Lost Among the Living(8)
The driver helped me from the motorcar, and as I straightened, a full breath of brisk country September air hit my nose. It smelled like dead leaves and brisk sap, and it was strangely cold. I was used to the woolly heat of a European summer mixed with the stale air of travel and the eternal stink of London. I took another breath and fancied I caught a whiff of the sea.
Dottie, papers clutched under her arm, discarded her cigarette and marched up the steps to the house. She vanished inside without a backward look at me. I followed her, hurrying to keep up, and came through the front door with an ungraceful clatter. I had nothing but my handbag with me, as our luggage was following in a separate van.
The front hall was dim, the only light coming indirectly from the high windows in the adjacent room, to which glass doors were thrown open. I glimpsed an umbrella stand, a sideboard, floors of dark wood covered with clean, matched rugs, a few mediocre paintings of landscapes on the walls. It was dusted and tidy, the air smelling close, with the pungent edge of cleaning vinegar. There were no coats thrown carelessly over hooks, or hats hung by the door, or any other signs of people coming and going. I realized that with Dottie in Europe, her husband God knew where, and her son in a hospital, no one had actually lived here for some time.
I followed the sound of Dottie’s clunking oxfords down the corridor, past a sitting room and a study, a small parlor with uncomfortable antique chairs squeezed into an awkward arrangement, where a maid, bent over with a dusting cloth, looked up surprised as I passed. The furniture everywhere looked immaculate and new, even the pieces in antique style, and each room seemed filled with expensive bric-a-brac—lamps with glass shades, ornate vases filled with expensive flowers freshly arranged, clocks and shepherdesses and brass lions and painted silk screens placed just so in corners. Dottie’s acquisitions, I guessed, accumulated over the years. I had seen her in action, and she was very good at buying expensive things.
There was no time to stop and gape. Dottie would charge full speed wherever she wanted, then expect to turn and find me at her shoulder; she was like clockwork. I hurried faster.
I watched her spindly frame stop at the entrance to a dining room, pausing only a moment before she plunged over the threshold and inside. “I see you made it,” I heard her say.
I followed her and found a man sitting alone at the dining table, a plate of beef and a glass of wine before him. He was fiftyish, trim, with light brown hair cut short and curling naturally. He had blue eyes in a face that made a fair attempt at handsome, though there was a tinge of dissipation around the edges of his features, like a piece of paper that has been foxed over time. He wore a suit of tawny brown that had been expertly tailored to his frame and a silk tie that gave a dull gleam in the electric light.
He did not rise, did not even put down his knife and fork, when Dottie came into the room. “Hello, Dottie,” he said, his voice melodic and uninflected. He put his knife to the slice of beef. “I arrived barely an hour ago. Had the cook put something together, as I’m completely ravenous. Luckily she already had something nearly ready.”
Dottie took another step into the room, so she was no longer standing in front of me. She was not wearing a hat or gloves, having dispensed with them in the car in order to work more comfortably, and now she looked lost, wishing for something convincing to fidget with. Her hands twitched on her papers. Her cigarette holder had already been slid back into her pocket. “I take it your journey was uneventful?” she asked, her gaze fixing on the man before her, then tearing away. “You were in Scotland, I believe.”
“Hunting with some fellows, yes. We were having a good time until your wire interrupted it. And the journey was a bloody nuisance.” He raised his gaze and saw me. “I beg your pardon,” he said, still not lowering his eating utensils or standing. “We have not been introduced.”
“This is Manders,” Dottie said before I could speak. “My companion.”
“Jo Manders,” I broke in, just this once not wishing to hear myself spoken of as a last name, as if I had no identity of my own. Dottie gave me A Look, her eyes glaring like a spooked horse’s, but I ignored her.
The man seemed to think over the name, going through possibilities in his head. “Alex’s wife?” he finally asked.
“Yes,” I replied.
His gaze flickered over me, up and down, his eyelids drooping carelessly, and I knew I’d just been categorized. My breasts, my hips, my waist, the length of my legs. I watched him note my unfashionably long hair, my unstylish clothes, until his gaze rested on my face, the blue eyes sharp and thoughtful. “You did not tell me you hired a companion, Dottie,” he said. “Mrs. Manders. I’m Robert Forsyth, as my wife has neglected to tell you. It’s nice to meet you. A little excitement is welcome, and we’ve always been curious here about the woman who ran Alex to ground.”
“Is the house ready for Martin’s return?” Dottie interrupted, her voice sharp, as I fumbled for a shocked reply.
Robert glanced at her and shrugged. “There’s a housekeeper somewhere.”
“When did she report? I asked her to begin work two days ago.”
“I’ve no idea, do I?” Robert asked. “I’ve just arrived. Housekeepers are your domain.”
“Martin docks tonight and takes the first train tomorrow. I told her which rooms to prepare. And there should be three maids as well.”