Ghosts by Gaslight - Jack Dann [162]
“Who was it, then?” Jane pushed toward Dorothea, but I held her back.
“Perhaps he brought someone home,” said Dorothea. “How should I know who it was? And me curled up with a rag stuffed between my nethers. Why don’t you inspect his bedsheets? I was bleeding so profusely, there’s bound to be evidence.”
“Enough!” An expression of distaste stamped Richmond’s features. “Did you bring a woman home with you?” he asked me. “I have given you the run of my house, but my hospitality does not extend to your guests.”
“The only woman I was with last night was Constance Mellor,” I said. “And she went home in the company of her father.”
“Who is this Constance?” Jane asked sharply.
“Jesus, God!” I lifted my eyes to the ceiling.
“An aberration,” Richmond said to Jane. “The daughter of an abomination. You need not be jealous of her sort.” He turned to me and indicated the door. “A word, if you will.” Then to the women: “You will cease your bickering and attend to your duties. If there is an issue between you, and I do not believe there is, we will discuss it later. Is that understood?”
The women muttered their assent, but on exiting the kitchen Jane cast an embittered glance at Dorothea that promised further unpleasantness.
THE PREVAILING ODOR of Richmond’s study, a long L-shaped room into which I had never ventured until that morning, put me in mind of my great-aunt’s house in Bridgend, the air heavy with a cachet of spice and heather, the perfume of mummified refinement and Georgian depression—but there all similarity stopped. Iron shutters prevented the ingress of natural light and at one end, tucked into the bottom stroke of the L, a reading lamp with a green glass shade, the sole source of illumination, created an island of emerald radiance about a carved oak desk that had the look of an ancient monument, its walls configured by intricate bas-relief. Two chairs sat on opposite sides of the desk. Hundreds of leather-bound books lined the shelves, breathing out musty vibrations. An atmosphere of gloom and hermetic solitude held sway; this was heightened by a wide, unexploited, uncarpeted space upon which pentagrams might be sketched and half-ton entities invoked. Something had once occupied that space, for there were grooves and notches in the wood, marking the passage of a great weight. I suspected the room might have served as Richmond’s workplace prior to his renovation of the sixth floor. Considering this room in context of the others, I thought that if the house was in more or less the same condition Christine had left it, then she must have had the sensibilities of a jackdaw, for no decorative theme was carried out—the interior design might have been the work of several women, not one.
I seated myself and apologized for my part in the disturbance, but Richmond, standing by the desk, dismissed my apology and asked which of the women did I think was lying.
“Dorothea,” I said. “Yet I would have sworn it was Jane with me last night.”
“Do not forget that they were both schooled in the ways of men by Christine,” he said. “To distinguish between them in the dark is no easy thing.”
I did not like this intimation of his former relationship with Jane. “Jane had no reason to lie,” I said.
“Whores need no reason. Lying is second nature to them. They invent reasons that might not appear reasonable to you or me, yet touch upon their innermost secrets.”
Bridling at this, I said, “If such is to be the tenor of our conversation, let us end it now. I have no wish to hear you speak crudely of Jane.”
“Did you find that statement crude? I thought I was being a realist.” Richmond took a seat behind the desk. “Samuel, you’re a young man. Younger than your years, I’d say. You are perceptive and, I believe, quite intuitive. But it’s obvious that you are in love, and love can blind one to great many painful truths.”
“Jane loves me as well.”
“Has she said as much?”
“I have made no declaration, nor has she, but I know it to be true.”
“Well, though it may be that Jane is in love, I can assure you of one thing. She is not