Henry Wood Detective: Boxed Set (Books 1 - 4)

by Brian Meeks

  Sylvia felt sad but not as much as she had before. Mostly she was confused about what was going to happen with her life. It all seemed like such a foggy mess. High society was not her world, though one couldn't tell it to look at her. She had poise and grace, and she moved easily among the denizens of her new life. What she didn't have were close friends.

  When she worked at the department store the other girls would invite her to go with them for drinks. She loved it. It was fun to gossip about who was dating whom and which one was going to land a husband first. It took only a couple of drinks before the real giggling would start. After that, the talk was even better. A few of the ladies already had gotten their rings and delighted in giving advice. Mostly it was a bunch of tricks and wisdoms, which were sure to land a husband. They were the proof. These were the best times of her life, and Sylvia missed them dearly.

  The voice in her head said it was time to get up or was it Winston again? She wasn't sure, but decided the voice was right. She swung her legs out of bed and eased her feet into the slippers. She put on her robe and sat down at the dressing table. The woman in the mirror drew the silver brush through her hair. Sylvia looked deep into the woman's eyes and saw her pain. She felt a deep sorrow for the lonely woman in there who was just barely existing. The house was quiet, so quiet that it almost made her crazy.

  Another light knock at her door, “Miss Culberson, would you like some breakfast?”

  “I am up now. Thanks, Winston.”

  “I am pleased to hear it. Shall I have something brought up?”

  “No, I will be down in a few minutes. Some coffee and toast will be fine.”

  The staff consisted of two maids and Winston, a gentleman's gentleman. A house of this size would usually have a much larger staff, but her father, Mr. Culberson wasn't quite comfortable with maids and servants. He was easing his way into the lifestyle, too. He always said he would hire more once Sylvia got married and had kids. It was his dream to fill the house with grandchildren. Sylvia tried to talk her father into buying a smaller, more manageable house, but he wouldn't listen.

  She walked down the hall past the seemingly endless rooms, some of which she had never been into. It seemed like such a waste of space. That, too, made her sad.

  CHAPTER 19

  Winston was the son of a gentleman's gentleman as was his father. Their family had been helping the rich and privileged appear better than they were for centuries. His brother had worked for a lord in London but had passed away, a casualty of the German air raids during WWII. He wondered what his brother would think of his current employer. He imagined the advice would be to leave America and move back to London.

  Winston removed two pieces of toast and spread butter and marmalade on each one, then set them on the table with a bowl of fresh fruit. The coffee was ready. He poured Miss Culberson a cup, added two sugars, and stirred.

  The two maids were already tending to their duties, light as they might be, so he sat in quiet contemplation. The recent events had been hard on Sylvia as they would be on any person, but it was worse for him. He knew the secret and couldn't tell. He couldn't ease her suffering, and, for that, he suffered right along with her.

  She wasn't like other people he had worked for, not in the least. She was a proper lady. Sylvia was more proper than most of the terrible shrews who had 'breeding.' It came to her naturally. She was polite, clever, and witty even around the society folks who didn't deserve it. Winston knew it wasn't her choice, but she played the role with style.

  He thought about the suitors who called and how she had run them all off since the explosion. He knew grief for he still felt the pain of the loss of his brother, but he didn't want to wall off the world. He wanted to let it in. Winston felt best around people. He liked it when Mr. Culberson brought over colleagues. It was a pleasure to serve them, to attend to their needs, and to see their appreciation. Mr. Culberson's friends were not high society folks, either, though some were successful and had made their own fortunes. They all remembered life before and never once looked down on Winston.

  Winston thought about their late night conversations. Mr. Culberson would stay up all night, working on a project, and Winston would sit and listen to him describe how it worked. Winston didn't know anything about science or inventing but still was asked for an opinion. It often was something simple, such as where he would put this handle or, if it could do this, would that be good. Winston would simply answer from the heart and explain why he agreed or disagreed with the idea. Often, Mr. Culberson would look at him and say, "You know, I think you are right." Or, if there was a good reason, he would explain why Winston was mistaken. It wasn't the contribution that was important to Winston; it was the joy in being respected. Mr. Culberson treated him like a friend, not a servant.

  He heard footsteps, and Sylvia walked into the kitchen. Normally the lady of the house would insist on eating in the dining room. Sylvia liked eating in the kitchen and reading the morning paper.

  "Good morning, Winston."

  "I wondered if you might miss it today."

  "Yes, I wondered that, too. But I am up. Life goes on, and so must this day." She took a bite of toast and opened the paper with a crack. Winston noticed. She had not done that before. Usually she would take a section, lay it on the table, and then carefully turn each page. It was her father who snapped the paper open and devoured each story. Winston wondered if she even knew she had done it.

  "Did you see this review by Le Mange? It looks like it might be a good place to dine."

  "Shall I make a reservation for you, Miss?"

  "A reservation for one? I don't think so. Maybe we could go together. It would be less lonely."

  "That would hardly be proper, Miss. Perhaps one of the gentlemen callers, whom you have whooshed away, might be interested?"

  "You think I should ask them out? That certainly wouldn't be proper."

  “I could make a call and hint that..." There was someone at the door. Winston got up to answer it. Sylvia remained with her toast but seemed a little surprised by Winston’ comment.

  CHAPTER 20

  Henry's body ached from the encounter with Tommy 'The Knife's' worker bees. Several of his ribs could still feel the sting. He sat behind the wheel of his car and looked blankly down the street. Not a soul in sight. All along the avenue were cars, some covered in snow and some cleaned off, but all of them resting and waiting for the day to begin. The sun was up, but the sky was too grey and depressing for anyone to know it. He got out of the car and headed to see Miss Culberson.

  He had talked with her on the phone even though most of his 'updates' being a load of bull. Henry didn't believe she was on the up and up. Something about the way she dressed, which was intoxicating, and the way she described her father's death just didn't ring true. He couldn't sense any grieving. Her line about worrying if her father's good name might be tarnished made him think she was hiding her real motive. Henry wanted to see her in her home. Read her on her turf. Maybe snoop around a bit.

  He pulled into the drive. Opulence was usually wasted on Henry, but in this instance, he was impressed. He pulled his car up to the front door, parked behind the '34 Bentley 3.5 Darby. It was a black-and-cream colored beauty. He rapped the knocker against the massive door. Footsteps could be heard approaching. A stately gentleman opened the door and invited him in.

  “Good morning, sir, are you expected?” the man said with a British accent.

  “No, but I believe Miss Culberson will see me,” Henry said politely. He watched the man head up the massive front stairs. Henry thought about some of the great houses he had seen: Mansion House in London, The Breakers, and The Elms in Newport. This wasn't quite in their league but not far off, either. He guessed that it could be quite a while before the man returned depending upon which wing Miss Culberson was in. Henry loved art and immediately noticed the Hiram Powers' 'The Greek Slave' displayed prominently in the center of the entryway.

  Henry’s feet echoed down the ha
lls as he wandered around the corner. The hallway ran up to a set of giant mahogany doors. There were doors flanking the hall, each of them closed. Between each door there was a huge portrait. Normally, one would expect to see family portraits, but Henry recognized two paintings by Thomas Gainsborough, the Lord and Lady of Dunstansville from the end of the 18th century. He was confident that they were not distant relatives of the Culbersons. When he spied the John Singer Sargent portrait of Madame Edouard Paileron, he knew that the Culbersons were new money trying to buy their way into respectable society. From the looks of it, they were doing a pretty good job.

  The sound of distant feet approaching sent Henry back to his spot by the door. It was a good ten seconds before Miss Culberson appeared at the top of the steps. She flashed a big smile upon recognizing Henry but quickly composed herself and replaced the smile with a more proper, albeit blank, expression. She seemed to float down the stairs. Each step was precise and refined, though it felt a bit forced.

  “Good morning, Mr. Wood, how are you today?” she said.

  “I am well, thank you,” Henry said with an equally refined and overtly forced expression.

  Hearing this and knowing he wasn't buying her routine, she relaxed a bit.

  “Oh, Henry, you see right through me,” she said while putting her arm through his and leading him down the hall towards the giant doors. “Now, tell me, have you made any progress finding the journal?”

  Henry wanted to get a read on her, and she seemed to be relaxing, so he decided to see what he could learn. “I have been working your case, and, yesterday, I got worked over by some of Tommy 'The Knife's’ men. You wouldn't know anything about that, would you?” he said, trying to push her buttons. He was surprised by her answer.

  “No. Who is that?” She said innocently. So innocently, in fact, that Henry believed her. He brushed off her question by saying, “Oh, nobody, really, just another interested party. I thought you might have heard your father speak about him.”

  “I didn't really know any of my father's friends. The only person who visited him regularly was that accountant Mr. Alexander. They would disappear into father's office and talk in hushed voices,” she said, opening the giant doors.

  The door led to a massive office or a library, Henry wasn't sure. The desk in the center made him think office. She let go of his arm and said, “This is Daddy's office,“ in a voice that rang true for the first time since she had walked into Henry’s office.

  “This is very impressive, Miss Culberson.” His eyes were scanning the walls, taking in as much as he could.

  “Please, Henry, call me Sylvia.”

  “Sylvia, how did your father die?” Henry asked, trying not to sound insensitive.

  “It was an explosion in his lab,” she said with genuine remorse. It was something Henry hadn't noticed in his office.

  “His lab?” Henry asked.

  “Yes, he was an inventor. He had all sorts of patents. I can't even explain what all of his stuff does; I just know that he loved his work.”

  “You said you suspected he may have been cooking the books with Mr. Alexander. What made you say that?”

  “Look at this place,” she said, waving her arms over her head slowly. Sylvia sat down in her father's desk chair and continued, “We moved here three years ago. Before that, we lived in a small brownstone and barely had enough to eat. I worked at a department store downtown. After mother died, he threw himself into his research, and, one day, he came home and said he had sold one of his patents. Two months later, he sold another one, then two more. It seemed that companies were lining up at the door to get their hands on his inventions.”

  “So what makes you think he was up to something?”

  “Well, he was so secretive, and, two weeks before the explosion, he told me about the journal Mr. Alexander was keeping. He said it could be dangerous for us. That is when he told me about you.”

  “Excuse me,” Henry said. He tried not to sound startled, but he clearly was taken aback.

  “Yes, we had dinner, just like most nights, and he brought me in here and told me about the journal. He said if anything happened to him, I should hire you to find the journal. He gave me your card.”

  She opened the top drawer on the right side and pulled out a business card. She handed it to Henry and said, “Oh, and I had a bit of a hard time finding you; it must have your old address. I went there first, and the office was empty, so I asked the bellman and he found your current address for me.”

  Henry took the card and looked at it. He looked at it again. The address was not his nor was it his previous address as he had always been in the same building. He turned the card over. The back was blank. He thought, That is so odd; I have never had another office, but that address looks very familiar. It is just two blocks from my office.

  “What's wrong, Henry, isn't that your card? You look like you have never seen it before.”

  “It does look like my card, but I have never…” He stopped mid-sentence. He took out his wallet and removed Bobby's card. A chill ran up and down his spine. He slowly turned it over and read the back. The addresses were the same, right down to the office number: 309. Sylvia had just handed him a business card with what appeared to be his next address.

  CHAPTER 21

  Sylvia looked at Henry and cocked her head to the side. It was obvious to her that he was deep in thought. She didn't understand why he suddenly felt like he had to sit down.

  “Are you okay? Would you like a drink?” she asked.

  “I am fine, thank you, and yes, please,” Henry said, still looking at the back of Bobby's card and the business card that Sylvia had just handed him. He knew he didn't want to explain what he was thinking. The address would have seemed impossible were it not for his closet, which he had grown to accept. He couldn't imagine being able to explain it to Sylvia.

  The distinctive sound of ice cubes landing in fine crystal went unnoticed by Henry. Sylvia poured a Scotch rocks; she hadn't asked what he wanted because he looked lost in the same place her father went just before his mind unraveled a mystery. She had seen it on her father's face many times and knew it was best not to break his train of thought. With the grace of a cat, she set the drink on a coaster in front of Henry.

  Henry was staring at the bookshelves behind the desk, but it looked like he was seeing past them and off into the horizon. Off to the ends of the earth for all she knew. A minute passed. Henry slowly reached out, slowly picked up the Scotch, and took a sip. He didn't change his stare but said, “Thanks; this is excellent.”

  Sylvia whispered, “You're welcome.” She returned to the desk and watched him, completely intrigued by his motionlessness. It was as if she stared into his eyes hard enough, she might see what he was thinking.

  The deafening silence was shattered when Henry asked, “May I see your father's lab?”

  “Sure.” Sylvia said, startled at the suddenness of his question. She stood up, grabbed her drink, and headed into the hall. Henry followed, taking sips of his drink as he walked. They crossed the entryway and headed down a hall that was the mirror image of the one they had just left. Henry was no longer paying attention to the art. Before they got to the end, Sylvia opened the last door on the left, and Henry followed her through it.

  The room was long and rectangular. They passed through it to a door at the far end. The door led to a spiral staircase that headed down. Though Henry was still deep in thought, he did notice that they seemed to be going down more than just one story. It felt like two or three. They had passed a small door and continued on until they arrived at a heavy wooden door. Sylvia lifted the latch and pushed the door open. The hallway was made entirely of stone and felt like a dungeon, though it was lit with modern lighting. Henry felt he should be carrying a torch.

  Sylvia paused by the door at the end of the hall. “I haven't been down here since the explosion. If you don't mind, I'll stay outside.” She leaned down and pulled a flashlight out of a little wooden box sitting
by the door. She handed it to Henry.

  “I understand,” he said, clicking on the light. Henry opened the door and walked into the lab. The odor of the fire lingered, but it wasn't the same as his office. It was more of a sulfur smell. The room was large and circular in shape with a very high domed ceiling. It looked like there had been three workstations around a center area where there must have been something massive. All that remained now was a crater. The edges of the room had piles of equipment, glass, and wood that had been blasted from the center. Large pieces of the ceiling lay on the floor. The basic structure still seemed sound, but the lab and its contents had been turned into a pile of rubble.

  Henry walked all the way around the room. He didn't see anything helpful. Returning to Sylvia, he turned off the flashlight and put it back in the box. He wanted to ask her something, but he wasn't sure how to broach the subject. He already knew that Sylvia wasn't tuned into her father's work, but he had a theory, a crazy theory, so he decided to ease into the question.

  “Was your father alone when the accident happened?”

  Sylvia said, “Yes, he always worked alone.”

  “Were you home when it happened?” Henry asked, lowering his voice slightly.

  “I was shopping at Macy's when Winston called the store and told me what had happened.”

  “Winston?” Henry asked.

  “He manages the house; you met him earlier,” she said and gave a heavy sigh as she remembered getting the call.

  “Winston found the body, I mean, er, your father?” Henry asked, stumbling a bit with his words. That was the question he wanted to ask but had hoped to be able to do it more delicately.

  “We never found a body. Everything was destroyed in the explosion. He was the first one down here, if that is what you mean."

  “And you don't have any idea what your father was working on?” Henry asked, though he knew the answer.