The Matchmaker's Lonely Heart

by Nancy Campbell Allen

  “Certainly not,” Mr. Winston said. “Merely making conversation.”

  They were interrupted by another announcement from Ethel Van Horne, but Amelie missed it as she glared at the two detectives. They were not paying her attention, however; in fact, Detective Baker was saying in an undertone to his partner, “What are you doing?”

  “Nothing,” came the terse reply. “I only—”

  “These are my friends,” Mr. Baker hissed back. “I would never have brought you along had I thought—” He cut himself off as Miss Van Horne’s monologue continued.

  Mr. Radcliffe radiated tension, and Amelie knew he also had heard the exchange. With a fair amount of dismay, she wondered if Detective Winston was about to muddle up Detective Baker’s entire operation. Did the man not know what was happening? Amelie decided she did not like him. Aside from being obtuse, he was extraordinarily rude. Detective Winston might be better referred to as “Detective Witless.”

  Amelie’s mouth twitched at her own humor, and she bit the inside of her cheek, trying to focus on Miss Ethel, who was still addressing the room.

  “Our guest hails from Budapest, and he bears the blood of exotic ancestors. He is a psychic of the first order, and Margaret and I have witnessed firsthand his brilliant prognostications. May I present, the Great Prospero!”

  An anticipatory ripple of excitement traveled the room as a man appeared in the doorway. He was dressed in austere black from head to toe, and his moustache and top hat gave him the look of an actor in a melodramatic play. Amelie bit her other cheek this time to keep from giggling and joined in the smattering of applause.

  “‘Prospero’?” Detective Baker murmured.

  Amelie thought she heard a low chuckle coming from Detective Winston, but surely that was a mistake. When she stole a glance at the man, she saw nothing but seriousness.

  Mr. Radcliffe’s swift intake of breath distracted her, and she glanced at him. He was unnaturally pale, although his features themselves suggested polite interest as the Great Prospero made his way farther into the room. Did he know the man?

  Prospero paused before a gentleman whom Amelie had seen a few times at the book group gathering. His name was Mr. Groot, and Prospero eyed him with great seriousness before pronouncing, “You, dear sir, are a saint among men. You work tirelessly to care for your ailing mother. I see a bright future in store for you as you reap the reward of such selfless efforts.”

  A smattering of applause followed the pronouncement, but Amelie was underwhelmed. The Great Prospero could have learned such basic information about Mr. Groot from anyone, most likely from their illustrious hostesses. She bit back a sigh. Would the man provide no more excitement than simple parlor tricks?

  Prospero continued to work the room, circling about and bestowing random premonitions on the gathered guests. He stopped at Mrs. Blakestone, who sat straight in anticipation. “Ah, I see a keen woman before me. Bold and brave! Madam, I see delightfully harrowing adventures in your future!”

  Mrs. Blakestone’s cheeks flushed, and she smiled broadly. “How splendid! I do believe our hostesses have discovered a true soothsayer!”

  Prospero chuckled and moved on, and as he approached Amelie’s group near the hearth, his eyes locked on Mr. Radcliffe’s face and his step hitched the smallest bit before he slowed and finally stopped just behind Miss Trunsteel and Eva, who twisted around on the settee to look at him.

  “Ahh,” Prospero murmured. “A fine gathering of souls, to be sure. A gentleman who has known his share of loss.” He smiled sadly at Mr. Radcliffe, who sat stiffly next to Amelie.

  “Orphaned, ostracized, and then widowed.” Prospero winced. “I must consult the spirits, sir, and insist they offer something lovely for you! Surely your fortunes will turn, and your heart will find its just reward.”

  “You needn’t bother consulting anything on my account,” Mr. Radcliffe said. “I put little faith in such things.”

  Prospero nodded. “Coming of age under the watchful eye of suspicious villagers has a way of dimming one’s faith.”

  “I would not know; my townsfolk were warm and loving.”

  Prospero flashed a small smile. “I speak of myself, of course. But as you can see, good sir, I have been—what is the English word?—converted. Perhaps you shall rediscover your faith in the unexplainable.”

  “Regardless, I choose to create my own fate.” Mr. Radcliffe’s coloring had returned to normal, and he gave the man a polite smile.

  Prospero placed his palms together and nodded once in a light bow before turning his attention to Miss Trunsteel. “Such a lovely young woman! I see a family in your future, my dear.”

  Amelie’s attention was still on Mr. Radcliffe, and she heard Charlotte whisper to him, “Mr. Radcliffe, do you know him?”

  It was a good question, and one Amelie had wanted to ask. Uncomfortable tension had passed between the two men, leaving her feeling as though the men had shared secrets to which nobody else in the room was privy. As Prospero finished flattering Miss Trunsteel, he continued making his way through the room.

  “I have never seen him before in my life,” Mr. Radcliffe whispered to Charlotte. “What an odd question, Miss Duvall. Are you a suspicious sort of person?”

  Amelie saw his smile in profile as he quietly addressed her cousin, but it was tight, and the tone fell just shy of hostile. She knew a moment’s dismay for her cousin. Had Amelie asked Mr. Radcliffe a question—especially a perfectly polite and reasonable one—and he responded to her in an unpleasant manner, she would have been mortified and embarrassed.

  Charlotte was not easily bruised, and Amelie watched uneasily as her cousin straightened her spine and met Mr. Radcliffe’s eyes. “Only when circumstances warrant it,” she whispered back. She began clapping with the rest of the room, but still held his gaze.

  Amelie was torn between relief that Charlotte had defended herself and worry that her cousin’s distrust of Mr. Radcliffe had grown.

  Mr. Radcliffe finally broke eye contact with Charlotte and clapped at something Prospero had said. But as he turned his head, Amelie caught the clear expression of dislike on his face. It was fleeting, and as she blinked, Mr. Radcliffe bestowed a smile on her.

  “A charlatan,” Mr. Radcliffe said with a shoulder shrug. “A nuisance, but entertaining.”

  Was his dislike aimed at Charlotte or at the Great Prospero? His expression left Amelie with heightened suspicions that a future where Mr. Radcliffe and her cousins regarded one another fondly was unlikely. That thought was troubling, because Charlotte and Eva were important to Amelie. Perhaps all would smooth over. In reality, it was an insignificant exchange, and Amelie knew she tended to put greater weight on people’s emotions and intentions than was probably necessary. She often saw catastrophe where others saw misunderstandings.

  She leaned toward Mr. Radcliffe and murmured, “I am so sorry that man said such blunt, personal things to you.” She frowned and continued, “Perhaps we might inform the Misses Van Horne that it was highly insensitive for them to have shared such things with Prospero beforehand.”

  Mr. Radcliffe took the liberty of patting her hand. “Think nothing of it, dear Miss Hampton. I know I shall not entertain it any further. Such nonsense is not worth one moment of distress for your lovely head.” The difference between the way he regarded Amelie and the expression she’d seen on his face after his exchange with Charlotte was marked. Rather than feel flattered, she was uneasy.

  When hosting a house party, bear in mind that the entertainment must exceed your neighbors’ efforts if you wish to remain relevant in the eyes of your competing peers.

  —The Elegant Lady’s Guide to Memorable Hostessing

  by Miss Minerva Cross

  The performance continued for a time, but Amelie was distracted and lost in her own troubling thoughts. Finally, general laughter filled the room at something Margaret V
an Horne said. Applause followed as the Great Prospero thanked the audience for their participation and wished everyone well. As Amelie clapped with the rest, she stole a glance at Detective Baker, whose eye was on Mr. Radcliffe. Then he studied the performer who took one final bow, and Amelie knew the detective would be speaking to the Great Prospero soon.

  “And now, Margaret and I have decided to open our home to a most diverting game—a scavenger hunt!” Ethel Van Horne took charge again as Margaret spoke quietly with Prospero and gestured toward the back of the house. With a nod, he took his leave.

  Detective Baker shifted in his seat, but did not follow him.

  “The rules of the hunt are simple,” Ethel continued. “We have prepared a list of clues for you to investigate in a few select rooms in our home. Write the answer next to the clue, and when you are finished, return here with the list. To make the game more interesting, our rules are that you form small teams of no more than three or four. Also, both sexes must be represented on each team. None of this ‘ladies against gentlemen’ nonsense.”

  Amelie’s heart jumped in anticipation. She had enjoyed games of all sorts as a child at home, but this would mark her first participation in something of this nature here in Town.

  A week ago, a few days ago, she would have been giddy with the thought of sharing such casual and diverting activities with Mr. Radcliffe, but she still felt the strain in the air following the exchange between him and Prospero.

  As the guests arose and chatter filled the room, Miss Trunsteel approached them. “Mr. Radcliffe, I do hope it is not too forward of me, but—” she began.

  He held up a hand with a gentle smile. “Miss Trunsteel, I must stop you, for I am unfortunately obliged to leave this gathering early. I have an appointment, regrettably, and was unaware our gracious hosts had arranged such thorough and continued entertainment.”

  Miss Trunsteel’s face fell, and Amelie wondered if it was a mirror of her own. The disappointment at his departure stung, but Amelie was determined to refrain from asking him when they might meet again. Firstly, she was not the forward sort, and secondly, it would never do to appear so desperate.

  She fixed a smile on her face. “It has been delightful to see you, Mr. Radcliffe, if even for a short time.”

  “Likewise, dear Miss Hampton, and I do regret that it was short.” He put his hand on his heart and tipped his head to her, and to Miss Trunsteel and Eva, but pointedly excluded Charlotte and the two detectives.

  The group made their way toward the hostesses, who were distributing the scavenger hunt lists. Margaret Van Horne handed a piece of paper and small pencil to Amelie, Eva, and Charlotte, each. “The ladies possess a much neater hand, much more legible,” she said to the gentlemen with a practical nod. “Now. How are we dividing you? Mr. Radcliffe, Miss Hampton, and Miss Duvall?”

  “My dear lady, I must take my leave early, I fear.” Mr. Radcliffe bowed over her hand and placed a kiss on her fingers. “Your hospitality and entertainment have been exceptional, and I am glad to have been invited.”

  Margaret Van Horne did not simper or giggle or make an innuendo-filled aside, as Amelie might have assumed she would. Instead, she arched a brow at Mr. Radcliffe and replied, “A pity, sir. Perhaps another time.”

  Detective Baker stepped forward. “Suppose Miss Hampton, Miss Duvall, and I form a team? Detective Winston could accompany Miss Trunsteel and Miss Caldwell.”

  The parties nodded in agreement, and Amelie was grimly satisfied with the arrangement. She intended to demand answers from Mr. Baker regarding Detective Winston’s presence at the event.

  Loud chatter and laughter continued, and as the group made their way into the foyer, Amelie glanced down at the scavenger hunt list.

  Library:

  A creature small and deadly_____

  A companion into the afterlife____

  Comfort on a warm day____

  Conservatory:

  Keys that fit no locks___

  An angel’s dream___

  A courtly bow___

  Ballroom:

  Exotic flora____

  Winged bliss____

  Rebellious love____

  The list continued, and Amelie studied it as they slowly moved with the crowd. “I believe I can guess some of these answers without seeing the clues,” she began, but a small commotion in the foyer made her look up.

  “I can prove there is still a mummy inside,” Mrs. Blakestone was saying to Mrs. Groot. “See?”

  Through gaps between the people, Amelie saw Mrs. Blakestone trying to open the sarcophagus. She shoved against it harder, and in her attempt to prize open the seam along the side, nudged the massive thing against the wall. A grinding noise sounded, and Amelie winced for the condition of the finish. The Misses Van Horne would need to hire out for repairs, unless they kept a plaster mason on retainer.

  Ghoulishly curious, she strained to see if the woman would manage to open the sarcophagus, but Mrs. Blakestone’s efforts merely succeeded in tipping the huge, standing coffin enough that when it teetered away from her, the momentum it gained tipping back was greater.

  Mrs. Blakestone looked at Mrs. Groot over her shoulder, explaining that she’d seen it opened a dozen times. She wasn’t paying attention, and when she shoved impatiently at it again with more force, it tipped away again. A collective gasp rippled through the guests, and a gentleman standing on the other side shouted and put up a hand to right it.

  He succeeded in sending it back toward Mrs. Blakestone, who finally seemed to realize the peril she caused. She squealed as it rocked dangerously toward her, and as the crowd scampered back, her shawl caught on a wall sconce and held tight.

  Amelie’s hand flew to her mouth, and she stared in horror, wondering if the woman were about to be flattened.

  To Mrs. Blakestone’s side stood Mr. Radcliffe, who watched the spectacle with an oddly fascinated expression. Amelie expected him to step forward and free the shawl, but he only stared as if the whole of it were staged for his entertainment.

  Detective Baker brushed past her and jostled her hard into Charlotte, whose breath exhaled in an oof. He rushed at Mrs. Blakestone and wrapped both arms around her, pulling her to the side and freeing the shawl. Detective Winston grabbed the sarcophagus and, with another gentleman’s help, steadied it back into place.

  Amelie exhaled a huge breath, along with the rest of the guests, who then filled the foyer with laughter and exclamations of disbelief and a smattering of applause. Mrs. Blakestone shoved at her hair, which had lost a few pins in the melee, and clutched at Detective Baker with her other hand, her fingers visibly digging into his arm.

  “Sir,” the woman gasped, “you’ve saved me!”

  Detective Baker steadied Mrs. Blakestone for a moment before releasing her. He managed a half smile, but it seemed hard-won. “Perhaps, madam, you’ll refrain from such pursuits in the future.”

  She laughed breathlessly and put a hand to her throat. “Of course,” she said, swallowing. “It is only that I wanted to show—”

  “What in the name of Ramses is happening in here?” Ethel Van Horne made her way to the foyer, the crowd parting before her like the Red Sea. “Bertha?”

  Mrs. Blakestone blinked at Ethel and then burst into tears. “I only wanted to show them the mummy!”

  “Bertha! The mummy was removed years ago and donated to the museum.” Ethel was the picture of exasperation, and, when her sister joined them, the effect doubled.

  “Well, I did not know that, did I?” Mrs. Blakestone said, sniffling.

  Detective Winston handed her a folded handkerchief, which she took with mumbled thanks.

  Amelie blinked as the chatter continued, and Margaret Van Horne called out, “Disaster has been averted by two dashing gentlemen, dare I say, the Yard’s finest!” The small crowd cheered and applauded, and as people shuffled in and out o
f her line of sight, she caught a glimpse of Detective Baker looking briefly heavenward before nodding and smiling.

  Eva had become separated from them and now sidestepped her way back to Amelie and Charlotte, her eyes wide as saucers.

  “What . . . what was that?” Eva managed.

  “That might have been absolutely horrifying,” Charlotte added.

  Eva looked over her shoulder and then back. “It might have been awful for Mrs. Blakestone, certainly, but the way the sarcophagus began to pivot—did you see? I think it might have tilted forward and hurt several people. If not for the detectives . . .”

  The three women looked again at the scene, where the two detectives were attempting to extricate themselves from admiring partygoers. Mrs. Blakestone was awash in tears, and, at Margaret Van Horne’s direction, was escorted away by a maid for fresh tea.

  Miss Van Horne continued, “Impromptu excitement is now finished; onward with your teammates to scavenge!”

  As people moved forward, the crowd in the hall thinned. Eva’s last comment rang quietly in Amelie’s ear, and she wasn’t certain why until she remembered Mr. Radcliffe’s odd response to the impending mishap. He hadn’t moved a finger to help. If not for the detectives, indeed.

  She looked right and left, and then out the windows that flanked the front door. Night had fallen, but the front garden was lit with gas lamps. She squinted and studied the few people who were outside, but Mr. Radcliffe was not among them.

  The odd light in his eyes as he had watched Mrs. Blakestone lingered in her mind as the detectives made their way over to begin the scavenger hunt. Perhaps she’d misunderstood the moment. Perhaps Mr. Radcliffe had not realized there was any danger—sarcophagi were exceptionally heavy, after all, and even without a mummy inside would be difficult to move. He probably thought the woman would never be able to cause actual harm and enjoyed the odd spectacle for what it was.

  Even as she formulated the thoughts, they did not sit well with her, and she was afraid they never would. She might not go so far as to suggest the man had murdered his wife, but she was certain in that moment she and Mr. Radcliffe would not suit. He had treated Charlotte with disdain, which had bothered her, and then he hadn’t lifted a finger to halt a ridiculous display of something potentially dangerous, no matter how unlikely it seemed. Not only had he missed an opportunity to be a hero by saving Mrs. Blakestone, he’d seemed perversely entertained by her peril.