Alysse Aallyn

Category: Crime

  • Devoured Heart – romantic suspense by Alysse Aallyn

    Chapter 53. Shattered

    Dawn was just breaking as Scarlet came home. She took a long, hot bath and dressed, but the warmest sweaters and tights could not block the chill that had settled in her bones. The kitchen had become a crime scene. Enid switched her sphere of operations to the tiny kitchen off the ballroom. She could toast bread. Milk could be placed against the cold windowsill to keep it fresh.


    Scarlet crawled into bed with Nick. He still was healthy, wide-eyed, fresh, new and needy. He had no idea how horrible the world really was.


    “She’s gone,” Scarlet told Enid. “The brain injury was just too awful.”


    “What made you wake?”


    “I’m not sure. I had a dreadful dream. Something about Miss Bottomley lost on a raft. I must have heard a sound from downstairs.”


    “Miss Bottomley screamed. I heard it too. That dreadful woman must have attacked her to stop her noise.”


    Candi had lots of reasons for attacking people. All given to her – thought Scarlet grimly, by my dear husband.


    The policeman climbed up the stairs to see the women. He didn’t look like a detective but more like a department store floorwalker with his shiny bald head and a sharp-cut suit.


    “Scotland Yard,” he introduced himself. “Inspector MacBlythe. May I get the details of your story?”


    “We’ll meet you in the sitting room,” sighed Scarlet. She climbed reluctantly out of bed and walked to the chintz settee she had so admired just a few brief weeks ago. She had thought she knew trouble and sorrow then, but in reality she had been only too naïve in the ways of misery. Fatally so. How could she could have ever guessed what depths of viciousness simple selfishness and greed could release!


    The Inspector was not as surprised by the existence of a night guard as the bobby had been. “This place is a treasure house,” he said. “It’s at least a two-man job.”


    “I wish we’d thought of it,” Scarlet wept. “The security man seemed so confident.”


    Enid freshened the tea.


    “What connection are you to Mrs. Pourfoyle?” MacBlythe was coming to the meat of the matter.
    “When I found out she and my husband were having an affair I told him I wanted a divorce. She quit her job and moved into our country house – at least that’s what my solicitor tells me. But last week she came up to London and threatened me as if I was the one blocking the divorce. But Ian’s been the blocker. It seems he’s got other girlfriends, one actually living with him in his flat. Again, according to my solicitor.”


    MacBlythe took down all Pelham D’Arcy’s and Ian’s information, and moved over to Enid. Nick began to cry and Scarlet gladly sprang to her feet to remove him from the room.


    Pelham called when the police had finished with him and requested an interview – “you and Enid both.”


    “Oh, good,” said Enid. “I don’t want to be alone. Let’s have dinner out, afterwards.”


    “I’m too tired for anything but fish and chips,” said Scarlet, who really didn’t want to see people.


    “That’s fine with me.” Dear Enid, obliging as always.


    Bob Thomas and Pelham met them in the Partners’ Room, which had a long table, imposing portraits and deep comfortable wingback chairs. Nick slept angelically in his carrycot. Scarlet imagined someday trying to explain all this to him.


    “Well, this is a terrible thing,” said Bob Thomas, pouring tea all around. From an antique silver set, Scarlet noticed. She and Enid refused sherry. “Is the woman mad?”


    “Temporarily maddened,” contributed Pelham, who was more accustomed to the vagaries of divorce.


    “Well, she’s committed murder, is what she’s done,” said Bob Thomas.


    They all agreed it was an unconscionable thing as they sipped their tea. There was a knock on the door and Pom thrust his head inside.


    “Pom, I’m in a meeting!” gasped Scarlet.


    “I asked Mr. Bronfen to join us,” said Bob Thomas. “Tea? Sherry?”


    Pom accepted a small sherry. He sat next to Scarlet and held her hand tightly, under the table.
    “All three of you – Mr. Bronfen, Mrs. Rumson and Mrs. Wye – are beneficiaries under Miss Bottomley’s will.”


    Light burst onto Scarlet when she realized, he is talking about me! She had forgotten she was Mrs. Wye. Suddenly she was on a par with Lady Lechmere in her attorney’s eyes. She had been upgraded.


    “Oh, my goodness,” she gasped. “But won’t they contest it?”


    “Who?” inquired Bob Thomas calmly. “There are no interested parties. She was literally the last of her line. The property would have reverted to the Crown.”


    “Mr. Inkum-“


    “Mr. Inkum would not dare. The papers he attempted to get Miss Bottomley to sign were so outrageously self-interested he would be drummed out of the profession if anyone complained.”


    Reality began to sink in. She sadly recalled Miss Bottomley’s delighted exclamation, “Do you know, I am a very rich woman?”


    Pom and Enid and Scarlet gazed at each other, dazzled.


    Bob Thomas cleared his throat. “There are six trusts concerning real estate, art, publishing and commercial properties. Mrs. Wye is the discretionary trustee and I am the advisor.”


    And he proceeded to explain.

    Scarlet was openly clutching Pom’s hand as they staggered out of the lawyers’ office.
    “I’m gobsmacked,” said Enid. “What a lovely human being she was.”


    “And how we’re going to miss her,” gasped Scarlet.


    Pom guided them into a nearby bistro – “do you like pizza? You must try it,” and ordered a bottle of chianti.


    “To Miss Bottomley’s foresight and generosity,” toasted Pom.


    Nick’s eyes were big as he looked from each to each in the candle flame.


    “But we couldn’t protect her!’ sighed Scarlet. “It’s because of me she’s dead, don’t you see?”


    “How could you ever have guessed that Candi would do such a thing?”


    “I couldn’t!”


    “Any thug could have broken in and attacked poor Miss Bottomley at any time. She could have been assaulted on the street! She was all alone before we came.”


    “But the time was so short. Too short.”


    “Time is always too short,” said Pom and he squeezed Scarlet’s hand meaningfully.

  • Devoured Heart – romantic suspense by Alysse Aallyn

    Chapter 52. The Snarl Behind the Smile

    That very night Scarlet had the strangest dream. She was picnicking with Pom – a Watteau-like scene of countrified perfection. They lolled on a riverbank, dressed in party clothes with the best offerings of Fortnum & Mason spread out at their feet. But it seemed however much they laughed, lifting their glasses to each other, some desperate dread lurked right below the surface. Suddenly in the stream beside them Miss Bottomley appeared on a raft. Night-clothed, disoriented and woebegone she lifted up her hands in supplication before being swept away. Neither Scarlet nor Pom could react. Scarlet felt her clothes an enormous weight, her limbs immobile, she could not even force her lips into a scream. The terror was so immense Scarlet struggled to wake up.


    “This must be a dream,” she told herself, and so it was. Scarlet fell back against the pillows as exhausted as if she’d been fighting, not sleeping. Yet she felt some relief. She had been given another chance. She must not waste it. What had she forgotten? It was something connected with Miss Bottomley. Her preoccupation with Pom was causing her to neglect Miss Bottomley. Something – something – she forgot to do. But as so often happens, the dream words melted away on the sand before she could read them.


    Was Miss Bottomley calling out for her? There was only one way to find out. Scarlet struggled into a dressing gown and slippers and hurried down the stairs.


    She heard it before she saw it, pushing against the baize kitchen door — some desperate struggle in the lighted kitchen. Scarlet braced her body against the door to see a slight figure kneeling over Miss Bottomley with a flail, beating and beating. Blood was everywhere, swirling patterns rising and falling to the very ceiling. The room stank like a charnelhouse.


    Scarlet sprang forward, grabbed the black clothed creature whose eyes beneath a ski mask swiveled up to confront her. Those eyes – mad with rage – were Candi’s eyes. Scarlet tore off the mask to reveal Candi’s demonic face. Candi shrieked – “You!” and attacked her.


    The club slipped from her hand and fell to the floor while the women struggled in a desperate embrace. Scarlet felt strong, but stupid and slow – the other woman was wiry and crazed.


    “I’ve got to knock her out somehow,” Scarlet thought and with all her power forced Candi’s head against of the cast-iron Aga stove. Again and again she cracked it until Candi went down.


    Then she heard a siren, ear-splitting – and saw Enid aghast in the doorway.


    “What happened? I pressed the panic button!”


    “Call for an ambulance – Miss Bottomley’s been hurt.”


    Before she attended to Miss B she must hogtie Candi with kitchen clothesline – no risking another assault. Candi seemed completely out of it but she was breathing.


    Miss Bottomley’s eyes were open. She was wearing the cursed red anorak over her nightclothes – bitterly Scarlet rued their casual swap. How much trouble this had caused! She had already received one warning about the dangerous potentialities of clothing confusion but she’d failed to grasp its meaning.


    “What happened?” gasped Miss B. “Did I fall?”


    Scarlet, hot with tears, pulled her wounded employer into her lap and began rocking her like a child. “You’re going to be all right,” she chanted. “We’re taking you to hospital.”


    The night guard appeared in the doorway, his mouth agape.


    “What happened?”


    “Somehow this woman got in and attacked Miss Bottomley. Enid called the police and ambulance.”
    “Oh, my lord,” said the poor man, “Must have been when I went to the phone for hourly report.”


    Miss Bottomley gasped and gurgled. She clutched Scarlet’s hand so hard it was difficult to surrender her to the medics. As Scarlet climbed into the ambulance she could hear the night guard explaining to anyone who would listen, “I had to make my report.”


    Why hadn’t she been informed that his post would be unwatched for minutes every hour? It was ludicrous! She grabbed his arm.


    “Don’t you dare let the attacker go,” she commanded. She didn’t trust him anymore, but at least Candi seemed immobilized. Scarlet could hear the police siren, but the ambulance couldn’t wait.
    Rocking back and forth she asked herself, Why had it occurred to literally no one, that a single guard couldn’t possibly cover the entrance? What about bathroom breaks, not to mention the hourly reports from the corner phone the client had not even been informed about? She gritted her teeth, but the person she most blamed was herself. She could kick herself for not thinking it through.


    How easily we accept reassuring appearances without enquiring deeper!


    At the hospital, Miss Bottomley was rushed away and Scarlet was given a blanket to cover her bloodstained nightclothes. She longed for the comfort of Enid’s presence but knew Enid must remain at Norfolk Crescent for Nick. She’d have to get through this alone.


    “May I speak to you, ma’am?”


    It was a London bobby, helmet removed, holding his notebook.


    “Sure,” said Scarlet in her exhausted American drawl.


    “What occurred precisely? Best you can recall?”


    “I must have heard something. I really don’t know why but I got up, thinking Miss Bottomley –“


    “The injured party?”


    “Yes. She’s my employer. I thought she needed me. When I ran downstairs I heard them struggling. This woman Candi Pourfoyle must have come through the back entrance – there’s a guard on but he says he was making a phone call.”


    “There’s a guard?” interest in his gray eyes.


    “Well stone masons are building a new entrance at the back and there isn’t a door so they set a guard there. But he’s no good!” She bit her thumb angrily. “I wish I’d known he was going to be no good.”


    “Cup of tea?” A sympathetic sister approached.


    “Yes, please.” Scarlet accepted the white china cup – you could see the sugar they’d sloshed in. It was lukewarm but enormously comforting.


    “You recognized the attacker?”


    “Candi Pourfoyle, I told you. “


    “And she is?”


    “My husband’s girlfriend. I don’t know if she thought Miss Bottomley was me or not – poor Miss B. was wearing my anorak – but Candi would have to come through the kitchen and Miss B often fell asleep sitting by the Aga –“


    “Hold on now, please. What exactly did you see?”


    “They were both on the floor. Candi was beating her with a club – blood everywhere. I pulled her off, knocked her out and tied her up with clothesline. Enid heard the ruckus and called police.”


    “You knocked her out? Did you have a weapon?”


    “No. I wish I had. But I bashed her head against the stove.”


    The bobby patted her knee. “That’s a ghastly experience,” he said sympathetically. “Dreadful.”


    And it’s only going to get worse, Scarlet could tell from the doctors’ faces as they pushed through the operating theatre doors. She stopped trying to be strong and burst into tears.

  • Devoured Heart – romantic suspense by Alysse Aallyn

    Chapter 47. An Assault in Broad Daylight

    Outside the first flakes were starting. The sharp air caught in Scarlet’s throat. Baby Nick’s breath came in short puffs. She saw nobody walking in the street at all.


    That’s paranoia for you, she thought. Being scared of people who aren’t there because of people who are there. She resolved to walk to the grocery store like someone with a right to exist and to move freely, and not like a fearful, naughty schoolgirl playing hooky. But as soon as she turned the corner a man leaped out of the shadows and a hand grabbed her.
    It was Ian.


    “You almost frightened me to death!” she barked. “You’re not supposed to be here – I have a non-molestation order against you!”


    “If I didn’t know it was you – if you insist on creeping about in disguise – how can that be my mistake?” He was unshaven, his eyes terrible. She felt a stab of fear over so much anger. This side of the building was virtually an alley – she should never have taken it but gone the long way around. No one would see her or help her if she needed it.


    She tried acting brave, and didn’t address his implication that he might have thought he was grabbing Enid.


    “Now that you know, leave me alone.”


    “But this court order, Scarlet! What are you playing at? That I’m a danger to you, to our son?”
    Her heart smote her – this would always be her Achilles’ heel. She could never believe he’d hurt Nick. On the other hand, she knew he was desperately committed to getting whatever he wanted when he wanted it – he would be careless of Nick and all too ready to entrust his child to God knows who. And there had been a day – not so long ago, either – when she would have sworn he would never hurt her. How wrong that had been!


    The best defense was offense. “You put Candi in the hospital!” she accused.


    “It was nothing but a couple stitches. She was in and out. I was only trying to stir up a bit of excitement – that woman’s like a planked fish in bed.”


    “You moved her into Wyvern because you’ve got a yen for fish?”


    Ian tightened his hold on Scarlet. “She quit her job! Her husband threw her out after she told him I raped her – I had to figure out some way to shut her up.” His eyes boiled at her – he did look dangerous.


    “Well that didn’t work – she followed you to London and threatened me.”


    “You’re joking. I don’t believe you.”


    Still, he didn’t release her. The greatcoat was so huge he couldn’t really hurt her but simply blocking her motion, imprisoning her, made her feel panicky. She tried shaking him off.
    “And who’s that I hear about living in the flat?”


    He relaxed into his first smile. The old Ian. But it was a wicked grin.


    “I knew this was all about jealousy! Relax, Scarlet, you’ll always be my number one! Don’t we need a nanny? She’s a nice country girl with a modest little job who needed a place to stay and who is used to caring for brothers and sisters. If you decide you don’t like her, say the word and she’ll be gone.”


    “We need to make decisions through our solicitors,” said Scarlet, trying to push the stroller on. She didn’t want to call his attention to the fact that he hadn’t glanced at his son – but it was informative – and she refused to surrender to his clutches.


    Ian shook his shaggy head. He needed a haircut. Maybe he was going for the look of one of the teddy boys at the Aldershot Palais.


    “Scarlet, you’re being ridiculous! You’ll beggar us and nobody wins! If you insist on divorce, all right, but let me see my son! Stay out of my sex life and I’ll stay out of yours. Don’t make me show MY photographs of YOUR boyfriend!”


    “I don’t have a BOYFRIEND. Pom is a FRIEND. My employer is employing him to do a job of work. If you’re willing to get the divorce all you have to do is tell Jellicoe. We’ll meet formally, iron out visitation, the lot. Don’t spring at me in alleys.”


    But he didn’t let her go, and he didn’t look at their son. Instead he pushed her against the wall and began passionately kissing her.


    “Oh Scarlet,” he moaned, “I’ve missed you so much. None of them are any good. No one’s got your spark. Don’t make me travel to America for a replacement! Come back to me, or if you won’t, at least give me husband’s privileges. Do you know how long it’s been?”


    She did know. She had reason to know that it was longer for her than for him. She twisted her mouth away but he crushed her lip with his teeth. Horribly he scrabbled at her clothing – she felt helpless – thinking –this must be what it feels like to be raped. She was powerless – he was so strong, swarming over her, pushing her right up against the stone wall. He found the police whistle and seemed to back up a little, pulling it up to his eye line so he could see what it was.
    “What’s this then?” He asked. “Gift from your admirer?”


    She snatched it from him and blew. The sound was earsplitting. He staggered away, pointed angrily at her and disappeared around the back of the building.


    Scarlet reversed course and rushed back to the front door of 14 Norfolk Crescent. Her thoughts were jumbled and crazy – where was that detective? How about HER detective? Why was nobody taking pictures of THIS? Where was ANYBODY – she certainly had seen no policemen. But Ian seemed to believe that someone might come and that was good enough. She guided the pram up the steps and into Miss Bottomley’s front hall. She threw off the already unbuttoned greatcoat in a frenzy, stripping mitten and hat. Voices still came from the dining room so she pushed the pram towards the kitchen and through the swing door into the warm fug of the friendly room. Nick howled lustily.


    “Ian attacked me,” Scarlet gasped, falling into a chair.


    Enid’s face went white. “We’ve got to go to the police!”


    “I’m not going anywhere. I’m – afraid.” Scarlet burst into tears, laid her head on the table and wept.


    “At least we must call them.” Enid scrabbled for the phone.


    “Your police whistle saved me. Give me the phone.”


    Enid comforted Nick.


    Scarlet called D’Arcy instead.


    “It’s an emergency.”


    Gotobed the clerk put him right on the line.


    “Ian attacked me,” said Scarlet, trying to control her voice. “I was walking Nick, he pushed me up against a wall and started kissing me and tearing at my clothes.”


    “Oh, my God!” said D’Arcy. “How did you get away?”


    “I blew a police whistle.”


    “Well that was fortunate. Do you need a doctor?”


    Scarlet felt her lip. It was swelling, but no blood.


    “I don’t think so. Swollen lip.”


    “Can you make a police report?”


    The thought of leaving the house made tears spring to her eyes once again. “No, I don’t want to.”
    “I can do it for you. May I send Gotobed over to photograph your face? He’ll take the particulars.”
    Scarlet turned this over in her mind. Gotobed was a sweet, elderly man – could she speak to him about this?


    “All right.”


    “Very well then. He’s a cab ride away.”


    She hung up the phone feeling better while Enid alternated between taking pies out of the oven and serving strong mint tea.


    “I didn’t get your lemon curd,” she sniffed, “But your police whistle saved me.”


    “Thank God for that! Did a bobby respond?”


    Scarlet shook her head and sipped her strengthening tea.


    Gotobed arrived with a huge accordion camera and took a couple of snaps. Scarlet was so embarrassed she kept her eyes closed. Apparently, there were also red marks on her throat – bruises developing.


    “The man must have been mad,” said Gotobed.


    “Have you ever been married?” asked Scarlet, instantly regretting the question as Gotobed’s face closed up.


    “I have not been blessed,” he sniffed.


    “Who would care to be blessed by THAT?” asked Enid, lightening the moment as she placed a plate of fragrant mince pie in front of Gotobed.


    Gotobed produced a notebook.
    “When was this incident precisely?”


    “Twenty minutes ago,” said Scarlet. “I was taking Nick on a walk to Sawditch’s to get lemon curd for Enid here and as soon as I rounded the corner – around to the right side there’s sort of an alley – he was on me.”


    “What did he say exactly?”


    She tried to remember while Gotobed wrote.


    “He was angry about the non-molestation order. I told him he shouldn’t be there – we needed to let the solicitors decide and he said they would beggar us. I said something about him putting Candi in the hospital and he said she was terrible in bed.”


    “He said that?” Enid gasped, then as Scarlet flushed said, “Sorry. I probably shouldn’t be listening.”


    Scarlet placed a restraining hand on her arm. “No. Stay.”


    Mr. Gotobed said, “You have to stay. We need a second witness.”


    “Then he started kissing me, backed me right up against the wall. I was trying to twist my face away and he unbuttoned my coat and found the police whistle. While he was trying to figure out what it was I grabbed it out of his hands and blew it. He ran away. He never even looked at his son! Nick was right there!”


    Gotobed offered her statement for her to sign. “If you’ll just sign on the witness line, Mrs. Rumson? I’ll take this complaint around to the police and they’ll pick him up. Best pie I’ve ever tasted – ” he added, eying his half-eaten piece regretfully. “But I must be going.”


    “Of course,” Enid agreed. “Shall I wrap some up for you? No? Well, come back any time.”


    He insisted on taking another snap of Scarlet’s face – “It’s darkening up –“ he commented – before he left. Scarlet took Nick gratefully from Enid and buried her nose in his sweet neck..


    A bell rang from the dining room.


    “Their tea needs freshening,” said Enid, preparing a tray.


    Scarlet was not able to get up the stairs without Miss Bottomley seeing her.


    “Scarlet! What happened to your face?”


    Bob Thomas’ concerned features appeared behind her.


    “Ian – my husband – attacked me. Mr. Gotobed’s taking my complaint to the police. I’m going to lie down.”


    Mr. Gotobed emerged from the kitchen, putting on his hat.


    “Just the man,” said Mr. Thomas. “Mrs. Bottomley’s business also requires a witness.”


    “Should I stay?” Scarlet asked unwillingly.


    “No. Gotobed can do it. You go lie down.”


    “Won’t the police want to speak to me?”


    “Not till tomorrow.”


    Nick started his caterwauling again – it was hard for Scarlet to surrender him to Enid but she knew the best thing for her now was a hot bath. Thank God for mothers’ helpers. Every woman needs several, to Scarlet’s way of thinking. She went right upstairs and sank gratefully into a hot tub liberally laced with aromatic gardenia bath salts. Once she was dry she took a sleeping pill.
    When she awoke it was dark outside. “Turning night into day,” she thought. “Now I’ll be up forever.”


    She went into the bathroom. Her own face in the mirror terrified her – was that a BITE? She had no recollection of Ian’s teeth but he had kissed so forcefully she finally understood the term “masher.”
    This would take more cover-up and concealer makeup than Scarlet knew she possessed. In a way, it was a relief to see the dark bruising – it proved she wasn’t “making a mountain out of a molehill” as Ian doubtless would claim.


    There was a knock on the bathroom door. Scarlet opened it slightly to see Enid’s concerned face.


    “May I bring up a bit of food after your bath?” she asked. “We could have dinner together.”
    “Dinner? Isn’t it after nine?”


    “Miss Bottomley went to bed before dinner, she was so exhausted. She says she and Bob Thomas created four trusts!”


    “Good heavens,” laughed Scarlet – “I’m tired just HEARING about it. What happened with the publishing?”


    “She’ll be majority owner! Once again she’ll own the Miss Clew books!”


    “That’s good news anyway.”


    “I missed you both so much it really took the fun out of dinner. I ate cheese and crackers and put my nice hot pot aside. But here I am hungry again, and as you know, hot pot only gets better! And we have the rest of that lovely wine.”


    “Well,” sighed Scarlet – “I don’t want you to take trouble –“


    “Scarlet, there’s a dumbwaiter! As you very well know!”


    “Then it would be lovely,” said Scarlet.


    And it was.

  • Devoured Heart – romantic suspense by Alysse Aallyn

    Chapter 44. Dolly Birds

    Scarlet felt less surprised about the story Pelham had shared about some woman “setting up base camp at Ian’s town residence.” Too young and too footloose to be Margalo but Scarlet felt confident that the BBC doubtless pullulated with skimpily attired, pretty young things, all skimpily paid of course, in desperate need of a London bolt-hole with “all found”; girls who would adore offering comfort to a handsome, lonely man whose wife had abandoned him. What had Ian called them? Dolly birds? Unfortunately, judging by Candi’s hospital records, these poor women failed to reckon with just how “abandoned” Ian actually was!


    A two storey “maisonette” (with balcony!) in central London – that girl probably felt fortunate indeed. He could have his cake and eat it too – nanny, housekeeper and girlfriend all mixed together! So probably unpaid? Worse and worse, poor thing. And it sounded just like Ian, thinking himself so clever for dangling before Scarlet just how easily and cheaply she could be replaced.
    The most bothersome aspect of all this news was how little it seemed he really knew the girl he had married! Scarlet found this new picture of Ian repellant rather than inciting. She couldn’t imagine Pom putting some girl in hospital!


    But if she was honest with herself, hadn’t Ian’s aura of danger been a large part of his attraction when they were in college? She knew her rivals thought so. But around children such explosive potential seemed suddenly very unappealing. Maybe I just grew up, thought Scarlet.


    Scarlet might be a mystery to her husband, but Scarlet felt she understood Candi all too well. It was Scarlet whom Candi yearned to supplant, Scarlet whom in fact she wanted to be. She had made that very clear in Foyle’s – she was angling to become Mrs. Wye. Poor Candi may have felt that throwing over her job and even being injured by him made Ian “owe” her something. Candi didn’t realize that it was Scarlet’s personal power that she envied, and not the power Scarlet acquired as a wife, if any. But it’s my “power” as a confident, educated woman with a sense of my own value, she thought.


    Candi didn’t know herself – or Ian – or even marriage – well enough to realize she’d made the worst possible decision. Scarlet wondered if she should reach out to David Pourfoyle, Candi’s abandoned husband. He must be a wreck. In hindsight, all these actions and reactions seemed so easy to categorize. Look at the mistakes Scarlet herself had made – allowing herself to become the “country wife” – a benefit more honored in fantasy than reality. In Ian’s eyes women cheapened themselves by becoming “convenient”. And Candi hadn’t even insisted on a ring! How could she – married to someone else.


    The phone rang again, and since Scarlet was sitting right there, she answered it.


    “Er – Scarlet?” Pom’s unmistakable voice.


    Scarlet felt an enormous gush of relief.


    “It’s for me,” she said to Enid’s, “And who’s that now?”


    Enid signed off with a harried, “Very well then.”


    “Your life appears to be heating up,” said Pom. “Who was that, if I may enquire?”


    “It’s a long story. I hired a nanny and she turned into a godsend. In fact, she’s been rather – taken over by Miss Bottomley.”


    “So you’re still in nanny straits?”


    “No, Mrs. Rumson can tackle both jobs – quite well, so far, I believe. She’s the most fantastic cook! Miss Bottomley’s eating like a rescued castaway.”


    “Well, she really is one, isn’t she? Anyway, I phoned to say I’m back in town – Freddie did a bang-up job on my car – and wondered if we could dine? Or does divorce case forfend?”


    I’ve got to get my emotions under control, thought Scarlet. She was rocketing between the ecstasy of seeing him again – the embarrassment of feeling the depth of that need – and her dashed hopes over Pelham’s lawyerly injunction.


    She was rescued by a brilliant idea.


    “I say,” she proposed, “What do you know about art?”


    “A lot,” said Pom. “I hope.”


    ‘Would you be willing to do a job for Miss Bottomley?”


    “Anything at all.”


    “Why don’t you come to dinner tonight and make an aesthetic inventory of her paintings? She’s got a lot here.”


    Pom sounded intrigued. “An aesthetic inventory?”


    “Certainly.. She inherited all this stuff and she has insurance policies and inventories and that sort of thing, but she doesn’t care about these works and she never looks at them. Perhaps they would be better off in some museum and she could decorate her walls with…something more modern. Something of her own choice, that gives her meaning and pleasure.”


    “Oh, I see. What a fun idea! I couldn’t charge money of course. This would be strictly friend-to-friend. I mean, otherwise my conflicts of interest would be too opprobrious.”


    Scarlet laughed. “Too, too opprobrious.”


    “Shall we say seven?”


    “We’d better say six. There’s old ladies and infants to consider. Unless you can’t.”


    “Oh, but I can.”


    And just like that, Scarlet was happy again. Lovely Pom!


    She found Enid and Miss Bottomley in the kitchen playing the card game “crazy eights.”


    “I do love this game,” said Miss Bottomley enthusiastically.


    Nick was just starting to fuss so Scarlet picked him up, snuffling up his delightful talcum-y smell. She was certain that he recognized her and was gazing up at her trustingly.


    “I wonder if I might invite Pom to dinner,” she inquired shyly.


    “Oh, your delightful friend! I do like him so.” Miss Bottomley smacked an eight down on the table and declared “Hearts. You’ll like him too,” she told Enid.


    “Do you think he’d like spaghetti Bolognese?” inquired the chef.


    “I know for a fact he loves anything Italian.”


    “What fun!” exclaimed Enid. “Would you like me to take Nick?”


    “No, I need fresh air. I think I’ll take him walking. Miss Bottomley, Pom is willing to take a friendly look at your pictures and perhaps suggest some moderns you might buy. Would you like that?”


    “Scarlet, you have the best ideas!” declared Miss Bottomley. “These daubs are so DREARY. Do you know in my bedroom there was a picture of a cow. I ask you! Who would want a picture like that? I had it moved of course – exchanged for boring old flowers but that’s hardly better. It would buck everyone up to see a bit of color. The previous owner’s taste seems all dark green and mud brown. Dreadful stuff.”


    And expensive to insure, thought Scarlet.


    “I’m so glad you feel that way,” she said, taking Nick to get changed. “It would be fun looking for new stuff. Perhaps we could attend some openings and shows.”


    “Auctions!” Miss Bottomley brightened. “Let’s go to auctions! Auctions are so thrilling, don’t you find?”

  • Devoured Heart – romantic suspense by Alysse Aallyn

    Chapter 43. Rupture

    Mr. Gammel the bank manger had been appropriately primed. Scarlet opened a trustee account for her son and one for herself. She did feel relieved – and rich – as she pocketed her new chequebook, even though she had yet to actually get a paycheck. The thirty pounds deposited in each account – she only hoped Ian would cover the checks when they were presented and that depended entirely on his mood – could not yet be accessed.


    Enid had prepared a lovely lunch – in the dining room for a change. Her eyes shimmered.
    “Salmon mousse!” she exclaimed. “Look how beautifully it came out. Miss Bottomley’s kitchen has every amenity – conveniences I’ve only heard about and am looking forward to discovering the use of. I’m having as much fun as a bride!”


    In Scarlet’s memory, her “fun” as a bride was quite different, but Enid had spent her morning sorting pots and pans and implements in Miss Bottomley’s kitchen while Baby Nick waved his legs and the elderly author looked on, bemused.


    “Nick was as good as gold. He had his bottle and now he’s having a sleep. I spoke to your lovely solicitor Mr. D’Arcy and he’s promising to set me right with my finances. It will be such a relief not to have to sound pathetic and uncertain when I speak to the children. My husband can well afford an adequate disposition.”


    It was quite a Mediterranean lunch. Salmon mousse ornamented with black and green olives, a green salad with sliced tomatoes and buttered whole meal bread. Tea to drink – Miss Bottomley’s favorite Earl Grey. No alcohol in sight, Scarlet gratefully noted.


    “Mr. Thomas seemed interested about our plan about investing in publishing,” said Scarlet succinctly, shaking out her napkin as she addressed Miss Bottomley. “He said you need another business!”


    Miss Bottomley perked up visibly. “Isn’t it wonderful, being rich!”


    The ladies agreed that it certainly seemed to be.


    “He’ll do a bit of research and come by tomorrow afternoon to discuss it with you.”


    “Good plan,” agreed Miss Bottomley. “Scarlet, how can I ever thank you enough? Enid, dear, will you mark it in my book? By the phone?”


    Scarlet would have thought that keeping Miss Bottomley’s “books” was her job, but she didn’t argue. Perhaps it was best to see how things shook themselves out. After all, if Miss Bottomley really did buy a stake in Coltsfoot & Briggins, Scarlet might find herself working there. At least temporarily. Having Enid care for Nick and Miss Bottomley at the same time would clearly be the beau ideal. If, that is, she was trustworthy as she seemed. A big “if.” But she certainly appeared to be, so far.


    Scarlet’s offer to do the dishes was roundly turned down.


    “No, thank you,” said Enid. “I feel Miss Bottomley’s generous pay entitles me to make the kitchen my dominion. I don’t mind it a bit. In Morocco and India, we had servants and they wouldn’t let me do anything. I found it horribly frustrating. We have the most elegant commercial dishwasher and I’m dying to use it! Would you care for coffee?”


    There seemed no point waking Nick merely to carry him upstairs so Scarlet took her coffee upstairs instead.


    She was kicking off her shoes and looking forward to an exhausted nap when the phone rang.
    “Mr. Pelham D’Arcy for Mrs. Wye,” announced the careful clerk Mr. Gotobed. Enid came on the line.


    “What is it?”


    “It’s for me,” said Scarlet shortly.


    “That’s all right then.” Enid hung up noisily.


    “Good news about Mrs. Rumson,” said Pelham as soon as he took up the line. “I wanted to reassure you that Jim Bogswell made a couple of calls and there’s no black marks against her. I think you made a good hire. Nothing damaging known.”


    Scarlet felt relieved to the point of tears. “That’s marvelous. You can’t think how knowing that relieves me. Mrs. Rumson’s doing such a fantastic job here – and Miss Bottomley’s having the time of her life. I would feel dreadful if I brought a wolf into the fold.”


    “It seems the wolves are all outside,” Pelham warned sententiously. “We are numbering and fighting them off, one by one. Now, don’t ring off. Bogswell had some other news. It seems your husband has more than one girl-friend.”


    That more than explained Candi’s anxiety! Apparently Candi’s upgrade to “house-help” created a vacancy! Now that the poor woman found herself in Scarlet’s old job, maneuvering her way around a prevaricating, untrustworthy male, she as being acquainted with the stresses and strains of the position. Scarlet’s conscience smote her – she hadn’t even mentioned Candi’s threat to Pelham. Should she bring it up now? But D’Arcy was in full cry.


    “He’s got some woman staying at the flat. Bogswell’s trying to find out more about her.”


    “That was quick work,” said Scarlet. “He only told me this morning he was just beginning the move in.”


    “Taradiddle,” said Pelham shortly. “Our source says some young woman – early twenties – has established base camp.”


    Well then why on earth had Ian invited her over? To make her jealous? She couldn’t put it past him.
    “And there’s more.”


    “More girls?” No wonder Candi was feeling desperate!


    “More facts. I believe I mentioned that Mrs. Pourfoyle gave up her employment and moved to Verne on Wye?”


    “You didn’t say she’d quit her job!”


    “Oh, yes. Gave in her notice. And she had –“ he cleared his throat – “A recent hospitalization.”


    Scarlet couldn’t parse his heavy emphasis. “Some kind of miscarriage?”


    “It seems,” Pelham said with the delicacy of an elephant, “She experienced a rupture.”


    “A physical rupture?”


    “Correct. Requiring stitches.”


    Scarlet was imagining Ian had socked Candi in the eye when Pelham continued, “Er – gynecologically.”


    “Oh, my God!”


    “Precisely. Was your husband excessively adventuresome in the bedroom?”


    “I believe I used the word “pushy”,” Scarlet said somewhat coldly. This was what people warned you about with divorce attorneys.


    “Ah, yes. Forceful.” He seemed to be making a note. “Well, let me tell you this news puts our case in very good standing. We are certainly entitled to a no-contact order at the very least. I will notify you of further developments.”


    “Thank you,” gasped Scarlet and fell back on her pillows, all chance of a nap gone.
    Would she ever sleep again? Poor Candi! Stitches! Hospitals! She would discover first-hand that Ian really had no sympathy for the sick, the disabled, or the “hors de combat.” Candi was truly, now, a “whore de combat.”


    Scarlet had never imagined feeling sorry for the woman, but it seemed her rival had unleashed a whirlwind. This was a vision of the country gent as member of the Hellfire Club. Could it be that Ian divided “wives” and “girlfriends” so thoroughly in his own mind that it liberated his aggression if the woman had no legal claim on him? If so, poor Candi! She seemed like the unlucky sorcerer’s apprentice who couldn’t manage her own spell and was now being threatened by her own creation.
    In which case, why not wash her hands of him? Militate for a better position? But how could she when she had given up both husband and job?

    In fact, it was apparent to Scarlet that now that Candi had given up her London work she was dramatically worse off – at Ian’s mercy in fact. How could Candi have not foreseen this? She had always bragged about her gallery job as if it were a wonderfully lucky break. Plainly she considered Ian an even luckier break, only to discover the man was all smoke and mirrors. What was the matter with women?


    At the center of all this was Ian, wreaking havoc and feeling entitled to wreak more. In a way, this piece of unholy medical information erased much of Scarlet’s guilt over a “non-contact” order. She needed to come out the other side, with a good arrangement to focus Ian’s good behavior around his own son, as well as terminating Scarlet’s dependence on such an undependable man.

  • Devoured Heart – romantic suspense by Alysse Aallyn

    Chapter 42. Plots & Ploys

    D’Arcy, too, suggested she sit and helped her off with her coat – probably thinking the sweat on her forehead meant she was overheated instead of merely tense. He closed the door behind her with a conspiratorial air.


    “Your husband has acquired an attorney,” he said. “Really it could not be better for us. He seems to have instructed a Mr. Jellicoe, who shares offices with his detective.” He waggled his eyebrows suggestively. “It sounds to me as though the cart was driving this particular horse, and we all know what is the result when THAT happens.”


    “It sounds horrible,” said Scarlet faintly. “I can’t imagine.”


    “Disaster, my dear Mrs. Wye, disaster. I suspect here we have the client who thinks he can manage his solicitor – NEVER a good idea.” He looked repressive. That’s Ian for you, thought Scarlet. He considers himself the smartest man in the room.


    “I saw Ian this morning,” she interjected. “His showed up unexpectedly at Norfolk Crescent. To take the car.”


    Pelham’s eyebrows knit worriedly but he said nothing.


    “That was all right with me,” she hurriedly asserted – “I don’t want it and he’s moving into the BBC flat. I told him in future he should make an appointment. Say, to see Nick.”


    “Naturally,” Pelham agreed. “Mr. Jellicoe and I will iron out a schedule. Until we have I suggest you inform your husband there will be no visitation. I will be serving Mr. Jellicoe with our Notice of Potential Harm to a Minor Child.”


    He’ll love that, thought Scarlet.


    “Have you been to the bank?”


    Scarlet looked guilty.


    “Not yet.”


    “You really need to set that up account. Planters Bank around the corner is the one we use. Would you like me to instruct Mr. Gammel, the bank manager?”


    “I wish you would,” said Scarlet hopefully. If there was any way to make this rough course smoother, she would take it.


    “I’ll give him a call. Do step round and ask to see Mr. Gammel at conclusion of our business. Should I know any more about this surprise meeting with Ian?”


    Should I mention Candi? Wondered Scarlet. The fact that Ian insisted he wouldn’t be getting a divorce. But she couldn’t see how that would help.


    “He invited me to help him move into his flat. I declined but I offered to help with a room for Nick. Should I mention the nanny? Could he use mine? My new nanny’s that new client I told you about – the one with the Foreign Service husband. How should I handle this?”


    “Ah, Enid Ransom.” Pelham D’Arcy gave a wolfish grin. “We have a lovely case there. Mrs. Ransom will be coming into a tidy sum. I hope that won’t interfere with her need for employment. It would be too cruel if your good interventions deprived you of a nanny.”


    “I doubt it,” said Scarlet. “Miss Bottomley also hired her as a cook – I think both of them are having the time of her lives. And Norfolk Crescent’s a most comfortable place to live.”


    D’Arcy assumed a serious mien, “Mrs. Wye, I cannot emphasize strongly enough that you NOT go to your husband’s flat. You simply cannot be alone with him. If he assaulted you before the separation is final, such are the marriage laws in this country, we could not prosecute a rape. It would be assumed to be consensual. Every conjugal act sets us back to the beginning of the process, as if you had accepted and forgiven him.”


    Scarlet felt faint. Rape as a method of subjection! Like a cruel colonial power subduing recalcitrant populations.


    “I did think my husband had some ulterior motive inviting me,” she gasped nervously. “I can’t believe he would be…force me.”


    Pelham looked alarmed. “Let’s not wait to find out what he does when he feels desperate,” he insisted, “But assume at the outset that if the worst is possible, the risk is unacceptable.”


    Just what Miss Clew would recommend! Thought Scarlet. She began to see the possibility for a new book: Miss Clew’s Advice to Young Girls. Always carry a hatpin would be Precept #1! In spite of the general tension, she giggled.


    Pelham D’Arcy pulled out the brandy bottle. Evidently, he considered his client on the verge of becoming hysterical. It had probably happened many times before.


    “I’ll do as you suggest,” Scarlet agreed hastily, but declined the brandy. It was eleven thirty in the morning, and on an empty stomach, brandy probably promoted hysteria.


    “Have there been occasions in the past” – D’Arcy gasped, pouring himself a snifter, “I realize I should have enquired earlier – when your husband has been – punitive?”


    Scarlet blushed uncomfortably. “He is customarily quite pushy,” she said finally. “He hasn’t had occasion to feel…deprived. I was the one being deprived…as soon as he got a girlfriend.”


    Pelham tossed back his brandy. Obviously he found discussing marital intimacies the toughest part of his job.


    “Live and learn,” he said finally. “We frequently handle suits for restitution of conjugal rights and I confess I usually consider the problem from that point of view. But given the situation, you must have nothing to do with your husband. Consider yourself at risk. Any further questions?”


    “No. Thank you very much – for all you have done.” I’ll get right over to the bank.”


    She left as Pelham D’Arcy was placing his call to Mr. Gammel.

  • Devoured Heart – romantic suspense by Alysse Aallyn

    Chapter 38. A Chat With a Publisher

    Miss Bottomley seemed amazingly welcoming to this new body arriving to stay beneath her roof. Scarlet didn’t even manage to sink the fact that Enid was a fan into the conversation before Miss Bottomley was asking her new acquaintance, “Do you know anything about cats?”


    Enid Rumson, as it turned out, knew quite a lot about cats and she was full of suggestions for why The King of Wessex might be off his feed. She didn’t think a diet of cream and pancetta was helping him expel his hairballs properly and suggested serving a “fatty fish” as a curative or, if desperate, olive oil.


    “We have both,” said Scarlet.


    “Oh, God bless you!” cried Miss Bottomley, wringing her hands, and Scarlet showed her the pile of tinned sardines Pom had insisted on throwing into the cart – because, as he said so wisely, “You never know.”


    The King allowed himself to be tempted and was soon hawking and gulping while all three women gazed at him fondly.


    “We can certainly use YOU around here,” Miss Bottomley said thankfully to the new recruit.
    “By the way,” offered Scarlet, “Mrs. Rumson is a great fan of your work.”


    “Call me Esmé,” said Miss Bottomley, offering a hand.


    Scarlet did her best not to feel offended. This sign of favor had not yet been extended to her! On the other hand, Enid was older, and not directly in Miss Bottomley’s employ so perhaps it made sense.


    Enid was suitably impressed by her quarters.


    “You can stay on the third floor if you’d like a private bath,” Scarlet offered.


    “No, thank you,” said Enid, “I want to be as close to this dear little boy as I can get.”
    It took a couple of trips to get all four of her ancient, heavily loaded suitcases upstairs.


    “Sorry,” puffed Enid, “You see, it’s because I’ve already decided that I’m never going back.”


    Scarlet, equally out of breath, said, “It’s fine. I’ve been wanting to get back into trim. These stairs are so much less expensive than a health club.”


    Now that she had someone to watch Nick she told Miss Bottomley that her first order of business would be to arrange a meeting with Mr. Mountjoy of Coltsfoot and Briggins so that Scarlet could find out exactly what his plans were.


    “In the meantime, I’ll make dinner, shall I?” suggested Enid. Nick was enjoying a bottle in the carrycot. They were standing in the kitchen at the time. “I love cooking and at the Embassy I never got the chance. I can tell you I’m very tired of mutton, olives and couscous.” Enid turned to Miss Bottomley and asked, “What’s your favorite meal?”


    Mutton, olives and couscous sounded heavenly to Scarlet but Miss Bottomley gazed at Enid reverently. “Shepherd’s pie,” she sighed. “With minced lamb. Order anything by phone and you will see they just deliver.”


    “Oh, do they? Shall we then have apple tart to follow? I’m a dab hand with pastry.” She flexed her burly arms.


    Miss Bottomley turned eyes swimming with tears to Scarlet. “As long as Enid is our cook, please consider her compensation covered by me.”


    “It’ll never interfere with looking after the baby,” Enid promised, and Miss Bottomley agreed, “Babies come first. Everyone knows that.”


    As Scarlet turned away to hide her glee she heard Miss Bottomley confide to her new chef, “You know, it turns out that I am quite a rich woman.”


    Nigel Mountjoy had an opening that very afternoon, and it’s no wonder, thought Scarlet, after puffing up the six flights to Coltsfoot & Briggins’ three room suite beneath the eaves, because business seemed definitely to be on the slide. The partner’s (Mr. Briggins’) door was closed, (“he prefers to work from his club”), the receptionist’s desk was empty (“Miss Plympton only works half-days”) and in case she missed these symbols of deterioration, Mr. Mountjoy, a sad-eyed hound-dog of a man in his fifties, treated Scarlet to a long disquisition on the essential, desperate unprofitability of publishing.


    “We’ve had a modest success Westernizing adventure yarns,” he told her, as he spread a series called “Reverend Rod to the Rescue” across his desk. In the new version, Reverend Rod had dropped holy orders and become, it seemed, a free-lance spy as well as something of a ladies’ man. Scarlet tried to conceal her revulsion by sipping the lukewarm Earl Grey tea Mr. Mountjoy had made himself. Seemingly no one had ever told him that the water needed to actually boil and she feared he was probably applying this same makeshift attitude to literature.


    “I’m very pleased to meet you,” he said enthusiastically. “Not to put too fine a point on it, I knew the old girl wasn’t up to it. She’s almost ninety for heavens’ sake and hasn’t written a thing for years! It’s a miracle she’s not gaga, but confusion is setting on apace if you catch my drift.


    We usually put these things out to bid – it’s astonishing how little money is required to set a writer to work – but there’s no reason at all why you might not do as well.” (And Miss Bottomley would be paying for it! thought Scarlet. Win-win from his point of view.)


    “I’ve taken the liberty to jot down some requirements.” He proffered a handwritten page.
    “First, twenty chapters instead of the twenty-five she used to have. Boil the thing down. Speed is of the essence. Have every chapter end with a cliffhanger – our Rod the Spy fellow is very good model there. Here, take a copy. Gratis. This fellow Clovis is quite willing to do Miss Clew but we felt it requires the feminine touch.


    Then, language. Our target audience has an O-level education – no point using words they’ll only have to look up. They want something that can be read in a couple of railway journeys.”


    He opened up The Poltergeist Problem to a random page and pointed to the word “deleterious.”
    “See what I mean? Nothing double or triple-barreled like that, use your thesaurus to find some other term” – he shuffled through a well-thumbed Roget’s – “There you go. “Bad.” First word out of the gate! Everybody knows what that means!


    Secondly, update the era. Get rid of the Victorian stuff – nobody wants those dreadful memories – we’ve been fleeing them ever since the First War. Make Miss Clew younger, and she doesn’t need to be a spinster. Get it? I’m giving you a free hand here – insert some romantic interest. Keep it light – a different chap for each book would be ideal. No reason she can’t be a bit of a siren – that attracts the male reader as well as the ladies, see.


    It’s a stroke of luck that you’re American – perhaps Miss Clew could have an American mother – appeal to our cousins across the pond. We’ve had no luck getting Rod picked up there but this could break the ice between us and our Boston counterparts – they’ve been freezing us out if I may be so honest. They want to get into “youth” textbooks and religious publishing – we’ve got no market for that sort of thing going here.


    Most of all, mood. Keep it upbeat! It’s the modern tendency to be devil-may-care, not take things too seriously.”


    He tried to smile when he said this but his droopy face couldn’t cooperate – the result was ghastly, even sinister, like a funeral director mewling mawkishly about “loved ones.”


    “I just re-read the series recently – well, not all of them, I confess, there’s a limit to what a fellow can stand – and it’s very difficult going. The woman has – not to put too fine a point on it – an axe to grind. Everybody’s always in the wrong. World saturated with evil – that awful revivalist point of view. People today don’t read to be told life’s some sort of grim masquerade, but to have fun, learn something new and feel a part of some previously unknown but thrilling world that takes them right out of their worries, cares and fears. Follow me? I’ve always found this little volume helpful.”
    He extracted a slim book from the bookcase behind them, Pack Up Your Worries.


    “This is non-fiction, of course, but we’ve had an amazing success with this modest little book published a dozen years ago – right after the war. It keeps the lights on around here, I don’t mind telling you.”


    As if disagreeing, the lights flickered at just that moment.


    Mr. Mountjoy cracked the book open to pages of lists in what Scarlet considered suspiciously large type. The thing was more like an “expanded pamphlet” than a real book.


    “Here, take this copy. I’ve benefited from this advice myself, everyone has. It’s common sense really, no self-pity, no wallowing, each day a fresh voyage of discovery. Appeals to people right across ages, classes, this fellow’s amazing. Sorrowfully Bonamis died a few years ago – he was an untreated diabetic – but we’ve the rights to his name if you’d like to attempt to carry on. You Americans are wizards at this sort of thing. According to him it’s your surface mind you should be cultivating. Ignore the “depths” – whatever dark things are lurking down there. Just the opposite of that fellow Freud, who’s done a lot of damage in my opinion. Keep your chin up, see? Whistle a happy tune even when you don’t feel like it – because modern science has conclusively proven that it’s possible to cheer yourself up by overlooking all the depressing stuff you can’t do anything about anyway.”


    Her pushed the book at her and opened his datebook.


    “I’ve had a lot of experience with the ghostwriting racket and I can tell you the secret is not to wander too far in the wrong direction. Why don’t we meet once a week to see what you’ve got and we’ll discuss. If you wander off the path I can set you right. Think of me as your tutor talking about essay ideas and looking over your first attempts with a view to a “First Class” ranking for the pair of us.”


    He beamed at her, showing a gap between his front teeth that made him resemble a gargoyle. It was all Scarlet could do to keep from blanching.


    “How about Monday? Fresh from the weekend, eh?”


    “How about the following Friday?” Scarlet gasped, trying not to choke.


    “No Friday – nobody’s here on Fridays – the place is a desert. Thursday, then? Four o’clock? I think we can spread out a bit more when Miss Plympton is gone.”


    “Fine,” said Scarlet with no intention of ever seeing this man again if she could possibly help it.
    “Don’t forget to take your books,” he sent her off, rubbing his hands together. ‘This has been a MOST productive meeting.”


    Scarlet would have thrown the books into the nearest trash can if she didn’t need them to show Miss Bottomley. Who would believe any of it, otherwise?


    As she clung to a strap and braced herself on her Tube journey – the work day was just ending and seats were invisible – she wondered at how far she had come already. How long ago was it – days really – that she would have jumped at the chance to be that writer or that receptionist slaving for that pittance! What a different world Miss Bottomley had opened up for her! And the best thing about it was that she clearly needed Scarlet every bit as desperately as Scarlet needed her.

  • Devoured Heart – romantic suspense by Alysse Aallyn

    Chapter 34. The Detective

    As they selected cheeses, cake, apples, biscuits and the components for what Pom described as a “strengthening soup”, Pom remarked, “I adore old-fashioned places like these. All the grapes and calves’ foot jelly.”


    “Thanks for reminding me,” said Scarlet, adding grapefruit marmalade and fish fingers to their hoard.


    “Fish fingers?” Pom questioned.


    “Everyone needs a fast, easy dinner,” said Scarlet. “That’s what freezers are for.”


    “I don’t have a freezer.”


    “But Miss Bottomley does. Quite an up to date one.”


    “And then there’s the problem that fish have no fingers.”


    “We call them ‘fish sticks’ in America.”


    “My, that does sound irresistible. A stick of fish. Such cleverness you Yanks have. I wonder what is the correct wine with “sticks”? Allow me to purchase for you a nice rosé. Or would you prefer champagne?”


    “No wine at work, thank you,” said Scarlet. “I need to keep my wits about me.”


    As soon as the grocer heard it was for Fourteen Norfolk Crescent he insisted on delivery.


    “She’s our landlady,” he told the astonished pair. “She owns everything round here.”


    Pom kept an admirably straight face during this disclosure.


    Scarlet carefully set up her own account and stressed that it was her responsibility alone.


    “Don’t be in such a hurry to pay for everything,” said Pom when they were safely back inside the Dorset. “Sounds like she’s rich as Croesus, much as she doesn’t look it.”


    “All the other interviewees thought she was the housemaid,” admitted Scarlet. “It just makes me all the more determined to do my very best for her. Those books of hers are just plain wonderful, and where else in the world would I ever get such a perfect job?”


    And she shared with him the dramatic tale of Miss Bottomley’s late-acquired wealth.


    “Please don’t tell anyone,” she begged. “I didn’t even tell Ian.”


    Pom’s eyes widened. “I can keep a secret. Honored that you chose me. But are you certain the pair of you don’t need live-in bodyguards as well?”


    “I’m sure we do,” said Scarlet. “And heaven knows there’s room. Are you offering?”


    “I don’t think I’d be any good at that particular role,” said Pom.


    “I think you’ll find Miss Bottomley very averse to strangers,” said Scarlet. “Maybe as time goes on I’ll be able to talk her round. I’m currently in favor because I was the only one who’d actually read her books. She’s not used to money and she doesn’t like solicitors. I hope Pelham D’Arcy might offer assistance but we’ve got to give it time.”


    It turned out the grocer’s van had gone around to the kitchen entrance. Off the kitchen was a scullery with new-looking washer and drying machines.


    “They’ve got me running off my feet answering doorbells here and doorbells there,” complained Miss Bottomley as they brought the groceries in. “First it was that strange friend of yours -“


    Scarlet seated Miss Bottomley to toast her toes by the gas fire. Pom almost sat on the King of Wessex.


    “Meet Ceawlain,” Scarlet explained.


    “Sue-Allen?”


    “No,” said Miss Bottomley and Scarlet both together, “Ceawlain, King of Wessex.”


    Scarlet inquired, “What strange friend was it that came to the door?”


    Miss Bottomley considered. “Well, he was quite silly. He certainly didn’t guess he was speaking to an authoress of detective novels, because he used quite a transparent ruse to try to get into the house.”


    Scarlet and Pom stared at each other, appalled.


    “What did he say?” asked Scarlet while Pom said, “He could have simply thrust you aside!”


    “I’d like to see him try,” grumped Miss Bottomley. “I’d have skewered him with a hatpin and summoned help with my police whistle.”


    And she displayed these items for their inspection.


    “This is ghastly,” said Pom and Scarlet asked, “Doesn’t that door have a chain?”


    “Obviously one must take the chain off when one answers the door,” said Miss Bottomley.
    “And a peephole?” wondered Scarlet.


    “I’m too short for the peephole,” sighed Miss Bottomley. “The peephole is too tall for me.”


    “Here’s an idea,” suggested Pom, “An intercom. You won’t be run off your feet that way. You’ll be able to ask who it is and get them to describe themselves. Tell them to put a letter requesting an appointment in the mail slot.”


    “Oh, I do like that idea,” gushed Miss Bottomley. “Takes a man to look at problems from the engineering point of view.”


    “I’ll look into it for you, shall I?” offered Pom, and Miss Bottomley seemed relieved.


    “But what did he look like?” Scarlet poured a tin of vichyssoise into a saucepan while Pom sliced cheese and pears.


    “Very smartly dressed, I must say. Bowler hat and all found. He said he was from an architectural publication and he wanted to take pictures inside the house. He asked to see the Missus. I didn’t tell him I was the Missus, I just said no, no, and no.”


    “Did he give up?”


    “He most certainly did not. Tried slipping me a five-pound note!”


    “He really did mistake you for the housemaid,” laughed Scarlet and Miss Bottomley laughed with her.


    “I rejected it. Played along. Told him I valued my “position”. But he wouldn’t leave. He had his foot in the door.”


    “But this is a horror story!” Pom gasped and Scarlet said, “You should have used your police whistle.”


    “Perhaps I should. But then he started asking questions about you.”


    “Me?”


    “Yes. Wasn’t there a young lady in the house and when was she due back. I said, “Here she comes!” and when he turned to look, I shut the door!”


    “That was clever,” said Pom, and Scarlet said, “Worthy of Miss Clew.” And Miss Bottomley reddened with pleasure.


    “But who could it have been?” asked Pom. “It doesn’t sound like Ian.”


    “It’s that detective of his,” said Scarlet. “He took pictures of us last week and Ian threatened me with them. I explained to him that we’re only friends.”


    “Utterly uncompromising pictures,” Pom assured her but Miss Bottomley was nonchalant.


    “I should have known there would be a detective or two hanging about any modern girl,” she remarked. “Keeping me up to date!”


    Pom refused to shake off his anxiety.


    “You be sure to tell your solicitors,” he suggested. “Both of you.”


    “I’ll tell Pelham,” agreed Scarlet, thinking how lucky she was that Miss Bottomley wasn’t sufficiently intimidated by all this bother to choose another assistant, but Miss Bottomley scoffed.


    “Oh, my Mr. Inkum, he’s a perfectly dreadful man! Always trying to get me to sign documents and when I said, “Don’t I need a solicitor?” he answers, “I’m your solicitor. This is for your OWN GOOD.”


    “Funny how when people say that it’s never true,” mused Pom, as they settled at the table for a delicious meal.


    “That’s what I thought,” said Miss Bottomley. “I told him to leave the papers with me so I could think about them and he said, “Don’t think too long!”


    “Sounds like a threat!” gasped Scarlet.


    Nick’s cry made them all jump.

  • Devoured Heart – romantic suspense by Alysse Aallyn

    Chapter 29. A Letter Home

    The upstairs of Number Fourteen, Norfolk Crescent, was as majestic – and clean – as Scarlet could possibly have desired. There was a long reception room facing the square – empty of furniture as if expecting a ball – with a small serving area – complete with ice chest, warming trays and tea kettles – that could actually serve as a Scarlet’s kitchen.


    A dumbwaiter probably connected it to the kitchen downstairs. There were four bedrooms and a big bathroom. Scarlet chose “the green room” for her own – it was smaller but she liked the old-fashioned chintz pattern of pear trees in blossom. There was even space enough for a nanny if the thought of strangers in her house didn’t unsettle Miss Bottomley. The furnishings were solid, perhaps a bit duller than the magnificence on display downstairs – mahogany and teak – and the upholstery could do with a freshening – but the portraits were interesting. Scarlet studied the faces, wondering about the sudden disappearance of “the Pursuivant line.”

    It was a lucky thing people couldn’t see into the future, Scarlet decided. She remembered herself at her own wedding and her excitement at news of her first pregnancy – what if she had foreseen what would REALLY happen? It would have been too cruel. She had been spared from knowing the sadness that lay ahead – just as these people had been. It was better not to know.


    Miss Bottomley was waiting for her at the bottom of the stairs.


    “And when shall we be able to get to work?”


    “How about day after tomorrow? That gives me one day to pack.”


    “Perfect. I shall enter it into my datebook.”


    Scarlet reached out to shake her new employer’s hand, only to be presented with a key.


    “I sleep badly, so I dislike being disturbed before eleven,” said Miss Bottomley. “I want you to be able to freely come and go.”


    “Thank you, Miss Bottomley,” said Scarlet warmly. And she meant it.


    She telephoned Mr. D’Arcy from a callbox at the station.


    “I’ve got a job and it comes with a place to stay,” she told him. “And there’s room for the baby but I’m worried Ian won’t let me take him.”


    “Don’t ask him about that yet,” cautioned D’Arcy. “Tell him about the job, then insist on getting the name of his solicitor. Make him hire someone and I’ll negotiate with that fellow.”


    “Ian will probably use some college crony. Or possibly somebody connected to the BBC.”


    “Whoever he chooses, let’s hope he isn’t honest with them,” D’Arcy said blandly. “Giving us considerable advantage.”


    Scarlet thought about it. “I’m not sure he knows what honesty is.”


    At the station, Scarlet purchased a writing block so she could begin the letter to her sister immediately.


    “Dear India – I have both sad and wonderful news,” she began. How lucky that she had waited to write until this unexpected uptick in her good fortune.


    Frankie stopped his taxi by the garage so that Scarlet could see the stained glass rondo hanging in the window. He was bursting with pride.


    “Looks perfect,” agreed Scarlet, barely able to contain her laughter.


    Nicholas was eager to nurse but Scarlet was out of milk. She gave him a bottle as tears rolled down her cheeks. This wasn’t what she had promised him or herself but, it couldn’t be changed. She kissed his forehead as he suckled. As soon as he was asleep she knocked on Ian’s library door.
    “Come in,” he called. He was listening to the BBC but turned down the radio as she entered, watching her face warily. She was grateful that she could be so calm.


    “I got a job,” she said, “Ten pounds a week working with Miss Esmé Hope Bottomley.” She knew he wouldn’t recognize the name and he didn’t. “She has a flat in London, in Norfolk Crescent. I can stay there with her.”


    She deliberately neglected to mention the baby.


    “Dogsbody?” His brows creased. “Doesn’t sound like you.”


    “Editing a novel series for Coltsfoot & Briggins.”


    His brow cleared. “That’s wonderful then. But there’s no reason we can’t share the flat the way we share Nicholas. Be reasonable. There are two floors – I’ll take the downstairs if it makes you more comfortable. I won’t ask you to entertain.”


    No, Candi and Margalo would compete for that honor. She could see his mind working: glamorous young couple with baby, two important jobs, country place AND he had the freedom he craved, which appeared to be mastering a harem of gullible girls. What could suit him better?


    “My solicitor is Pelham D’Arcy in Maida Vale. He needs the name of your solicitor so that they can talk.”


    “My solicitor? So they can ratchet up the bills? Darling, ask me for what you want. We can get the life we need. Talk to me.”


    She looked at him critically. He was seemingly more confident and handsome now than when she had first met him. Yet he really was a total stranger. She could imagine him doing literally anything, now. You could never trust, or rely, on a person like that.


    “I’d rather do this through solicitors. I don’t feel I can trust you anymore.”


    “That’s too bad,” he said coldly. “It’s silly to break up over a bit of passing fluff, especially when it means there’s that much less cash to go around.” He turned up his radio as if preparing to ignore her. She raised her voice.


    “So? You think you’ll use Harry?” Naming an old college friend.


    “I’ll talk to Margalo.” He turned away from her decisively. She knew this was supposed to frighten her, suggesting the massive power of the BBC ranged formidably against her but she thought of Pelham D’Arcy and didn’t feel scared.


    “One more thing – “ she braced herself to ask, “When does your job start?”


    “I’ll be going up to town tomorrow.”


    He hadn’t really answered her question but the information was sufficient.


    “Are you taking the car?” she inquired.


    “Would you rather I leave it for you?”


    “Yes, I would, really. I’m going to have a lot of luggage.”


    “I can take the train. Sure, you wouldn’t like the come along? Settle things about the flat?”


    “No thank you. I need to go up soon myself, I’m not sure when. I’ll let you know. Through my solicitor.” He sniffed.


    “Mind that you do.”


    She was amazed that he never mentioned Nicholas once! He obviously didn’t expect that he would have to concern himself with the child. Clearly, he assumed the system would always work to his advantage and grant him whatever he asked; a child when he wanted one, no concerns or responsibility when he did not. She could see that this habitually forgetfulness about his son and heir meant Ian was still taking his wife for granted. As she had once taken him. Suited her perfectly.
    Having the car would be helpful: ideal, in fact.


    She went upstairs to organize Nick’s and her belongings so that packing after Ian’s departure would be a breeze.

  • Devoured Heart – romantic suspense by Alysse Aallyn

    Chapter 28. Our Miss Clew

    Here was a lived-in room, complete with cat, telly and smoking kettle.


    The cat opened one eye.


    “That’s Ceawlain, King of Wessex,” the hostess introduced. The cat closed its eye again.


    The woman hoisted the kettle, poured water into an earthenware pot and sighed ecstatically.


    “I’m glad this day’s done!” she announced. “I never expected it would be so dreadful.” She took stale-looking brown bread from a tin and began buttering slices.


    “So, you’re American,” she said briskly. “I don’t see how THAT’s going to work.”


    Scarlet cast back in her mind for the exact phrasing of the advertisement. She recalled the lessons of her college days selling magazines door to door and sat down without invitation.


    “If you’re trying to modernize Victorian novels,” she began, “Surely you want the largest market possible.”


    “I don’t want them Americanized,” said the woman sharply, “That wouldn’t do at all.”


    Scarlet tried to look bright. “What is the series, exactly?”


    The old lady began slicing an apple and placing each apple slice on a piece of brown bread. She poured herself a cup of tea and sat down.


    “Our Miss Clew,” she said brusquely. “Ever heard of it?”


    Scarlet’s face flushed an intense red. This was nothing short of a miracle.


    “Heard of it?” She gasped, “I’m reading The Whiplash Puzzle right now!” And she pulled it from her bag. “Are you Esmé Hope Bottomley?”


    The old woman’s face crumpled as if she might cry.


    “You’re the only one who’s read the books,” she gasped. Then she seemed to regain control. “Do you suspect the vicar?”


    “Does a vicar come in later? Because this mystery takes place at a ladies’ college. Or do you refer to the dissenting preacher?”


    “No,” said Miss Bottomley with satisfaction, “There is no vicar.”


    Scarlet laughed out loud. She had been “tested”. And she had passed.


    “Miss Bottomley, I am so glad to meet you,” she said. “I admire your writing so much.”


    Miss Bottomley snorted. “I haven’t written a line in fifty years. Life got rather rudely in the way.”


    “Please do tell me about the job,” asked Scarlet.


    But Miss Bottomley was already busy munching. Instead, for an answer, she reached into a pocket of her apron and produced a letter from Coltsfoot & Briggins, publishers.

    “Dear Madam,” it said,
    “We are in receipt of your letter of the ninth and would be willing to extend our deadline until April 1st allowing you to attempt your own revision of the “Miss Clew” series. If you feel you are unable or if the revision does not meet with our needs we have in house editors on whose expertise we can call. Please feel free to contact me if you experience difficulties.

    Nigel Mountjoy
    Editor in Chief”

    “How perfectly obnoxious,” said Scarlet. “What an awful man. Have you signed anything with these people?”

    Miss Bottomley sighed. “I sold the series long ago. They don’t have to do this for me. They don’t have to do anything for me. I just hoped to prevent anything really embarrassing – Miss Clew becoming a hooch dancer or a James Bond spy with knives in her shoes.”


    “I totally agree,” said Scarlet. “She’s so wonderfully daring and intrepid with such imaginative ideas. Will they allow you to keep the story Victorian and simply update the language?”


    “I don’t know what they will allow,” said Miss Bottomley. “Modernize” is the only word they used. I just don’t want to be left out of it entirely. I think they were surprised I was still alive.”


    Scarlet saw at once what was required. Miss Bottomley needed a liaison with the publishers – a go-between with writing ability whom she could trust.


    “I will negotiate with them for you,” she offered, “To make the new books something you can be proud of. I’ve been negotiating with publishers for years as my vita shows.” She produced the piece of paper and laid it smartly on the table. This was certainly true, although the publishers usually said “no” at the end. Poetry being so difficult.


    “You have the job if you want it,” sighed Miss Bottomley. “You can’t imagine how dreadful all the other applicants were. They all took me for the housemaid. I must say it’s instructive to see how people treat the help. They really display their true colors.”


    Scarlet had to agree.


    “What does the position pay?” asked Scarlet.


    “I’ve no idea,” said Miss Bottomley helplessly. “What do you think is fair?”


    “Sixty pounds?” asked Scarlet shyly.


    “Sixty pounds a week?”


    “No – for the whole three months.”


    “Let’s say ten pounds for the first week and we’ll see how it goes,” said Miss Bottomley. She’s not completely gaga, thought Scarlet.


    “That would be acceptable.”


    Miss Bottomley read slowly through Scarlet’s qualifications.


    “You live in the country?”


    “Not anymore. I’m looking for a place in town. I’m getting a divorce.”


    “There’s plenty of room upstairs,” Miss Bottomley waved a hand. “I don’t go up there. But it would be quite convenient for you to be in the same building as I hope you will see.”


    “But I have a baby,” Scarlet said. “So I don’t know –“


    Miss Bottomley glowed. “A baby? How old?”


    “Six weeks.”


    “Six weeks old? And you’re getting a divorce? What did the devilish man do?”


    Scarlet told her. Miss Bottomley gasped like a benevolent gudgeon.


    “Thank goodness you found a competent solicitor! They’re hardly thick upon the ground. Certainly, I’ve never had such luck.”


    How could the resident of this vast house in such a toney square not know any decent solicitors? Scarlet tried to figure out the politest way to enquire about Miss Bottomley’s peculiar living situation.
    “Have you always lived in this house?”


    “Good heavens no,” said Miss Bottomley. “I was a pensioner in a bedsit. I won the tontine – a year ago, now.”


    “Tontine?”


    “Last one alive sweeps the pot,” said Miss Bottomley with satisfaction. “There’s got to be some benefit to living to 88 years old.”


    And the story spilled out.


    Miss Bottomley had been the only child of a country parson who scrupulously educated her as a hanger-on of rich county families – some of whom were her relations. He clearly saw no other life for his daughter than “sponger”, flatly telling her she wasn’t “pretty” enough to marry. Scarlet could see how this kind of life spawned Miss Clew’s character – a skeptical observer born with principles in an unscrupulous world.


    Miss Bottomley had written the Miss Clew series – thirteen books in total – as her virgin flight into the world of literature, securing just enough cash to transfer to London and secure her own flat – a scandal causing many relatives at the time to loudly wash their hands of her. But Miss Bottomley’s newer, more personal novels were unsuccessful at reaching an audience – several, indeed, remaining unpublished. Scarlet made a note to get her hands on these manuscripts at the first possible opportunity.


    Miss Bottomley said that as she moved into her forties she became less and less able to “suffer fools” (she meant the literary world) and was reduced to taking in typing. The “flat” became a bedsit – she was even forced to sell off the Miss Clew series – her only asset. Love – marriage – courtship – were completely out of the question as prerogatives of the comfortably off. Some sad experience with a curate soured poor Miss Bottomley even on the modest comforts of the church.


    Therefore, it was with considerable surprise when at age 86 she was informed that she was the sole living heir to the Pursuivant Estate (“My dear mother was a Pursuivant.”)

    She had never even met Mabel Pursuivant – ten years her elder – a woman who preferred foreign travel to a life at home.


    One year later, she inherited this house, indeed, this entire square. Her shoulders rocked with laughter. Who would ever have believed such a thing? What had become of the six daughters of Lord Henry Pursuivant – and the two nephews of Mr. Roundswell? Dead, it seemed. Everybody died. Nobody could muster up an offspring.


    “Unlucky lot. Lumbering me with this place,” she laughed. “Well, it’s a good address. Certainly comfortable. I took one tour when I moved in – I don’t go upstairs now. There’s a cleaning staff, hired by the estate agent, so should you encounter bugs or dust simply inform me and I can assure you heads will roll.”


    “Thank you,” said Scarlet warmly. “What will you charge?”


    “Oh, my goodness,” Miss Bottomley demurred, “I couldn’t charge anything for having you on permanent call! It’s to suit my convenience! What we’ll need to see about is how it suits you.”


    Good luck all around! So much glorious, clean, quiet space, warm – and in the heart of London! An entire square? Her new employer must be very rich – it was obvious she hadn’t yet come to terms with it – at the age of 88 perhaps never would. She should be receiving abject letters of accommodation from her publishers, not condescending brush-offs! Something was very wrong there.


    Miss Bottomley had suddenly emerged as more of a fairy godmother than an employer and Scarlet was determined to return the favor.