“You mean a woman?” Bunny asked bluntly. “Thought so m’self.”
“Mr. Hume never said so, but I know he always packed his black suit and his dancing slippers when he went to London.”
“But he was killed in Brighton,” I said.
“So you say. If I had killed my wife’s lover, I’d be at pains to muddy the waters a little. Moving the body is one way of doing it.”
How naturally he said that.
If I had killed my wife’s lover.
Murder was nothing to this man. Nor was taking another man’s wife. I noticed his eyes were on me, and there was a spark of amusement, no doubt due to my shocked expression.
“I expect you would also have had the wits to take the carriage to London, with the victim’s suitcase inside it,” I sneered.
“So I would. Someone made a bad gaffe there. And you’re off to Brighton, you say?”
“Yes, tomorrow morning.”
“You’ll require an escort.”
I took the absurd idea that Snoad was about to offer his services.
“I’m accompanying the ladies,” Bunny said.
A vague smile tugged at Snoad’s lips. “Excellent, Mr. Smythe. They will have no need of further assistance if you are along.”
The tone of Snoad’s voice was as good as a direct insult, but unsuspecting Smythe smiled in satisfaction. “Someone to deal with the constables,” he mentioned
.
“You’ll be careful, Miss Hume,” Snoad said. “Remember what I said.” There was no smile now, nor any slyness.
I took a deep breath and said, “Do you know the lady’s name, Snoad?”
“I could not even vouch that she was a lady, ma’am. Now, if you’ll excuse me, the pigeons are waiting for their feed.” He performed an easy, graceful bow, and returned to the sacks in the far corner, without waiting to be dismissed. I did not wish to risk further impertinence in front of Bunny, and let him go. I found myself wondering if he was a by-blow of the Duke of Prescott. There was an aristocratic arrogance in his manner. How could the Prescotts have endured his insolence unless he had some hold over them?
As he walked away, there was a rustle in the nests. A pink-necked bird flew from the perch and settled on his shoulder. “There now, Tess,” he crooned, lifting a hand to gently stroke her wing. It was oddly uncharacteristic behavior from surly Snoad.
“That wasn’t much help,” I grouched, and returned belowstairs with Bunny. “I don’t trust Snoad. Not as far as I could throw him.”
“An oiler,” Bunny added. “A foreign look about him. That dark hair and black eyes. Might be a gypsy.”
“Yes, he has that sly air. If he had not been here the whole time Papa was gone, I could believe he had something to do with the murder. He must know something about Papa’s customers. The two of them were close as inkle weavers.”
“He mentioned that George Jones.”
“There is no George Jones, Bunny.”
“No George Jones?” Bunny gave a jeering look. “I daresay there are a hundred of them in London alone. Maybe more. Oh, heh heh. I see your meaning. Chose that name on purpose. Sly boots.”
“Precisely. I wonder if Papa has any record of his customers in his study. Let us have a look.”
Bunny glanced at his watch. “Time for me to be shabbing off home. Vicar’s coming to dinner, thank God. The girls won’t fight in front of him. They’ll wait till he’s gone, then they’ll be at each other’s throats. Beth and Mary are both sweet on him.”
“You’ll come early tomorrow morning?”
“I’ll be here at eight
-
thirty. We’ll take your rig. Your papa’s prads are top o’ the trees.”
It was close to dinnertime, so I postponed my search of the office till later. After dinner, Mrs. Lovatt went upstairs to prepare for the visit to Brighton, and I went to my father’s office, which was gradually becoming my office. I had had a deal of paperwork to do here, settling the details of my father’s will. Soon I would be taking my father’s place at those sessions with his bailiff, having to learn about tilling fields and rotating crops, and settling the tenants’ account. I did not look forward to it with any eagerness, or any hope of pleasure. I began to understand why well-dowered ladies rushed into marriage.
Papa kept the estate books in a small desk in the corner. His pigeon records occupied pride of place at the large oak table desk in the center of the room. A ledger was there, open on the desk. I glanced at the columns, but they were not helpful. They merely listed the matings of birds, and probable time of hatching. Most of the words I didn’t even understand. I had wondered what the Columbidae Society meant, and Papa had told me columbidae meant dove, which was the family that pigeons belonged to. I found myself liking our mourning doves less when I learned they were pigeons.
Papa had mated something called a Treroninaea with something else called a Ducula Aenea. The dates of breeding were listed with hatching to come, apparently two weeks to nineteen days later. Some of the hatch dates were listed. Usually two eggs, but sometimes only one survived. Another book had lists of feeds—seeds and cereal grains along with some green foods, and grit. He kept track of various diets he was trying on different birds, and the weight gain and flight times.
There was more than a lay person wanted to know about pigeons, but nothing to tell whom he sold them to. Surely there must be a ledger somewhere. I rooted through the drawers of his desk, but there was nothing. At the back of the bottom drawer I saw his pistol, always kept there. If he had taken it with him, perhaps he would be alive today. He had obviously not been expecting any trouble, or he would have taken it with him.
After half an hour’s search, I was certain that the study had nothing to tell me. I was just about to extinguish the lamps when the door, which was ajar, opened, and Snoad entered. He gave a start of surprise.
“What are you doing here?” he demanded, in the accents of authority.
“I was about to ask you the same thing, Snoad. A gentleman usually knocks before entering a lady’s room.” That was a foolish thing to say. Snoad was no gentleman.
“I’ll remember that advice, miss,” he said, and came in. “You weren’t sporting your oak.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“The door was not actually closed.” He closed it softly behind him, and advanced toward me.
For no sensible reason, I felt a sudden rush of panic.
Chapter Three
“You may leave the door ajar, Snoad,” I said, with as much self-control as I could muster.
“Very well, if you’re afraid, miss,” he replied with a taunting smile, and opened it a crack.
“It is no odds. I find it a little close in here.” His bold eyes skimmed off the shawl hugging my shoulders. “What is it you wanted?”
He advanced directly to the desk. A lazy smile moved across his lips, and when he spoke, his voice was smooth and rich, like Devonshire cream. “Why, I want to help you, miss. I thought I might find your father’s list of customers, as you’re so eager to have it.”
“It’s not here. I’ve looked all over.”
“I’ve a few other things I wanted to check out as well. With you father gone, the running of the loft is in my care. I must see what feed he’s ordered. The present supply won’t last longer than a week. You wouldn’t want those valuable birds to perish.”
It was a rational answer, yet I felt in my bones that it was not the truth. Snoad had come here to snoop. I would let him have any legitimate records he required, and then I would lock the door. Or better, have the lock changed, in case he had got hold of a key. Snoad might have the run of the loft, but he would not have the run of this office.
I handed him a heavy ledger. “I believe this is what you’re looking for.” He took the book, apparently recognizing it as the right one. No doubt he was familiar with it. “I don’t know what Father’s arrangements for paying were, but you may order what you require, and give me the bill.”
“Thank you
,
Miss Hume,” he said. His tone was humble, but those flashing eyes made a jest of humility.
“Was there anything else?” I asked, shuffling papers as if I were busy.
Snoad just stood, gazing around the room. He shook his head sadly. “I just wanted to come here and think about your father. We spent so many hours here, discussing plans. I miss him.”
His tone was wistful, and for once, it was not at odds with his demeanor. It occurred to me that perhaps Snoad was genuinely saddened, even lonesome. He seldom saw anyone but my father and the visitors who came on bird business. Any breeder visiting in the vicinity of Gracefield was bound to call. Some gentlemen came from London for no other reason than to visit the loft and meet my father. Papa had written widely on his hobby, and gained some small degree of fame.
It was a strangely isolated life for a young man like Snoad. He was not treated as part of the family by any means. I knew he had some friends amongst the footmen and maids, but he was not precisely like them either. He was in the same awkward class as a governess: too high to be at home with the servants, and too low to mix freely with the family. Being a man, he had more freedom to go about the neighborhood, but other than the bird-training trips, I did not think he made much use of that freedom.
“Many a happy hour we have spent, over a bottle of wine,” Snoad said. “Your father showed me his trophies for races won.” He glanced to the bookcase along the far wall, where a small array of undistinguished cups and one silver-plated trophy in the shape of a pigeon rested.
“I miss him, too,” I said. I took the decision to give Snoad some memento of my father, a watch or some such thing. For the past two years, Snoad had been closer to him than anyone else, including Aunt Lovatt and myself. “I would like you to have a keepsake of Papa, Snoad.”
His eyes moved from the trophies to me. He seemed very much surprised at this friendly gesture. “You are very kind. I would treasure whatever you think fit to give me.”
“Is there any particular item that has meaning for you? Perhaps his watch ...”
Snoad considered it a moment. “I should, perhaps, mention, Miss Hume, Williams has already given me your father’s boots.”
“His boots!” I exclaimed.
“Not as a memento,” he said. A slight blush rose up from his collar. “We happen to wear the same size. Your father had just had a new pair of Hessians made. It seemed ...”
I was embarrassed for him. Snoad was a proud man, and was ashamed to be caught begging a pair of boots. “I meant a more lasting memento, Snoad,” I said gently.
“Perhaps the gold watch fob in the shape of a pigeon,” he suggested.
“I know the one you mean. I’ll see that you get it.” I was insensibly flattered at his choice, as I had had the trinket made for my father’s birthday.
His obvious pleasure was ample reward for my generosity. Snoad was not the man to shed a tear, but I felt he was not far from it at this moment. “You are very kind,” he said. Then he bowed and left abruptly.
I sat on alone, thinking. Perhaps I had misjudged Snoad. If he seemed uppity, it was no doubt due to inexperience with ladies. He was the blatantly handsome sort of man with a crude, superficial charm that would appeal to a certain class of woman. No doubt he had plentiful experience with women, but that was something else. As I was feeling kindly toward him, I did not bother to lock the office when I left, nor did I arrange to have the lock changed.
“Not sporting your oak,” he had said. A strange expression, but one I had heard somewhere before. Ah, Pelletier! That was who said it. “A term I picked up at Oxford,” he had mentioned when I asked about it. No doubt Snoad had heard it from the duke’s family at Branksome Hall, and wished to ornament his conversation with this verbal trinket.
I sent a maid off to Williams for my father’s watch fob. When the maid brought it, it was attached to the watch. I had no earthly use for Papa’s watch. It was too large for a lady. I would give both watch and fob to Snoad, as a present. I meant to present it formally. The next thought was that Aunt Lovatt would raise the roof beams at the very idea of giving Snoad such a valuable gift.
Her disapproval lent the undertaking an aura of intrigue. Mrs. Lovatt seldom spoke to Snoad; she was not likely to hear of the gift. As we were leaving for Brighton the next morning, I decided to make the presentation that same evening. I could not go to Snoad’s room, and disliked to have him sent for. I don’t know why I balked at that. He was a servant, but he was not a regular house servant. He had worked exclusively for Papa. It occurred to me that he might be at the loft, and I took the gift up the two flights of stairs to check.
My patent slippers made little sound. The loft door was ajar, and I pushed it open wider. A faint aroma of cigar smoke wafted toward me, barely discernible over the pungent sea scent, but enough to tell me Snoad was there. I didn’t know he smoked. Really I knew remarkably little about him, when one considered that we had lived under the same roof for two years. My father liked cheroots; perhaps Snoad had caught the habit from him.
In the silver light from the moon, I saw a man’s outline, limned in black against the mesh grating. It made a romantic sort of silhouette. A proud, well-shaped head was staring out at the night. Snoad was at the trap by which the pigeons left and returned to the loft. He murmured something in a crooning voice, and I realized that he held a bird cupped in his fingers. He opened the trap and let it out. There was a soft flutter of wings, and the pigeon streaked off, first toward the sea, then it got its bearings and headed north. Snoad looked around warily, as if sensing an intruder.
“Snoad,” I called, before he caught me spying on him.
He turned with a convulsive jerk. “Miss Hume?” he called.
“Yes, I hope I didn’t frighten you.”
“Not at all. Has something happened?” he asked, hurrying along the parapet toward me.
“No. I’m sorry if I alarmed you. Is this not an odd time of day—or night—to be releasing a pigeon?”
“They must learn to fly and keep their bearings at all hours, and in all weather.” He looked at his cheroot, and extinguished it under his foot before I could stop him.
“You didn’t have to do that. I don’t mind cheroots. Papa used to smoke them.”