The Arnifour Affair (10 page)

“What will you have?” he asked as he circled the wood-paneled bar in the far corner of the room.

“Whatever you're having,” I replied flippantly, as I had no intention of drinking anyway. I'd already eyed a plant near my chair to surreptitiously “water.”

“I'm drinking scotch with a whisper of soda.”

“That'll be fine, though I will ask you to lean my drink in the opposite direction. A bit of a lightweight, I'm afraid.” I chuckled.

“Oh I could give you some lessons.” He winked at me as he came around the bar and handed me my drink. “It's really all about tolerance. The more you drink the more you can tolerate.” He clinked our glasses with a laugh. “So tell me . . . ,” he said as he settled into a chair across from me. “How long have you and the prestigious Mr. Pendragon been saving the world from itself?”

“About twelve years.” I took the thinnest sip of my drink and wondered if the smarmy expression on Eldon's face ever gave way to anything even remotely resembling warmth.

“Twelve years?!” He shook his head with that same smirk. “Then you must know all the secrets.”

“Know them, and have written them down.”

“Intoxicating . . . ,” he sneered with a laugh. “Perhaps we'll all get a read one day. . . .”

“Perhaps,” I gave him a coy smile, “but what about you? What secrets might you be hiding?”

He held up his glass. “I'm afraid my secret is poorly kept.”

“Well, I would hardly call a preference for spirits to be the stuff of secrets. Now murder . . .”

“Oh!” He wagged a finger at me as he snickered, “Aren't you the wily one.”

“Has your sister returned yet?”

“Kaylin?”

“You have others?”

He snorted delightedly. “My darling sister is due home by week's end. Have you met her yet?”

“We have.”

“I'm sure you found her charming.” He stood up and meandered back behind the bar. “But let me assure you that she can be a right tyrannical little bitch when she wants.”

“I'll try to remember that.”

“I'm sure she was on her best behavior,” he scoffed, foregoing the subterfuge of soda as he refilled his glass. “The Arnifour progeny can be such a mixed bag. But I'll bet you've noticed that.”

“Is this about secrets again?”

He came back around with his glass and pulled his chair so close to mine that our knees were nearly touching when he sat down again. The stale smell of scotch radiated from him like putrefaction from a corpse. “You're a clever one, aren't you? I will tell you this: You get my sister started on that women's suffrage bollocks and you'll find her every bit the rabid dog the rest of us are. She and that ridiculous pack of man-eaters she insists on idolizing have the temerity to advocate that women are the equal of men. Can you imagine?” He bellowed a great, sloppy laugh. “If you ask me, that Pankhurst twat should be hauled home by her disgraceful husband and chained to her washbasin.”

“You do know our sovereign is a woman—”

“How very puckish, Mr. Pruitt. No wonder your Mr. Pendragon likes having you around.” He lifted his glass and took a drink, all the while keeping his eyes leveled on me. “I do find you intriguing,” he said as he lowered his tumbler. “Do I intrigue you?”

“Everyone in this household fascinates me.”

His grin widened. “Outstanding. I love being a suspect.”

“Then why are you always so well oiled when we're around? Seems like you might be finding it all a bit too much.”

“Now you're just being boorish.” He stood up and wandered over to the fireplace with a pout, allowing me to finally tip part of my drink into the nearby plant. “Do you want to know what I think about my father's murder?” He turned around and glared at me and I could see that I had finally pressed through his artifice.

“More than anything else.” I toasted him with my half-empty glass.

“And I thought it was my company,” he sneered before laughing and toasting me back. “Here's the thing, Mr. Pruitt: My father didn't have any enemies. Underachievers seldom have enemies.” He tossed back part of his drink. “Don't misunderstand—my father was a good man in his own way: reliable, knew his place, that sort of rot, but I'm convinced his life goal was no greater than to marry into money. After he did that there really wasn't much else for him to do but sire a few offspring and twaddle about in a bit of business here and there.”

“What sorts of businesses?”

“He ran a stud farm for a while, but couldn't make a go of it. My mother made him divest it when he hadn't turned a profit in eighteen months.” He shook his head and chuckled. “She's a bloody corker, that one. But who can blame her? It was her money. My father would've been better off if he'd just rented out his own services,” he snorted lecherously. “That became evident when he put some money into a West End production. Turned out he was giving more to the leading lady and most of the chorus than financial backing. Such prowess is a curse of the Arnifour men.” He leveled his eyes on me and smirked as he tipped his glass back again. “You can just imagine my dear mother's dismay . . . or perhaps relief. Needless to say she put an end to that business as well.”

“What about your father's last business partner, Warren Vandemier?”

“Warren Vandemier?” He leaned against the fireplace mantel as though giving it some real thought before abruptly snapping his eyes back to mine and growling, “Warren Vandemier is a weasel!”

“A weasel?! And what sort of business were they engaged in?”

“Opium.”

“Opium . . . ,” I repeated like a fool, sucking in a quick breath even as my stomach curdled. “No one's mentioned that before.”

Eldon laughed out loud, too long and too hard. “My parents spent the greater part of their marriage staying out of one another's way.” He came back around and stopped right in front of me, staring down at me. “Tell me the truth, Mr. Pruitt: My mother didn't hire you to find my father's killer, did she? She only hired you to prove that Victor's innocent, isn't that right?” And to my amazement the look on his face was every bit as lucid as my own.

“I'm sure I don't remember the exact details of what she said at our first meeting,” I replied, unwilling to give him that win.

“A selective memory.” He snickered. “I'm sure many of your clients have appreciated that quality.”

“I'm sure they have.” I returned a terse smile. “But tell me, how did your father get himself caught up in the opium trade?”

“Caught up?!” He laughed. “You make it sound like my father was an innocent, and I can assure you he was not. My father went through a great deal of my mother's money on countless schemes over the years, which is why this place and its pathetic staff look the way they do. That was my father's contribution. You should've heard the rows my parents had over the years. Is it any wonder my sister and I remain unattached?”

“And the opium?” I pushed again, trying to keep this feckless man in a singular direction even as I grappled with the spectre of my old nemesis.

“A pretty shrewd opportunity for the old bastard to earn some of the fortune back, I suppose.” He sauntered back over to the bar. “It was the money. That's what drove my father. He'd hand over a pile of it if he thought he could get a bigger one in return. Refill?”

“No. What about his latest business? Was it widely known?”

“He had little to do with the details. It was all very neat, very upper-class. Would you expect anything less of the Arnifours?”

“And your mother?”

“That old sack of bones knows exactly what she wants to know. Don't let her bluster fool you. She certainly knew about Abigail Roynton.”

“You're referring to the rumor of an affair?”

“Rumor?! That's priceless.” He came back over to me and sat down, his voice thick with sarcasm. “Father was a bore at discretion.”

To my surprise Eldon did not seem to see the irony in his statement. “So what
are
your thoughts on this case then? You say your father had no enemies and yet he was involved in the opium trade. That is most certainly a dangerous business. In which direction do
you
think the perpetrator lies?”

He stared at his tumbler as though peering into a fortuneteller's ball, his mood darkening as his eyebrows slowly knit together. “My mother,” he finally muttered. “She hired some cretin to bludgeon my father's skull. My cousin . . .” He gave a dismissive shrug. “. . . An unfortunate casualty, I suppose. The price of war.” His lips curled down and then he suddenly turned and threw his glass into the fireplace, sending the flames roaring back to life. “God help that vile bitch.”

CHAPTER 15

N
ight had permeated every living thing by the time I found myself inexplicably standing by the blackened bones of the barn at the far end of the Arnifour estate. I was tired, exhausted really, and couldn't even remember why I'd dragged myself all the way down to this miserable spot at such an hour. The wind had picked up and was whistling around with such force that it stung my face. I tried to recall what lunacy had compelled me down here even as I gradually became aware of the lathered snorting of a horse being ridden hard from somewhere over my left shoulder—from the woods.

I realized at once that Colin must have discovered me missing and sent one of the Heffernans to fetch me back, and yet, as the thundering sound drew ever closer, I began to feel, though I cannot say how, that the unseen presence bearing down upon me was not an ally. I looked around just as the rider cleared the dense underbrush from atop a great midnight stallion, his face hidden within the dark recesses of a hooded cloak that billowed behind him like the snapping tongue of Satan himself.

The stallion reared up and bolted toward me, its powerful haunches gleaming in the moonlight with the sweat of its effort as it carried its spectral rider relentlessly forward. I turned to run, straining to suck in gulps of air as I tried to reach the relative sanctuary of a nearby stand of bushes. Even so, I could smell the horse's hot grassy breath quickly closing the gap.
This is it!
my mind screeched.

I opened my mouth to holler into the vast night before I could be struck by the blow I knew was coming even though no one would hear me.

And then it came.

Not to my head as I'd been so sure that it would, but to my shoulder. And as I struggled to twist around I jarred myself so abruptly that my eyelids flew open and I lurched up from the bed I'd been lying on to find myself staring into the blasé face of the sentry who'd been posted outside Elsbeth's door.

“Mr. Pendragon sent me ta fetch you,” the guard mumbled. “It's past midnight. I think he means ta switch.”

“Of course.” I pushed myself fully up and mopped my brow with my sleeve, grateful to see the man heading out of the room without further comment. It would be good to stay awake for a while.

I went to the basin and splashed water on my face and quickly ran my wet fingers through my hair. As I passed the guard, already well situated in his chair with his legs akimbo and his head threatening to bob back, I grunted a hasty thank-you.

“The cavalry's here,” I announced with much false bravado as I let myself into Elsbeth's room to find Colin alert at her bedside, a shiny crown spinning effortlessly between the fingers of his right hand.

“So it is.” He stood up and stretched. “And none too soon. This is dreadfully dull duty.”

“Has she stirred at all?”

“Not even a whimper since I got her fever down. Did you have a good rest?” I told him about my conversation with Eldon, how the Earl was invested in the opium trade, and the young man's thoughts about his parents and sister. “Well done.” He grinned. “Though this case grows more complicated by the day. The opium trade . . .” He let his voice trail off.

“We've time to talk about that later. Get some rest.”

“Yes . . . ,” he yawned as he shuffled toward the door. “Be vigilant, my love.”

“You needn't worry,” I said. “I shall be fine.”

The door clicked gently as he left, making me suddenly feel very much alone in spite of poor Elsbeth. I settled into the overstuffed chair and reached across to feel her forehead, and was relieved to find it cool to the touch. A sigh escaped my lips as I folded my arms across my chest and leaned my head back, preparing for the hours that lay ahead. My eyes were drawn to the sweep hand of the bedside clock as it bounced off the demarcated hash marks by the light of the flickering oil lamp. In no time at all I could feel my eyelids beginning to droop. Before I could push myself back upright to mount the good fight, I had already lost. The night's seductive caresses crept in upon my mind, releasing my alertness with the vague shadings of mirage, only this time the illusions were even more cunning, for I found myself sitting in Elsbeth's room staring at a shadowy vision. There was a man on the opposite side of the bed leaning far over Elsbeth. All I could tell was that he was tall and slender and had dark hair, which was plainly evident since I was staring at the crown of his head.

I wanted to cry out, to find my voice and startle this apparition, but as so often happens in dreams, try as I might, nothing would come. I seemed destined to sit there in my delusory slumber while this faceless man finished the horrific job he had started. But as I sat there in my panicked catatonia, the most remarkable thing happened; for the first time that I can recall I was able to bear down to the bottom of my being and produce a stifled sort of yelp. It came out rather otherworldly, like the final strangled squeal of some fallen mythical beast. Which led to the second most remarkable thing; the man abruptly jerked his head up and in the wavering light of the single oil lamp I could see the spectral face of Nathaniel Heffernan.

He looked stricken; clearly as stunned as I was to hear my garbled cry, and quickly rose and rushed for the door. I leapt to my feet before my head could register what was happening and had to seize the back of the chair to keep from toppling over. In that moment I realized that I had
not
been dreaming. I
had
seen Nathaniel.

I lunged after him, my mind swimming nonsensically, but was forced to come to a quick halt when I reached the darkened hallway. He was nowhere. Because of my carelessness, he was already gone. I glared at Inspector Varcoe's guard; the man was snoring as peacefully as a contented mutt. Infuriated with him and myself I kicked at the side of his wooden chair and sent him, and it, rattling to the floor.

“Nathaniel Heffernan was just here!” I bellowed, ignoring the fact that he might realize I'd also been dozing. “A ruddy fat lot of good you were.”

“I'm . . . I'm sorry. . . .” He scrambled up and righted his chair, sliding back into it sheepishly. “Is she all right?”

She . . . Elsbeth . . . I hadn't even looked at her.

I flushed with renewed fury as I hurried back to her bedside. I don't know if I noticed the stillness of the covers pulled across her chest first, or the fact that the rhythm of her breathing was no longer evident. Whichever the case, the outcome was the same.

“Get Colin!” I howled.
“Get Mr
.
Pendragon now!”