stepped aside, waving me into Whimbrel Hall.
So large was the marble-floored entryway into which I stepped, and so cold, and so wallpapered, as it were, with elk skulls, samurai swords, Egyptian sarcophagi, elephant-foot umbrella-stands, odalisques, and bas-relief cupids and curios of every kind, that it might as well have been a museum. There were no chairs, nor did the butler offer me a seat in the library, but left me standing along with the statuary as he went off to fetch writing materials.
I took the opportunity to examine the outgoing post that had collected on a silver tray near the front door—and, yes! Amongst the letters I saw some addressed in black-inked, vicious, club-and-javelin-styled handwriting I could hardly mistake.
The sender: The Honourable G. Whimbrel. Geoffrey.
Repressing a shiver, I hoped I would not need to meet him.
Other letters, from Lord R. Whimbrel, displayed a rather pedestrian hand. Rodney appeared to be—well, one could not say for sure, especially as, being a Lord and Peer, he might have a secretary to address his post for him.
Hearing the butler returning, I transferred my gaze to a whatnot displaying cups made of ostrich eggs.
Approaching without a word, the servant presented to me a writing-stand furnished with good-quality paper, pen, inkwell, and its own candle, already lit, to provide light by which to write. But I scowled at these arrangements. “Bring me sealing-wax,” I told him imperiously and also with an air, I hoped, of mystery.
“Of what colour, my lady?” I heard resentment and retort in his tone—resentment because he knew I was asserting myself over him, for plain candle-wax would have sufficed to seal the missive. Resentment also because its being sealed would prevent him from reading it as he bore it to his master. And retort because colour was symbolic; he was challenging me to show my intentions.
But at the same time, I noticed that I had been promoted from “miss” to “my lady.”
“Why, red, of course,” I told him. “Scarlet, rather than crimson.” And let him make of that whatever he would.
As he went off to get the wax, I took pen in hand, concentrated on making my script large and strong, and wrote:
I have the message for the Bird.
Will exchange for Mrs. T.
without further ado. If turned
away, I will go to the police.
Leaving this unsigned, I blotted it dry and folded it so as to conceal its content before the butler, returning, had a chance to peek over my shoulder. Accepting from him the stick of red sealing-wax and lighting it at the candle, I dripped a blood-coloured puddle onto the paper’s fold, where it congealed. Wishing I had a signet ring or something similarly dramatic with which to press it flat, I made do with the heel of my hand. When I was sure the seal had quite hardened, I gave the missive to the butler.
Off he went to deliver it to his master, leaving me standing beneath the carved wooden stare of several African war-masks.
For quite some time. I began to worry whether I had perhaps miscalculated. Should I have formulated my message in roses and daisies; would that have made a stronger impression? But no, it would not have been understood at all, for if Lord Rodney knew anything of the code, he—or, rather, his errand-boy, Geoffrey—would have recognised it on the crinoline.
I quite wished I knew a bit more of Lord Rodney. Was the namby-pamby handwriting his? Perhaps, because he seemed quite dependent upon Geoffrey.
Oh, dear. What if he were consulting with that villain right now?
Alas and indeed, such proved to be the case, for when the butler eventually returned and silently beckoned me to follow him, he escorted me into the shadowy, smoke-filled billiards-room—a place no proper lady would ever willingly set foot—and there, across the expanse of the green felt-topped gaming table, I found myself facing both young Whimbrels at once.
CHAPTER THE THIRTEENTH
LOUNGING WITH CIGARS IN HAND THEY RECEIVED
So large was the marble-floored entryway into which I stepped, and so cold, and so wallpapered, as it were, with elk skulls, samurai swords, Egyptian sarcophagi, elephant-foot umbrella-stands, odalisques, and bas-relief cupids and curios of every kind, that it might as well have been a museum. There were no chairs, nor did the butler offer me a seat in the library, but left me standing along with the statuary as he went off to fetch writing materials.
I took the opportunity to examine the outgoing post that had collected on a silver tray near the front door—and, yes! Amongst the letters I saw some addressed in black-inked, vicious, club-and-javelin-styled handwriting I could hardly mistake.
The sender: The Honourable G. Whimbrel. Geoffrey.
Repressing a shiver, I hoped I would not need to meet him.
Other letters, from Lord R. Whimbrel, displayed a rather pedestrian hand. Rodney appeared to be—well, one could not say for sure, especially as, being a Lord and Peer, he might have a secretary to address his post for him.
Hearing the butler returning, I transferred my gaze to a whatnot displaying cups made of ostrich eggs.
Approaching without a word, the servant presented to me a writing-stand furnished with good-quality paper, pen, inkwell, and its own candle, already lit, to provide light by which to write. But I scowled at these arrangements. “Bring me sealing-wax,” I told him imperiously and also with an air, I hoped, of mystery.
“Of what colour, my lady?” I heard resentment and retort in his tone—resentment because he knew I was asserting myself over him, for plain candle-wax would have sufficed to seal the missive. Resentment also because its being sealed would prevent him from reading it as he bore it to his master. And retort because colour was symbolic; he was challenging me to show my intentions.
But at the same time, I noticed that I had been promoted from “miss” to “my lady.”
“Why, red, of course,” I told him. “Scarlet, rather than crimson.” And let him make of that whatever he would.
As he went off to get the wax, I took pen in hand, concentrated on making my script large and strong, and wrote:
I have the message for the Bird.
Will exchange for Mrs. T.
without further ado. If turned
away, I will go to the police.
Leaving this unsigned, I blotted it dry and folded it so as to conceal its content before the butler, returning, had a chance to peek over my shoulder. Accepting from him the stick of red sealing-wax and lighting it at the candle, I dripped a blood-coloured puddle onto the paper’s fold, where it congealed. Wishing I had a signet ring or something similarly dramatic with which to press it flat, I made do with the heel of my hand. When I was sure the seal had quite hardened, I gave the missive to the butler.
Off he went to deliver it to his master, leaving me standing beneath the carved wooden stare of several African war-masks.
For quite some time. I began to worry whether I had perhaps miscalculated. Should I have formulated my message in roses and daisies; would that have made a stronger impression? But no, it would not have been understood at all, for if Lord Rodney knew anything of the code, he—or, rather, his errand-boy, Geoffrey—would have recognised it on the crinoline.
I quite wished I knew a bit more of Lord Rodney. Was the namby-pamby handwriting his? Perhaps, because he seemed quite dependent upon Geoffrey.
Oh, dear. What if he were consulting with that villain right now?
Alas and indeed, such proved to be the case, for when the butler eventually returned and silently beckoned me to follow him, he escorted me into the shadowy, smoke-filled billiards-room—a place no proper lady would ever willingly set foot—and there, across the expanse of the green felt-topped gaming table, I found myself facing both young Whimbrels at once.
CHAPTER THE THIRTEENTH
LOUNGING WITH CIGARS IN HAND THEY RECEIVED
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