usually a good distance away. I only know it’s him because he always wears a bright tie and matching pocket square. His tweeds blend in with the woods, but that bit of bright purple or yellow catches your eye.”
“I understand he has a new book coming out soon.” I leaned forward, doing my best imitation of someone fishing for inside information. “Do you know all the details?”
Anna abandoned the puzzle piece and picked up a new one. “I’m sorry, but I can’t talk about anything like that. Strictly hush-hush, you know.”
“Too bad he’s such a recluse. I’d love to meet an author, especially one we’re publishing at Hightower Books.”
“I don’t think that would be possible even if he were here.” She lifted a shoulder. “But it doesn’t matter. He’s left.”
“Left?”
“He’s on holiday.”
“That would be lovely.” I tried to infuse wistfulness into my tone, despite the fact that my jaunt to Blackburn Hall certainly felt like a holiday. “Did he go to the seaside?”
“Haven’t the faintest. It was a bit unexpected, I think.” The skin between her brows crinkled. “He hadn’t mentioned anything about it. He sent me a note last week with instructions to carry on.”
Serena dropped her scientific journal onto a side table and came across the room to us. Anna made room for her on the sofa. “I’ve been meaning to ask you, any progress on your whisper vacuum?” Anna said to me, “Serena is incredibly brainy. She’s going to come up with a quiet vacuum.”
“Not yet, I haven’t. My last attempt failed miserably,” Serena said. “I have such a difficult time concentrating when it’s noisy. I think people are much more productive in a peaceful, quiet environment.” She moved a couple of puzzle pieces around. “Do you play golf, Olive?”
“No, I’ve never tried it. I wouldn’t know how to begin.”
“Oh, you must come play a round with me. It’s not that difficult. I can show you the basics.”
Anna let out a sharp laugh. “Not difficult? Don’t let Serena fool you, Olive. Golf is one of the most frustrating pastimes.”
Serena said, “Don’t listen to her. You’ll love it, I’m sure. I’m already part of a foursome tomorrow, but what about . . . let’s see . . . I have a tee time on Friday. Would you like to go with me?”
“I may not be here on Friday,” I said.
“I’m sure Maria will keep you captive here until Mr. Hightower consents to publish her book,” she said with a grin. “Let’s tentatively plan on Friday morning.”
The men joined us at that point, and Zippy suggested a game of charades, which made asking more questions about Mayhew impossible. After everyone retired for the evening, I went upstairs, changed into a pair of jodhpurs and sturdy shoes, and pulled on a blouse and cardigan. I hadn’t known what activities would be on the agenda at Blackburn Hall. I’d been s
ure to bring appropriate clothes for every activity, including riding. Dressing appropriately was a sign of good breeding, and I hadn’t wanted to get off on the wrong foot with Lady Holt by having to ask to borrow clothes if riding was planned.
I wasn’t planning on riding that night, though. I wanted a look at the cottage. I didn’t expect to find Mayhew had suddenly returned, but I did want to locate East Bank Cottage and see what sort of place it was. And if I noticed a way inside . . . well, I might duck in for a few moments and look about for a note or discarded map or train schedule. Any information that I found, I’d pass on to Mr. Hightower.
I hadn’t brought a torch, but I thought there might be one in the closet under the stairs near the Hall’s telephone table. The door of the closet was paneled and blended seamlessly with the board and batten pattern of oak paneling on the wall under the stairs. If the door hadn’t been open when I went down to dinner, I wouldn’t have known the closet was there. A servant had been putting away a set of golf clubs. It looked like the sort of place that would collect miscellaneous odds and ends like sporting equipment, boots, umbrellas, and perhaps a spare torch.
The entry hall was dark and deserted. I trotted down the stairs and hunted along the wall beside the telephone table and a conveniently placed chair until I found a notch in the oak molding. It swiveled when I prodded it, and the door opened. A mishmash of tennis rackets, croquet mallets, and golf clubs sagged along the inside wall beside boots, umbrellas, and a few boxes. On a shelf, I found a mix of mittens and scarves as well as a torch. The light was a bit dim when I switched it on, but I wouldn’t need it for long.
I dropped the torch into my pocket, then slipped out through the sitting room’s French doors. I was halfway across the terrace when I paused. The lights in the drawing room were still on, and I assumed some of the family were still awake, but I didn’t want to be locked out of the house if everyone retired before I returned.
I found a flat piece of bark in the garden, returned to the house, and wedged it in the latch of the door against the strike plate so the door closed but didn’t lock, a handy trick I’d learned at boarding school. Essie Matthews had used a coin when she’d shown me how to make sure the door didn’t lock behind us when we snuck out at night, but since I hadn’t thought to bring change with me, the bark would have to do.
I walked through the sculpted hedges and circular flower beds to the curving path that followed the river. On the other side of the swiftly moving water, the golf course was an expanse of blackness. Overhead, the wind whistled through the trees. Except for the swooshing sound of the water and the hoots of an owl, the night was incredibly quiet until thunder rolled in the distance. I picked up my pace.
I left the ambient light coming from Blackburn Hall and moved into the thick blackness of the countryside, where I had to switch on the torch. The path ran through a belt of trees near the river and was wide and easy to follow, except for a small crumbled portion near a towering chestnut tree at the edge of the riverbank. Some of the earth around it had fallen in a cascade down to the river, which flowed several feet below the path. As I walked on, the path curved away from the river, and the ground rose steadily. I kept going until I spotted a square structure set a few yards off the path. A sign attached to a gate read East Bank Cottage.
The building was completely dark and looked deserted. The hinges moved soundlessly as I opened the gate and stepped through it. I turned off the torch and walked carefully down the track to the cottage. My eyes had adjusted to the night, and I made out curtains covering the windows, but not even a chink of light showed around the fabric. The air stirred, and a stronger gust of wind buffeted the cottage, heavy with the scent of rain. Thunder rumbled again, closer this time.
I padded quickly back to the path and returned to Blackburn Hall. I didn’t want to get caught in a downpour and leave sopping footprints on the stairs as I returned to my room. At least I’d located East Bank Cottage. I’d be an early bird the next day and take a morning walk before Lady Holt could corral me into reading the rest of the manuscript.
Chapter Six
I wrapped my cardigan tighter around my waist as I walked along the path to East Bank Cottage the next morning. I wished I’d brought a coat with me to Hadsworth. The storm had moved through during the night, and the air had a chilly edge, a reminder that autumn wasn’t far off.
The distant thwack of golf clubs connecting with balls drifted through the air from the other side of the river, along with occasional snippets of conversation and laughter. Pounding rain had fallen during the night, accompanied by thunder and winds that had rattled the windowpanes. This morning, ragged patches of clouds scuttled across the sky, and wind whipped through the tops of the tree branches. The path was spongy, and the river, swollen with rain, tumbled over the rocks, filling the air with the sound of its rush and burble.
The path turned, and I halted. The earth that had formed the path along the riverbed had sheared away, taking with it the large chestnut tree I’d noticed last night. The massive tree had toppled into the river. Water gurgled over the leaves and swirled among the barriers of the branches. The tree’s roots had formed part of the bank that dropped down to the river, but now the root ball was exposed, extending into the air above my head. Mud clung to the gnarled roots and water dripped from the fine hair-like offshoots. I gave the area around the fallen tree a wide berth, moving across the squishy wet leaves of the forest floor, testing the ground as I walked.
Once I emerged from the grove of trees into an open area, the ground firmed up, and I moved back to the path as it arched away from the river and climbed to higher ground. I turned off down the track to East Bank Cottage and passed through the gate.
The cottage looked as quiet and deserted as it had last night. The curtains were still closed, and no smoke wafted from the chimney. It certainly didn’t look as if anyone was home, and Anna had said that Mr. Mayhew was on holiday, but after I’d returned to Blackburn Hall last night, I’d lain awake in bed listening to the rain battering against the windows.
Was Anna sure Mayhew had left Hadsworth? Perhaps he’d intended to leave, notified Anna of his departure, but then something had happened . . . and no one realized he hadn’t actually left. Did he have someone who came in to clean or deliver food? Had Mayhew also contacted them and told them he was leaving? If he had, then no one would have visited the cottage since last week.
Of course, Mayhew might be sunning himself on the veranda of some seaside hotel or trekking along a path in the Lake District, but Mr. Hightower had said Mayhew was conscientious and didn’t miss deadlines. Mr. Hightower hadn’t received the manuscript. Mayhew didn’t sound like the type of person who would ignore that sort of obligation. The more I thought about it, the more I felt I had to take a peek inside the cottage to make sure nothing was amiss.
But now as I approached East Bank Cottage in the bright sunshine, my determination slipped. It looked so idyllic and tranquil. The daylight picked out details that had only been fuzzy in the dark. Flowers and ivy trailed from window boxes on either side of the front door, and there was a shiny brass mail slot in the lower panel of the door. Water dripped from the flower boxes, leaving muddy trails down the stone exterior. The basket Anna had described sat beside the front door, protected from the rain by a small outcropping of roof. The basket was empty.
I approached the door and knocked briskly. When no answer came after a few moments, I considered heading back to Blackburn Hall. I could telephone Mr. Hightower, tell him Mayhew was away, and collect the balance of my forty pounds.
I stepped back from the door. No, it was no use. I couldn’t walk away. I needed to know the cottage was empty, then I’d contact Mr. Hightower. I knelt down and pushed on the mail slot. All I could see was more of the same metal. The mail slot must be fixed with a hood on the other side to prevent someone from doing exactly what I was—looking directly inside.
I made a complete circuit around the cottage. Herbs and vegetables filled
a square of earth in the back. The plants in the kitchen garden were leggy, and weeds poked through the soil in between the neat rows of vegetables. I’d hoped one of the curtains would be open an inch to give me a view inside, but all the curtains were pulled, and when I tried the handle at the back door, it didn’t budge.
I didn’t want to return to Blackburn Hall without at least a peek inside, but I drew the line at breaking in. I couldn’t do that. My father’s training had instilled certain precepts I just couldn’t bear to break. So smashing a window was out, but I could search for a key.
I returned to the front door and lifted the mat, but there was nothing under it. I danced my fingers along the doorframe, then felt around the edges of the window boxes. Nothing. I shook the moisture from my hands, then traced my fingers along the window frame. At the end of one of the windows, I felt something cool and flat. I pulled the key down from the ledge and inserted it into the door, my heart pounding fast.
I pushed the door, but it stuck, leaving a gap of only a few inches. I shoved, and the door fell back. I poked my head inside. A pile of large envelopes rested on the rug inside the door. I pocketed the key, closed the door, then picked up an envelope. It was sealed and had no address, just a note written in a sharp-cornered blocky style with a date from last week and the words Chapter Seven. These must be Anna’s typed chapters.
I replaced it where I’d found it and surveyed the single open room that made up the entire main floor of the cottage. It was dim and stuffy in the small space, and the acrid smell of ashes lingered. I wished I could throw open one of the windows and let in the cool air.
A single upholstered chair was positioned by a fireplace next to a side table with a lamp. On the opposite side of the room, a desk sat in front of one of the curtained windows that looked out onto the path to the cottage. At the back of the room, a sink, a dresser, an electric cooker, and a round wooden table formed a kitchen area. The curve of a cast-iron tub showed through a half-open door off the kitchen.