Page 83 of Murder at the Dinner Party
“We’re sorry we didn’t tell you earlier, Miss Fox,” he said as he locked the sideboard. “It’s a sensitive topic, you understand, and to be honest, we’re both in a bit of shock about it.”
“I imagine you are.” I followed him out of the office into the corridor. “Thank you for telling me.”
A bell rang and he sighed. “I have to go.” He headed up the stairs and out of sight.
I decided to leave via the front door, not the back away, so walked along the corridor. I’d be seen, but I no longer cared. I’d found what I was looking for, so if Mrs. Turner had me thrown out, it wouldn’t matter. I even waved to Birdy as I passed the kitchen.
I reached the top of the external basement stairs and saw the now-familiar sight of Harry outside the neighbor’s house. He wasn’t leaving this time, however. He’d just arrived. We were so comfortable in each other’s presence that we no longer bothered with greetings and pleasantries.
He launched into his questions. “Aren’t you banned?”
“I snuck in the back way.”
“Why did you need to look inside?”
I told him Floyd’s theory about the watch and my success at finding the receipt. “Hardy didn’t steal it,” I finished. “He purchased it.”
“On his wages?”
“Precisely. And what’s more, I learned that Davey is the father of Betty’s baby.”
He didn’t look surprised. “I’ve been called out to Mrs. Danvers’ place again. It’s probably another false alarm, but I assured her I’d give the entire house a thorough search for signs of an intruder.”
“May I join you?”
“I don’t see why not.” He led the way up the steps and knocked on the door.
The housekeeper greeted Harry with a smile, which widened when he introduced me. “So you’re Miss Fox! You’re just how I pictured you.”
I arched my brows at Harry. “He mentioned me?”
“Oh, yes. Often.”
“Not that often,” he countered. “And only in relation to your own investigation next door.”
The housekeeper, who Harry had introduced as Mrs. Lund, winked at me, then ushered us inside. “Go through to the sitting room and I’ll join you in a moment. I’ve just made a fresh batch of those biscuits you like.”
“I can see why you come here a lot,” I said as we parted ways with the housekeeper.
Mrs. Danvers did not rise when Harry and I entered the sitting room, but her features lifted upon seeing him. She sat by the fireplace, her delicate frame swaddled in mourning-black crape. A large white tulle cap covered much of her gray hair, and she clutched a black silk fan in one hand. The unrelenting black of her dress made her sunken features look even paler. She reminded me of the Dowager Lady Whitchurch, except Mrs. Danvers had the wrinkles of a woman who’d smiled through much of her life, where the dowager’s wrinkles had settled into a pattern formed by decades of frowns and scowls.
Harry kissed her cheek and introduced us, speaking loudly into her ear. An ear trumpet was within her reach on the table beside her chair, but she left it there. The sitting room was neat and tidy, with a faint smell of polish. The furniture, however, was quite out of date. The simple, solid lines were popular sixty years ago, whereas nowadays ornate decorative elements were added to everything. The room probably hadn’t been updated since Mrs. Danvers moved in as a newlywed.
To my amusement and Harry’s embarrassment, she repeated what Mrs. Lund said. “So you’re the famous Miss Fox! You’re as pretty as I imagined. Sit, sit. Mrs. Lund will bring biscuits and tea.” Once we were settled, she wanted to know all about me.
I spoke loudly, but even so, she had to lean forward to hear.
When Mrs. Lund bustled in carrying a tray, she scolded her employer. “Use the trumpet. That’s what it’s for.”
Mrs. Danvers cupped her ear. “What did you say?”
Mrs. Lund set down the tray and picked up the ear trumpet, giving Mrs. Danvers a good-natured scold for being too proud to use it. I was surprised to hear her call her employer by her first name.
Mrs. Danvers placed the trumpet in her ear only to put it down again when her housekeeper passed her tea and a biscuit. “These are Mr. Armitage’s favorite,” she said to me. “Nel always makes them for him, don’t you, Nel?”
The women exchanged sweet smiles. The age difference between them must be at least fifteen years. They were dissimilar in other ways, too. Mrs. Danvers was frail, whereas Mrs. Lund was stout. She assisted Mrs. Danvers to sit up straighter, then fluffed the cushion at her back. She then settled a tray across Mrs. Danvers’ lap to give the elderly woman something to balance her cup and saucer on.
“There, now,” she said before taking a seat herself, cup of tea in hand. “We’ll all enjoy a nice chat before we show you the Cure-All tonic, Mr. Armitage.”
