Through the Grapevine:
A tale of scandal, intrigue, and terrific derring-do
By Rachel Heffington
Chapter One, being punctuated by several cups of tea
“Isn’t it just the most horrid
thing you’ve ever heard?”
“ ‘It’, madam? The term is rather
ambiguous. Pray explain your meaning.” The speaker of these last words tugged
the point of his beard with a lackadaisical expression on his sallow face, and
practically yawned the sentence.
“Of don’t be dense, Alfred,” his
companion said, flouncing a little flounce suggestive of feathers and lace,
silk and Society. “Of course you know of what I speak. Such a scandal—and an
inconvenience too, for now Lilliana must put off her marriage for another year
at least. A murder puts such a damper on things.” She raised her tea-cup and
sighed.
“Indeed, madam. No one would doubt
that a murder quite extinguishes life.” Alfred smiled over the double-meaning,
but he had no hope Lucy would understand a whit of the pun. She was intolerably
stupid on a whole. He plucked several cubes of sugar from the bowl with the
tongs and dropped them into his cup with a violence that would have been more
to the point were the object something more threatening than sugar.
“And to think of that poor
woman—quite in the prime of her life and such a beauty—being killed in such a
way.”
“Egad, woman, your vagueness is
positively maddening. In what sort of
way, pray tell, do you mean?” He swallowed a mouthful of tea and savoured its
bitterness, pondering his sister with the appraising eye of a practiced
auctioneer. She’d fetch nothing at the current matrimony-market, this variety
of single Society women being much too common for the worthwhile men to tamper
with.
“Alfred, really. If you only
exerted yourself a bit to try to understand the things I’d say we’d have a much
more peaceful home.” Lucy was offended now. He knew that much by the tightness
of her lips and the annoyed set of her jaw. He bided his time, knowing she
would never be able to leave the conversation in such a helpless spot. All
women liked news, but she was a pillar of them all.
Lucy eyed him out of the corner of
her eyes and sighed. He smiled to himself and stroked his beard into a fiercer
point, feeling prickly as a horse-chestnut. He certainly wouldn’t bend to her
wiles.
Lucy sighed loudly, stirred her
tea, sipped it, then set the cup and saucer down with a clatter that had a deal
of defiance in it. “Alfred, you’re a beast.”
“Thank you, sister. And you are a
charming woman.”
“Indeed. Well, as you will not
continue the conversation I feel it incumbent upon me to.”
“I have no objection, madam.” He
leaned back in his damask-covered chair and looked down his nose at Lucy. She’d
fetch nothing at all on the current market. Men of quality wanted someone with intellect,
not a parrot who mimicked the About Town column of the Post in her
conversation.
Lucy made a great effort to suppress
her indignation, and Alfred smiled patronizingly. She took a breath.
“The manner in which Lady Cameron
was killed, or of which they speculate she was killed was by—”
“Oh come now, let’s have it be something
ingenious this time. I’m tired of all your shootings and smotherings and all
those dime-a-dozen methods.”
“Really, Alfred!”
“Oh, but I interrupted you.
Continue, my dear Lucy.”
“As it so happens,” and Lucy
brought her tea-cup close to her chest until the ruffle of lace at her throat
was in imminent danger of being doused, “The manner was quite out of the ordinary.
There was no body found, in fact.”
“Really, woman, this is too much to
be borne. No body? Then why the deuce do they take it for a murder?”
“The letter said as much, and Lady
Cameron is nowhere to be found.” Lucy’s blue eyes were round and convincing.
“Woman, for the last time—speak plain
or I shall leave the room and…throw myself in the river.”
“Al-fred!” The little shriek was just the desired effect. Alfred put
his hand quickly to his mouth under pretence of wiping it, and smirked under
his palm. She was a fantastic little chicken for scaring so.
Lucy arranged her furbelows with fluttering
hands, then composed herself once again for a good dose of dirt-spilling. “There
was a letter left with the butler with a threat to take her life—anonymous, of
course—and footprints under the window, and…some talk of…of blood on the
dresser-scarf.”
“By the name of the great
perpetrator himself, it’s all run-of-the-mill!” Alfred burst out, jumping to
his feet and pacing the floor with great energy. “Butlers and footprints under the window-sill
and…blood on the dresser scarf! I’ll give you your murder, woman! It is easily
explained from this very room! A slight lovers’ quarrel, a desperate lover who
had drunk too much cognac at dessert and made a fool of himself. He came to the
window to ask her pardon, she swooned in his arms, they decided to elope.”
“But the blood, Alfred!” Lucy pleaded, seeing her murder fall to shambles under
his logical path of thought.
“It was dark in the room, she ran
her hat-pin into her finger as she was dressing, and that’s the end of your
murder, madam.” He had had enough of her trifling gossip. “I am going to the Golden Bee to seek out intelligent company,
sister, and you will stay here. Good day.”
And without another glance at Lucy, Alfred Pettigrew stormed out to the hall
and tore his hat from its peg.
His worst days at Cambridge were a summer’s picnic compared to
life with Lucy at Pettigrew Place.
He would throw himself in the river if he thought it’d do him any good. But that was as life-extinguishing as murder
itself, and it would give Lucy even more to talk about—perish the thought.
Murder indeed. As far as he was
concerned, Lucy and all her Society-friends read far too many dime-novels. They
made every elopement into a murder and every murder into a massacre. What a
to-do over nothing at all. Alfred rambled toward town, sloshing through puddles
left by the recent rain with the grim satisfaction that he was ruining a
perfectly good pair of shoes. He was cross, and cross ideas suited his humor.
Why, it would be more pleasant than a holiday in Paris to have a quarrel with anyone. Anyone,
that is, except Lucy Pettigrew. Nevertheless, her story swirled in his mind
with the thickness of cream poured into a cup of strong tea. His was an
analytical mind, and in absence of anything more diverting to think of, his
began to mull her details over. Of the fact that it was not a murder her was
certain—the evidence, if Lucy could be counted on—and that he very much doubted—was
against any such thing.
Absorbed in thought, Alfred stalked
toward town, never noticing the cloaked figure dogging his steps.
To be continued...
3 comments:
Oh, my!! This marvelous, absolutely marvelous!! I can not wait to read more!! You will write more, won't you? I begging you to!! Especially since you have left us with the question as to who the cloaked figure that is following Alfred is. Not to mention there's the question that begs was Lady Cameron really murdered? If so, where's the body? Who wrote the mysterious letter mentioning that her life will be cut short? And who does the footprints belong to? If not, what happened to her?
*sighs* You have the mind of a mystery writer and lover of mysteries working overload, analyzing every clue you have left us.
May I say, my dear Rachel, that you have the makings of a brilliant mystery writer!!
I love it!!
Delightful! Please write more!
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