by Amanda Quick
“I fear you are all in over your heads.”
He was very fond of Rebecca but there were times when he found her irritating. He seemed to be surrounded by women who felt free to speak their minds and make their opinions known. It was his misfortune that he preferred the company of such females, he thought. They were so much more interesting than the other sort.
“If you can come up with a better approach to the problems we are confronting, Rebecca, I trust you will let me know.”
“Meanwhile, you intend to continue with your inquiries into this dangerous matter.”
“I cannot walk away now.”
“No, I suppose not.” Rebecca gave him a knowing look. “The question is how did you become involved in the first place?”
“You must blame Eudora for that. She insisted on becoming one of Miss Langley’s clients.”
“Ah.” Rebecca looked pleased. “I must congratulate her. It is past time she emerged from her martyr’s cave.”
“I could not agree with you more.”
“You and I have always been in accord on that subject.” Rebecca paused. “Harry and Eudora adore you, Trent. But neither of them can shed their sense of guilt.”
“I am aware of that but what the devil can I do? I have told them countless times that what happened in the laboratory was not their fault.”
“Words are of no use in a situation like this. You must take action if you want to help your brother and sister find some peace of mind concerning the events of the past. I can only repeat the advice I have already given you on numerous other occasions. Fall in love, marry, and start a family of your own. That alone will set Harry and Eudora free.”
“You make it sound so simple.”
“It is anything but simple. It is a great challenge and there is always risk involved. But I suspect that you may have begun the process.”
“What the devil are you talking about?”
“There is a certain expression in your eyes when you look at Miss Langley.”
“Damn it, Rebecca.” He stopped because he could not think of any way to end the statement in a coherent fashion.
Footsteps sounded on the stairs. Calista and Eudora were on their way back to the front hall.
“Off you go,” Rebecca said. “Have your adventure with Miss Langley. I think it may be exactly what you need. But for heaven’s sake, do not get yourself killed in the process. If that were to happen, Harry and Eudora would lose all hope of moving beyond the past. Indeed, Eudora would likely blame herself again because she is the one who introduced you to Miss Langley.”
There was nothing he could say to that, Trent thought. It was the truth.
“I will never forgive you if you leave me alone to deal with your brother and sister under such circumstances,” Rebecca warned.
“I will keep your threat in mind.”
27
CALISTA PERCHED ON the edge of the carriage seat—the only position that would accommodate the small bustle and drapery of her fashionable walking gown. She envied Trent. His masculine attire allowed him to lounge in the corner, one leg outstretched.
He watched the busy street scene with a pensive air.
“You are quite close with your brother and sister,” Calista said.
He glanced at her, his mouth twisting in faint amusement. “For my sins, yes.”
They should no doubt be discussing what they had learned from Harry, Calista thought, and planning how to approach Miss Elizabeth Dunsforth. But her growing curiosity about Trent and his family got the better of her.
“You do not mean that,” she said gently. “I can see that you are quite fond of all of them, including your sister-in-law.” She paused, not certain how far she should step into his private life. But given what they had been through together, surely she had some right to a few intimacies. “Correct me if I am mistaken but I have the impression that Eudora and Harry view you almost as a paternal figure.”
“Kindly do me a favor and don’t remind me. It makes me feel quite old.”
“Nonsense. You are in your prime. But you are most certainly a few years older than Harry and Eudora and it is clear they think of you as the head of the family.”
“Very likely because after our mother’s death and the death of her second husband, that was what I became.” His profile hardened. “Belatedly, I might add.”
“When did your mother die?”
Trent was silent for a time. She got the impression that he was not going to answer the question and she was beginning to regret asking it when he surprised her.
“My mother was murdered,” he said eventually. “By her second husband.”
He said it calmly, as though it were merely a statement of fact and not a shattering revelation.
“Dear heaven.” For a few seconds she was so shocked she could not find her voice. “Is that what you meant when you said your stepfather was dead? He was hanged for murder?”
“He did not hang.” Trent fixed her with an ice-cold look that chilled her to the bone. “I had left home by the time Bristow moved in but I can assure you that he was never a father to Harry and Eudora, not in any way, shape, or form. He was a venomous snake of a man who somehow managed to appear charming long enough to convince my mother to marry him.”
“I’m so sorry,” Calista whispered. She could not think of anything else to say.
“Bristow told everyone that my mother took her own life—that she deliberately drowned herself in the pond at our country house. But Eudora and Harry and I never believed that, not for a moment. Bristow married her for her money. Six months after the wedding she was dead.”
“How old were you?”
“Twenty-two. As I said, I was away at the time, traveling in America. I had been absent from home for nearly a year. I was intent on seeing the world, particularly the Wild West. It all sounded so exciting. So thrilling. Just the sort of adventure a young man craves.”
The bitterness in his words told her that he blamed himself for not saving his mother.
“I got home as soon as I could after I received the telegram informing me of my mother’s death,” he continued. “I found Eudora and Harry on their own with what few members of the staff remained. Several had given notice because they were terrified of Bristow. But when I arrived, he was gone as well.”
“Where did he go?”
“He left for London the day after they pulled my mother’s body out of the pond. He did not bother to attend the funeral. When I finally got home, Eudora and Harry were still in shock. They were also very frightened. They told me their suspicions. The remaining servants said they, too, were convinced that Mother had been murdered. But there were no witnesses and no proof.”
“I assume Bristow got his hands on your mother’s inheritance?”
“A great deal of it, yes, although my mother had been careful to reserve a certain amount for each of her children. Bristow was addicted to gambling. He went through the money very quickly. But at least he seemed content to remain in London and leave Harry and Eudora and me alone. The one asset Bristow could not touch was the country house because my grandfather had left it to me.”
“So you did not lose your home.”
“Theoretically it was safe, but I knew we could not trust Bristow. As long as he was alive, I believed him to be a danger.”
“Is that when you started to write your mystery novels?”
Trent frowned. “How did you know?”
“Given your situation it seemed logical that you might have sought an outlet for your—” She stopped before she said the word passions. “An outlet for your talents and energies.”
“For a time we lived on some money that my grandfather had left to me but I knew it would not last forever. So I started writing. I have always had a certain facility with storytelling and my travels abroad had given me a number
of ideas for the character who became Clive Stone.”
“But you were trapped in the country, weren’t you? There was no other way for you to guard your brother and sister. You dared not leave for fear that Bristow might return.”
“You understand me very well, Calista.”
“Perhaps that is because I know how it feels to be responsible for the safety and welfare of a younger sibling.”
“One does what one must, of course.” Trent returned his attention to the window. “A few months after my mother’s death I sold the first chapters of a novel featuring Clive Stone to a country newspaper which published them in serialized form. When the story was completed, the chapters were bound together in a book and sold quite well. The Flying Intelligencer made me an excellent offer for rights to serialize my next novel. I discovered I had begun a career.”
She thought about the plot of the first Clive Stone novel, Clive Stone and the Affair of the Midnight Appointment. It had involved a villain who had married a woman for her fortune and then murdered her. In the end, the killer had come to a bad end, as villains always did in Clive Stone novels. In that particular case, the murderous husband had attacked Clive Stone on a bridge. In the ensuing struggle, the killer had fallen to his death and drowned in the raging river.
“You said Bristow died?” she asked.
“Yes.” There was a long pause. “Within a few months after my mother’s death.”
“I see.” She sensed she was on dangerous ground. She chose her words with great care. “That must have come as a relief to all of you.”
“I will not deny it, although Bristow managed to go through all of the money he had stolen from Mother before he finally departed this earthly plane.”
There was an iron-hard finality in Trent’s voice that told her that was all of the story that she would get for now.
28
MILTON LANE PROVED to be a neighborhood of prosperous town houses. The cab halted in front of Number Fourteen. Calista and Trent went up the front steps. Trent clanged the door knocker a couple of times.
“We never discussed what we would do if Miss Dunsforth is not here or if she refuses to see us,” Calista said.
“If all else fails we shall have to hope that whoever is home is a fan of Clive Stone.”
“Has that approach worked for you in the past?”
“I’ve only employed it when I’ve made inquiries related to my research. But, yes, it has been my experience that most people are quite generous with their time when it comes to discussing their areas of expertise with an author.”
“Is that how Clive Stone learned to pick locks?”
“Among other things.”
A housekeeper opened the door.
“We have a very important matter to discuss with Miss Elizabeth Dunsforth,” Calista said. “We are hoping that she will be good enough to see us for a few minutes.”
The housekeeper blinked. “I don’t understand. There is no Miss Dunsforth at this address.”
An icy finger traced a path down Calista’s spine. Beside her, Trent went very still.
“This is very odd,” he said smoothly. “We are quite certain of the address. Has something happened to Miss Dunsforth?”
“I wouldn’t know. I’m new in this post.”
“Is the lady of the house at home, by any chance?” Calista asked. “It is very important that we speak with someone who can give us Miss Dunsforth’s new address.”
The housekeeper hesitated. “I suppose I can see if Mrs. Abington is receiving visitors. It is very early in the day.”
Trent took a card out of his pocket. “You may inform her that Mr. Trent Hastings would be grateful for a few minutes of her time. The matter involves some research that I am doing for a new novel featuring Clive Stone.”
The housekeeper’s eyes widened. “You’re the author of the Clive Stone stories? How thrilling. I have read every one of your books at least twice. My employer is kind enough to pass her copies to me after she is finished with them. I cannot tell you how many pleasant evenings I have spent with a Clive Stone novel.”
“Thank you, Mrs.—?” Trent broke off on an inquiring note.
The housekeeper blushed. “Mrs. Button, sir.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Button. I’m very glad to know that you enjoy my stories. Now, if you wouldn’t mind asking your employer if she will be kind enough to see us—”
“Yes, sir, right away, sir.”
Mrs. Button closed the door. Calista listened to the rapid patter of muffled footsteps.
“I must say, that worked rather nicely,” Calista said.
Trent looked grim. “It usually does.”
The door opened less than two minutes later. Mrs. Button beamed at Trent.
“Mrs. Abington is at home and would be delighted to see you, sir.”
“Thank you,” Trent said.
More or less ignoring Calista, the housekeeper led the way into a well-appointed drawing room. A fashionably dressed woman of some thirty years was seated on a sofa covered in dark red velvet. She flicked a disinterested glance at Calista and favored Trent with a warm smile.
“Mr. Hastings,” she said. “This is an unexpected pleasure. Please be seated.”
“Thank you,” Trent said. “This is Miss Langley.”
Mrs. Abington gave Calista a brief, dismissive glance. “Miss Langtree, was it?”
“Langley,” Calista said.
“Yes, of course,” Mrs. Abington said vaguely. She turned back to Trent and gave him another gracious smile. “I must tell you that I am a great fan of your novels, sir. Indeed, my entire family enjoys them. We read them aloud in the evenings. Do sit down.”
Trent held a chair for Calista and then took his seat.
“I’m delighted that my stories provide you some enjoyment,” he said.
“Yes, indeed. But I must admit, I am very curious to know what brings you to my door, sir.”
“Research, madam.”
“Research? I would be thrilled to assist you but I cannot imagine how.”
“Miss Langley and I are engaged in a real-life investigation into the disappearance of a Miss Elizabeth Dunsforth.”
“I see.” Mrs. Abington frowned briefly at Calista and then returned her attention to Trent. “How very odd. Why would you want to do that?”
“We are making notes of the various steps required to locate a missing person,” Trent explained. “The process intrigues me. I intend to use it in the plot of my next book.”
“I see,” Mrs. Abington said again. “I suppose that explains Miss Langtree’s presence. She is your secretary.”
“Langley,” Calista corrected.
No one paid any attention.
“Something along those lines,” Trent said.
He was careful not to look at Calista.
“How on earth did you trace Miss Dunsforth to this address?” Mrs. Abington asked.
“We discovered that some memento mori items were sent to her here,” Trent said. “A tear-catcher, a jet ring, and a bell designed for a safety coffin.”
“Oh, yes, I remember those things. We could not understand why anyone would send them to Miss Dunsforth. She had no family to speak of, you see. A cousin or two, perhaps, but they never visited. And it wasn’t as if Miss Dunsforth, herself, was dying, at least not at the time. She appeared quite healthy. We assumed that it was all some unfortunate mistake.”
Calista tensed. “Miss Dunsforth did reside at this address at one time?”
“Yes,” Mrs. Abington said. “She was employed as a governess. Quite a good one, actually. I was sorry to have to let her go.”
“Why did you dismiss her?” Trent asked.
“After the second memento mori gift arrived she went into a decline. Developed a dreadful case of shattered nerves. She was convinced that some
one was watching her and following her. In the end she became quite delusional. Naturally, I couldn’t have her around the children, not in her unbalanced state of mind. So I sent her back to the agency. I have no idea where she is now.”
“Would you mind giving us the name of the agency?” Trent asked.
“Certainly. It was the Grant Agency in Tanner Street.”
Calista stopped breathing for a few seconds, nearly overcome by an eerie, light-headed sensation. The old saying whispered through her head: as if someone walked over my grave.
“Are you quite certain that Miss Dunsforth was with the Grant Agency, Mrs. Abington?” she asked.
“Of course, I’m certain.” Mrs. Abington switched her attention back to Trent. She lowered her voice in a conspiratorial manner. “Just between you and me, Mr. Hastings, I suspect that I would have been forced to let Miss Dunsforth go, even if she had not become delusional.”
“Why do you say that?” Trent asked.
“I cannot be certain but I believe that for a few weeks prior to the arrival of the tear-catcher and the other items, Miss Dunsforth was seeing a gentleman.”
Calista could scarcely breathe now. She did not dare look at Trent but she sensed the tension in him.
“What makes you say that?” Trent asked.
“Her mood changed for a time,” Mrs. Abington said. “She suddenly seemed happier and more carefree, at least at first.”
“Given the nature of a governess’s position, it would be extremely difficult for one to conduct any sort of illicit liaison,” Calista pointed out.
“I consider myself a generous and understanding employer,” Mrs. Abington said, an edge on the words. “Miss Dunsforth was allowed one afternoon and evening off each week and three hours on Sunday so that she could attend church. I assumed she used her free time to visit bookstores and museums and perhaps do a bit of shopping. But in the weeks before the memento mori started to arrive she began returning quite late from her evenings off. There was an air of excitement about her. I don’t mind telling you that it caused me some alarm.”