The Language of Bees - Laurie R. King [102]
“He doesn't mind, I don't mean to say that, he doesn't at all, it's just that he's an artist, you know? An Important Artist, and how can a man be expected to make his paintings with a child underfoot? And 'Stella's a lovely child, I don't mean to say she isn't, bright and usually friendly, but that little girl does have a mind of her own, and if she doesn't want to sit quietly and play with her dollies, she will not be jollied along, which means that he doesn't get too much work done when his wife's away, as you might guess.”
Husband and wife seemed to be on friendly terms (“I don't mean to say otherwise, if you see what I mean?”), although there was the occasional disagreement and some shouting, and from time to time the missus would pick something up and throw it at the wall—or at Damian—but he'd never respond in type. She'd never seen Damian hit or even threaten his wife, he just would look tired—“resigned, like, you know what I mean?”—and return to his studio.
Judging by how the young woman talked about her employers, Yolanda was unaccustomed to servants, and thus alternated between overbearing and over-solicitous. Damian was more natural—“ever so nice, like”—but drew clear lines, not permitting Sally to set foot into his studio, for example, and remonstrating with her when she became distracted by a gentleman friend in the park one day, and let Estelle wander. Another man would have fired her outright, and she and I both knew it.
She had spoken with the police, and told me what she had already told them, which was essentially the same tale Damian had given us: Friday's missing wife and Saturday's discovered letter. Sally had not been to the house since the police had taken possession on Sunday, so she could not say if her employers had returned.
When I left, she asked if I thought she should be looking for another position. I could only say that I did not know.
The chemist was less forthcoming. He did not think he ought to talk about prescriptions he had filled for others, not without their permission. So I took out the letter I'd written that morning, in a hand that resembled the writing in Millicent Dunworthy's desk, and repeated my tale: Aunt Millicent's accident, upending the “Mixture” into a basin of soapy water; her need for the prescription before she left with the church group to Bognor tomorrow, but her inability to get free from work; hence the letter.
If he had her telephone number at work, I should have to make a quick escape, but he did not, and clearly, he did not know her handwriting well enough to tell it from mine.
Grumbling, he filled and labelled a bottle, took my money, and declared that this would not be permitted again.
Nodding meekly, I committed a criminal act in his ledger and left. On the street, I took the box of cachets from the brown paper wrapper: Veronal, a powerful barbiturate. There had been none in her medicine cabinet; however, ten or fifteen grains of this would be just the thing to knock out a woman, preparatory to murder.
The hardest challenge would be Fortnum and Mason, where the customer is king and information is never freely bandied. If I could not prise what I needed out of them, I should have to pass the task to a certain friend, whose title would have the staff scraping the floor in their eagerness to serve. I wanted to avoid bringing him in, if I could manage on my own—the fewer who knew of the tie between Holmes and The Addler, the better, and this particular amateur sleuth would put the whole picture together in a flash.
So I presented myself before the desk where picnic baskets might be ordered, and began talking in my most breathless and aristocratic manner.
“There's this garden party, early next month, you see? And we could have the usual fizz and caviar, but really, where's the fun in that?” I blinked my wide blue eyes, and the gentleman could only agree. “So a friend, well, I suppose the secretary of a friend, but what does that matter? This