by Joan Smith
It was a long climb. Papa had glazed the widow’s walk of Gracefield, and turned it into a loft. It ran along the south facade of the mansion, looking across the Channel to France. From its lofty height the wives of the house of Hume had strained their eyes for a sight of their husbands’ ships since the days of Queen Elizabeth. In spring the glazed panels had been raised, leaving only a wire mesh to keep the birds in. The door to the widow’s walk opened onto a bartizan. The bartizan was unscreened and unglazed. From it, one could see for miles.
On a clear day the blue haze in the far distance was called France. On that afternoon, as on so many days on the coast of England, the air was foggy. The sea breeze carried a cold Atlantic moisture that penetrated my gown and laid waste my coiffure.
The cooing of pigeons was audible as soon as we entered the loft. Some birds had left their perches and strutted along the floor at their ungainly pigeon gait, necks extending at every step. Snoad kept the loft tidy, but a pigeon’s feathers are easily dislodged, and one floated on the breeze. A dozen birds sat on various perches arranged for their comfort. The loft even boasted one tree, a miniature apple tree planted in a huge wooden barrel, which was the private preserve of a bird called Caesar, and which was occasionally shared by his mate, Cleo. The tree, I noticed, was empty that day.
The birds came in a wide variety of colors. Some were gray or brown, others glinted with iridescent hues of green and pink and gold. My father knew the pedigree of every one of the hundred plus pigeons, but truth to tell, I found it all a bore. I would have preferred if Papa had raised horses, or even parrots, if he must raise birds. Pigeons are such stupid-seeming birds. I knew that they were monogamous. I remembered that because it had seemed strange that these little balls of feathers mated for life, like people.
I also knew that the undisputed stars of the collection were Caesar and Cleo. Caesar raced, and Cleo was a breeder. Papa didn’t usually race his breeders, although Cleo had won a few races in her youth.
A swarthy young man in shirt sleeves was examining some bags of feed at the far end of the loft. He turned to greet us with a curt “Good day.” I never felt entirely comfortable with Snoad. There was something unsettling about the man. He did not dress as a servant should, for one thing, but wore a dilapidated jacket of blue worsted, which looked like the castoff of a gentleman. In warmer weather he wore shirt sleeves and sometimes a vest. He carried his wide shoulders in a swaggering motion. His flashing black eyes were too clever by half. He had never shown a proper respect to Papa, nor to me. Snoad was more than half the reason I came so seldom to the loft. Papa said he was the most knowledgeable man in England where pigeons were concerned, and no doubt that was why he gave himself airs.
It was typical of Snoad that he did not join us, but continued with his work, waiting for us to go to him. Nettled, I said, “I would like a word with you, Snoad.”
“In a minute, miss,” he said over his shoulder, and continued his work.
“I am in a hurry,” I called sharply. It annoyed me that he called me miss instead of ma’am. I particularly disliked that he belittled me by his inattention in front of Bunny. Really, the man was insufferable. One would think he owned the loft.
Snoad turned and came forward at a leisurely gait, shoulders rolling as he walked. “What can I do for you, Miss Hume?” he asked. His accent was good, though where he had acquired it was a deep mystery. I knew that before coming to Gracefield, he had been employed by the Duke of Prescott, in Wiltshire, to tend his wife’s aviary. If I had been the duke, I would not have let this man within a mile of the duchess.
“I have a few questions about Papa’s last trip. Who was he seeing?” I asked.
“He was attending a meeting of the Columbidae Society,” he replied, with a look that said, “as you very well know.”
“No, he was not. Did he mention anyone in particular?”
“A Mr. Jones,” Snoad said. He did not quite smirk, but there was an insolent unsteadiness about his lips.
“In Brighton, or London?”
“In London, miss.”
“Would you have Mr. Jones’s address?”
“No, miss. I’m afraid not.”
“His first name?”
“Mr. George Jones, I believe.”
After several decades of King Georges, George was the most common man’s name in England, and Jones was not far behind. “It turns out that Papa was not in London at all,” I said. “He was in Brighton. Whom did he sell to in Brighton?”
“In Brighton, you say?” he asked, mildly curious. “How did you hear that?”
I stared him out of countenance. “You can take my word for it. He was in Brighton. Whom did he sell to there?”
“No one, as far as I know.”
“You must know something!” I said angrily. “You are supposed to be the expert.”
“I am the expert, but I only train the darlings, Miss Hume. I don’t sell them,” he replied boldly.
“That is a pity,” I said, raking him with my eyes. “I had hoped you might tell me whom I could profitably sell the collection to.”
That jolted Snoad out of his insolence. “Sell them!” he exclaimed, eyes flashing. “You can’t sell them!”
“Can I not? Papa left me his entire estate, which includes this loft. I shall sell the birds and pull this horrid wire down. It destroys the looks of the house.”
“You can’t!” he repeated, his voice louder than before.
“If you can come up with a name of a buyer, he might hire you, Snoad,” I said, enjoying my victory. “You will not be needed here, once the birds are gone.”
“But the birds would be useless anywhere else. Racers are trained to return to their own loft. This collection is extremely valuable, Miss Hume. Your father spent years building it up.” He spoke earnestly, all haughtiness vanished.
“I am well aware that my father spent all his time and most of his money on this loft. I have other priorities. I shall be rid of the birds and dismantle the loft immediately,” I said grandly.
Snoad rubbed his hand over his mouth in consternation. His dark eyes glowed with banked fires of frustration. “Don’t do it yet,” he said. “Give me a few weeks to make some arrangement. Somewhere else to take the birds.”
“Did you wish to buy them then?” I asked. I would gladly give them to him to be rid of them, but only wanted to repay him for his impertinent behavior.
“Yes, I’ll buy them,” he replied, without a moment’s hesitation.
“Said they was no good without this loft,” Bunny reminded him.
“We have several valuable birds brooding. The new chicks could be trained from a different loft,” he explained. “You must give me some time to make arrangements, Miss Hume.”
“Are you quite sure you can afford to buy the collection, Snoad, as you speak of it as being so valuable?” I said. I had always been curious about this enigmatic man. Now it sounded as though he had more money than I would have thought. It immediately darted into my head that Papa was paying him too much.
It had been the cause of angry muttering between Aunt Lovatt and myself that Snoad had been given the entire top floor of the house. This consisted of only two rooms, to be sure, but they were large, bright rooms. Papa said he required a study for his scientific work. It was news to me that a man who cleaned out pigeon nests was a scientist.
The sly look had returned. “I pick up a few pounds on the races,” Snoad replied. “Why, I might even make you an offer on Gracefield. I know you’ve always wanted a Season in London.”
“So I have.” I smiled, taking it for an attempt at humor. “But it will not be necessary for me to sell Gracefield to have a Season. I shall be going to Brighton tomorrow, for a few days. You cannot give me any names of customers that I might speak to?”
His handsome face took on a conning expression. “Now, why would you want to do that, Miss Hume? I thought we’d agreed I’d buy the collection.”
Bunny said, “Mr. Hume was murdered.
” I gave him a rebukeful look. “Don’t see any point in keeping it mum. We’re looking into it. Any help you can give us would be appreciated, Snoad.”
Watching Snoad, I felt in my bones that he was not surprised at the announcement of my father’s murder. He was wary, but he was not surprised. “Is that so?” he asked, brows rising over his sharp eyes. “Where did you get that notion, Mr. Smythe, if you don’t mind my asking?”
“From the bullet hole in the back of his jacket.”
Snoad considered this a moment in silence. “Where did the jacket come from?” he asked.
“The Royal Crescent Hotel, in Brighton.”
“We mean to learn where the bullet hole came from, too,” I told him.
Snoad gazed steadily into my eyes. There was some hypnotic force in his gaze. His eyes were so dark that even the whites of them looked an iridescent gray. “I’d be very careful if I were you, Miss Hume. It might be best not to go digging into it. I had a great respect for your father, but it’s unusual for a man who is going about his own business to get himself murdered.”
“Are you saying my father was involved in something dishonest?” I demanded.
“Not minding his own business was what I said. I’m not accusing him of anything dishonest. I believe your father’s trips involved more than bird business, if you read my meaning.” Something in his manner, or voice, suggested sexual doings. The eyes glinted recklessly, and his voice held an undertone of innuendo. Snoad always looked as if he had sex on his mind. It was one of the things about him that made me uneasy. One was always aware of being a woman when in his presence.
“You mean a woman?” Bunny asked bluntly. “Thought so m’self.”
“Mr. Hume never said so, but I know he always packed his black suit and his dancing slippers when he went to London.”
“But he was killed in Brighton,” I said.
“So you say. If I had killed my wife’s lover, I’d be at pains to muddy the waters a little. Moving the body is one way of doing it.”
How naturally he said that. If I had killed my wife’s lover. Murder was nothing to this man. Nor was taking another man’s wife. I noticed his eyes were on me, and there was a spark of amusement, no doubt due to my shocked expression.
“I expect you would also have had the wits to take the carriage to London, with the victim’s suitcase inside it,” I sneered.
“So I would. Someone made a bad gaffe there. And you’re off to Brighton, you say?”
“Yes, tomorrow morning.”
“You’ll require an escort.”
I took the absurd idea that Snoad was about to offer his services.
“I’m accompanying the ladies,” Bunny said.
A vague smile tugged at Snoad’s lips. “Excellent, Mr. Smythe. They will have no need of further assistance if you are along.”
The tone of Snoad’s voice was as good as a direct insult, but unsuspecting Smythe smiled in satisfaction. “Someone to deal with the constables,” he mentioned.
“You’ll be careful, Miss Hume,” Snoad said. “Remember what I said.” There was no smile now, nor any slyness.
I took a deep breath and said, “Do you know the lady’s name, Snoad?”
“I could not even vouch that she was a lady, ma’am. Now, if you’ll excuse me, the pigeons are waiting for their feed.” He performed an easy, graceful bow, and returned to the sacks in the far corner, without waiting to be dismissed. I did not wish to risk further impertinence in front of Bunny, and let him go. I found myself wondering if he was a by-blow of the Duke of Prescott. There was an aristocratic arrogance in his manner. How could the Prescotts have endured his insolence unless he had some hold over them?
As he walked away, there was a rustle in the nests. A pink-necked bird flew from the perch and settled on his shoulder. “There now, Tess,” he crooned, lifting a hand to gently stroke her wing. It was oddly uncharacteristic behavior from surly Snoad.
“That wasn’t much help,” I grouched, and returned belowstairs with Bunny. “I don’t trust Snoad. Not as far as I could throw him.”
“An oiler,” Bunny added. “A foreign look about him. That dark hair and black eyes. Might be a gypsy.”
“Yes, he has that sly air. If he had not been here the whole time Papa was gone, I could believe he had something to do with the murder. He must know something about Papa’s customers. The two of them were close as inkle weavers.”
“He mentioned that George Jones.”
“There is no George Jones, Bunny.”
“No George Jones?” Bunny gave a jeering look. “I daresay there are a hundred of them in London alone. Maybe more. Oh, heh heh. I see your meaning. Chose that name on purpose. Sly boots.”
“Precisely. I wonder if Papa has any record of his customers in his study. Let us have a look.”
Bunny glanced at his watch. “Time for me to be shabbing off home. Vicar’s coming to dinner, thank God. The girls won’t fight in front of him. They’ll wait till he’s gone, then they’ll be at each other’s throats. Beth and Mary are both sweet on him.”
“You’ll come early tomorrow morning?”
“I’ll be here at eight-thirty. We’ll take your rig. Your papa’s prads are top o’ the trees.”
It was close to dinnertime, so I postponed my search of the office till later. After dinner, Mrs. Lovatt went upstairs to prepare for the visit to Brighton, and I went to my father’s office, which was gradually becoming my office. I had had a deal of paperwork to do here, settling the details of my father’s will. Soon I would be taking my father’s place at those sessions with his bailiff, having to learn about tilling fields and rotating crops, and settling the tenants’ account. I did not look forward to it with any eagerness, or any hope of pleasure. I began to understand why well-dowered ladies rushed into marriage.
Papa kept the estate books in a small desk in the corner. His pigeon records occupied pride of place at the large oak table desk in the center of the room. A ledger was there, open on the desk. I glanced at the columns, but they were not helpful. They merely listed the matings of birds, and probable time of hatching. Most of the words I didn’t even understand. I had wondered what the Columbidae Society meant, and Papa had told me columbidae meant dove, which was the family that pigeons belonged to. I found myself liking our mourning doves less when I learned they were pigeons.
Papa had mated something called a Treroninaea with something else called a Ducula Aenea. The dates of breeding were listed with hatching to come, apparently two weeks to nineteen days later. Some of the hatch dates were listed. Usually two eggs, but sometimes only one survived. Another book had lists of feeds—seeds and cereal grains along with some green foods, and grit. He kept track of various diets he was trying on different birds, and the weight gain and flight times.
There was more than a lay person wanted to know about pigeons, but nothing to tell whom he sold them to. Surely there must be a ledger somewhere. I rooted through the drawers of his desk, but there was nothing. At the back of the bottom drawer I saw his pistol, always kept there. If he had taken it with him, perhaps he would be alive today. He had obviously not been expecting any trouble, or he would have taken it with him.
After half an hour’s search, I was certain that the study had nothing to tell me. I was just about to extinguish the lamps when the door, which was ajar, opened, and Snoad entered. He gave a start of surprise.
“What are you doing here?” he demanded, in the accents of authority.
“I was about to ask you the same thing, Snoad. A gentleman usually knocks before entering a lady’s room.” That was a foolish thing to say. Snoad was no gentleman.
“I’ll remember that advice, miss,” he said, and came in. “You weren’t sporting your oak.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“The door was not actually closed.” He closed it softly behind him, and advanced toward me.
For no sensible reason, I felt a sudden rush of panic.
Chapter Three
> “You may leave the door ajar, Snoad,” I said, with as much self-control as I could muster.
“Very well, if you’re afraid, miss,” he replied with a taunting smile, and opened it a crack.
“It is no odds. I find it a little close in here.” His bold eyes skimmed off the shawl hugging my shoulders. “What is it you wanted?”
He advanced directly to the desk. A lazy smile moved across his lips, and when he spoke, his voice was smooth and rich, like Devonshire cream. “Why, I want to help you, miss. I thought I might find your father’s list of customers, as you’re so eager to have it.”
“It’s not here. I’ve looked all over.”
“I’ve a few other things I wanted to check out as well. With you father gone, the running of the loft is in my care. I must see what feed he’s ordered. The present supply won’t last longer than a week. You wouldn’t want those valuable birds to perish.”
It was a rational answer, yet I felt in my bones that it was not the truth. Snoad had come here to snoop. I would let him have any legitimate records he required, and then I would lock the door. Or better, have the lock changed, in case he had got hold of a key. Snoad might have the run of the loft, but he would not have the run of this office.
I handed him a heavy ledger. “I believe this is what you’re looking for.” He took the book, apparently recognizing it as the right one. No doubt he was familiar with it. “I don’t know what Father’s arrangements for paying were, but you may order what you require, and give me the bill.”
“Thank you, Miss Hume,” he said. His tone was humble, but those flashing eyes made a jest of humility.
“Was there anything else?” I asked, shuffling papers as if I were busy.
Snoad just stood, gazing around the room. He shook his head sadly. “I just wanted to come here and think about your father. We spent so many hours here, discussing plans. I miss him.”
His tone was wistful, and for once, it was not at odds with his demeanor. It occurred to me that perhaps Snoad was genuinely saddened, even lonesome. He seldom saw anyone but my father and the visitors who came on bird business. Any breeder visiting in the vicinity of Gracefield was bound to call. Some gentlemen came from London for no other reason than to visit the loft and meet my father. Papa had written widely on his hobby, and gained some small degree of fame.