A Letter of Mary - Laurie R. King [67]
"Yes, I imagine he did. Come, Mary, you'll not get much more accomplished today. Why don't you have a glass of sherry and then take your work home with you to finish up."
"But ... we can't leave him here!"
"I'm certain he'd be much happier if we did, wouldn't you, Gerry?" A weak, uncontrolled flap of the hand signalled agreement and dismissal. "I'll send Alex in with ice and brandy. He'll help you up." We left the room, and the colonel began to chuckle. I stopped short and drew an audible breath.
"Colonel, do you mind if I use the small room for a few minutes? I'm rather ... I would like a sherry after that, though."
"Certainly, my dear. I'll be downstairs."
I let myself into the large marble bath that lay between the colonel's study and his bedroom. His steps retreated down the hallway, and I heard him shout for Alex. Next door, the groans had given way to profuse, bitter, and unimaginative cursing. I grinned maliciously, locked the door, and turned on the tap in the basin.
I had three minutes, perhaps more. I moved swiftly to the other door, the one that opened into the colonel's private room, and pushed it open on noiseless hinges.
I did not know what I was looking for, but I was not about to pass up the opportunity. I ran my eyes over the room, inviting them to choose a target.
It was a large room, totally and unremittingly male: dark wood, undersized bow window, a thick, garish Persian carpet on the polished floor, cabinets— glazed on the top half, panelled below— covering one wall. There were two paintings: one of a man, which looked like a self-portrait by one of Rembrandt's third-rate students, all heavy moodiness and no technique, and the other a huge, gilt-framed, enthusiastically done nude of a remarkably well-endowed young blond woman who was cowering coyly before a thick, glossy, and lubricious snake. Not perhaps my image of Mother Eve, but the leering expression on the face of the snake was cleverly done, given the lack of facial characteristics to work with.
The cabinets were unrevealing, containing a variety of trophies and awards, family heirlooms (one assumed) and statuettes, predominantly of females in various stages of undress. One minute passed. The telephone rang, and I heard the colonel's voice. I pulled open a few of the wooden doors, to find clothing, no apparent hidden compartments, and enough dust to make it obvious that the housekeeper cut a few corners. I walked around the bed to the well-worn armchair that sat next to the window. It was oddly positioned, I thought, almost as if— ah! It was within arm's reach of a locked cabinet. I dropped next to the door and yanked a pin out of my hair, bent the end of it, and set to work. Two minutes gone. I heard voices downstairs, but not on the stairs yet.
After an agonising thirty seconds, the lock gave and I pulled the doors open, to find books. Pornography. Damn! I flipped through them quickly, but they were only books, mostly illustrated. I locked the doors again and heard the colonel bidding the caller good-bye. I made to rise, then froze. There, in front of my eyes, was a double row of cheap, well-thumbed pamphlets and paperback booklets. The title that jumped out at me was Emancipation and the Enslavement of the Family. There must have been nearly a hundred of the things, ranging from the inch-thick Cover Their Heads to a four-page Suffragettes: The Devil's Hands. I pulled out Women's Suffrage: Against God's Plan, noted the name and address of the publisher, and slid it back into its place as voices came shockingly loud directly outside the room. I plunged around the bed and closed the bathroom door behind me an instant before the knock came on the hallway door. I turned off the tap and hurried to pat my hair into order and correct the disarray to my person.
"Are you all right, Mary?"
"Oh yes, sir, I'll be down in just a moment."
"I have the files you were working on; you