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Authors: Lynn Viehl
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If heâd left the house on the day of his death looking deplorable, as her ladyship had indicated, it hadnât been because of his wardrobe.
The stark cut and sober color of his clothing didnât fit with the flashiness of his neckties and personal adornments; pairing them would have made him resemble a magpie. Perhaps that was what his wife had found so objectionable. The garments were intended for wearing at home, definitely, but the pins and the watches . . .
When I went downstairs Iâd have to ask her to explain what exactly about his garments had prompted her withering observation.
The silk coverlet on the bed appeared unwrinkled and spotless, and when I drew it back I found his linens in the same condition. Beneath the bed the necessary was bone dry and occupied by a small, deceased house spider, a dusty web, and a tiny broken egg sac, indicating the pot hadnât been used or cleaned for quite some time.
I bent over the bed and sniffed the linens, detecting a strong version of the musty odor. The bed hadnât been stripped or slept in for weeks, perhaps months. I lifted the mattress on either side to probe it with my ticking pick, but found no cache beneath the edges, and nothing stuffed or hidden in the ticking.
âThe only thing really living in here was that poor spinner,â I muttered.
I went from the bedchamber to the dressing room, which I found in much the same state. The adjoining lavatory held a large bath, sink, and washstand that hadnât known water in months. An expensive assortment of pomades, colognes, and soaps filled the toiletrycabinet, but most were dried up or showed the cracks of nonuse. His hairbrush held plenty of dust but not a single hair; his straight razor sported an edge of uneven rust, and lay resting beside a cake of shaving soap so desiccated it had shrunk from the edges of its porcelain dish.
I made a second sweep of both rooms, this time searching for any cashsafes or hidey-hole in which Lord Bestly might have stashed his secrets and warded with concealment magic. After running my echo across every wall and finding nothing, I stomped downstairs to the study.
The cold of the interior gave me pause on the threshold, and I took a moment to take it in. Here was a room that had been regularly occupied, unlike what Iâd seen upstairs; signs of Lord Bestlyâs presence were everywhere. A copy of the Rumsen Daily lay partially unfolded on a table by the hearth-side armchair; a half-empty carafe of some dark amber liquor stood sparkling by several crystal tumblers. Neat stacks of correspondence sat on one side of the desk opposite a hefty book with a monogrammed brass marker poking out of its pages. A pair of riding boots, shining with a mirror finish, stood near a cloak stand hung with three different gentlemanâs coats.
Years of the master smoking cigars, handling paper, and sipping strong drink had permeated the study with the pungent but not unpleasant scent of all three. According to his wife, Lord Bestly had spent much of his time in his study. My impression was that his lordship had practically lived in here, although Rina had said lately heâd been entrenched at his club. Perhaps heâd divided his time between both. . . .
Because this was where I would likely find any realevidence of what had happened to the gentleman, I moved into the room with slow, deliberate steps, turning my head from side to side to inspect everything. I studied the arrangement of the furnishings, read the titles of the books in the glass-fronted shelfairs, and eyed the measures of liquor left in each bottle standing on the libation trolley.
With the latter I saw something very wrong: three of the decanters had less than an inch of liquor in them. Tonners prided themselves on being able to offer their cronies a drink whenever they came to call; whenever a bottle ran low Lord Bestly
If heâd left the house on the day of his death looking deplorable, as her ladyship had indicated, it hadnât been because of his wardrobe.
The stark cut and sober color of his clothing didnât fit with the flashiness of his neckties and personal adornments; pairing them would have made him resemble a magpie. Perhaps that was what his wife had found so objectionable. The garments were intended for wearing at home, definitely, but the pins and the watches . . .
When I went downstairs Iâd have to ask her to explain what exactly about his garments had prompted her withering observation.
The silk coverlet on the bed appeared unwrinkled and spotless, and when I drew it back I found his linens in the same condition. Beneath the bed the necessary was bone dry and occupied by a small, deceased house spider, a dusty web, and a tiny broken egg sac, indicating the pot hadnât been used or cleaned for quite some time.
I bent over the bed and sniffed the linens, detecting a strong version of the musty odor. The bed hadnât been stripped or slept in for weeks, perhaps months. I lifted the mattress on either side to probe it with my ticking pick, but found no cache beneath the edges, and nothing stuffed or hidden in the ticking.
âThe only thing really living in here was that poor spinner,â I muttered.
I went from the bedchamber to the dressing room, which I found in much the same state. The adjoining lavatory held a large bath, sink, and washstand that hadnât known water in months. An expensive assortment of pomades, colognes, and soaps filled the toiletrycabinet, but most were dried up or showed the cracks of nonuse. His hairbrush held plenty of dust but not a single hair; his straight razor sported an edge of uneven rust, and lay resting beside a cake of shaving soap so desiccated it had shrunk from the edges of its porcelain dish.
I made a second sweep of both rooms, this time searching for any cashsafes or hidey-hole in which Lord Bestly might have stashed his secrets and warded with concealment magic. After running my echo across every wall and finding nothing, I stomped downstairs to the study.
The cold of the interior gave me pause on the threshold, and I took a moment to take it in. Here was a room that had been regularly occupied, unlike what Iâd seen upstairs; signs of Lord Bestlyâs presence were everywhere. A copy of the Rumsen Daily lay partially unfolded on a table by the hearth-side armchair; a half-empty carafe of some dark amber liquor stood sparkling by several crystal tumblers. Neat stacks of correspondence sat on one side of the desk opposite a hefty book with a monogrammed brass marker poking out of its pages. A pair of riding boots, shining with a mirror finish, stood near a cloak stand hung with three different gentlemanâs coats.
Years of the master smoking cigars, handling paper, and sipping strong drink had permeated the study with the pungent but not unpleasant scent of all three. According to his wife, Lord Bestly had spent much of his time in his study. My impression was that his lordship had practically lived in here, although Rina had said lately heâd been entrenched at his club. Perhaps heâd divided his time between both. . . .
Because this was where I would likely find any realevidence of what had happened to the gentleman, I moved into the room with slow, deliberate steps, turning my head from side to side to inspect everything. I studied the arrangement of the furnishings, read the titles of the books in the glass-fronted shelfairs, and eyed the measures of liquor left in each bottle standing on the libation trolley.
With the latter I saw something very wrong: three of the decanters had less than an inch of liquor in them. Tonners prided themselves on being able to offer their cronies a drink whenever they came to call; whenever a bottle ran low Lord Bestly
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