be certain, but I believe it's Lord Randall Wycliffe, seventh
earl of Pently-on-Horlake, if I recall correctly, come to find a
wealthy American bride to shore up his family's dwindling fortunes."
"That
fellow is a British aristocrat?"
"They
don't all have brush moustaches and monocles, Dash. Wycliffe is
considered quite a catch, though it's said he's not terribly
well-endowed between the ears. Still, he's good-looking enough."
I
studied the sandy blond hair, strong chin, and cool blue eyes of the
young Englishman. "She could do better," I said.
"Could
she now?" Biggs chuckled. "Ah—here comes the main
attraction. The Widow Wintour, in all her glory." A tall,
thick-set woman was making a slow progress up the center aisle,
stopping every few steps to clutch an armrest or guide rail, as
though the sheer weight of her grief made walking difficult. Her
constitution would surely have been the only thing delicate about
her, as I've known professional boxers who appeared frail in
comparison.
"At
the time of her wedding she was considered a real peach," Biggs
told me. "That was scarcely three years ago. Apparently the
marriage didn't agree with her." We watched as Mrs. Wintour
paused to clasp the hands of well-wishers.
"She'll
play this scene for all it's worth," Biggs muttered, "although
everyone knows she and her husband seldom spoke to one another.
She'll be well provided for, though, and she'll never want for
company so long as she holds onto the Wintour fortune."
"Really,
Biggs," I said, raising an eyebrow at my friend.
"The woman is attending her husband's funeral! Have you always
been such a cynic?"
He
gave me a wide grin. "I used to be plucky and high-spirited,
Dash, but I found it grated on people's nerves." He jerked his
head toward the seats. "So there you have it, my friend. The
ex-partner turned rival; his plump, socially ambitious wife; their
stunning daughter; her boorish, titled suitor; the ne'er-do-well
younger brother; the grieving widow; and the sycophantic family
doctor. Which of them killed the reclusive Branford Wintour, and how
will the bold young Dash Hardeen prove it?"
"I
don't know that any of them killed Wintour," I said, waving
aside his facetious commentary. "Certainly the police don't
think so."
"Ah,
yes!" Biggs said. "The kindly old toy peddler. Let's not
forget him, wasting away in jail, with only the Brothers Houdini to
defend his honor. Will they succeed in rescuing him from the clutches
of—"
"Biggs,"
I said, "you really are an ass."
"I've
been hoping someone would notice," he said. "Seen enough? I
have all I need. We really should make our escape now—before
the tributes begin."
We
slipped out just as the opening notes of an organ processional
sounded, and Biggs led me toward the Second Avenue elevated. Soon
enough we were seated opposite one another in a dark-panelled booth
at Timborio's, a restaurant and saloon favored by journalists. Biggs
studied the menu and made inquiries about the gamecock, and I suppose
my expression must have betrayed the state of my finances. "Order
whatever you like, Dash," Biggs said. "The World will
see to it."
"Oh
no," I said. "That's quite all right."
"You're
a valuable resource, Dash. You and your brother
are the only men outside of the immediate family and the police
department who've been inside Fortress Wintour since the Dreadful
Event. If you think I'm letting you roam free, only to be pounced
upon by those leeches at the Times, you've
another think coming."
"I've
already told you everything I can," I said.
"Not
everything, I think. Do you mind if I order for both of us?" He
set down the menu and organized a rather lavish luncheon spread that
featured a fish starter, followed by the gamecock and roasted
carrots, with brandied pears to follow. He then summoned the wine
steward and ordered up a bottle of Burgundy that he assured me was
"quite drinkable," though my knowledge of such things was
fairly limited.
"All
right, young Theodore," Biggs
earl of Pently-on-Horlake, if I recall correctly, come to find a
wealthy American bride to shore up his family's dwindling fortunes."
"That
fellow is a British aristocrat?"
"They
don't all have brush moustaches and monocles, Dash. Wycliffe is
considered quite a catch, though it's said he's not terribly
well-endowed between the ears. Still, he's good-looking enough."
I
studied the sandy blond hair, strong chin, and cool blue eyes of the
young Englishman. "She could do better," I said.
"Could
she now?" Biggs chuckled. "Ah—here comes the main
attraction. The Widow Wintour, in all her glory." A tall,
thick-set woman was making a slow progress up the center aisle,
stopping every few steps to clutch an armrest or guide rail, as
though the sheer weight of her grief made walking difficult. Her
constitution would surely have been the only thing delicate about
her, as I've known professional boxers who appeared frail in
comparison.
"At
the time of her wedding she was considered a real peach," Biggs
told me. "That was scarcely three years ago. Apparently the
marriage didn't agree with her." We watched as Mrs. Wintour
paused to clasp the hands of well-wishers.
"She'll
play this scene for all it's worth," Biggs muttered, "although
everyone knows she and her husband seldom spoke to one another.
She'll be well provided for, though, and she'll never want for
company so long as she holds onto the Wintour fortune."
"Really,
Biggs," I said, raising an eyebrow at my friend.
"The woman is attending her husband's funeral! Have you always
been such a cynic?"
He
gave me a wide grin. "I used to be plucky and high-spirited,
Dash, but I found it grated on people's nerves." He jerked his
head toward the seats. "So there you have it, my friend. The
ex-partner turned rival; his plump, socially ambitious wife; their
stunning daughter; her boorish, titled suitor; the ne'er-do-well
younger brother; the grieving widow; and the sycophantic family
doctor. Which of them killed the reclusive Branford Wintour, and how
will the bold young Dash Hardeen prove it?"
"I
don't know that any of them killed Wintour," I said, waving
aside his facetious commentary. "Certainly the police don't
think so."
"Ah,
yes!" Biggs said. "The kindly old toy peddler. Let's not
forget him, wasting away in jail, with only the Brothers Houdini to
defend his honor. Will they succeed in rescuing him from the clutches
of—"
"Biggs,"
I said, "you really are an ass."
"I've
been hoping someone would notice," he said. "Seen enough? I
have all I need. We really should make our escape now—before
the tributes begin."
We
slipped out just as the opening notes of an organ processional
sounded, and Biggs led me toward the Second Avenue elevated. Soon
enough we were seated opposite one another in a dark-panelled booth
at Timborio's, a restaurant and saloon favored by journalists. Biggs
studied the menu and made inquiries about the gamecock, and I suppose
my expression must have betrayed the state of my finances. "Order
whatever you like, Dash," Biggs said. "The World will
see to it."
"Oh
no," I said. "That's quite all right."
"You're
a valuable resource, Dash. You and your brother
are the only men outside of the immediate family and the police
department who've been inside Fortress Wintour since the Dreadful
Event. If you think I'm letting you roam free, only to be pounced
upon by those leeches at the Times, you've
another think coming."
"I've
already told you everything I can," I said.
"Not
everything, I think. Do you mind if I order for both of us?" He
set down the menu and organized a rather lavish luncheon spread that
featured a fish starter, followed by the gamecock and roasted
carrots, with brandied pears to follow. He then summoned the wine
steward and ordered up a bottle of Burgundy that he assured me was
"quite drinkable," though my knowledge of such things was
fairly limited.
"All
right, young Theodore," Biggs
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