In the bathroom, next to a large walk-in closet, Theodosia hit the light switch. The bathroom was restful and elegant, replete with enormous claw-foot tub, dark green wallpaper, and brass wall sconces and towel racks. Without hesitation, Theodosia pulled open the medicine cabinet and scanned the shelves.
It was as predictable as his desk drawer had been. Shaving cream, toothpaste, aspirin, a bottle of Kiehl’s After Shave Balm, a bottle of prescription medicine. Theodosia reached for the brown tinted bottle and scanned the label.
Halcion. Five milligrams.
She pondered this for a moment. Incriminating evidence? No, not really, she decided. Timothy Neville was an old man. Older people often had difficulty sleeping.
Theodosia placed the medicine back on the shelf, swung the mirrored door shut, and turned out the bathroom light. She crossed back through the bedroom into Timothy Neville’s private office. She scanned the room again and shook her head.
Her hand rested on the doorknob when she noticed a tall English secretary just to the right of the door. Rather than housing fine porcelains behind its glass doors, as it had been designed to do, it now appeared to hold a collection of antique pistols.
Theodosia hesitated a split second, then decided this might be worth investigating.
Yes, they were pistols, all right. She gazed at the engraved plates that identified each weapon. Here was an 1842 Augustin-Lock Austrian cavalry pistol. And here an Early American flintlock. Fascinated, she pulled open one of the glass doors, slid her hand across the smooth walnut grip, and touched the intricate silver with her fingertips. These pieces were fascinating. Some had been used in the Civil War, the American Revolution, or quite possibly in gentlemen’s duels of honor. They were retired now, on display. But their history and silent power were awe inspiring.
In the stillness of the room, a slight noise, an almost imperceptible tick, caught her attention, caused her to glance toward the door. In the dim light, she could see the brass doorknob slowly turning.
In a flash, Theodosia flattened herself against the wall, praying that whoever opened the door wouldn’t peer around and see her hidden here in the shadows.
The heavy door creaked slowly inward on its hinges.
Whoever had opened the door halfway was standing there now, silently surveying the room. Only two inches of wood separated her from this mysterious person who, quite possibly, had followed her!
Theodosia willed her heart to stop beating so loudly. Surely, whoever was there must be able to hear it thumping mightily in her chest! Her mind raced, recalling Edgar Allan Poe’s prophetic story, “The Tell Tale Heart.”
But whoever stood there—Timothy Neville, the butler, Henry, another curious guest—had peeked into the room for only a few seconds, then pulled the door shut behind them.
Had they been satisfied no one was there?
Theodosia hoped so as she slumped against the wall, feeling hollow and weak-kneed.
Then she remembered the gun collection.
Theodosia glanced quickly toward the cabinet. In the half-light, the polished guns winked enticingly.
The guns were all displayed in custom-made wooden holders. Beautiful to behold. Probably quite expensive to create. A key stuck out from the drop-leaf center panel. She turned it, lowering the leaf into the writing desk position.
Tucked in the cubbyholes were polishing cloths, various gun-cleaning kits, and a bottle of clear liquid.
Theodosia squinted at the label on the bottle. Sulfuric acid.
It was a compound often used to remove rust and corrosion from antique bronze statues, metal frames, and guns. And, unless she was mistaken, sulfuric acid was also a deadly poison.
If Timothy Neville had slipped something toxic into Hughes Barron’s tea, could it have been this substance? That was the 64,000-dollar question, wasn’t it? And nobody was saying yet. Not the coroner. Not Burt Tidwell. Certainly not Timothy Neville.
The Balfour Quartet had resumed playing when Theodosia slipped into the room and took her seat beside Dray-ton. As she adjusted her shawl around her shoulders, she felt his eyes on her.
“You look guilty,” Drayton finally whispered.
“I do?” Her eyes went wide as she turned toward him.
“No, not really,” he answered. “But you should. Where in heaven’s name have you been?” he fussed. “I’ve been worried sick!”
Theodosia fidgeted through the second half of the concert, unable to concentrate and really enjoy the Balfour Quartet’s rendition of Beethoven’s Opus 18, no. 6. When the group finished with a flourish and the crowd rose to its collective feet, cheering and applauding, she breathed a giant sigh of relief.
Jumping up with the rest of the guests, Theodosia leaned toward Drayton. “I’ll tell you all about it,” she finally whispered in his ear. “But first, let’s go back to the shop and have a nice calming cup of tea!”
Chapter 28
“You Look like the cat who swallowed the canary,” said Drayton. Haley was bent over the counter, artfully arranging tea roses in a pink-and-white-flowered Victorian teapot.
“Who me?” asked Haley with wide-eyed innocence. She tied a lace bow to the teapot’s arched handle and stood back to admire her handiwork.
Drayton had been asked to organize a bridal shower tea for that afternoon, and everyone was pitching in to help. Since a nasty squall had blown in overnight, causing the temperature to plummet and drenching Charleston with a frigid, pounding rain, it didn’t appear that many customers would be dropping by the tea shop anyway.
“Come on, what gives?” prompted Drayton. He had carefully wrapped a dozen bone china teacups in tissue paper and was gently placing them in a large wicker basket atop a white lace tablecloth. With the weather so miserable, he would have to add a protective layer of plastic to keep everything tidy and dry.
“What time do you have to be at the Lady Goodwood Inn?” Haley asked with feigned indifference.
“Haley...” pleaded the exasperated Drayton. When Drayton thought someone was nursing a secret, he was like a curious child—impish, impatient, prodding.
“Well,” said Haley, “it’s a trifle premature to say anything.”
“But...” prompted Drayton.
“But Bethany was out on a date last night,” Haley chortled triumphantly.
“A date!” exclaimed Theodosia. Up until now she had stayed out of Drayton and Haley’s little go-round. Let them have their fun, she’d thought. But this was news. Big news. While she and Drayton had been attending the concert at Timothy Neville’s last night, Bethany had been out with a young man. Theodosia wondered what special person had coaxed the wistful and reclusive Bethany out of her shell. This had to be the first time Bethany had ventured out since her husband passed away.
“Dare I ask who with?” inquired Drayton. He was positively dying to know all the details.
“Why, with Theodosia’s friend, of course,” said Haley.
A thunderclap exploded loudly overhead at the same moment a jar of lemon curd Theodosia had been holding went crashing to the floor. As lightning strobed and windows rattled, glass shards and huge yellow globs scattered.
For some reason the name Jory Davis had popped into Theodosia’s head. “Which friend do you mean?” she asked quickly.
