Silent Victim - C. E. Lawrence [89]
“England?” Lee asked.
“Yes, indeed. Have you ever been?”
“I have—my mother is Scottish.”
“Ah, yes,” Perkins said, giving Lee an appraising look over the rim of his bifocals. “You do look rather Celtic. So you know of the Green Man?”
“Yes, I do.”
“Sort of like the Medusa,” Butts remarked, “except it’s got vines instead of snakes. It’s kinda creepy.”
“I see—so that is your verdict,” Perkins replied with an extravagant sigh. “I’m sorry you don’t appreciate my little souvenir. Shall we go inside?” He turned to open the door.
“Well, I think it’s just the right touch for your porch,” Lee said, trying to make eye contact with Butts, who was studying the statue.
“I’m glad,” Perkins said, not sounding at all placated. “Come in and I’ll make you some tea. That is, if that meets your approval, Detective,” he added with an sardonic smile at Butts.
“Sounds good to me,” Butts muttered, trundling after him.
The living room was as pristine a showroom as before—everything was in immaculate order, as though it had been prepared for a photo shoot. The tasseled pillows were perfectly plumped on the chaise longue in the corner, and the gold drapes over the French windows were swept back, displaying their expensive elegance. The brass on the fireplace tools gleamed, reflecting the cut glass on the ceiling chandelier, which sparkled like diamonds.
“Now then, I’ll just fetch the tea,” said Perkins.
“Please don’t go to any trouble,” Lee answered, but Perkins dismissed him with a wave of his elegant hand.
“I was just about to have tea myself—all I have to do is add two cups. I’ll just be a minute,” he said, withdrawing from the room, leaving Lee and Butts alone.
“What are you trying to do, alienate him?” Lee whispered fiercely to Butts when Perkins had gone.
Butts sank into one of the armchairs in front of the fireplace. “He gets on my nerves,” he replied in a sulky voice.
“Look,” Lee scolded, “as long as he’s a suspect, we can’t afford—”
“Yeah, I know,” Butts said irritably. “I been doin’ this a lot longer than you, Doc, so cut me some slack, will ya? He just gets my goat, is all. I’ll get over it. Hey,” he continued, waving a hand at the room, “I was right—no electricity.”
Lee looked around at the elegant lamps in wall sconces. Butts was right—they did resemble old-fashioned gaslights. The morning sun streamed in through the French windows, so there was no way to test their theory except by coming back at night.
Hearing the sound of approaching footsteps, he cleared his throat and sat down opposite Butts. Perkins entered the room carrying an enormous silver tea tray. Lee had no doubt it was solid sterling, and couldn’t help staring at it.
“Here we are,” Perkins said, setting it down on the rosewood sideboard. “I hope you like Indian tea, Detective?”
“Fine with me,” Butts mumbled, flicking an imaginary piece of lint from his trousers.
“I cannot abide Chinese blends,” Perkins continued, setting out a plate of shortbread. “No body at all, and they have an unattractive grayish color. No, give me a good Darjeeling or an Orange Pekoe any day,” he said, but Lee wasn’t listening. He was trying to figure out how many hours it took to keep that tea tray polished, where Perkins and his sister got their servants, how much they paid them, and where all the money came from.
“Your house is very impressive,” Lee remarked. “And your decorating style is quite—unique.”
“Ah, yes,” Perkins replied. “You might have said old-fashioned, but you are too polite for that. You see,” he continued smoothly as he poured steaming tea from a blue chintz china pot, “my sister and I are the reincarnated spirits of a husband and wife who lived—and died—in the nineteenth century.”
“Really?” said Lee, keeping his voice neutral. He glared at Butts, who was rolling his eyes.
“So,” Butts asked, “are those gas lamps?”
“Yes, they are,” Perkins replied smoothly. “You wouldn’t believe how much more attractive they are—they cast such a soft, relaxing glow.”
Perkins