The Moor - Laurie R. King [102]
"Certainly," she said, not sounding at all certain.
"There are a few questions I need to ask you," I said as we turned in the direction of her house, and began to explain the bare outlines of my (unnamed) husband's longtime friendship with Baring-Gould, the reverend gentleman's state of health, and the memoirs he was trying to assemble.
She was a small, neat woman, who listened with her head bent and whose steps began briskly, only to slow with her increasing involvement in the story. She did not seem over gifted with a subtlety of mind, becoming only more confused as we went, and although she appeared anxious to be of service to the squire of Lew Trenchard, that old friend of her father's, she did not know what she could do for me. On her doorstep, she turned to me and said just that.
"Might I come in for a short time?" I suggested.
"Of course. Perhaps you will take luncheon with me?"
I assured her it was not necessary; she assured me it was no inconvenience; she gave instructions to the housemaid who had taken our things that two places were to be set at the table; and she then ushered me into the drawing room.
Aside from the painting of Sir Hugo, the room was light and feminine, with walls of cream and apricot and flowered-fabric chairs and draperies. It was not to my personal taste, but it was, I could easily see, tastefully if conventionally done.
"Would you like a glass of sherry, Miss Russell? I don't drink, myself, but…"
A hot rum toddy might have served to drive away the chill of the walk, but as that was not offered, and considering my hostess' abstinence, I declined. The hot tea we were brought instead was a help, although, not having spent the morning fasting, as she apparently had, I had not much use for the bland biscuits that accompanied it.
I waited while she performed her duties over the teapot, studying her and trying to choose the best approach to take. I had quickly decided that, while this woman was no foe, and could not possibly be siding with Scheiman or Ketteridge in whatever it was they were up to, at the same time she would not make much of an ally. Sympathetic she might be, particularly towards her former neighbours, but she was completely lacking in anything resembling imagination: One need only look at the portrait of Sir Hugo, glaring down across the chintz and fringes like an accountant with a highly unsavoury private life, to know the woman bereft of perception.
I had to admit that the resemblance between Sir Hugo and Scheiman was faint, and that I should almost certainly have seen nothing had Holmes not planted the idea in my mind. The thin mouth, yes, and the general shape of the eye, but Scheiman's face, though thin, lacked the hardness of this portrait, and the cold disapproval behind the painted eyes was something I had never seen in those of Ketteridge's secretary. It came to me suddenly that Sir Hugo's portraitist had been afraid of his subject; moreover, I thought the fear justified.
"Miss Russell?" Startled, I turned to the small blond woman in the demure grey dress. A tiny frown line furrowed her smooth brow, and abruptly, my mind being no doubt receptive for such a thing, I could see the line furrowing David Scheiman's brow, the night Holmes and I had taken dinner in Baskerville Hall. Just as quickly, I dismissed the sureness that tried to accompany the revelation, reminding myself firmly that two frown lines did not a nefarious plot make. However, I also decided, taking the cup she was holding out to me, that I was not going to tell her as much as I might have had that line not appeared.
"That is a very interesting picture," I said. "It looks quite old."
"The date on the back is 1647," she said. "It is a distant relative of mine, Sir Hugo Baskerville. He is said to have been a rather naughty fellow, although I can't say he looks it. I rather liked the design of the lace on his collar."
"Do you have many of the old family