Death By Darjeeling

Chapter 27

Timothy Neville tucked his violin under his chin and gave a nod to begin. He had done a brief introduction of the other three members of the Balfour Quartet. The two men, the one who’d played the harpsichord earlier and was now on the violin, and a red-faced man on the viola, were also members of the Charleston Symphony. The fourth member, a young woman who played the cello, was from Columbia, South Carolina’s capital, located just northwest of Charleston.

As Timothy Neville played the opening notes of Beethoven’s Die Mittleren Streichquartette, he was surprised to note that the Browning woman was sitting in the back row. He gave a quick dip of his head to position himself for a slightly better view and saw immediately that she was sitting next to Drayton Conneley.

Of course. Drayton worked at the woman’s little tea shop. It was logical that she might accompany him tonight. His command-performance concerts were legendary throughout the historic district, and it wasn’t unusual for his invited guests to bring along guests of their own.

He frowned. The Browning woman was staring sharply at him as though she were waiting for something to happen. Silly girl. They had just begun the allegro, and there were a good fifty minutes to go. Still, she had been bold to come see him at the Heritage Society and plead the young intern’s case. Even though he may have been dismissive of Theodosia Browning, it didn’t mean he didn’t admire her spirit. Lots of complacency these days. Hard to find the plucky ones. All the same, he would keep a close watch on her. She had stuck her nose in matters that didn’t concern her, especially her inquiry about the Peregrine Building. That just wouldn’t do at all.

The Balfour Quartet was very good, far better than Theodosia had expected they’d be, and she soon found herself lost in the musical depths of Beethoven’s Quartet no. 9.

It was haunting and evocative, pulling her in and holding her complete attention until it came to a crashing conclusion.

Theodosia, suddenly reminded of why she was there in the first place, applauded briefly, then dashed out the door ahead of the crowd. There would be a twenty-minute intermission, an opportunity for men to refill drinks and ladies to visit the powder room.

Theodosia headed up that grand staircase, her toes sinking deep into plush white wool, and dashed down the long, arched hallway when she hit the second floor. Peeking into several bedrooms along the way, she found that all were elegantly furnished, and yet none showed signs of being occupied. Finally, at what would be the front of the house, she found the set of double doors that led to Timothy Neville’s private suite of rooms.

As she pushed one of the massive doors slowly inward on its hinges, it emitted a protesting groan. Theodosia held her breath, looking back over her shoulder to see if anyone had heard or might even be watching her. No. Nothing. She swallowed hard, stepped inside Timothy Neville’s private office, and closed the door behind her.

A single desk lamp, what looked like an original Tiffany dragonfly design, cast low light in the suite. Massive furnishings were dark, shadowy lumps. Flames danced in the ornate marble fireplace.

Theodosia’s sandals whispered across the Aubusson carpet. Even in the dim light she could see portraits of Timothy Neville’s ancestors, various fiery Huguenots scowling down at her from their vantage point on the burgundy-colored walls.

Then she was standing at Timothy Neville’s Louis XIV desk, her hand on the brass knob, about to pull open the top drawer. She hesitated as a pang of guilt shot through her. This was snooping of the first magnitude, she told herself. Not terribly above board. Then she also remembered Timothy Neville’s incredible rage and Hughes Barron clutching his teacup.

She slid the drawer open.

Inside were pens, stamps, personalized stationery, eyeglasses, a sheaf of household papers, and Timothy Neville’s passport. Everything in an orderly arrangement, nothing of great interest.

What were you expecting to find? she asked herself. A little blue glass bottle of arsenic? A crackling paper packet of strychnine?

She padded back across the room to the door opposite the desk and sneaked it open. Timothy Neville’s rather splendid bedroom met her eyes. Four-poster bed draped in heavy wine- and rust-colored brocades. Small Chippendale tables flanking each side of the bed. An elegant linen press that looked as though it might have been created by the famous Charleston cabinetmaker, Robert Walker. Two armchairs in matching brocade sat next to the small fireplace. And, on the walls, more oil paintings. Not ancestral portraits but eighteenth-century portraits of women. Women in gardens, women with children, women staring out dreamily.

The paintings hinted at a softer, more humane side of Timothy Neville than Theodosia wouldn’t have guessed.

In the bathroom, next to a large walk-in closet, Theodosia hit the light switch. The bathroom was restful and elegant, replete with enormous claw-foot tub, dark green wallpaper, and brass wall sconces and towel racks. Without hesitation, Theodosia pulled open the medicine cabinet and scanned the shelves.

It was as predictable as his desk drawer had been. Shaving cream, toothpaste, aspirin, a bottle of Kiehl’s After Shave Balm, a bottle of prescription medicine. Theodosia reached for the brown tinted bottle and scanned the label.

Halcion. Five milligrams. Sleeping pills.

She pondered this for a moment. Incriminating evidence? No, not really, she decided. Timothy Neville was an old man. Older people often had difficulty sleeping.

Theodosia placed the medicine back on the shelf, swung the mirrored door shut, and turned out the bathroom light. She crossed back through the bedroom into Timothy Neville’s private office. She scanned the room again and shook her head. Nope, nothing unusual here.

Her hand rested on the doorknob when she noticed a tall English secretary just to the right of the door. Rather than housing fine porcelains behind its glass doors, as it had been designed to do, it now appeared to hold a collection of antique pistols.

Theodosia hesitated a split second, then decided this might be worth investigating.

Yes, they were pistols, all right. She gazed at the engraved plates that identified each weapon. Here was an 1842 Augustin-Lock Austrian cavalry pistol. And here an Early American flintlock. Fascinated, she pulled open one of the glass doors, slid her hand across the smooth walnut grip, and touched the intricate silver with her fingertips. These pieces were fascinating. Some had been used in the Civil War, the American Revolution, or quite possibly in gentlemen’s duels of honor. They were retired now, on display. But their history and silent power were awe inspiring.

In the stillness of the room, a slight noise, an almost imperceptible tick, caught her attention, caused her to glance toward the door. In the dim light, she could see the brass doorknob slowly turning.

In a flash, Theodosia flattened herself against the wall, praying that whoever opened the door wouldn’t peer around and see her hidden here in the shadows.

The heavy door creaked slowly inward on its hinges. Needs a shot of WD-40, Theodosia thought wildly as she pressed closer to the wall and held her breath.

Whoever had opened the door halfway was standing there now, silently surveying the room. Only two inches of wood separated her from this mysterious person who, quite possibly, had followed her!

Theodosia willed her heart to stop beating so loudly. Surely, whoever was there must be able to hear it thumping mightily in her chest! Her mind raced, recalling Edgar Allan Poe’s prophetic story, “The Tell Tale Heart.”

That’s me, she thought. They’ll hear the wild, troubled beating of my heart!

But whoever stood there—Timothy Neville, the butler, Henry, another curious guest—had peeked into the room for only a few seconds, then pulled the door shut behind them.

Had they been satisfied no one was there?

Theodosia hoped so as she slumped against the wall, feeling hollow and weak-kneed. Time to get out of here, she decided. This little adventure had suddenly gone far enough. She moved toward the door.

Then she remembered the gun collection.

Theodosia glanced quickly toward the cabinet. In the half-light, the polished guns winked enticingly. All right, she told herself, one quick peek. Then I will skedaddle out of here and join the others downstairs.

The guns were all displayed in custom-made wooden holders. Beautiful to behold. Probably quite expensive to create. A key stuck out from the drop-leaf center panel. She turned it, lowering the leaf into the writing desk position.

Tucked in the cubbyholes were polishing cloths, various gun-cleaning kits, and a bottle of clear liquid.

Theodosia squinted at the label on the bottle. Sulfuric acid.

It was a compound often used to remove rust and corrosion from antique bronze statues, metal frames, and guns. And, unless she was mistaken, sulfuric acid was also a deadly poison.

If Timothy Neville had slipped something toxic into Hughes Barron’s tea, could it have been this substance? That was the 64,000-dollar question, wasn’t it? And nobody was saying yet. Not the coroner. Not Burt Tidwell. Certainly not Timothy Neville.

The Balfour Quartet had resumed playing when Theodosia slipped into the room and took her seat beside Dray-ton. As she adjusted her shawl around her shoulders, she felt his eyes on her.

“You look guilty,” Drayton finally whispered.

“I do?” Her eyes went wide as she turned toward him.

“No, not really,” he answered. “But you should. Where in heaven’s name have you been?” he fussed. “I’ve been worried sick!”

Theodosia fidgeted through the second half of the concert, unable to concentrate and really enjoy the Balfour Quartet’s rendition of Beethoven’s Opus 18, no. 6. When the group finished with a flourish and the crowd rose to its collective feet, cheering and applauding, she breathed a giant sigh of relief.

Jumping up with the rest of the guests, Theodosia leaned toward Drayton. “I’ll tell you all about it,” she finally whispered in his ear. “But first, let’s go back to the shop and have a nice calming cup of tea!”