Page 43 of Murder at the Dinner Party
“Who’s there?” came the dowager’s brittle voice. “Arthur? Is that you?”
I stayed silent.
Theclomp clompof her walking stick passed the closet door, heading away from her bedchamber then fading altogether.
I opened the door a crack and checked the vicinity. The dowager was nowhere in sight, but her bedchamber door was wide open. If anyone kept a photograph of Rupert, surely it would be his mother.
I didn’t allow myself any more time to think through my actions. I didn’t want to give doubt time to creep in. I slipped out of the closet and raced into her room, closing the door behind me.
The room was divided by a screen, behind which was a chair and space for dressing. In the main part of the room, aside from a bed and chest of drawers, was a dressing table and writing desk. If I were to keep photographs of my banished son, I’d keep them on the dressing table. It felt more private.
A quick search produced nothing but hair combs and pins, perfume and jewelry. I moved to the writing desk and checked each of the drawers. Finding nothing, I searched the small compartments at the back. Again, there was nothing related to Rupert. Perhaps his own mother hadn’t liked him and had kept nothing of his after he disappeared. By all accounts, she’d been fond of him, but the witnesses could be wrong.
My hand skimmed over something protruding at the back of one of the desk’s compartments. My father had owned a similar desk, and behind the small drawers was a secret compartment that I’d discovered one day when I was bored. Perhaps this one had something similar. Guided by my childhood memories, I easily found the latch. I flicked it up and the compartment revealed itself.
Letters spilled out onto the desk surface. There were dozens, all in the same hand, all signed with the name “Oblitus.” Each was dated a few months apart, beginning mere weeks after the murder of Charlotte, and were sent from various countries. The most common was France or Italy, but there was quite a variety, including Malta, Greece, Russia and finally America. Oblitus was well traveled.
If Oblitus was a coded name for Rupert, then he’d been in correspondence with his mother throughout his exile, until a month before Mr. Hardy had begun working at the Campbell residence. After opening a few letters at random, I concentrated on the most recent ones. All were brief, some a mere paragraph. They said nothing of interest, most simply describing the weather, his health, and that he hoped she was well. The last few letters changed, however. He talked about being low in spirits, and missing home and the life he used to lead. These last ones asked for money, saying he couldn’t continue with his former employment. In the final letter, the tone turned to begging. He asked her to send financial assistance “just this once” to get him back on his feet. The implication being she’d not sent money after his earlier requests.
I heard theclompof the walking stick against the floorboards first, followed by the voices of the dowager and Lord Whitchurch. I hurriedly shoved the letters back into the compartment and closed it.
“There is no leak, Arthur!”
“The gas fitter said—"
“Can you smell gas?”
They were right outside the door! If I tried to escape, I’d be seen. Even if I hid my face and ran, they’d alert the staff to my presence, and I’d be stopped outside and my identity revealed. Hiding under the bed or behind the privacy screen would only be a temporary solution. And how long would I need to remain hidden before the dowager left again? It was too much of a risk.
“No,” the dowager was saying in response to something her son said. “I can’t either.” The voices were close, but they seemed to have stopped at the door.
I had only moments to make my escape.
The good thing about being on the ground floor was escaping via a window meant I wouldn’t need to put life and limb at risk. All I had to do was climb through.
Unfortunately, the bad thing about being on the ground floor was that the windows were usually locked to keep burglars out. The dowager’s bedroom window wouldn’t budge, and there was no time to search for a key.
The door handle turned as someone on the other side opened it.
I’d have to brazen it out. I drew in a fortifying breath, faced the door, and tried to think of an excuse.
CHAPTER9
The blood rushed like a torrent in my ears, drowning out all sounds. Even the voices of the dowager and Lord Whitchurch faded to nothing. Or perhaps they’d stopped talking. I didn’t know. All I knew was that the door handle kept turning and turning and turning. Panic froze me to the spot. For all my bravado, I knew I couldn’t talk my way out of my predicament. The dowager would make sure that I was arrested. I’d be an embarrassment to my family. My uncle would never let me leave the hotel alone again. He would forbid me from investigating. If I refused to follow his orders, I’d have to defy him and leave the hotel, perhaps never to return.
My heart seemed to stop altogether.
The set of hands clasping me from behind restarted it with a ferocious thud. I spun around to see Harry leaning in through the window, trying to encourage me to climb through. Somehow, he’d got it open from the outside.
There was no time to ask where he’d found the key, or how he knew that I was in this particular room.
I sat on the windowsill, intending to swing my legs out. Instead, Harry grasped me around the waist and hauled me through. I fell against him, my skirts tangling around me, revealing my legs. There was no time for blushes, however. He pushed me down and we lay side by side on the courtyard bricks, as close to the wall as possible.
Inside, the dowager scolded her son for being gullible and a fool. One of them closed the window, muffling her voice.
Harry put his finger to his lips to silence me, then rose to peep through the window. Without a word, he signaled for me to leave via the mews. He made sure I was on my way before he re-entered the house via the service entrance.
We met ten minutes later at the same place where we’d parted, a few streets away. I could have kissed him when I saw him striding toward me, safe and sound and looking roguish with the smudged soot on his cheek. Iwantedto kiss him. Instead, I grinned.
