“Something. Yes, something. We just haven’t yet figured out what that something is, have we?”
Irene reached out and Edward took her hand, kissing it on both sides and watching her return his smile.
He said, “Do I need to slap you again to get you to finally see? Donald has to know the truth at some point. You need to tell him you aren’t happy.”
“I told you I won’t and I haven’t changed my mind,” Irene replied. Then she looked up at him and asked, “Are you jealous of Donald?”
Edward turned away quickly, dropping Irene’s hand.
“Jealous of what? That he’s a County Alderman? No. That he’s rich because he’s stealing from the village every chance he gets?”
“Edward! You said you would never talk about that.”
“But it’s the truth, Irene. And I’m certainly not jealous that you are his wife,” he said. “I’m married too, remember, and that isn’t about to change. Whether you continue to befriend me is totally up to you, but you need to tell him if you are seriously considering leaving him. You must.”
Irene’s voice wavered as she answered: “I don’t trust him, Edward. You know that. I don’t trust that he won’t do something awful if he knew the truth about me…about us.”
“No, no Irene. This is about you, not us. You’re the one that is frightened of him and wants to leave.”
“I…I’m so scared, Edward,” Irene said, dropping her head into her hands. “Help me, please.”
“Stop the hysterics, Irene. This is Edward you’re talking to. I already offered you my help in the form of the best advice I can give. Now grow up and do something for yourself for a change.”
Irene lifted her face again to confirm that Edward was not going to comfort her any more. She quickly gathered her composure and stood.
“Fine. Be that way,” she pouted. “You’ll be sorry when I’m gone.”
The door slammed shut just as loudly as when she entered and Edward listened to her go down the steps, just as she had done so many times in the past. He was really quite tired of her theatrics, but had to admit he never tired of her beauty and the fact she came to him at all. Not to mention her wealth and what that might mean to him in the future should circumstances play out in his favor.
Edward walked to the window and looked down, only to laugh aloud at the scene in the alley below. Irene’s unfortunate day had suddenly grown even worse when she ran into the one person in Alnmouth she least wanted to see at that instant: Dorothy Dunne, a schoolteacher approaching her sixtieth birthday and an outspoken antagonist of both Irene and Donald Hall.
“You appear especially ruffled today, Irene,” Dorothy said when they stood face to face. “Having a bad day already?”
“I wasn’t,” Irene replied. “But things can change so quickly, can’t they.”
“I do have a question for you,” Dorothy said unfazed. “The ladies at tea the other day brought it up and wanted me to ask you the next time we met. They wondered…in fact, we all do…if your husband, as Alderman, could possibly spend some of the money he oversees on our village streets instead of giving it all to Alnwick?”
Both women knew equally well that Irene knew virtually nothing about the workings of government. It simply was not among the topics of argument between the Halls.
“I’m sure Alnmouth gets its fair share,” Irene answered irritably.
“You two seem very well off considering your modest beginnings,” Dorothy said. “Perhaps a private contribution would be in order.”
An already seething Irene said with clenched teeth, “My ‘beginnings’ and our financial position have nothing to do with the village and, frankly, it is none of your business, Mrs. Dunne. I suggest you and the ladies keep your thoughts to yourself.”
As Irene began to pass, Dorothy blocked her path and said in a near whisper, “I’d be very careful, Mrs. Hall. There are people in Alnmouth who are doubtful that you and your husband have the best interests of the village in mind. Be very careful.”
Irene pushed Dorothy aside without acknowledgement. As she walked home, one of the buildings Irene passed was the village hall. Inside, a tall, handsome, forty-five-year-old man weaved his way through a maze of hallways in the back of the old structure. Years of redesign created entrances and stairwells that many residents never knew existed. However, Donald Hall knew of them and used them regularly to his advantage.
One of the second floor doorways was to the back of the treasurer’s office, where a safe was routinely left unlocked by the elderly, overly trusting treasurer. Donald Hall looked in all directions up and down the hallway before entering the room. He stopped to listen once again. Assured that he was alone, Donald kneeled in front of the safe. Within seconds, a handful of money was stuffed inside his coat pocket.
He moved quickly and quietly back into the hallway and down the nearest stairs. Donald exited the building by a side door and was soon crossing the street, tipping his cap to each lady he encountered. He arrived home a few moments after Irene.
Donald went straight to his office and transferred the money to a large envelope, which he locked inside a wall safe. He turned to pour a drink from the decanter on his desk when he saw his wife leaning against the open door.
“There are people in Alnmouth that don’t trust you, Donald,” Irene said.
Donald poured the drink and sat in a large chair behind his desk.
“Are there? I’m surprised you talk to them.”
“They corner me in alleys and don’t let me leave until they have told me,” she said.
“And you believe them, of course.”
Irene closed the door after entering the room.
“How long have you been stealing the village’s money?”
“What makes you think that was money? I deal with important county documents every day, my dear,” he said. “You’ve been talking to Williams again, haven’t you?”
“My God, Donald. Even Dorothy Dunne thinks you are stealing,” Irene said. “What are you going to do when they catch you? What am I going to do when they catch you?”
Donald laughed.
“You, of course, will run to Edward, like you always do. It’s all you know to do when I’m not there to guide you. You understand, don’t you, that he’s too weak to leave his wife, even for you. Now, if you were twenty years old, perhaps….”
Donald deftly dodged the ashtray that Irene hurled at him while screaming, “Damn you, Donald Hall. He’s more of a man than you’ll ever be. At least he earns an honest living.”
“Go to him,” Donald said with a wave of his hand. “Find out what it’s like to live once more on the wages of a housekeeper like you did before me.”
When she did not reply, Donald continued, “But I know you won’t. You won’t give this up.”
“I will go to him someday, Donald. I swear it. I’m tired of living this lie,” Irene told him.
After a pause, she added, “And I won’t think twice about exposing you after I leave.”
With that, Irene left the room. Donald lit a cigar and finished his drink, staring out the window and thinking about the future.
Lord Stewart Takes a Holiday
Mary Hastings had known Lord Charles Stewart for two full years and still did not know what to make of him. Charles, as she was permitted to call him, introduced himself to her in a North Yorkshire shoe store under the false pretense of buying shoes for a non-existent sister. She found the plain looking, shortish man of forty-nine years of age quite interesting, if not a bit eccentric. Just her sort of man, actually.
He, on the other hand, found no faults with the forty-year-old teacher at a school for orphaned and disadvantaged children in Scarborough. She, too, was short of build and had long, brunette hair and penetrating dark eyes.
They would have been friends even if Mary was not enthralled with his being the son of a Duke and Duchess, living with just his staff in Yorkshire’s Balfron Manor. She cemented their friendship by providing a vital c
lue in Charles’ quest to solve two murders. An amateur sleuth of ever-improving skills, Charles often assisted the local police in crime investigations. However, the double murders had brought Charles and Mary together in what had become a solid bond.
They saw each other regularly now and the onset of summer promised even more time together. It was Charles that first brought up the idea of a trip as he and Mary sat in the manor’s study.
“Have you ever been to Northumberland, Mary?” Charles asked, watching the smoke from his cigarette rise gently.
“I have not,” she replied. “There’s not much to see, is there?”
Charles smiled and said, “Well, I suppose the North Sea looks the same there as anywhere, and I would want to be on the coast if we were to go.”
“Are we going?”
“Would you go with me?” he asked.
“I would go anywhere with you, Charles. Within reason, of course.”
“I think it would be reasonable to spend a week in Alnwick,” he said. “You’ll love the castle and there’s a lovely marketplace for you to spend your money. Or, if you prefer, we could stay in Alnmouth. It’s a bit smaller and right on the coast. Not much to see there, but Bingham could drive us into Alnwick any time you please.”
Mary considered the options while Charles watched her. He knew she was not one to linger making a decision and was not surprised when she said quickly, “I think it would be fun to stay in the smaller village, on the sea. Do you think there’s a hotel there?”
Charles nodded.
“I’ve been through Alnmouth at least once and I recall one, yes. Sturdy enough place, I believe. If it doesn’t meet your standards, we shall move.”
Mary smiled and said, “My standards are a one-bedroom apartment, Charles. You know that. I’m sure it will be fine.”
Two years earlier, Mary was somewhat in awe of personally knowing a Lord. Her expectations of a pretentious, heartless aristocrat were hastily removed by Charles’ nearly relentless adulation of her and his apparent disregard of her lowly upbringing. While he was serving as a writer for the Daily Telegraph during The Great War, she was barely making enough to eat by teaching at orphanages and schools. When he and his butler Bingham returned to Balfron Manor after the war to engage in travel and sport, Mary continued teaching.
Pure chance brought them together, but destiny seemed to link them. Charles’ attraction to intelligent, witty, and short women with brunette hair also helped.
They decided to leave in a week, which gave Mary and Bingham ample time to put together enough clothing for a few days away from home. Mary eagerly passed on the news to the other teachers at her school and to her headmistress, Mrs. Murgatroyd, who sternly accepted the news of Mary’s impending absence, but secretly was delighted with the teacher’s good fortune.
Mary packed two bags after a warning from Mrs. Murgatroyd that Northumberland weather was unpredictable during any season. Mary was also prepared to take up Charles on his offer to visit Alnwick’s marketplace, which surely would have everything a Northumberlander—or visitor—would need. Regardless of how many bags she packed or how many visits she made to the stores, Mary was certain she would never own anything that would make her appear to belong to a gentleman like Charles. Luckily, for both of them, she never dwelled on that thought for more than a moment.
Finally, the morning came when Bingham drove Lord Stewart’s Daimler to the entrance gate of Hillcrest School in Scarborough. Charles and Bingham got out and walked the brick path up to the main building. On either side of what looked like a village green were small cottages housing the students. Tall trees lined the green and Charles thought back to the very first time he made the walk to surprise Mary with an invitation to lunch. This time, she anxiously awaited him inside the front door.
“Bingham, if you’d get the lady’s bags we’ll be on our way,” Charles said after greetings were exchanged.
“What a lovely day you chose for such a long trip, Charles,” Mary said as they walked to the car. “The train would have been just fine, you know.”
“Yes, I suppose. But then it means hiring a car to get anywhere,” he replied. “Bingham enjoys dodging the sheep along the roads, don’t you old man?”
Bingham laughed and said, “I may hug the coast the entire time to avoid the confounded beasts. Besides, I’m not sure if the sheep or the sheepherders are worst. Old women on bikes can be a nuisance, as well.”
Mary was certain she was going to enjoy the journey no matter the obstacles. She had found in the past two years that Charles did not require a lot of conversation to be entertained, which was fine with her. She feared boring him to tears with talk of school and gossip about other teachers, but found he put up with it nicely.
One thing Mary never seemed to get used to was the luxury of riding in Charles’ car. With hard economic times befalling most of the country and people losing jobs with regularity, fewer automobiles were being seen in places like Scarborough. Thus, she felt like the Queen sitting next to Charles in the back while Bingham drove them out of town.
They took the Scalby road north and soon were outside the limits of the port city. Once through the forests and moors surrounding Cloughton, the travelers started on a long stretch of gently rolling swales on the way to Hawsker and, eventually, Whitby. Seemingly endless fields spread in all directions, although they knew the North Sea was not far to the east.
“It just seems like yesterday instead of many months ago that Bingham and I were here in the midst of a gale, searching for the Leverings’ graves,” Charles said to Mary as they approached Whitby. “That was a sad affair all around. Greed is such an ugly wickedness.”
They crossed the River Esk and continued northwest, away from the coastline for a few miles. Skirting the edge of the Gisborough moor, they sped toward Middlesbrough on the River Tees.
“We can stop in Newcastle, if that’s satisfactory, Lord Stewart,” Bingham said. “It won’t be an hour more.”
“That’s fine, Bingham,” Charles replied, looking at Mary for her approval, which she gave. “By then I will know the life history of every teacher at Hillcrest School.”
She slapped his arm in protest and purposely began to add detail to her stories she would have otherwise excluded.
Newcastle was, by far, the largest city they would go through on this day. It was once part of the county of Northumberland, but grew large enough to be a county by itself. Bingham maneuvered along the city streets until crossing over the new Tyne Bridge, after which they all kept their eyes open for a suitable diner.
Having found one, Bingham parked the car and the threesome gladly got out to stretch their legs and have a bite of food.
“How much farther, Bingham?” Mary asked during the meal.
“Perhaps an hour, miss,” he replied. “Not much to see, I’m afraid. We’ll be about five miles from the coastline and in the middle of the fields once outside the city.”
Bingham’s description did not do the boredom of the remainder of the trip justice. Only the variations in shades of green and gray, or the differing heights of the knolls, prevented it from appearing they were not moving at all. The tiny villages of Stannington, Mitford, and Newton-on-the-Moor passed without a notice.
Then, amid the groves of trees, the tops of a handful of stone houses became visible and the tower of Alnwick Castle came into view.
“Ah, finally,” Lord Stewart exclaimed. “Good job, Bingham. We’ll have to turn east up here and follow the river down to Alnmouth.”
“Yes, my Lord.”
A short drive toward the coastline soon turned the farm fields into a marsh. However, once they passed over the River Aln, they were on the tree-lined road leading into Alnmouth. Mary craned her head to look more closely at what she believed was a small school building. Bingham made the right hand turn onto Northumberland Street and slowed as they began to pass a solid line of buildings.
“It’s the Brampton we are looking for, Bingham,” Charles told
the driver. “Straight ahead on the right, I believe.”
Large, dark shutters bordered every window in the front of the three-story hotel. A wrought iron sign confirmed to Bingham that they had arrived and he pulled in front of the arched doorway.
Everyone within sight turned to look at the luxurious car as the doors opened and the occupants climbed out. Mary, still not used to having a butler assist her, was out of the car before Bingham was half way around and he began to remove the baggage as she stepped onto the sidewalk.
A teenage girl carrying a bag of groceries was staring at the happenings as if in a trance.
“Hello. Lovely day, isn’t it? You’ve been shopping?” Mary said to her.
“Oh, yes,” the girl replied, never taking her eyes off Bingham and the car. “Mr. Clarke sent me to the market. Mr. Clarke sends me on errands.”
Mary had seen enough children in her career to recognize the signs of an infirmity and instantly took a liking to the girl.
“Would you like to ride in the car someday?” Mary asked.
The girl’s eyes grew large and she said, “Yes, if Martha and Mr. Clarke would let me.”
“My name’s Mary. What’s yours?”
“Anna,” the girl said shyly.
“Anna, I’ll be in town for a few days. The next time I see you we’ll see if Martha and Mr. Clarke will let you take a short ride.”
“I have to take these to Mr. Clarke now,” Anna said. “Have to go to the school.”
Just as Mary was about to say ‘Bye,’ the girl turned and said to her, “Mr. Clarke thinks the hotel is a bad place.”
With that the girl scurried off and Mary watched her until Charles took Mary’s arm and led her into the hotel. The Brampton Hotel dated back to the 1700’s and little had changed about the lobby in all that time. To the left was the dining room and lounge, looking out over Northumberland Street. Ahead and to the left was the dark wooden reception desk with an office behind that. The entire right side of the room was filled with various couches, chairs, and end tables. The area was dimly lit and the earthy furniture had a consistently ancient air to it.
People Say I'm Different: A Lord Charles Stewart Mystery Page 2