'Til Death Do Us Part

  “Do you make use of the lift?”

  “No, never.” Calista shuddered. “I hate the thing. The interior is quite close and dark and the thought of getting trapped inside is enough to keep me out of it, I assure you. It bears a striking resemblance to a coffin.”

  “I assume you have taken steps to secure access to it?”

  “Yes, of course. The little room on the ground floor where the lift door is located is kept locked at all times now.”

  He moved to the window, clasped his hands behind his back, and studied the elegant gardens that surrounded the big house.

  “When you consider the matter closely,” he said after a time, “we do have some information about this person who has fixed his attention on you. Given a few more details, we should be able to come up with a list of suspects who can then be investigated individually.”

  There was a short, tense silence behind him. Then he heard Calista’s skirts and petticoats rustle softly. He turned around and saw that she had taken a step closer to him.

  “Do you really think so?” she said.

  “Yes,” he said.

  He should not make promises he was not certain that he could keep, he told himself. But he could not bear to dash the wary hope he saw in her eyes.

  “One of the many things that concerns me is what to do with the villain if I do manage to learn his identity,” she said. “It is hardly a crime to send memento mori gifts and there is no way to prove that someone intruded into my bedroom, let alone stole a photograph.”

  “We will deal with that problem after we find the individual who is playing this wicked game.”

  “I do have a theory,” she admitted with some hesitation.

  “What is that?”

  “I have begun to wonder if one of the gentlemen I have rejected as a client might have decided to take revenge.”

  He considered that briefly and nodded. “That is definitely a possibility we must consider.”

  “The box containing the coffin bell was inside the cab that I hailed this afternoon. It turns out the driver was paid a special gratuity to pick me up.”

  “The driver saw the man who put the box in the cab?”

  “Yes. But he did not get a close look at his face. Trust me, I demanded a description. All I got was the information that the individual appeared to be in his early thirties, was well dressed, and wore expensive gloves.”

  “But the driver was certain that it was a man?”

  “Quite certain,” Calista said. “I intend to sort through my files of rejected male clients. I have Andrew’s notes and my own to examine. I shall draw up a list of men who might want revenge.”

  Trent thought about that for a moment. “How many men have you rejected?”

  “It will not be a long list. I have always been very careful when it comes to clients. Because of that I have not had to reject many. But there have certainly been a few. I may be able to eliminate some of them now that I have the cab driver’s description.”

  Trent contemplated the coffin bell. “Your plan is a good one, but I believe the first step is to find the shop where that bell was purchased.”

  She watched him with a mix of hope and uncertainty.

  “You are determined to help me discover the identity of the person who is doing this?”

  “If you will allow me to do so,” Trent said.

  “I must admit, I am quite desperate. My nerves are starting to fray. I would be very grateful for some assistance.”

  “I wish to help you, Miss Langley. But let me be clear—I do not want your gratitude.”

  She smiled for the first time since she had walked into the drawing room. It was a rather tremulous smile but it was warm and genuine.

  “Then I will repay you in kind, sir,” she said.

  “In kind?”

  “Your sister mentioned in passing that you are something of a recluse.”

  “Eudora told you that?” Trent said. He would have a word with her when he got home.

  “I understand that as a writer you must spend a great deal of time alone. That would, of course, make it difficult to meet people.”

  “I assure you, I am not keen to meet great numbers of people.”

  She paid no attention. “In exchange for your assistance in identifying the person who is sending me these objects, I will endeavor to introduce you to a suitable female companion. I’m sure there is someone on my roster of clients who will be just perfect for you. I perceive that you would appreciate a lady who can provide stimulating, intellectual conversation. One who can share your interests.”

  Reflexively he touched the scars on his jaw. “Promise me that she will not feel obliged to share her opinion of my novels.”

  11

  “AH, YES, THAT is one of my late husband’s patented safety coffin bells,” Mrs. Fulton said. “No one should be buried without one. I can only guarantee that it will function properly, however, if one also purchases the special coffin that Mr. Fulton designed to be used with the bell. I cannot recommend attempting to use it with an inferior coffin.”

  Calista was not sure what she had expected when she and Trent walked into the somber premises of J. P. Fulton Coffins & Mourning Goods. But for some reason it came as a bit of a shock to discover that J. P. Fulton was no longer among the living. His widow was now in charge.

  Mrs. Fulton appeared to be in her midforties, attractive in a dignified way that suited her profession. She wore a stylish black gown with a high collar of black lace that framed her throat. Her pale blond hair, lightened with gray, was snugged up into a tight chignon and crowned with an artificial flower. The hair decoration would have appeared almost frivolous if it were not for the fact that it was fashioned of black silk. Her hands glittered with jet-and-crystal rings. A clear crystal brooch decorated in black enamel trimmed the bodice of her gown. Jet earrings dangled from her ears.

  “Do you sell a great many of these bells without the coffins?” Trent asked.

  “No,” Mrs. Fulton said. “As I told you, they are not of much use without the specially designed safety coffin. I offer a wide variety of burial boxes at a range of prices. There is the basic model—the Rest-in-Peace—for those who cannot afford to send their loved ones off in a more fashionable style. But most people prefer either the Eternal Slumber design or the newest model, the Peaceful Dreamer. Cost varies with the materials and decorations, naturally, but all are equipped to accommodate the safety bell. Would you care to view our selection?”

  She motioned toward a shadowy doorway.

  Calista glanced into the other room and saw a number of coffins on display in the dimly illuminated chamber. She felt a distinct chill on the back of her neck.

  “No, thank you,” she replied.

  “What we would like to know is the identity of the customer who purchased this particular bell,” Trent said. He took some money out of his pocket. “And we are happy to compensate you for the time it will take you to answer our questions.”

  Mrs. Fulton glanced at the coffin bell that Calista had placed on the counter. Her brows snapped together in a sharp frown.

  “How did you come by it?” she asked.

  “It was given to me,” Calista said. “The initials inscribed on it are mine.”

  “How very odd.” Mrs. Fulton gave her a critical appraisal. “You appear quite healthy.”

  “I am in excellent health.”

  “You are perhaps enjoying a miraculous recovery from some near-fatal ailment?”

  “No,” Calista said. “I possess a remarkably sound constitution.”

  “I see.” Mrs. Fulton’s frown grew darker. “I’m not sure I understand what this is about.”

  “We believe the bell was purchased recently,” Trent said. “You no doubt have a record of the transaction.”

  She regarded him with growing suspicio
n. “Why do you wish to know the identity of my customer?”

  Calista sensed Trent’s irritation and impatience. She stepped in to respond before he could say anything that would cause the situation to deteriorate further.

  “We believe there was some mistake,” she said smoothly. “As you have observed, I am not at death’s door. Someone purchased this extremely fine and very expensive security device for an individual who, presumably, is dying. We wish to find the customer who purchased it so that he can give it to the intended recipient.”

  “Very odd.” Mrs. Fulton tapped one finger on the counter and contemplated the bell again. She finally appeared to make up her mind. “I suppose there is no harm in giving you the name of my client. If you will wait a moment, I will check my records.”

  She reached under the counter and took out a heavy journal bound in black leather. Opening the thick volume at a midway point she began to peruse the most recent entries.

  There were, Calista noticed, a great many sales recorded in the journal. The business of funerals and mourning was a large and thriving industry. Judging by the premises, Mrs. Fulton catered to a fashionable clientele.

  There was a wide assortment of expensive memento mori on display in the shop. One tall case was devoted to jet-and-crystal jewelry. Lockets, bracelets, brooches, and rings—most designed to hold a twist of hair from the deceased—were tastefully exhibited on red velvet. Artificial flowers made of black lace and silk were artfully arranged in vases embellished with depressing scenes of crypts and headstones. An entire shelf was filled with elegant little bottles made to catch and hold the tears of those who grieved.

  There was also a great deal of black-bordered funeral stationery arranged according to the various stages of mourning—the wider the borders, the more recent the bereavement.

  One wall featured empty picture frames decorated with weeping angels and skulls and skeletons. They were designed for postmortem pictures of the deceased who was often posed with the living. Calista did not care for the modern habit of summoning a photographer to take a picture of the dead. It was, however, a popular practice and more than one photographer made a living with the business of death.

  Mrs. Fulton’s fingertip stopped halfway down a page. “Ah, here we are. One patented safety coffin bell inscribed with the initials C and L. Ordered by a Mr. John Smith.”

  Disappointment splashed through Calista. She glanced at Trent and shook her head ever so slightly. There was no John Smith on her list of rejected clients. The name meant nothing to her.

  Nevertheless, she told herself, it was a name; a starting point, perhaps.

  “Is there an address?” Trent asked.

  “No, I’m afraid not.” Mrs. Fulton snapped the journal closed and put it back under the counter. “The bell was paid for in cash so there was no need for an address.”

  Trent took a card out of a small case and placed it on the counter. “If you think of any other information about Mr. Smith, please feel free to send word to this address. I promise that there will be a large gratuity for further details.”

  Mrs. Fulton picked up the card and studied it closely. “Are you the author of the Clive Stone novels by any chance?”

  “As a matter of fact, yes,” Trent said.

  “Hmm. I’m reading The Affair of the Missing Bride in the Flying Intelligencer. I must say, I rather like the character of Wilhelmina Preston.”

  “Thank you,” Trent said.

  “I do hope you don’t kill her off in the end.”

  “If I do, I promise you that she will be buried in a J. P. Fulton patented safety coffin with a bell.”

  Mrs. Fulton flushed with pleasure. “That would be excellent for my business.”

  “Something to keep in mind should you choose to assist us in our inquiries,” Trent said. “One more thing, what about the coffin?”

  Mrs. Fulton looked taken aback. Clearly she had not expected the question.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “You said the bell Miss Langley received only works with your specially designed safety coffins,” Trent said. “I would like to know if this John Smith also purchased one of those.”

  Mrs. Fulton managed a brittle smile. “As I recall, the customer wanted the bell first so that he could give it to his dying fiancée while she was still on this earthly plane. He thought it would comfort her to know that if she was accidentally buried alive and woke up in her coffin she would be able to ring the bell for rescue. J. P. Fulton bells make a very thoughtful gift for the nearly departed.”

  Calista could scarcely breathe.

  “Has Smith returned to purchase the coffin?” she asked.

  “Not yet, but I’m expecting him any day. He assured me that it wouldn’t be long now before it was needed.”

  12

  “MRS. FULTON WAS lying,” Trent said.

  An invigorating sense of anticipation heated his blood. Something was amiss at the mourning goods shop. He was certain of it.

  Calista had been gazing reflectively out the window as the cab rolled forward down the street. But at his words she turned quickly to fix him with an intent expression.

  “Do you really think so?” she asked.

  “I can’t be positive,” he admitted. “I was trying to read upside down because we were on the opposite side of the counter. I couldn’t see the entry she was pointing to clearly but I’m certain that the last letter of the surname ended in a Y or perhaps a G. It was definitely a letter that dipped below the line.”

  “Why would she lie?”

  He considered that briefly. “One reason might be that she simply wished to protect the identity of a good customer.”

  “I must admit that I can understand that. In her shoes, I would be strongly inclined to do the same. I am very careful with my client files. But surely we made it clear that there had been a mistake. We told her that the bell had been sent to the wrong address. At the very least one would think that she would have offered to take the bell and return it to her customer herself.”

  “We need to get a closer look at Mrs. Fulton’s financial records.”

  “How do you propose to do that? I’m quite sure she would never agree—” Calista stopped, mouth parted in sudden shock. “Hang on, surely you don’t mean to go into her shop at night when no one is around?”

  “A quick look at that journal is all that’s required.”

  “What you are suggesting is quite impossible, sir. You might get arrested.”

  “Give me some credit, Miss Langley. I am not without experience in this sort of thing.”

  “Experience? You are an author, sir. How can you possibly claim experience in lock picking?”

  He found himself unaccountably offended.

  “I do a great deal of research for my novels,” he said evenly. “If you will recall, Clive Stone is an expert at picking locks. I don’t claim to have his level of expertise but I should be able to manage the old-fashioned lock on the front door of Mrs. Fulton’s shop.”

  “This is not a work of fiction, Mr. Hastings. It is all very well to send Clive Stone out in the middle of the night to investigate a villain’s lair, but I cannot allow you to take such a risk on my behalf.”

  “I won’t take the risk on your behalf. I shall do it for myself.”

  “Have you gone mad?”

  “Consider it research.”

  “Rubbish. Let me make one thing very clear, Mr. Hastings. This is my problem—my case, as it were. If you insist on carrying out this wild scheme, I must insist on accompanying you.”

  “There is not a chance in hell of that happening, Miss Langley.”

  She gave him a steely smile. “You will need someone to keep watch. I shall take a whistle and use it to signal you if I see a constable approaching while you are inside the shop.”

  “Huh. That is a rather clever ide
a.”

  “Thank you. I got it from a Clive Stone novel.”

  13

  IRENE FULTON WAITED until the cab had disappeared down the street before she reached under the counter and retrieved the journal of business transactions.

  With the volume tucked under her arm, she walked across the shop, turned the sign in the window to Closed, and then went upstairs to her private rooms. She set the journal on the table while she put the kettle on the stove. When the tea was ready she sat down, opened the journal, and studied certain sales she had made during the past year.

  There was nothing a shopkeeper liked to encourage more than repeat business, but she’d begun to have a few questions about the customer who bought the same items again and again for various elderly relatives, all of whom were at death’s door. And now a dangerous-looking gentleman and a woman who had received the gifts had come around asking questions.

  The pattern was always the same—first came the order for a lovely tear-catcher. Next, the order for the hair-locket ring. That was followed by a request for a safety coffin bell and, finally, a coffin. The customer specified that all of the items were to be inscribed with the initials of the soon-to-be deceased. The notes were always accompanied with payment in full. The customer never questioned the price.

  With the exception of the earliest purchases, the memento mori and the bells were sent to the customer’s address—not the home of the dying relative. The coffins, however, were delivered directly to various funeral parlors. Each of the deceased had been buried by a different funeral director.

  Irene closed the journal and sipped her tea while she pondered how to proceed.

  After some time she carried the journal back downstairs and placed it neatly in its customary position under the counter. She put on her cloak, went into the elegantly lit coffin display chamber, and made her way to the back door of the shop.