Classified As Murder

I blinked as I glanced at the grand marble staircase ahead. Surely I was seeing things—or there really was a woman in a hoop skirt and crinolines gliding down the stairs.

SIX

I watched in silence as the woman, surrounded by a bellshaped mass of green cloth, negotiated the stairs. With every step I feared she would tilt forward and tumble, but she managed to stay upright, holding the skirts and the hoop up enough to make it safely down.

She appeared not to have noticed the butler, the cat, or me until she reached the foot of the stairs. There she paused while she smoothed the wrinkles in the fabric, and I had a better look at her face. About my age, give or take a few years, she was blonde, with skin so tight across her face it probably hurt her to smile. She appeared thin to the point of emaciation—at least, the parts of her above the skirt did. The bodice of her gown was flat, and her arms were no bigger around than those of an eight-year-old.

The butler moved forward until he was two steps away from the woman.

“Madam, may I present Mr. Charles Harris and his companion?” That English accent held the trace of a sniff. He obviously wasn’t too keen on the idea of having a stranger’s cat in the house.

He turned briefly to me. “Mr. Harris, may I present Mrs. Hubert Morris?”

Mrs. Morris inclined her head in my direction. Her hair, as thin as the rest of her, was wound into a lopsided bun at the back of her neck. She stared at Diesel for a moment. “We don’t have any rats or mice in the house.”

What an odd thing to say. Did she think I was an exterminator, and Diesel was my assistant?

Before I could speak, she continued, “I have finished addressing the invitations for the summer hunt ball, Truesdale. Please see that they are put in the mail right away.”

I’d never heard of a summer hunt ball in Athena, but then I didn’t move in the highest social circles either. Still, it sounded strange.

As the butler said, “Yes, madam,” she turned away, her skirts again gathered in her hands, and headed for a set of doors a few feet away. Truesdale managed to get there first to open the doors. He pulled them gently closed after her and returned.

“Mr. Delacorte will receive you in the library first, Mr. Harris. If you’ll come this way, please.” Truesdale headed down the hall and past the doors Mrs. Morris entered moments before.

Richly hued Persian rugs dotted the marble floor and muffled our footsteps. An array of Oriental porcelains graced small tables here and there along the hall, and several beautiful framed landscapes hung on the walls. The overall effect was opulent, but tasteful. I wondered idly, though, whether Oriental carpets had been in vogue in the antebellum years. Mrs. Pittman would no doubt be disappointed in me, after all the time she devoted to those field trips.

Truesdale opened another set of double doors and entered. As we walked in, I spied James Delacorte in the center of the room behind a large, ornately carved desk—mahogany, I thought, and probably a couple of hundred years old.

My host rose and came slowly around the desk to shake my hand. He was dressed as I had always seen him, in a suit of vintage cut. His face had a pinched look, as if he were in pain.

When he spoke, he sounded tired. “Good afternoon, Mr. Harris. And you too, Diesel.” He reached forward and caressed Diesel’s head. “Such a beautiful creature.”

“Thank you,” I said. Diesel thanked him with a warble.

I let my gaze roam around the large room. The proportions were generous, about thirty feet by forty, I estimated. The walls were covered by bookshelves that reached within a couple of feet of the high ceiling. The outside wall bore two deep bay windows, one on either side of the desk, with bookshelves inset below them. Every shelf was full of books, and there were cabinets around the room as well. The bookshelves on one wall were covered, their contents obscured behind glass. Perhaps these were the cases that held the rarest books in the collection, while the wooden cabinets probably held other treasures. I was itching to explore.

“We’ll join the others in a few minutes, Nigel,” Mr. Delacorte said. “Go ahead and serve their tea now.”

“Certainly, sir,” Truesdale said, with a slight bow. He withdrew quietly from the room.

“Please be seated.” Mr. Delacorte indicated a leather armchair near his desk as he resumed his seat.

Diesel stretched out on the floor beside my chair, and I waited for Mr. Delacorte to continue.

“In a few minutes you will be meeting my family,” he said. “I don’t suppose you’re acquainted with any of them.”

“No, but I did meet Mrs. Hubert Morris briefly. She was coming down the stairs when Diesel and I came in.”

With a sad expression, Mr. Delacorte asked, “And how was Eloise dressed?”

“In a hoop skirt,” I said.