| |
In Which John Pickett Receives a Shock
“Get back, now, and give him some air! He’s coming ’round.”
Pickett recognized the voice, and groaned aloud. Somehow it seemed of a piece with all the rest, that the first voice he should hear, in the wake of an accident as humiliating as it was painful, would be Harry Carson’s.
“Are you all right, old fellow?”
There was no trace of mockery in the question, and Pickett opened his eyes. He was stretched out full-length in the middle of the market, his throbbing head cushioned by the knitted muffler—a gift from Mrs. Colquhoun the previous Christmas—which someone had removed from about his neck in order to fold into a makeshift pillow. A circle of curious onlookers surrounded him, a circle that included the drayman, now looking somewhat abashed, and the woman with the basket of oranges; of her rival in the same profession, the apple seller who had so disconcerted him, there was no sign. Rather nearer at hand, his former colleague knelt beside him, regarding him with every appearance of concern in his blue eyes.
“I say, are you all right?” Carson asked again. “Is there anyone I should send for?”
“You’re not to go worrying Julia with this, if that’s what you’re getting at,” Pickett said firmly. At least, he’d intended to speak firmly; instead, his voice was shaky and weak.
“Julia?” Carson seized upon the name. “Your wife, perhaps?”
“Yes, my wife,” Pickett said with some asperity as he cautiously raised himself to a sitting position. “You’ve met Julia—Mrs. Pickett—before.”
“Your name is Pickett, then?”
“Cut line, Harry. You know full well—”
“You know who I am?” Carson sounded not only surprised, but gratified by the fact.
“Of course I know who you are! I assure you, there’s nothing wrong with my memory—nothing wrong with me at all that rest and willow bark tea won’t set to rights,” he added, putting a hand to his throbbing head. “But I’ve known you for months. We investigated that business at Dunbury together.”
At this reminder, Carson’s look of surprised pleasure faded. “Er, maybe you’d better come with me. You can wait in comfort at the Bow Street Public Office while someone sends for your wife—Julia Pickett, you said?—to come and fetch you.”
“Bow Street?” Pickett recoiled as if Carson had suggested they seek out a comfortable snake pit or lion’s den. “No! I don’t want—that is, I wouldn’t like to impose on Mr. Colquhoun—”
“Believe me, Mr. Colquhoun won’t be overly troubled,” Carson drawled.
Under different circumstances, Pickett might have pressed him to explain this cryptic remark. But Carson’s whole demeanor toward him was so odd that Pickett doubted that his explanation would be any more enlightening than the rest of his conversation had been.
“Thank you, Harry, but there’s no need for you to go to any trouble. I’m perfectly capable of going home on my own.”
In proof of this statement, he clambered to his feet and dusted himself off. The circle of spectators had begun to disperse, seeing the show was over, and so Pickett had no difficulty in walking past them, although he was not so steady on his pins as he would have liked.
A long walk in the brisk air went some way toward restoring him, and by the time he reached Curzon Street, Pickett felt much himself again. It was a great pity that he could not say the same for everyone else. As he approached the tall, narrow house where he lived with his wife, he saw a few of the neighbors out and about in spite of the autumnal chill in the air, although not so many as there would have been in months past, when the weather was warmer and the days longer. It was not the number of people that puzzled him, however, but their behavior. To be sure, the general attitude toward him had never been warm; his birth was too far beneath theirs to permit of approval, much less friendship. But on this occasion, they seemed not to notice him at all. Even the few with whom he exchanged nods returned the gesture not with the frigid civility he had come to expect, but with the distant courtesy one might accord a stranger. Shaking off a vague feeling of disquiet, he strode up the broad, shallow steps of number twenty-two, and opened the door.
Or he tried to. Finding it locked, he was obliged to resort to the brass knocker mounted in the middle of the door just below eye level. It opened a moment later, and Pickett found himself staring into the face of a total stranger.
“Where is Rogers?” he asked, blinking in confusion at the individual who was most certainly not Julia’s butler, whom he had inherited, along with all her worldly goods, when he’d married her. This man, though clad in the sober dark suit of the London butler, could give Rogers ten years or more, and had the wrinkles to prove it. Or perhaps the wrinkles creasing his forehead were merely part of the bewilderment writ large upon his face.
“Who, sir?”
“Rogers,” echoed Pickett. “My butler.”
“One would suppose, sir, that your butler would be at your house.”
“But—but this is my house,” Pickett insisted.
“I fear you are mistaken.” The butler’s nose twitched, and Pickett realized with some indignation that his breath was being tested for any trace of alcohol. “This house has been the Town residence of the Dowager Countess of Wakesworth for the last twelve months and more.”
“But—but that’s impossible! My wife bought this house not long after her husband died.” Realizing the illogic of this claim, he added, “Her first husband, that is; not me, obviously.”
The butler’s expression conveyed the information that he saw nothing “obvious” about the situation, whatever Pickett might say to the contrary. To Pickett, there was only one possible explanation: Julia knew. Somehow she had discovered the truth about his “investigation,” and had settled on this method of punishing him for his deceit. He wasn’t quite certain why, or what she hoped to achieve by it, but he had to admit she had done her work well. The butler’s demeanor was perfect, while as for the house...
He glanced over the butler’s shoulder to the marble-tiled hall and the drawing room just visible beyond it. How in the world had she managed to refurnish the house in the time since he’d left after nuncheon? Even the walls were a different color, although there was no smell of fresh paint. Had they been papered, perhaps? Still, to accomplish such a task and then remove every trace of it must have taken a considerable time—more time, surely, than had elapsed since he had taken his leave of his wife.
“Look here, can I just see Julia—er, Mrs. Pickett, that is?”
“I regret that I cannot oblige you, sir, but there is no one here by that name.” The butler’s tone was clearly calculated to inform the caller that he saw nothing amusing about a joke in very poor taste. In this, at least, Pickett found himself in complete agreement with the man.
“The mistress of the house, then,” amended Pickett, rapidly losing his patience. “Whatever she chooses to call herself.”
The butler gave him a reproachful look, but left to carry out this request. He returned a few minutes later with the information that “Her ladyship, the Dowager Countess of Wakesworth, will see you.”
Upon being instructed to “follow me,” Pickett was led into a salon which he knew as the drawing room. But instead of the sunny chamber where he’d made a habit of joining his wife for tea whenever his Bow Street investigations took him to Mayfair, he found himself in a room whose heavy crimson velvet curtains completely shut out the light, requiring the use of candles even in the middle of the day. Paintings in heavy gilt frames covered the walls, and Julia’s delicate Hepplewhite furnishings had been replaced by the elaborately scrolled and gilded pieces of the previous century. But the most disturbing part of this rococo nightmare was the woman rising from the sofa to greet him—a gaunt, silver-haired lady with fully three quarters of a century in her dish, clad in the boned bodice and panniered skirts of her younger days.
“Good afternoon, Mr.—Pickett, was it?” She held out a gnarled hand upon which a large green stone glowed. “What may I do for you?”
“I—I’m looking for my wife,” Pickett stammered, no longer so certain of his footing.
“And you have some reason to believe she might be here?”
“It’s a long story,” Pickett confessed with a sigh.
“I’m sorry I can’t be of more assistance, but I’ve been here alone all day. What is your wife’s name, pray?”
“Julia. Julia Pickett.” Seeing no sign of recognition in the woman’s expression, he added, “Before our marriage, she was Lady Fieldhurst.”
Her reaction astounded him.
“In that case, I have nothing more to say to you.” She reached for the bell pull and gave it an emphatic tug. “Good day, sir.”
“Look here, I’m sure this has all been very amusing,” said Pickett, who was sure of no such thing, “but I’ve had my fill of it.”
“Then I suggest you drop this very ill-bred play-acting at once, and leave this house before I summon the constable.”
The butler entered the room in answer to the summons. “You rang, your ladyship?”
“Indeed, I did. Pray show this man off the premises.”
“Certainly, your ladyship. Come along, sir.”
“But—what—Julia—I don’t—”
He might have saved his breath. The butler was surprisingly strong in spite of his advanced years, and Pickett, unwilling to risk injuring the fellow by fighting back as he might have done against a younger man, found himself seized by the arm and frog-marched out of the room and through the front door.
“But—Julia—”
“If it’s Lady Fieldhurst you’re looking for, I suggest you begin with the newspapers,” Lady Wakesworth called after him, but before he could ask her to explain this cryptic utterance, the butler closed the door in his face.
“But—but—what just happened here?” Pickett asked of no one in particular, staring at the door.
The door, unsurprisingly, offered no assistance, but a faint, metallic click gave Pickett to understand that the key had been turned in the lock, forestalling any further attempts at invading the premises.
Thus forced to concede defeat, he turned away and staggered down the steps and onto the pavement. He looked wildly from one end of the street to the other, searching for someone—anyone!—who might offer some idea as to where Julia had gone, but the street was almost deserted. The only sign of life was a short, stout woman pushing a wheeled cart—a common enough sight in Covent Garden, but a rare one in this genteel residential neighborhood.
“Hey! You there!” Pickett shouted as the hem of her dark skirt disappeared around the corner. Breaking into a run, he reached the corner and turned, half fearing to discover that she had disappeared without a trace. But no, there she stood, watching the street corner as if she were waiting for him.
“You were in Covent Garden less than an hour ago,” he said, panting from exertion. “I bought an apple from you.”
“And paid me very well for it, too,” she agreed, nodding.
“What are you doing here?”
“Selling apples, of course.” She picked up one, and turned it over for his inspection. “Would you like another?”
He shook his head impatiently. “No, that’s not—I mean—you said—” He broke off, and tried again. “Something strange is happening here, and you seem to know something about it. About me, I mean.”
“My dear boy, what could I possibly know about you? After all”—she gave him a wink—“you’ve never been born.”