"Did he give you more to drink, sit close, kiss you?"
"Did he do that to you?"
Her breathing turned ragged—tears coursed down her face—her body shook. "He raped me."
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
My brain went into fibrillation. I couldn't answer.
Having said the words she probably now regretted, Elizabeth then spoke softly. "Last night I thought he might do the same to you."
"He didn't rape me." I tried to sound reassuring. "Probably he thinks he didn't rape you, that you wanted him. Most women would, you know. Anyway, he has a huge ego."
After a long pause, Elizabeth calmed down. "Not always. When I first moved into Mason Hall, he was polite, considerate, always asking me about my school and how I was getting on. We were like good chums. Then he brought Noreen home and I—" She stopped mid-sentence.
"You felt jealous," I filled in.
"Not like you mean. I'm years older than he is, and we're cousins besides."
"Chaz cares nothing about age and thinks that 'cousin' taboo is outdated."
"He told me that too, but I didn't fantasize anything. I missed the camaraderie, a friend to talk to. You know how Jason is. Might as well try to talk to a stone wall, a stuck-up one at that."
I agreed. Jason had less sympathy for others than a houseplant.
"Even though Chaz is younger," Elizabeth continued, "he seemed wiser. He understood things."
"So what happened after Noreen came?"
"Right off she started playing up to Edward, the poor old soul. None of us could believe it when they said they planned to be married. Yet it didn't bother me as much as it did Mum and the others."
"You thought you and Chaz would be together once more?"
"Yes. He started taking me to the club again. And other places. We had jolly times. He said I was too pretty not to get married again, and he'd try to introduce me to some nice men."
"Did he?"
"One or two, but nothing came of it. Chaz kept taking me places though, and I enjoyed his company."
I understood now why those pretty dresses hung in her closet. "But you, like everyone else in the family, knew Chaz and Noreen—"
"I knew he and Noreen were, well, together at night after Edward went to bed. I felt sorry for the old man, but it was none of my business. Then she—"
Her hands shook, and I took one in mine. I couldn't help wondering if she had told the truth about her feelings, if she was jealous Chaz and Noreen were playing house. Yet I also wanted to know what happened next.
"Everyone says that after Edward died, Chaz and Noreen began to quarrel," I told her. "Is that right?"
"He changed. He scarcely talked to me, drank more. Then one night—" She looked up, as if pleading for me to understand how it happened. "We'd been to the club, had drinks in his studio, listened to music." She stopped, took a breath. "You know that American film where Harry comforts Sally and…"
"And they end up making love," I finished. Hollywood has a lot to answer for. I knew now why she didn't want to wear that red dress to the club, and I knew how she'd felt because I'd been close to it myself less than twelve hours before. The man was darn near irresistible, especially to a woman with post-divorce angst.
"It wasn't like that. I knew better. I said, 'no.' Truly I did. You must believe me."
"I do believe you." I considered telling her Chaz hadn't listened to my protestations either, and I might have been in her position had it not been for the dog, but I didn't think it would help her.
She searched in her pocket for a handkerchief and held it to her face. She went on speaking, her words muffled. "I'm going away next term, up to Durham where Dorothea lives. I'd have left by now, but I already signed the contract for the school term here. I couldn't cancel at the last minute, let the school down."
I gave her a mental A-plus for integrity. Despite her anguish, she would do her duty. Was that a British trait, or could our family take credit for it?
Elizabeth wiped her eyes and looked up at me. "You're not to tell anyone what I've said, especially my mum. You're the only one who knows." Her eyes narrowed. "And don't tell Chaz I told you. I'd be too humiliated."
"But you shouldn't feel that way. You've done nothing wrong. He's the one who should go away."
She clutched my arm, as if I'd jump up and oust Chaz from the premises then and there. "No. Noreen's to blame. If she hadn't come here and turned everyone's life topsy-turvy… She ruined Chaz, made him cruel and heartless." She broke off, tears choking her voice.
I put my arms around her. "It's over now. You'll be fine."
After a while, she stopped crying, wiped her eyes, blew her nose. She even gave me a faint smile as if unburdening herself had given her a different perspective. I walked her to the door, and we went into the great hall.
She turned to me and spoke softly. "You know, I think maybe you're right. Chaz didn't rape me. It's true I kept saying, 'no,' all the time, but somewhere along the line I think it turned to, 'now.'" She lowered her head. "I guess I didn't want to admit it to myself, ashamed to think I was no better than…"
I hugged her. "Look, the day we become perfect is the day we ascend to heaven. And, personally, I'm not ready to have you leave the earth."
"Thanks. I think I'm okay now. I guess I needed to tell someone, to sort of put it in perspective. Thanks for listening." She stuffed her handkerchief in the pocket of her jeans and headed for the stairs.
I stood still for a while, thinking about our conversation. Elizabeth was old-fashioned, not realizing, perhaps, we lived in an age of expanding social boundaries and a decidedly lower threshold of embarrassment. Then I went back into the library to be sure I hadn't left my empty coffee cup on the table there.
Rain had been falling, but sometime during the morning it had stopped, and the sun slanted in through the windows, making the brass andirons in the fireplace gleam like gold. The light caught something else, a pair of polished shoes in front of one of the large wingback chairs on the other side of the room. Had they been left there the night before, or did someone occupy the chair then? I tiptoed forward and saw Uncle William leaning back, eyes closed, two fingers of his right hand inserted into a book.
Despite my cautious approach, he apparently heard me or sensed my presence and opened his eyes. He straightened up. "Ah, Olivia. Didn't hear you come in."
I wondered how long he'd been sitting in that chair and how much of my conversation with Elizabeth he'd heard.
"Must have been dozing over my book." He held his hand up, showing me the slim brown volume. I decided that—inasmuch as he was hard of hearing—even if he hadn't been dozing, he probably couldn't have heard us.
I said, "I'm leaving now," and started for the door.
He rose from the chair and followed me. "I say, I've been meaning to talk to you about that mortgage business."
"Yes?"
"It seems to be all right. Jason says it was merely an application, and he rang up the company and cancelled the whole matter." He smiled. "No harm done."
"I'm glad." I remembered the other paper I found in the office that day. "And the detective agency receipt?"
William frowned. "I mentioned that to Jason as well, but he told me there was no detective agency receipt."
"But I saw it."
"He feels you were mistaken. The receipt was not from a detective agency but an appraiser. About the property."
The letterhead I saw read, "Private Investigations." Since when did such a firm do property appraisals?
However, I didn't argue with William about it. "I see." I thanked him and left the room.
I went straight to the office, but of course Jason had gone to his job in the city. I stood in the doorway and looked over the room, as usual uncluttered, everything in its place. I knew precisely where I'd put the receipt: in a folder labeled what else? Receipts. In the left-hand desk drawer. I stared at the drawer for at least ten seconds, but it didn't open and the paper come floating out to m
e. I'd have to look for it.
First, I closed the door to the hall. The file itself took mere seconds to find. Fat with recently paid bills, it looked exactly the same as before. I pulled it out, set it on the desktop, and opened it. Then I picked up every paper, looked at it carefully, and put it face down on the left. I examined each receipt in the folder, but the one from the detective agency had disappeared.
I wondered if he had another folder of paid bills. But no. I looked at all the other folders and none of them held receipts. Next I looked in all the other desk drawers, then the filing cabinet. Nothing.
It's true I had not looked at every piece of paper in the entire room, but not only had I filed them all a few days before, but also Jason, neat freak personified, surely wouldn't have put a receipt anywhere but in a file with other receipts. So where could it be?
Only one explanation came to mind: he tossed it. Not, of course, in the last day or two, because the wastebasket in the room held just a few empty envelopes from more recent bills and several advertising circulars. One from a company desperate to install new plumbing in the Hall.
Okay, being just a paid bill, I suppose he had no particular reason to keep the detective's invoice. Yet why had Jason lied to Uncle William and called it a receipt for an appraisal? I hadn't seen anything like that in the file.
I pay my own bills and keep receipts. Where would I go next if I were at home? Cancelled checks, of course. A small metal box, about the right size to hold checks, rested in the bottom drawer of the filing cabinet, but I hadn't looked in it because, unfortunately, it was locked.
I'd read you can open some locks with a paperclip, or even a hairpin, but I drew the line at jimmying locks, even if I had a hairpin and knew how.
However, then I heard footsteps outside the door. My heart pounding, I backed up against the wall on one side of the door and held my breath. If anyone came in, how would I explain why I'd come into the office? Ages passed. Then the footsteps continued on down the hall, and I relaxed. Still, I decided to forego any locked-box caper.
My inquisitiveness refused to be put off, however. In fact, it went into overdrive. I had to find that paper. Or at least know the truth about it. But how? The receipt itself was missing, and I didn't remember anything but the words, "Private Investigations."
Or did I? Over the years I've found that if I see something in a book or magazine and then want to go back to it later, I always remember on which side of the page I saw it, and whether near the top or the bottom. My little slice of photographic memory.
I closed my eyes and tried to visualize the receipt. A sheet of letterhead, off-white, slightly smaller than eight-and-a-half by eleven inches, with the company name at the top, followed by a blank space and then "Private Investigations" in the same black ink, but smaller letters.
In the center of the page were the words, "For services rendered," and then the amount: two hundred pounds. An address and telephone number occupied one line on the bottom, barely legible except to the rare person whose eyes could read a modern telephone directory without a magnifying glass.
Mentally, I moved my gaze to the top of the letterhead again, visualized the printing of the company name. The letters were elongated and in block form, especially the "D's" which almost looked like "O's." I took in a breath, remembering. I'd seen two "D's." David. Immediately, the last name popped into my mind: Ingersoll. The detective's name was David Ingersoll.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
I found Mr. Ingersoll's address in the directory and made an appointment for that very day. While Tim O'Brien whisked me to his office in the car, I thought back over my recent activities. I'd expected to spend my time getting reacquainted with relatives, being taken on sightseeing excursions, and perhaps going to the theater in the evenings to see some plays and musicals for which the British are famous. I had wanted to see Agatha Christie's The Mousetrap, but instead, I found myself engaged in trying to solve a mystery of my own. I'd always been a mystery novel reader, and my brother picked up the habit from me. Now, he was a police officer planning to open a detective agency, and I had a mystery on my hands right here.
Although the British police hadn't found anything mysterious about Noreen's death—and why should I second-guess them?—the longer I stayed at Mason Hall, the more convinced I became that someone ought to have murdered her. The facts cried out for a vengeful someone to put an end to Noreen's lying, cheating, drinking, and generally gauche behavior. Preferably the mysterious Mister X whom I still tried hard to convince myself had an assignation with Noreen by the lily pond and then, for some reason, drowned her.
What reason? So far, I'd found zero evidence he even existed. Still, I maintained hope Mr. Ingersoll might provide some answers.
Tim dropped me off in front of a nondescript two-story brick building, telling me he'd be back in half an hour, and I found Mr. Ingersoll's office at number seven on the first floor. The receptionist, a young woman with orange hair, blue eye shadow, and inch-long fingernails, greeted me and waved me into the door to her right.
Inside, I discovered Mr. Ingersoll was a mousy man with no outstanding features. He didn't even wear glasses. A perfect private eye. No one would notice him, and he could spy on suspects without being observed. Unlike his receptionist, who, when she stood, boasted three miles of fishnet-clad legs.
Ingersoll rose when I entered and indicated one of two upholstered chairs in front of his desk. "Do have a seat, Mrs. Grant."
"Thank you." I sat and glanced around at his sparsely-decorated office: tan walls, brown furniture, one window looking out on the street. His desk held a telephone, calendar, and a pad of ruled paper.
"What service may I perform for you?" He had a BBC-announcer accent, with a tone both soft and confidential.
"I've come about an invoice for two hundred pounds for services you rendered recently."
"Did you feel the charge to be excessive?"
"No, not at all." Not that I would know, but someone had paid the invoice, or it wouldn't have been in the file.
"Something else has brought you here." A statement more than a question. Clearly an insightful private eye.
"If you recall, you sent the invoice to Mrs. Mason."
"But you are Mrs. Grant, not Mrs. Mason, are you not?"
"That's correct."
"Now I understand. My services being satisfactory, she has referred me so that I may be of assistance to you."
"No." I took a deep breath and plunged on. "I would like to know what services you performed for her."
His eyebrows shot up and, after a long sigh, he leaned back in his chair. "I'm sorry, Mrs. Grant, but that information is confidential."
"I have an important reason for needing to know." Not that I would tell Ingersoll the truth, but, of course, I wanted to learn the identity of Mister X.
"I'm sure you believe so, but if I were to divulge it, I would be breaching investigator-client confidentiality. I shouldn't remain in business very long if I were to do that, should I?" He managed a tiny smile in my direction.
"I understand. However, inasmuch as Mrs. Mason has died, I don't think you need to fear she will complain."
"Died?"
"Yes, last week." I put my head down as if hiding sudden tears, and I uttered my next words in a tragic tone. "She drowned accidentally."
"Mrs. Mason?"
"Noreen, that is, Mrs. Edward Mason."
His eyes seemed to flash recognition, but he said, "Nevertheless…"
Mr. Poirot's little grey cells never worked any harder than mine when I'd concocted my story, and I now launched into the rest of my act, pulled a handkerchief from my purse, and held it to my face. "You see, Mr. Ingersoll, Noreen was my sister, and we've been separated for several years because I live in the United States." No need to try to hide that fact.
He looked sympathetic, and I continued. "I've come over here at great expense, because she told me she had hired you to find our missing younger brother."
Ingersoll
's mouth dropped open, and the words tumbled out. "Younger brother? But Roy Capelli is seventy-eight years old."
Aha!
Having inadvertently given away the very name I sought, Mr. Ingersoll slumped into his chair, looking embarrassed.
I pretended not to notice and thought over what he'd said. Of course, Uncle Edward had been seventy-nine when Noreen married him, so her romantic escapade with young Chaz notwithstanding, she liked older men.
Furthermore, from what I'd been able to gather so far, Noreen's interest in someone else didn't actually begin until after Edward's death. Perhaps she'd lined up another old geezer whom she could marry for his money. Her career path of choice.
Why not, pray tell? Men had been doing the same thing for eons. Of course, most often men died earlier than women, but if the wife died first, the widower didn't waste much time finding a replacement. I'd even heard a name for it: "nurse with a purse." They wanted someone, preferably with plenty of her own money, to care for them in their old age.
By now, Ingersoll had recovered his wits. "Do I understand you wish to hire me to locate Mr. Capelli?"
"I believe you've already done that for my sister."
He went on the attack. "On the other hand, I believe you have told me an untruth. I suspect Mrs. Mason is not your sister, and she didn't tell you she hired me to find your missing younger brother."
Okay, I'm not a good actor. Nevertheless, I continued, this time trying to look repentant and not above stooping to flattery. "You're very clever, Mr. Ingersoll. It's true I'm not looking for a missing brother, but I am related to Mrs. Mason, and I don't need a great deal of information, just what she asked you to find out about Mr. Capelli." His net worth, I presumed.
"I am not convinced I should give this to you. How do I know Mrs. Mason is really deceased?"
"It's easy enough to check. The newspaper reported her funeral."
He pouted. "My time is very valuable."
I gave in. "Suppose I were to hire you? What would you charge?"
He smiled. "Although you're not family, I'll give you a family discount: one hundred pounds."
Dead in the Water (Olivia Grant Mysteries Book 1) Page 14