Page 14 of Affair

“A deceiving, coldhearted villainess?”

Baxter hesitated. “I must point out, madam, that you really do not have any proof of your accusations.”

“Bah. You will find the evidence we need soon enough.”

“Do not be too certain of that. I can envision Miss Arkendale in many roles.”Including that of a paramour. The images came out of nowhere, searing and intense. His body reacted as though he had been plunged into a recently tumbled bed that smelled of passion and desire. Perhaps it had been a bit too long since his last liaison, he thought glumly. “But it’s difficult to see her as a blackmailing murderess.”

Rosalind glared at him. “Are you entertaining doubts about this project we have embarked upon?”

“We? I seem to find myself alone in this endeavor.”

“Do not mince words with me. You know very well what I mean.”

“I have told you from the start that I have doubts,” Baxter said. “Grave doubts. For starters, you have absolutely no proof that Charlotte Arkendale was blackmailing Drusilla Heskett, let alone that she murdered her.”

“Drusilla herself confided to me one night after we had gone through a bottle of port, that she had paid Miss Arkendale a considerable sum. When I inquired as to why she had done such a thing, she suddenly changed the topic. I did not think much about it until after she was killed. Then I recalled how mysterious she had been about the matter. It is all too much of a coincidence, Baxter.”

“Mrs. Heskett was a close friend of yours. Surely she would have told you if she was being blackmailed,” Baxter said.

“Not necessarily. By its very nature, blackmail must touch on some extremely intimate and personal secret. It must threaten to reveal something the victim would not want anyone, perhaps most especially her closest friends, to know.”

“If Mrs. Heskett was willing to pay, why would the blackmailer murder her? Rather defeats the purpose, don’t you think?”

“Who knows how a blackmailer thinks?” Rosalind got to her feet with regal grace and started toward the door. “Perhaps Drusilla stopped the payments. I expect you to discover the truth about her death, Baxter. I have made it my goal to see that justice is done. Keep me informed.”

“Hmm.”

“By the bye.” Rosalind paused in the doorway and lowered her voice. “I really do think that you are going to have to pension off poor old Lambert. It takes him forever to answer the door these days. I vow, I waited on your front step for nearly ten minutes.”

“I consider his slowness in opening the door to be one of his greatest assets. Most people who come to call give up and go away without ever discovering that I am at home. Saves me a great deal of trouble.”

He waited until Rosalind had left the laboratory. Then he walked slowly to the window and examined the three pots that sat on the sill.

The pots were part of an ongoing experiment in agricultural chemistry. Each contained some sweet pea seeds buried in barren soil that had been laced with his most recent blend of minerals and chemicals.

So far there was no sign of life.

The ticking of the study clock seemed inordinately loud. Charlotte composed herself and gazed across her desk at Baxter with what she hoped was an air of professional competence. She had been dreading this meeting all day.

Dreading it and yet anticipating it with an inexplicable sense of what could only be termed morbid excitement.

“Before I give you instructions regarding your initial duties, Mr. St. Ives, I shall have to tell you something that I never found it necessary to reveal to Mr. Marcle.”

Baxter studied her with an expression of polite inquiry. “Indeed.”

“I must tell you precisely how I make my living.”

Baxter took off his spectacles and began to polish the lenses with a large white handkerchief. “That would certainly be of some interest to your man-of-affairs, Miss Arkendale.”

“Yes, I suppose so. But it is a little difficult to explain.”

“I see.”

“Some would say my career borders on the scandalous but I feel it is more in the nature of a calling.”

“Rather like becoming a nun, would you say?” Baxter held his eyeglasses up to the light, apparently checking for smudges.

“Yes.” Charlotte cheered slightly. “That is an excellent analogy. You see, Mr. St. Ives, I operate a very exclusive service. I cater solely to women who have come into a bit of money. An inheritance, perhaps, or an unusually large pension from a grateful employer.”

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