Gunpowder Green

Chapter 7

Timothy Neville was going to celebrate his eightieth birthday next month. But he wasn’t about to spill the beans to the wags in the historic district. No sir, his DOB had long been a hot topic of conversation, and he wasn’t going to spoil the fun now. Some folks put him at eighty-five; others kindly deducted ten years.

What did it matter?

He was in excellent physical condition except for a touch of arthritis in his hands. And that came from playing the violin these many years and bothered him only when the temperature dipped below fifty degrees.

Fact was, he had outlived two of his doctors. Now he rarely even bothered with doctors. He had Henry, his butler, take his blood pressure twice a day, and he swallowed a regimen of supplements that included ginkgo biloba, coenzyme 10, choline, and vitamins B1, B6, C, and E.

True, he had made a few concessions in his diet, switching from predominantly red meat to fish and from bourbon to wine. He still smoked an Arturo Fuente cigar occasionally but, more and more, that was becoming a rare treat.

Genetics. Timothy Neville chalked it all up to genetics. His mother had lived to ninety and had taken to her bed only on the day prior to her death. Her ancestors, most of whom dated back to the original Huguenots who fled religious persecution in France during the mid-1600s, had been a determined and hardy lot. They had endured the hardships of an ocean voyage, worked tirelessly to help colonize Charles Town, fought off the greedy English crown, then managed to survive the War Between the States. Today, his ancestors were numbered among the founding fathers of Charleston and considered social aristocracy.

Timothy Neville smiled to himself as he studied the landscape painting he held in his hands. It had been painted in the late thirties by Alice Ravenel Huger Smith, a watercolorist famed for her moody renditions of low-country rice plantations. The piece had sustained some damage. One corner had been gnawed by insects, and a brown splotch of water damage shot through the sky. The painting hadn’t been preserved in acid-free paper, either, so it was slightly faded. It would take considerable conservation skills to restore the little watercolor, but the piece was well worth it. Huger Smiths were few and far between these days, and most people who held one in their possession preferred to sell it at auction in New York rather than donate it to a museum.

“Mr. Neville? There’s someone to see you?” Claire, one of the secretaries, hovered in the doorway.

Timothy didn’t look up. “Who, please?”

“Theodosia Browning?” Claire has a way of making everything sound like a question. Why is that? he wondered. He’d heard other young women speak in that same maddening way. Were they too insecure to spit out a simple declarative statement?

It didn’t matter. Timothy knew he was merely stalling for time, letting the idea that Theodosia Browning had come to call upon him ruminate in his mind. There was certainly nothing wrong in allowing her a brief cool-your-heels period in the anteroom. After all, she had harbored suspicions about him being involved in the death of that real estate developer last fall and had helped herself to a merry snoop in his home during a music recital. Since that incident, he felt that she had been more cool and aloof with him than he with her. Embarrassment? Remorse over her actions? Had to be.

“Show her in,” Timothy said finally.

Theodosia Browning entered his office in a whisper of silk. He heard the slight rustle of the fabric, could detect a pleasant, slightly floral scent about her. He wondered if it was perfume or tea.

Timothy laid the painting down on the table in front of him and turned to face her. He did not make any indication for her to take a chair.

She smiled at him, looking, he decided, rather pretty in her aqua silk slacks and jacket with that mass of curly auburn hair framing her head like a friendly Medusa.

“Mr. Neville . . .” began Theodosia.

“Call me Timothy,” he said in his clipped, no-nonsense manner. “We are well acquainted with each other, are we not?”

Theodosia flinched slightly, and her cheeks flared pink from embarrassment.

“Timothy, then,” said Theodosia. She was beginning to regret her impulsiveness at coming here. Timothy Neville had clearly not forgotten her actions of a few months ago. She swallowed hard, determined to get through this. “You’re an expert in antique weaponry,” she began. “Guns, pistols, the like. Would you be able to help me understand how a pistol might explode on its own?”

“Snooping again, are we Miss Browning?” Timothy Neville favored her with a remote smile. “One could call it investigating, Mr. Neville,” she replied. To heck with calling him Timothy, Theodosia decided. Addressing him as Mr. Neville was far more preferable. The formality kept him at arm’s length, which was probably where she should keep this strange little man.

“One could,” Timothy replied. “But then one would have to be a duly sworn investigator. I don’t recall that you are.”

Theodosia ignored Timothy’s remark. “My interest is in Oliver Dixon’s death... the terrible accident that befell him. You are—”

“Yes, of course I’m aware of what took place,” murmured Timothy. “Terrible tragedy. He was a fine fellow.” Timothy’s bright eyes bore into her. “And you think because I have a collection of antique weapons that I know about exploding pistols and the like, is that it?”

“I rather thought you might be able to offer some type of explanation,” said Theodosia.

“An explanation for an accident,” said Timothy slowly. “I’m not sure I follow your logic. Or that I see there’s any logic to follow.”

“But if it wasn’t accidental, then . . .” She stopped abruptly. “You’re not going to help me, are you?” said Theodosia. This conversation wasn’t going the way she’d hoped. She knew her feelings of regret for snooping on Timothy were a huge obstacle for her to overcome. That and the fact that Timothy Neville’s brilliance made her feel like a plodding schoolchild.

Timothy Neville shrugged imperceptibly.

“Well, it might interest you,” said Theodosia out of frustration, “that I have discovered a few clues of my own on the Heritage Society’s Web site.”

Timothy just stared at her.

“That’s right,” Theodosia continued. “Thanks to old newspaper clippings that reside on your Web site, I’ve discovered a few things about the Dixon-Cantrell feud.”

“Good for you,” said Timothy. He hadn’t meant to sound flippant and harsh, but it came out that way. He knew he was a crusty old man, prone to caustic remarks and pronouncements, and he regretted his sarcastic tone instantly.

But his words cut Theodosia to the quick and made her spin on her heel.

It’s definitely time to leave, she decided. Timothy Neville is not going to give me one iota of cooperation.

She had already retreated through the doorway when Timothy began to speak. “Miss Browning, if I were to hazard a guess, I’d say you might possibly have the right church but are looking in the wrong pew.” His words, meant to appease, tumbled out in a rush. He’d also spoken so softly that Theodosia was barely able to register all his words. It had been like listening to a faulty record or tape and catching only fragments.

“What?” Theodosia asked, unsure of what he was trying to tell her.

But Timothy Neville had turned back to his painting.