Death By Darjeeling

Chapter 26

Gateway Walk is a hidden pathway that begins on Church Street, near Saint Philip’s graveyard, and meanders four blocks through quiet gardens. Visitors who venture in are led past the Gibbes Museum of Art, the Charleston Library Society, and various fountains and sculptures to Saint John’s Church on Archdale Street. The picturesque Gateway Walk, named for the wrought-iron Governor Aiken Gates along the way, enchants visitors with its plaque that reads:

Theodosia had always found the Gateway Walk a lovely, contemplative spot, conducive to deep thought and relaxation. But tonight, with darkness already fallen, she hurried along the brick path, pointedly ignoring the marble tablets and gravestones that loomed on either side of her.

She had spent the entire morning and afternoon at the Indigo Tea Shop waiting tables, focusing on tea shop business, going over the Web site designs, trying to get back in touch. She knew she hadn’t really given careful attention to her business since the night of Hughes Barron’s murder; she knew her priorities were slightly out of whack. The Indigo Tea Shop was her bread and butter. Her life. And nosing about the County Morgue shouldn’t have taken precedence over her meeting with Tanner Joseph on label illustrations. That had been thoughtless.

Of course, sleuthing was exciting, she told herself as she passed by a marble statue of a weeping angel, a silent, solitary inhabitant of the graveyard. And trying to solve a murder did set one’s blood to racing.

Feeling her guilt slightly absolved, for the time being, Theodosia’s footsteps echoed softly as she moved quickly along the dark path as it wound behind the Charleston Library Society.

She realized full well that she was headed for Timothy Neville’s home not just for an evening of music. Her ulterior motive was to spy.

In a patch of crape myrtle there was a whir of cicadas, the rustle of some small, nocturnal creature, claiming the darkness as its domain.

Six blocks had seemed too short to drive, so Theodosia had walked, taking this shortcut through the cemetery and various gardens. Now, ducking through a crumbling arch with trumpet vine twining at her feet, the Gateway Walk suddenly seemed too dark, too secret, too secluded.

Stepping up her pace, she emerged two minutes later into soft, dreamy light cast by the old-fashioned wrought-iron lamps that lined Archdale Street.

Drayton had said he’d meet her at eight o’clock, just outside the gates of Timothy Neville’s Georgian-style mansion. And from the looks of things, she had only moments to spare.

Cars were parked bumper to bumper up and down Arch-dale, and lights blazed from every window of Timothy Neville’s enormous, sprawling home. As Theodosia hurried up the walk, she was suddenly reminded of the Avis Melbourne Home the night of the Lamplighter Tour. Its lamps had also been lit festively. Swarms of visitors had crowded the walks and piazzas.

She fervently hoped that an evening at this grand home would yield far better consequences.

“Right on time.” Drayton emerged from the shadows and offered her his arm. He was dressed in black tie and looked more at ease in formal attire than most mere mortals could ever hope for. When an invitation specified black tie, Drayton always complied with elegance and polish.

Theodosia had worn a floor-length, pale blue sleeveless dress, shimmery as moonlight. As an afterthought, she’d tossed a silver gray pashmina shawl over her shoulders. With her hair long and flowing and a dab of mascara and lipstick to highlight her expressive eyes and full lips, she looked like an elegant lady out for a night on the town.

But I’m here to spy, Theodosia reminded herself as she and Drayton climbed the stone steps.

They nodded to familiar faces standing in groups on the piazza, passed through elegant cathedral doors and were greeted inside by Henry, Timothy Neville’s butler.

Henry was dressed in full liveried regalia, and rumor held that Henry had been employed by Timothy Neville for almost forty years. There weren’t many people Theodosia knew who had live-in help or had help that stayed with them for so long.

“Cocktails are being served in the solarium,” Henry announced solemnly. He had the sad, unblinking eyes of an old turtle and the ramrod backbone of an English Beefeater. “Or feel free to join Mr. Neville’s other guests in the salon, where Mr. Calhoun is playing a piece from Scarlatti.” Henry gestured slowly toward a gilded archway through which harpsichord notes flowed freely.

Theodosia noted that the venerable Henry seemed to move in slow motion. It was like watching a Japanese Noh drama.

“Wine or song?” Drayton asked good-naturedly.

“Let’s get a drink first,” suggested Theodosia. She knew if they repaired to the salon, courtesy required them to pay strict attention to the music, not exactly her motive for coming here tonight. But if they grabbed a cocktail first, they’d be free to move about the house and greet other guests.

And get the lay of the land, Theodosia told herself. Try to get a better fix on the very strange Mr. Timothy Neville.

Although she had passed Timothy Neville’s house many times on her walks with Earl Grey, Theodosia had never before been inside this enormous mansion. She was in awe as she gazed around. This was splendor unlike anything she’d seen before. A dramatic stairway dominated the foyer and rose three floors. Double parlors flanked the main hallway, and Theodosia saw that they contained Italian black marble fireplaces, Hepplewhite furnishings, and ornate chandeliers. Gleaming oil paintings and copperplate engravings hung on the walls.

Built during the Civil War by an infamous blockade runner, this home was reputed to have sliding panels that led to secret passageways and hidden rooms. Some folks in the historic district even whispered that the house was haunted. The fact that Timothy Neville’s home had once served as residence for a former governor and was a private girl’s school for a short time, only added to the intrigue.

“Theodosia!” The shrill voice of Samantha Rabathan rose above the undercurrent of conversational buzz as Theodosia and Drayton entered the solarium. Then Samantha, resplendent in fuschia silk, came determinedly toward them, like the prow of a ship cutting the waves.

“I didn’t expect to see you here tonight,” cooed Samantha as she adjusted the front of her dress to show off just the right amount of décolletage. “Drayton, too. Hello there, dear fellow.”

Drayton inclined his head slightly and allowed Samantha to peck him on the cheek. “Our illustrious chairwoman from the Lamplighter Tour,” he said in greeting. “You’re looking lovely this evening.”

Samantha held a finger to her matching fuschia-colored mouth. “I think it best we downplay the Lamplighter Tour.” She grasped each of them by an elbow and started to haul them toward the bar. “That is, until this nastiness blows over.” She smiled broadly, seemed to really notice Theodosia for the first time, and instantly shifted her look of amusement to one of concern. “How are you holding up, Theodosia? So many rumors flying, it’s hard to know what to believe. And how is that poor, dear child... What is her name again?”

“Bethany,” replied Theodosia. Samantha was being incredibly overbearing tonight, and Theodosia was already searching for an excuse to escape her clutches.

Just as a waiter offered flutes of champagne from a silver tray, the perfect excuse arrived in the form of Henry, announcing that the Balfour Quartet was about to begin their evening’s performance.

“Got to run,” burbled Samantha. “I’m sitting with Cleo and Raymond Hovle. From Santa Barbara. You remember them, Theodosia. They also have a house on Seabrook Island.”

Theodosia didn’t remember Cleo and Raymond at all, but she smiled hello out of politeness when Samantha pointedly nudged a small suntanned couple as she and Drayton entered the parlor for the concert.

They found seats in the back row, not in cushioned splendor as did the guests at the front of the pack, but on somewhat uncomfortable folding chairs.

Unaccustomed as she was to wearing three-inch high-heeled sandals, Theodosia surreptitiously slipped them off her feet and waited for the music to start.