by Sara Rosett
A ladder in the main area of the room disappeared into an opening in the ceiling. I took a few steps up the ladder. The attic space had been converted into a bedroom, which contained a single bed, neatly made, and a deal dresser. A set of doors, a built-in wardrobe, filled one wall of the sloped-ceiling room.
I climbed down the ladder, relief washing over me. I hadn’t wanted to put it into words, but I’d been afraid I’d find Mayhew either sprawled unconscious on the floor or perhaps terribly ill and incapacitated, but the cottage was empty. I stood for a moment, hands on my hips. I was inside and nothing horrible had happened to Mayhew. I might as well look around and see if I could find a trace of where Mayhew had gone—or perhaps a copy of the manuscript.
I went to the desk and twitched open the curtain a few inches to give me some natural light. A Remington portable typewriter sat at its center. A stack of blank typing paper rested beside it along with a monthly calendar, which was blank except for a note in curling handwriting on last Friday’s date, Book due! The note was circled, and an exclamation point at the end of the letters spilled over into the squares above and below.
Other than a few pencils, the rest of the desktop was clean. I reached for the top desk drawer, then paused at a twinge of guilt. I felt like a sneak. Who was I to go through Mr. Mayhew’s desk? I fisted my hand and remembered what Mr. Hightower had said. The welfare of the employees of Hightower Books rested with Mr. Mayhew. If I could find an indication of where Mayhew had gone, then Mr. Hightower could continue the search instead of contemplating a balance sheet with red numbers, which would eventually mean cuts at Hightower Books. I hated to think of anyone being put out of their job, and I wanted to discharge this job successfully so Mr. Hightower would recommend me.
I shook out both my hands, worked my shoulders around a bit, and then gingerly pulled out the top drawer of the desk, which contained pens and more paper. Well, so much for being a snoop—nothing to worry about there. The next drawer held a stack of empty envelopes as well as a pile of typed manuscript pages. I riffled through them. They were typed notes on a story with mentions of plotlines, characters, and clues. The rest of the drawers contained files and folders labeled with things like Ideas, Revisions, Contracts, and Research. The research folder was fat with clippings from newspapers and took up most of the space in the drawer. The rubbish bin under the desk was empty.
I turned away from the desk and surveyed the rest of the room. My eyes had adjusted to the low light, and I noticed a few details I hadn’t taken in at first glance. A blanket hung over the arm of the chair near the fireplace, and the corner of a book stuck out from underneath it. I twitched the blanket back and tilted my head to read the title of the book that lay splayed open, facedown. It was the same book Jasper had given me, The Secret Adversary. Eyeglasses, the arms unfolded, sat on top of the book as if Mayhew had taken them off and laid them down, intending to return and read another chapter.
An uneasy sensation prickled along my spine. I replaced the blanket and caught a whiff of a foul odor from a decaying arrangement of flowers in a vase on the side table as the wind whistled in the fireplace. It was much cooler on this side of the room.
I stooped down by the fire. I inhaled the acrid scent of ashes as I closed the flue. I stepped back, the familiar band around my chest tightening. Slowly. Breathe slowly. Hand on my chest, I worked the air in through my nose and out through my mouth until the sensation of pressure on my chest eased.
I moved into the kitchen, troubled and edgy. No dirty dishes rested in the sink, but a plate, glass, and some silverware were turned upside down on a towel. A partial loaf of bread sat in the breadbox. It was hard as a brick. I closed the breadbox, and I went back into the main room, my uneasiness intensifying.
This was not the cottage of someone who’d left for a holiday. It felt like someone had stepped out for a short time and would return at any moment. I also hadn’t found one bit of information that might indicate where Mr. Mayhew had gone—no jotted train times, maps, guides to walking holidays, or travel books. Of course, something could have happened to draw Mr. Mayhew away unexpectedly. Perhaps he hadn’t had much time to prepare to leave—but would he go off and forget his glasses and leave the flue open? And what about the bread in the kitchen? Surely he’d throw it out along with the fresh flowers that would turn putrid within a few days?
A worry that I didn’t want to name pushed me to climb to the top of the ladder and look around the bedroom. I peeked in the wardrobe, which had an empty space on the floor, clear of dust. A suitcase would have fit perfectly there. Shirts, heavy suits, and an overcoat only partially filled the rack.
The top drawer of the bureau wasn’t closed. In the two-inch gap, I expected to see socks, ties, and undershirts, but instead my heart jerked at a partial face staring up at me. In the next instant, I recognized it was a tin mask, painted in such a lifelike manner that it looked like a bit of cheekbone, nose, and chin had been discarded in the drawer. I pressed my hand to my chest and felt the thump of my heartbeat. I told myself not to be silly. It was only a mask. No need to jump like a child hearing a scary story.
The mask was designed to cover the nose, the right side of the cheek, and the chin. Eyeglasses attached to the top of the nose would hold the mask in place. The mask was well used. Scratches marred the paint and some of the color had faded. The rest of the drawer was filled with ties and pocket squares neatly folded and arranged in a rainbow of vibrant colors from cool purple to warm tangerine.
Despite my firm lecture to myself to calm down, I slid the drawer closed with shaking fingers. This was not good—not good at all. Why would Mayhew leave his mask? I suppose he could be tired of wearing it. Or perhaps he was traveling home and didn’t wear it around his family? But if that were the case, wouldn’t he have wanted it for the journey?
I peeked in the next drawer, which contained socks, ties, and a few collars. The bottom drawer stuck, and I tugged on it. It flew open, and a bundle of pastel fabric puffed up. The drawer was stuffed. Mayhew must have pressed the fabric down to be able to close the drawer. I ran my hand over soft silks and satins and stiffer cottons. “Curiouser and curiouser,” I murmured. I couldn’t resist examining the fabric bulging over the edge of the drawer. I shook out a silk gown in the style of about ten years ago with a nipped-in waist and a full skirt.
I dropped it over my arm and pulled out the next item. It was a cotton dress, also in an outdated style. The simple lines and tiny waist would suit a young girl. A cotton chemise, a brassiere, and stockings were shoved to one side on top of two pairs of dainty shoes. I refolded everything and pressed it down so I could close the drawer. Perhaps they belonged to a sister or female relative? But then why did Mr. Mayhew have the clothes in his bedroom?
I went back down the ladder and gazed around the room. The only place I hadn’t checked was in the bathroom, and since I’d looked everywhere else, I might as well have a look in there too. It had obviously been added when the cottage had been remodeled because everything in it—the commode, the bath, and the mirrored medicine cabinet over the pedestal sink—was new. A pink silk dressing gown hung from a hook. Behind the mirrored door, the medicine cabinet contained aspirin, tooth powder, a toothbrush, and a familiar rectangular box. I turned it around so I could read the label. Smith’s Towels, the best innovation for ladies. Comfortable, convenient, and a necessity to health.
I stood there for a couple of long moments, staring at the box, then opened it. One sanitary towel remained. The little clock on the mantelpiece chimed, and I nearly dropped the box.
Breakfast—breakfast at Blackburn Hall, and Lady Holt and her manuscript. I had to get back.
I replaced the box and hurried to the front door. After I locked it, I replaced the key over the window frame, then took off at nearly a run down the path back to Blackburn Hall, my thoughts in a whirlwind. Everything I’d thought I’d known about Mayhew had been turned upside down. It didn’t appear he’d left on a journey, and yet it did—
some of his clothes and his suitcase were gone, but there was no indication of his destination, and the cottage looked as if someone had only stepped out for a moment.
And then there was the astounding fact that it appeared Mayhew was actually a woman.
What should I do with that information? From the way Anna had spoken about Mayhew last night after dinner, it seemed he—or should it be she?—had fooled all of Hadsworth. Could I possibly be wrong? I didn’t think so. The interior of the cottage had several feminine features—the flowers, the ruffled curtains, the pink dressing gown, the lack of a razor for shaving . . . and then there was the box in the medicine cabinet, the indisputable evidence of a female living in the cottage. My cheeks heated. I couldn’t imagine actually speaking to anyone about such a thing.
The chatter of dirt and small pebbles bouncing down the riverbank sounded as I neared the river, and I slowed, pausing in the shade of the pine trees. Serena clambered up the riverbank and gained the path. Breathing heavily, she braced her hands on her knees. She wore golf clothes, a sweater, a pleated skirt, and patterned stockings. Both her stockings and shoes were covered with mud, and the hem of her skirt was soaked.
“Serena—”
She jerked upright, her hand pressed to her chest, and scanned the path. I stepped into the sunlight.
“Oh, Olive—I didn’t expect anyone to be on the path.” Her complexion was washed out with a gray tinge.
“I’m sorry I startled you,” I said. “Are you all right?”
Serena scrubbed her hand through her hair. “I’ll be fine in a moment . . .” She drew in another breath. “Bit of a shock, coming on it like that, but fascinating nonetheless.”
“Coming on what?”
“A body.” She gestured at the bank. “Down in the riverbed, where the tree tumbled over.”
“Oh no. Did someone fall into the river?” It didn’t seem extremely deep, but with all the rain, I supposed if someone had fallen and injured themselves, they might not have been able to climb out of the swiftly moving water.
Serena shook her head. “No, that’s not what happened.”
A shout carried through the air. Serena and I turned. Across the river, two women, also in golfing clothes, stood in a small clearing at the edge of the riverbank, their attention focused on us. One of them cupped her hands around her mouth. “Should we come over as well?”
Serena shook her head in an exaggerated motion and yelled, “No, it’s too late.”
The other woman shouted back something about the clubhouse, and the pair departed, carrying an extra bag of clubs, which I assumed were Serena’s. She turned back to me. “I overshot the putting green. I was looking for my ball along the edge of the river when I saw a flicker of red on this side, which is odd at this time of year.”
“I can see how that color would catch your eye.” The browns, golds, and reds of autumn weren’t in evidence yet. The leaves, pine needles, and flashes of meadow through the trees were a bright green while the underbrush around the trees was a muted brown, the same shade as the tree trunks.
Serena took a deep breath before she continued. “It was fabric—a man’s tie. Muddy, but the garish color showed through. Then I made out the shape in the shadows and could see it was an outline—a figure of a person on the riverbank among the roots of the overturned tree. I have excellent distance vision, and I hoped I was wrong, but I decided I better come across to be absolutely sure. I wasn’t—wrong, I mean. I thought it was a man. The clothes—” She scrubbed her hand through her hair again. “It doesn’t make sense . . .” Her voice trailed off, but I could still hear her as she said, “. . . the figure was feminine.” She repeated the word more firmly. “Definitely feminine.”
My stomach plummeted, and my heart began to thud. “It’s a woman dressed in men’s clothing?”
Serena’s arm dropped to her side. Her gaze fixed on me. “How did you know?”
“A hunch.”
Chapter Seven
I went as close as I dared to the verge where the earth dropped down to the riverbed. Clods of dirt under the fringe of grass at the edge broke away and thumped down the steep incline, landing with soft plops on the tangle of moist earth, rocks, and tree roots. The body was in the mound of earth that had once surrounded the tree and had been heaved up when the tree had fallen.
The sodden tweed jacket and dark trousers pressed against a curvy body. The rain must have washed away the mud from the fabric. The red tie drew my eye up to the face, which was turned away from me. Even at a distance, I could see an indention on the temple. I looked away. It reminded me of a spongy dark spot on an apple going bad. A square shape half buried in the mud a little distance away was a leather suitcase. Something glittered in the sun. I inched closer and sucked in a breath. A face was half buried near the suitcase, no—not a face—a mask. It was a tin mask, a cheekbone, nose, and chin with eyeglasses attached to the nose, their empty lenses reflecting the sunlight. Mayhew must have had two masks. The other mask, the older scratched one, was at East Bank Cottage in the bureau drawer.
I swallowed hard and stepped back. “We should go back to Blackburn Hall and contact the police.”
Serena jerked her gaze away from the body. “Oh—yes. Yes, of course,” she said. After I turned away, she lingered a few moments, staring at the body, but once she joined me, she set a brisk pace. “That area of the riverbank has been weak,” she murmured more to herself than to me, I thought.
“It has?” I asked.
She started and looked at me as if she’d forgotten I was walking beside her. “Yes. In fact, I noticed last week a bit of ground near the tree had collapsed.”
We walked the rest of the way back to Blackburn Hall in silence. I was thinking furiously, trying to work out what I’d say to the police. Serena cut through the gardens at the back of the house. “Let’s go in through the drawing room. Shorter that way.” She rang for Bower and instructed him to contact the police, then went up to change out of her muddy clothes.
I perched on the edge of a chair and focused on my clasped hands. I didn’t want to think about the body, how long it had been buried in the cold earth, or how it had gotten there, but I couldn’t harness my imagination, and I’d run through several awful scenarios by the time Serena returned. She didn’t sit but walked back and forth in front of the French doors, her hands braced on the back of her hips. “It’s got to be Mayhew.”
“Could it be someone else from the village?”
She shook her head. “No, can’t be. No one is away from the village, and all the servants are here at Blackburn Hall.” She stopped walking and gave a quick smile. “It’s insular here, and we do know all the comings and goings of everyone.”
“You don’t have to explain that to me. I grew up in a small village. Anna mentioned Mr. Mayhew last night,” I said. “She said he kept to himself. Did he go into the village often?”
“No. He had food delivered. Mrs. Henley went in once a week to clean for him, but she’s told me he always went for a long walk when she came.”
Bower stepped into the room. “Police Inspector Calder has arrived. He’s gone down to the river but says he will be with you shortly.”
Serena opened an enamel box on the side table and took out a cigarette. “Show him in here when he returns.”
“Very good.” Bower closed the door.
Serena said, “I’ll try to get as much out of Calder as I can. It shouldn’t be hard. He’s a rabbit.”
Within a few minutes, Bower escorted Calder and an accompanying constable into the room. Once I’d been introduced, Calder asked me a few questions about my movements that morning, then turned his attention to Serena. Calder hadn’t said he wanted to speak to Serena alone, so I’d moved to the side of the room, out of his line of vision.
Calder shifted on the delicate chair covered in striped silk. He had flat facial features, except for his eyes, which protruded, a combination that reminded me of a pug I’d found a few weeks ago for a society matro
n. After his initial round of questions, Calder circled back to when Serena found the body. “Why did you examine the body, Miss Shires?”
Serena drew on her cigarette, then blew a puff of smoke toward the chandelier. I took a step away from the dispersing haze.
“I’ve already told you,” Serena said. “I saw what looked to be a figure—a body—and went across to investigate.”
Calder blinked his bulging eyes. “No, I meant why did you study the form itself? What made you examine it further?”
Serena stabbed the cigarette into the ashtray. “Oh, you mean why didn’t I run screaming when I realized it was actually a human being?”
“No, I—” He moved again, and the little chair creaked. “You stated you noticed it was a woman. But the person is in men’s clothes. How did you know it was a woman?”
“The clothes are wet and plastered to the body. Surely you noted that? The cleavage is obvious.” She traced an hourglass shape in the air, the cigarette clamped between two fingers. “Small waist and a swell around the hips. Do I need to go on?”
Calder’s cheeks turned pink, and he bent over his notebook. “No, that’s—er—fine.” He cleared his throat. “Did you touch the body in any way?”
“Of course not. Once I realized there was no urgency, that he—I mean she—was beyond help, I stepped back. I’m sure you’ll be able to confirm that from my footprints in the mud. I didn’t need to check for a pulse. She’d been dead for several days.”
Calder’s head jerked up. “Several days?”
“Without a doubt. Marbling had set in, and the body was beginning to swell around the abdomen. Despite the swelling, it was clear she was a woman. It’s been cool lately, and the earth covering the body would have buried it deep, which explains why putrefaction was limited.”