by Amanda Quick
“I’m not sure,” Anna said. She retreated a step. “Miss Langley said she wanted to talk to me. Naturally, I refused to speak to her. We have never been introduced, after all. I got into the carriage and came straight back here.”
“Bloody hell.”
“Nestor, please, what is going on? What have you done?”
“Go back to bed, you bloody stupid woman. Don’t you understand? I cannot abide the sight of you. Marrying you was the biggest mistake I have ever made in my life.”
Nestor slammed the door shut.
She stood very still in the hallway for a moment longer and then slowly made her way back to her room.
She could no longer escape the truth. She had known for months that it was only the terms of her father’s will that kept Nestor from finding a way to get rid of her. But now she knew she could no longer continue to rely on that flimsy protection. She had seen the look in Nestor’s eyes tonight. Murderous. He was no doubt telling himself that he had found one heiress; he could find another.
She had to escape.
52
“CONGRATULATIONS,” EUDORA SAID. “You have produced another successful salon. The lecture on photography was quite informative and now your clients are enjoying themselves and Mrs. Sykes’s excellent tea.”
Calista surveyed the crowded room, pleased with the atmosphere. There was, indeed, a cheerful level of lively conversation going on among the guests. The photography lecture had provided a topic that everyone could now discuss with enthusiasm while they munched small cakes and drank lemonade and tea.
“It is very gratifying when the salons go well,” she said. “But it is not always the case. Next time I would like to try matching people more scientifically using your system of cross-referencing my clients’ areas of interest. Perhaps we should also attempt to categorize people by temperament.”
“Don’t you think that it might be difficult to construct a useful set of categories for temperament? One can certainly define your clients in broad terms, such as shy or outgoing and so forth, but I’m not sure it would tell you much about the sort of person who would be a good match for each individual.”
“You are right. I am frequently amazed by the matches that come about during the course of the salons. The most successful are not always predictable.” Calista watched a very serious-looking gentleman in his early thirties approach. She smiled. “However, I am happy to say that I am not the least bit surprised that you and Mr. Tazewell enjoy each other’s company.”
Eudora brightened at the sight of Edward Tazewell forging a path through the crowd, a glass of lemonade clutched in one big hand.
“Mr. Tazewell,” Calista said smoothly. “I’m delighted you were able to attend the salon today. I hope you enjoyed the lecture.”
“Fascinating,” he said, but he was looking at Eudora. “I brought you a glass of lemonade, Miss Hastings.”
“Thank you, sir.” Eudora took the glass from him. “Very thoughtful of you.”
“The talk made me curious about the possibility of using photography to record action as it happens,” he said. “Currently the process is quite cumbersome. One must take a series of still pictures and imprint them on a rotating glass plate. Just think of the applications for a camera that records live action.”
“I can imagine several uses for such a camera,” Eudora said. “Especially in the area of entertainment. Why, one could film a play as it takes place on the stage and then watch it again and again.”
“What a brilliant idea,” Edward said. “Would you care to walk out into the gardens with me so that we can discuss it in detail?”
“I would be delighted,” Eudora said.
Edward took her arm. “You are always brimming with creative ideas, Miss Hastings. You inspire me.”
Eudora smiled but she paused to give Calista a questioning look. “Will you excuse us? If you need me, I can stay here to help you with your guests.”
“Run along, I’ll be fine on my own.” Calista smiled. “This isn’t the first salon that I have hosted, if you will recall. Enjoy the gardens.”
Eudora smiled and winked. “I’m sure we will.”
Calista watched the pair depart through the open French doors. A good match, she thought. Now, if only Eudora could convince herself that Trent would do quite well without her to manage his household—assuming that he did not get himself arrested or murdered that night when he carried out his plan to search the Kettering residence.
At the moment he was closeted with Andrew in a small sitting room at the back of the house. The two were drawing up a strategy for the venture. Thus far she had heard only the barest outlines of the plan. There had been a low-voiced discussion to the effect that Andrew would keep watch outside the house on the street and blow a cab whistle twice if he saw anyone returning while Trent was inside.
Mrs. Sykes appeared out of the crowd, a concerned expression on her face.
“Excuse me, ma’am, Mrs. Kettering has just arrived.”
“What? Is she alone?”
“Yes. There’s a carriage waiting out in front with some luggage strapped on top but no one else inside. She says she has very important information for you. Seems quite nervous. She asked to speak with you immediately and in private.”
“Where is she?”
“I put her in your study.”
“I will see her immediately. My guests seem to be doing well enough on their own. Please notify Mr. Hastings that Mrs. Kettering is here. He and Andrew are in the sitting room.”
“Yes, miss.”
Calista slipped out into the hall and hurried toward the study. The door was closed. She opened it and saw Anna Kettering at the window, gazing out into the gardens. She was dressed for travel in a dark carriage gown and a veiled hat.
She turned quickly at the sound of the door being opened; too quickly. The motion reminded Calista of a startled deer.
“Miss Langley.” There was an audible tremor in Anna’s soft voice.
“Yes.”
“I am so sorry to interrupt you.” Anna pushed her veil up onto the brim of her hat, revealing her tense, tightly drawn features. “I had no idea that you were entertaining.”
“It’s quite all right, Mrs. Kettering.” Calista took a couple of steps into the room but she left the door open. She had no doubt Trent would arrive in short order. “Please be seated.”
“No, thank you. I cannot stay. I am on my way out of London. I am taking a terrible risk stopping here for a few minutes.”
“What is wrong?”
“Yesterday, when you spoke to me on the street, you put me in a dreadful panic. You see, I have been living a nightmare for months, but I kept trying to convince myself that it was my imagination conjuring up all the dark fantasies. When you said you were worried that I might be in danger, I knew I could no longer ignore the reality.”
“What do you think is the reality?” Calista asked.
Anna took a sharp breath and briefly closed her eyes. When she opened them again her gaze was shadowed with fear.
“I am afraid to say this aloud, but the truth is, I believe Nestor is quite . . . insane.”
There was a slight movement in the doorway. Trent walked into the room. He never took his eyes off Anna, who gave another nervous start when she saw him. He closed the door very softly.
“Mrs. Kettering,” he said.
Anna flicked an anxious glance at Calista.
“It’s all right,” Calista said. “Mr. Hastings is my friend.”
“I see,” Anna said. “I am glad you have a man to protect you. I don’t think the others were so fortunate.”
“Who were the others?” Calista asked.
“Miss Dunsforth, Miss Forsyth, and Miss Townsend.” Anna’s lower lip trembled. “I know their names, and I also know what they looked like because of the photographs.”<
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“What photographs?” Trent asked.
“There is always a portrait,” Anna whispered. Tears leaked from her eyes. “In the locked room where Nestor keeps his collection. I don’t know what else to call it. Every two or three months the photograph disappears and a new one takes its place.”
“Mrs. Kettering—” Calista began.
“I told myself they were his mistresses,” Anna said. “I cried myself to sleep for weeks after I discovered the first picture. Foolish woman that I am, I had believed that he truly loved me when he married me.”
“When did you first start to think that the women might not be your husband’s lovers?” Calista asked.
“I’m quite certain they were his lovers, at least for a time. But I have come to believe that something dreadful may have happened to each of them. I could not allow myself to acknowledge the truth. It was too terrible. Yesterday, however, when you confronted me, I knew I could not deceive myself any longer. You see, I recognized you.”
“What do you mean?”
“It is your photograph that now hangs on the wall in that terrible chamber, Miss Langley. In the picture you are much younger—a girl of sixteen or seventeen, perhaps. But I know it was you because it is your name on the funeral announcement.”
Calista took a deep breath. “I see.”
“What, exactly, do you believe is going on, Mrs. Kettering?” Trent asked.
“I’m not certain.” Anna turned away to look out into the garden. “But in addition to the photographs there is always a funeral announcement.”
The tremor shivering through her words was starting to affect her entire body. Her gloved hands were visibly shaking.
“What is this collection you mentioned?” Trent prodded.
“There are always a few memento mori items at the start.” Anna looked down at her hands and then, as if surprised to see that they were trembling, she tightened them into small fists. “The sort of things that one purchases for an elegant funeral. Tear-catchers. Jet-and-crystal rings. And a bell that is attached to a chain. Each is engraved with initials. One by one over a period of several weeks, the items disappear. Eventually, so does the portrait. The date of death appears on the funeral announcement. A few weeks later, there is another picture on the wall and a new collection of memento mori.”
“How do you know all this, Mrs. Kettering?” Calista asked.
“Because I defied my husband and entered the locked chamber on the fourth floor of our house. Nestor ordered me to never go inside. He does not even allow the maid to clean it. He claims it is his dark room and that the chemicals inside are dangerous. But I know where he keeps the key and from time to time when he is gone and the servants are not around I . . . I let myself into the room.”
“What exactly have you concluded, Mrs. Kettering?” Calista asked.
Anna closed her eyes briefly, composing herself. When she looked at Calista again her gaze was stark.
“I told you, I believe my husband is mad,” she said. “I suspect that he has murdered the women whose portraits appear in that locked chamber. When you confronted me yesterday I realized I had to get away, but I could not leave until I had warned you. It seemed the least I could do. I cannot go to the police. Even if they believed me I have no evidence to give them.”
“What about the things in that locked chamber?” Calista asked. “They constitute evidence.”
Anna shook her head. “I’m afraid that if the police confront Nestor he will tell them that he pursues a somewhat eccentric hobby. And they would believe him.”
“Where will you go?” Trent asked.
Anna looked at him. “I left a note telling Nestor I am traveling to the country for a much-needed rest. But as soon as I am safely away from London I will make some excuse and tell my driver to stop at the first railway station. I will buy a ticket for someplace far, far away. No one will know where I’ve gone. It is my only hope. If my husband discovers that I am aware of his . . . activities or that I came here today to warn you, I fear for my life. I am now certain that there is only one reason I am still alive, as it is.”
“What do you mean?” Calista asked.
“I think my father had some concerns about Nestor, although I’m sure he didn’t realize exactly what sort of man I was marrying. But before he died, Papa wanted to be certain that I was married and well protected. He was very careful about the terms of my inheritance in his will. If anything happens to me the money goes to distant relatives in Canada. Lately I have begun to believe that is the only thing keeping me alive.”
“You are going into hiding?” Trent asked.
“Yes. I cannot think of anything else to do.”
“You are very brave, Mrs. Kettering,” Calista said.
“On the contrary. I would not call my decision to vanish an act of bravery. In truth, I am quite frightened. But I am even more terrified of spending another night in that house—not now when I can no longer deny the truth.”
“Where is your husband today?” Trent asked.
“I don’t know. He left after breakfast as is his custom and he has not returned. Perhaps he is at his club. He may not think to question my whereabouts for some time. He can barely stand the sight of me.”
Calista took an impulsive step forward. “Do you need help, Mrs. Kettering?”
“Thank you, but there is nothing you can do for me, Miss Langley. I must disappear. I will leave now. The coachman will be wondering what is keeping me. I told him that I wanted to say good-bye to a friend.”
She went toward the door. Trent hesitated and then reluctantly moved aside. He opened the door for Anna and looked at Calista.
“I will see Mrs. Kettering to her carriage,” he said.
Calista nodded. “Yes, of course.”
Trent returned a short time later, his hard face etched in grim lines. He walked into the room and closed the door.
“Did you learn anything more?” Calista asked. “That is why you escorted her out to her carriage, isn’t it?”
“Yes, but it proved fruitless. She is a frightened woman on the run.”
“What will we do now?” Calista asked.
“Our plans have not changed but they have been somewhat simplified by Mrs. Kettering’s absence. Now Andrew need only watch for her husband and the servants to return to their residence while I am having a look around inside. With luck, Kettering will stick to his usual schedule and remain out of the house until nearly dawn.”
“You heard what Anna Kettering said, there is no proof to be found in that house.”
“Mrs. Kettering may not have recognized hard evidence when she saw it. The police might view things differently.”
“That poor woman. Her nerves have been shattered by this situation. Imagine what it must have been like living night and day with a husband you were beginning to believe might be a murderer.”
53
THE DARKNESS INSIDE the large town house was oppressive but it was not absolute. The lamps had been turned down low but they gave off just enough light to enable Trent to make out objects in his path.
He stood very still for a moment in the hall outside the kitchen. It was the servants’ afternoon and evening off. There had been no sign of Nestor Kettering. Even though his wife was gone, Kettering was evidently sticking with his customary nightly routine. With luck he would not return before dawn.
There was a heavy sensation of emptiness about the house. Satisfied that he had the premises to himself, he went slowly down the hall. His ultimate goal was the locked chamber that Anna Kettering had described, but he did not want to overlook anything that might constitute evidence.
He took a little time with the desk in the study. The correspondence and business records appeared unremarkable—the sort that accumulated in any wealthy homeowner’s desk drawer. He flipped through the leather-bound journal of househo
ld accounts. There were always secrets to be found in a person’s financial records but it took time and study to ferret them out.
He put the journal back into the drawer and made his way upstairs to the bedroom floor. Only two rooms showed signs of occupancy.
Anna’s room featured several empty drawers and a nearly empty wardrobe. It was obvious that she had taken as many things with her as possible when she packed her bags.
Nestor’s bedroom was at the end of the hall. Trent searched the wardrobe and the bureau and found nothing that looked like evidence.
He stepped into the dressing room intending to take only a quick look around. But he paused when he saw a wide, dark stain on the carpet.
Blood. A great deal of it. But there was no body.
He left the bedroom and made his way up the stairs to the fourth floor at the top of the house and began to search the rooms. In other circumstances they would have been assigned to the servants but most were empty. The household staff had their lodgings belowstairs.
The door at the end of the hall was locked.
He took out the lock pick and got the door open. A dark, disturbing miasma wafted through the opening, lifting the hair on the back of his neck. Death had a distinctive odor.
He moved cautiously into the gloom-filled chamber; found the lamp, and turned it up.
Nestor Kettering’s body was on the floor. That answered a few questions, Trent thought. Kettering had been shot in the temple. The gun had been placed on the carpet near his right hand.
A funeral announcement hung on the wall. The name of the deceased was written on one of the lines: Calista Langley. The date of death had not yet been added.
There was also a photograph, just as Anna had said. Someone had taken a pair of shears to the Langley family portrait, excising out everyone except Calista.
Trent took a careful look around the room and then made his way quickly back downstairs. He went back into the study and helped himself to the financial journal. Nestor Kettering would not need it in the future.