Death By Darjeeling

Noh drama.

“Wine or song?” Drayton asked good-naturedly.

“Let’s get a drink first,” suggested Theodosia. She knew if they repaired to the salon, courtesy required them to pay strict attention to the music, not exactly her motive for coming here tonight. But if they grabbed a cocktail first, they’d be free to move about the house and greet other guests.

And get the lay of the land, Theodosia told herself. Try to get a better fix on the very strange Mr. Timothy Neville.

Although she had passed Timothy Neville’s house many times on her walks with Earl Grey, Theodosia had never before been inside this enormous mansion. She was in awe as she gazed around. This was splendor unlike anything she’d seen before. A dramatic stairway dominated the foyer and rose three floors. Double parlors flanked the main hallway, and Theodosia saw that they contained Italian black marble fireplaces, Hepplewhite furnishings, and ornate chandeliers. Gleaming oil paintings and copperplate engravings hung on the walls.

Built during the Civil War by an infamous blockade runner, this home was reputed to have sliding panels that led to secret passageways and hidden rooms. Some folks in the historic district even whispered that the house was haunted. The fact that Timothy Neville’s home had once served as residence for a former governor and was a private girl’s school for a short time, only added to the intrigue.

“Theodosia!” The shrill voice of Samantha Rabathan rose above the undercurrent of conversational buzz as Theodosia and Drayton entered the solarium. Then Samantha, resplendent in fuschia silk, came determinedly toward them, like the prow of a ship cutting the waves.

“I didn’t expect to see you here tonight,” cooed Samantha as she adjusted the front of her dress to show off just the right amount of décolletage. “Drayton, too. Hello there, dear fellow.”

Drayton inclined his head slightly and allowed Samantha to peck him on the cheek. “Our illustrious chairwoman from the Lamplighter Tour,” he said in greeting. “You’re looking lovely this evening.”

Samantha held a finger to her matching fuschia-colored mouth. “I think it best we downplay the Lamplighter Tour.” She grasped each of them by an elbow and started to haul them toward the bar. “That is, until this nastiness blows over.” She smiled broadly, seemed to really notice Theodosia for the first time, and instantly shifted her look of amusement to one of concern. “How are you holding up, Theodosia? So many rumors flying, it’s hard to know what to believe. And how is that poor, dear child... What is her name again?”

“Bethany,” replied Theodosia. Samantha was being incredibly overbearing tonight, and Theodosia was already searching for an excuse to escape her clutches.

Just as a waiter offered flutes of champagne from a silver tray, the perfect excuse arrived in the form of Henry, announcing that the Balfour Quartet was about to begin their evening’s performance.

“Got to run,” burbled Samantha. “I’m sitting with Cleo and Raymond Hovle. From Santa Barbara. You remember them, Theodosia. They also have a house on Seabrook Island.”

Theodosia didn’t remember Cleo and Raymond at all, but she smiled hello out of politeness when Samantha pointedly nudged a small suntanned couple as she and Drayton entered the parlor for the concert.

They found seats in the back row, not in cushioned splendor as did the guests at the front of the pack, but on somewhat uncomfortable folding chairs.

Unaccustomed as she was to wearing three-inch high-heeled sandals, Theodosia surreptitiously slipped them off her feet and waited for the music to start.

Chapter 27

Timothy Neville tucked his violin under his chin and gave a nod to begin. He had done a brief introduction of the other three members of the Balfour Quartet. The two men, the one who’d played the harpsichord earlier and was now on the violin, and a red-faced man on the viola, were also members of the Charleston Symphony. The fourth member, a young woman who played the cello, was from Columbia, South Carolina’s capital, located just northwest of Charleston.

As Timothy Neville played the opening notes of Beethoven’s Die Mittleren Streichquartette, he was surprised to note that the Browning woman was sitting in the back row. He gave a quick dip of his head to position himself for a slightly better view and saw immediately that she was sitting next to Drayton Conneley.

Of course. Drayton worked at the woman’s little tea shop. It was logical that she might accompany him tonight. His command-performance concerts were legendary throughout the historic district, and it wasn’t unusual for his invited guests to bring along guests of their own.

He frowned. The Browning woman was staring sharply at him as though she were waiting for something to happen. Silly girl. They had just begun the allegro, and there were a good fifty minutes to go. Still, she had been bold to come see him at the Heritage Society and plead the young intern’s case. Even though he may have been dismissive of Theodosia Browning, it didn’t mean he didn’t admire her spirit. Lots of complacency these days. Hard to find the plucky ones. All the same, he would keep a close watch on her. She had stuck her nose in matters that didn’t concern her, especially her inquiry about the Peregrine Building. That just wouldn’t do at all.

The Balfour Quartet was very good, far better than Theodosia had expected they’d be, and she soon found herself lost in the musical depths of Beethoven’s Quartet no. 9.

It was haunting and evocative, pulling her in and holding her complete attention until it came to a crashing conclusion.

Theodosia, suddenly reminded of why she was there in the first place, applauded briefly, then dashed out the door ahead of the crowd. There would be a twenty-minute intermission, an opportunity for men to refill drinks and ladies to visit the powder room.

Theodosia headed up that grand staircase, her toes sinking deep into plush white wool, and dashed down the long, arched hallway when she hit the second floor. Peeking into several bedrooms along the way, she found that all were elegantly furnished, and yet none showed signs of being occupied. Finally, at what would be the front of the house, she found the set of double doors that led to Timothy Neville’s private suite of rooms.

As she pushed one of the massive doors slowly inward on its hinges, it emitted a protesting groan. Theodosia held her breath, looking back over her shoulder to see if anyone had heard or might even be watching her. No. Nothing. She swallowed hard, stepped inside Timothy Neville’s private office, and closed the door behind her.

A single desk lamp, what looked like an original Tiffany dragonfly design, cast low light in the suite. Massive furnishings were dark, shadowy lumps. Flames danced in the ornate marble fireplace.

Theodosia’s sandals whispered across the Aubusson carpet. Even in the dim light she could see portraits of Timothy Neville’s ancestors, various fiery Huguenots scowling down at her from their vantage point on the burgundy-colored walls.

Then she was standing at Timothy Neville’s Louis XIV desk, her hand on the brass knob, about to pull open the top drawer. She hesitated as a pang of guilt shot through her. This was snooping of the first magnitude, she told herself. Not terribly above board. Then she also remembered Timothy Neville’s incredible rage and Hughes Barron clutching his teacup.

She slid the drawer open.

Inside were pens, stamps, personalized stationery, eyeglasses, a sheaf of household papers, and Timothy Neville’s passport. Everything in an orderly arrangement, nothing of great interest.

What were you expecting to find? she asked herself. A little blue glass bottle of arsenic? A crackling paper packet of strychnine?

She padded back across the room to the door opposite the desk and sneaked it open. Timothy Neville’s rather splendid bedroom met her eyes. Four-poster bed draped in heavy wine- and rust-colored brocades. Small Chippendale tables flanking each side of the bed. An elegant linen press that looked as though it might have been created by the famous Charleston cabinetmaker, Robert Walker. Two armchairs in matching brocade sat next to the small fireplace. And, on the walls, more oil paintings. Not ancestral portraits but eighteenth-century portraits of women. Women in gardens, women with children, women staring out dreamily.

The paintings hinted at a softer, more humane side of Timothy Neville than Theodosia wouldn’t have guessed.