Alysse Aallyn

Category: #Mysteries

  • 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 49. An Appointment With the Past

    And they both managed a full night’s restful sleep.


    Scarlet was breakfasting alone at the dining table, scanning the papers when the phone call came.
    “You’ll never believe what Ian told the magistrate,” said D’Arcy. “By the way, our detective lost him at the BBC – there are just too many entrances – so he very sensibly dispatched himself to your current place of residence. He obtained one long distance photo of Ian backing you up against a wall – no kissing, but the buttons of your coat undone.”


    “What did Ian say?”


    “He said you were disguised as the nanny! Is that possible, Scarlet?”


    Scarlet flushed. She had not expected this. “I did borrow the nanny’s greatcoat. And hat.”
    “Why on earth?”


    “I wanted to get a good look at any loiterers.”


    “Please leave that to us and don’t do it again. We are presenting ourselves as the innocent parties here – if a judge gets a whiff that the two of you are playing some marital game he’ll toss the whole case out as collusive.”


    “I’m sorry,” said Scarlet. “I guess I didn’t think. So, what did the magistrate do?”


    “Well, he absolved Ian of contravening a court order but of course one isn’t supposed to slam nannies against walls, either. Since the detective testified to some kissing, Ian said he was having a “try-on.” It certainly doesn’t help his case and he was unarguably too close to your residence. The judge has added the nanny to the order and repeated “Stay away.” On the whole, I think we can call this a win.”


    A hammering at the front door vaulted Scarlet to her feet. Must be the security crew.
    “I must go. Is that all?”


    “That covers it. You be a good girl, now.”


    Scarlet promised, too distracted to argue that girlhood felt very long past now and never to come again.


    A woman wearing an old-fashioned duster stood on the doorstep, arm akimbo.
    “I’m here to see why I was fired. Mollie Jarviss of Jarviss Cleaning.”


    “I’m sure we didn’t fire you,” said Scarlet, who had been expecting the security men. “Why don’t you come in and we’ll sort this out?”


    She seated Mollie in the dining room and found Miss Bottomley toasting her toes in the kitchen, “keeping Enid company” which seemed to be her favorite new pursuit. She was wearing Scarlet’s bulky red anorak.


    “I hope you don’t mind,” she apologized, “it just fits me so well, it’s so hard to stay warm and it’s so comfortable.”


    “Not in the least,” said Scarlet. “You can have it. It doesn’t really fit me anymore. Clearly, I need new outerwear. By the way, was there any problem with the cleaning company that you can remember?”


    “Our cleaning company? I can’t think of any,” said Miss Bottomley. “I never saw them. But they certainly seemed honest, quiet and best of all from my point of view – they were fast.”


    “Mrs. Jarviss is claiming she was fired.”


    “I didn’t fire her,” snorted Miss Bottomley, “I fired Mr. Inkum. Bob Thomas and I did.”


    “So you won’t object if I re-hire her?”


    “Not in the least. I wouldn’t care to audition anyone new at this late stage.”


    Scarlet carried the good news to Mrs. Jarvis.


    “It’s Inkum who’s been let go,” she averred. “We’ll be paying you from now on.”


    Relief melted Mrs. Jarviss’ face, followed by embarrassment.


    “That’s all right, then,” she said. “I apologize if I was forceful. I thought we’d been found wanting but nobody told me. Fix anything the customer doesn’t care for is my motto. My girls are honest and hard-working.”


    “That’s great, then. Miss Bottomley is well satisfied.”


    “Four o’clock today, then? Two pounds ten.”


    “Certainly,” said Scarlet, trying not to show how surprised she was at such a low figure for this vast place. She escorted a much-subdued Mrs. Jarviss to the door. “We’ll see you this afternoon, then.”
    If it was once a week, she thought, there wouldn’t be a need to give Mrs. Jarviss the code. But she must remember to get a cheque from Miss Bottomley.


    The security men were pulling up at that very moment.


    “Good morning,” said Mr. Dyson. “This is Bert, who will work on keying your front door. John Truax here will oversee the job at the back.”


    Bert was all business in a gray oil-stained boiler suit He immediately knelt to study the door locks with scarcely a glance at Scarlet. Truax was more personable. He looked ex-military with his shoulders bulging out of his turtleneck and tweed jacket.


    “Miss Bottomley’s favorite number is 881,” whispered Scarlet. “Some childhood address.”


    “That’s where we’ll start, then. If you could walk us to the back?”


    Miss Bottomley was delighted by the company and offered tea all round, which the men did not take up. Elevenses, they averred, at eleven, would be welcome.


    “I will need a chair, if that’s all right,” said Truax. “For my post.”


    It was certainly all right.


    Three trucks had already pulled up in the forecourt.


    “I wish I could watch,” said Miss Bottomley regretfully, “But I must get ready for Mr. Thomas. We’re going to the bank.”


    “Nick and I can keep watch,” said Enid.


    Scarlet thought it was really the handsome Truax who had drawn Enid’s attention.


    “I have some things to do upstairs,” said Scarlet.


    But it was not to be. The front door bell summoned her yet again. Who’s the housemaid now? Wondered Scarlet but her disgruntled expression changed when she saw Pom and a sweet-looking young man standing before her on the doorstep.


    “Finally, someone I want to see!” she gasped. Pom and the stranger broke into smiles immediately.
    “Kirby Crousam,” Pom introduced, “From the Victoria and Albert. We went to art school together.” They had to step over locksmith Bert to enter.


    Scarlet bit her tongue to avoid telling poor Mr. Crousam that he didn’t look old enough to be running his own affairs, much less anyone else’s. The boyish-looking man produced a very professional portfolio with pages of checklists. He insisted on a complete tour.


    “Oh, my goodness,” gasped Crousam, “I can’t believe my eyes. Wells Antiquarian chairs, St. George cabinets –and this washstand – simply priceless!’


    “I thought it was a prie-dieu or something,” muttered Scarlet.


    “No, this rather strange piece of marble was simply laid on top. I suppose they thought they were repurposing it. But the upholstery looks original.”


    “Well, no one has ever sat there,” said Scarlet, while Pom echoed, “Who would WANT to?”
    “It’s true these pieces are thoroughly out of fashion now,” Crousam agreed. “But they are living history. All the more reason they should be protected.”


    “They belong in a museum,” said Scarlet, and Kirby Crousam flushed with pleasure at a comment which in her country would be more of an insult. Scarlet’s conscience smote her and she offered Kirby Crousam a cup of tea.


    “After I’ve finished that would be most welcome,” said Crousam.


    “After you’ve finished you may be ready for dinner,” said Pom. “There are three floors of this stuff.”


    “I feel like I’m dreaming,” said Crousam. “It’s a treasure trove!” Closer up, Scarlet saw the network of wrinkles. He looked more like a jockey, really – boyish at a distance but seen close-to he was prematurely aged, more like a chimneysweep .


    “How can everything possibly be in such perfect condition?” Crousam continued. “It’s a curator’s dream come true.”


    “Well, the old lady who lived here before Miss Bottomley seemed to prefer luxury cruise ships.”


    Kirby turned up the carpet to study the weave.


    “It usually comes down to some old party too frightened to make a will.”


    Pom flashed his charming smile. “And whose relatives were all too shy –“


    “Or too snooty –“ teased Scarlet –


    “To get married or have children and so when the old lady died the whole property went to another old lady the first old lady had never even met.”


    “How Dickensian,” murmured Crousam.


    “And our heiress old lady was a novelist who believed in finding the proper place for everything,” Scarlet finished. “These pieces should be where people can enjoy them.”


    “And learn from them. The museum would be so honored to receive any of these pieces. We have such a small endowment – people don’t realize – but sometimes we can raise funds for certain items -“


    “I think you’ll find Miss Bottomley wants to be as generous as possible. Why don’t you get in touch with Bob Thomas of Thomas & D’Arcy – he’s her man of business.”


    “Of course,” said Crousam, making a note. “Are there any rooms I shouldn’t enter?”


    “I’d say the kitchen and the rooms behind it. Those are Miss Bottomley’s private quarters,” said Scarlet. “Why don’t I let you know when she’s available?”

  • Devoured Heart – romantic suspense by Alysse Aallyn

    Chapter 46. Cavern of Treasures

    They couldn’t finish the wine. To drink such wine just for the sake of drinking would seem sacrilegious. After a single glass each, Pom corked it,


    “For Miss Bottomley’s breakfast.”


    She giggled. “For our next celebration,” she suggested instead and Enid said, “Tomorrow night?”
    Pom rapidly found a working bulb and carried it down to the wine cellar. Scarlet remained at the top of the stairs, but once flooded with light, the cavern was not so intimidating.


    “Look at this,” said Pom, struggling with an ancient door, “I wonder where this goes.”


    “Let’s check by daylight,” Scarlet suggested. “I’m ready for coffee to clear my head.”


    Miss Bottomley had gone to bed. Enid was tidying the kitchen while the dishwasher hummed.


    Scarlet locked the wine cellar door carefully. “We’d better make certain this wine appears on the insurance inventory,” she said. “Must be worth a bundle.”


    Enid poured out coffee. “I appreciated your toast,” she said. “I realized I should have toasted you for rescuing ME.”


    “Miss Bottomley put her finger on it,” Pom agreed. “It was Rescue All Around.”


    “To the Mutual Rescue Society and Norfolk Crescent Irregulars.” Scarlet lifted her mug. And they toasted their new affiliation with excellent espresso.


    “Let me call you tomorrow after I’ve spoken to Kirby Crousam,” Pom told Scarlet as she walked him to the door. “He’s my man at the Albert and Victoria. I know enough to see I’m way out of my league here– we’ll have to call in the big guns.”


    “Big guns indeed,” said Scarlet. “Tomorrow we’ve got the security people coming to look at Miss Bottomley’s setup.”


    And, it would seem, not a moment too soon. They both saw the man who rushed into the phone booth as Pom climbed into his car. Darned detectives!


    Scarlet was changing into pajamas when Nick woke, and she had the pleasure of giving him a bottle. Enid was dead to the world.


    Palace Security – “by appointment to her Majesty the Queen” – showed up at precisely eight a.m. in the person of a Mr. Dyson who looked for all the world like a brigadier general. Turned out, he was retired British Army. Miss Bottomley was not awake but Scarlet walked them through the requirements.


    “We need something easy that Miss Bottomley can master.”


    Mr. Dyson’s eyes glittered. “How about a code? Such as banks use?”


    “Perfect. I’ll ask Miss Bottomley for her favorite number.”


    She was delighted to stun him with the sight of their new Cavern of Treasures.


    “Good Lord,” said Dyson, “We’ll need a new door here. Something metal. Where does this go?”
    “Are you ready to find out?” asked Scarlet. “It will be news to me.”


    Steps led up to the carpark. It was flimsily secured with a padlocked cellar entry.


    “Well, I’m glad to see there’s some security,” said Mr. Dyson. “I suppose this is where the vintners brought in the casks. All this will have to be replaced.”


    Enid rewarded him with a cup of Earl Grey in the kitchen.
“I’d like to introduce a touchy subject,” said Scarlet. “We’ve already had a man try to gain admittance to the house through a ruse.”


    “Shocking, but it makes no difference,” said Dyson, stalwart. “You’ve got an elderly lady sitting on a treasure house – just a matter of time before the cons look to test it. I’ll put a bodyguard on. You’ll like him – easy fellow. The front’s a fast job – can be over in a morning – but the back will take a week. And we’ll have to secure all these windows. The bodyguard can vet the workers for you, make certain everyone’s who they say they are.”


    “Perfect,” said Scarlet.


    After he’d gone, Enid commented, “Is it the divorce causing these ructions?”


    “I’ll say,” said Scarlet. “We’ve both hired detectives.”


    Enid sighed. “Must be nice to be wanted.”


    “It isn’t me he wants, it’s Nick.” Scarlet was aware as she said it that this wasn’t strictly true. Ian wanted something from Scarlet – but what was it exactly? Subjugation? Her admission that he was right and she was wrong? Her conversion to his double standard philosophy of male-female relations?


    Bob Thomas showed up while Miss Bottomley was finishing her late breakfast.


    “Only one glass of wine for me in future,” she said. “I’m not accustomed to getting so much sleep and feeling wuzzy next day. Show Mr. Thomas into the dining room.”


    Since the dining room had no door to the hallway and their conversation could be heard all over the house Scarlet resolved to take Nick for a walk. It would be interesting to see who was spying on the property.


    It was a chilly day with a promise of snow – mother and baby needed bundling up. At the door, Scarlet touched Enid’s heavy greatcoat and grey wool hat thoughtfully.


    “Enid? May I borrow your outdoor things? I want to see if anyone follows me.” It seemed a less embarrassing excuse than, “My anorak no longer fits me” but it was none the less true.
    Enid emerged from the kitchen, her face pink from a morning of baking.


    “Of course you may, if you promise to wear the police whistle you’ll find in my pocket! Clever girl! Can you pick up a jar of lemon curd for me at Sawditch’s?”


    “Will do.”


    It was a wonderful big greatcoat – impossible to tell what kind of body was underneath. In her nondescript wellies and hair tucked up into the wool hat, Scarlet could have been anyone – male or female. To make the impersonation perfect she even slipped on Enid’s big gray mittens, much coarser – and less warm – than her own lambs’ wool lined leather gloves. Last of all she put the police whistle around her neck. Amusingly it made her feel less ridiculous when someone like Enid was taking extra steps to be so careful.

  • Devoured Heart – romantic suspense by Alysse Aallyn

    Chapter 40. Machinations

    That is, until she saw Ian.


    His face was all smiles. He was looking very smart and every bit the country squire in green coat and moleskin breeches. She was glad she’d taken care with her own appearance, but she couldn’t disguise her dismay at the sight of him.


    His arms moved to hug her but she refused to halt her stride and so he fell into step beside her.
    “I’ve come to pick up the car,” he began, and she cursed herself for not having thought of it.
    “It’s around back,” she told him ungraciously.


    “You don’t want a car in London,” he said, “The parking alone is a nightmare.”


    And Candi must want the car in the country, thought Scarlet, but she managed to say nothing.
    Ian fell openmouthed at the sight of the large cobblestoned back court of Miss Bottomley’s residence. Parking was clearly no problem.


    “You’ve certainly fallen on your feet,” he murmured. There was enough room for ten cars.


    “You’re right,” she said, unlocking the car, “I don’t want a car in London.”


    He stood awkwardly by the driver’s side.


    “I just wanted to see where you live and perhaps catch a glimpse of Nick.”


    Her heart smote her. She should have been ready for this! If she had walked through the kitchen to reach the back court instead of out of the front door she would have driven off without even seeing him! What would Enid and Miss Bottomley have done then? But it was no part of her plan to keep the child from his father.


    “I really think you need to make an appointment,” she said, climbing into the passenger seat, “While things are so awkward. Anyway, I must be on my way – I’ve got to see my lawyer.”


    She couldn’t resist this last.


    “I’ll drop you,” he said amiably.


    That would put her at the solicitor’s office far too early.


    “I have to go to Foyle’s first,” she admitted so he said, “Get in. I’ll take you.” Mr. Bossy or Mr. Agreeable? She couldn’t be sure, because she no longer trusted him.


    Into the silence he injected, “You’re looking well.”


    “I’m feeling well,” she lied after her sleepless night. But she appreciated the compliment. I’m as starved as Miss Bottomley, in my own way, she thought. Lots of deprivation and loneliness going round.


    “So…are you all moved in?” He made conversation.


    “It was furnished,” she responded.


    “And probably pretty well judging by the neighborhood.” He whistled. “How’s the editing job?”


    She tried not to laugh. “It’s quite involving. Exciting and unexpected.”


    He seemed amazed she’d acquired anything but drudge work.


    “And the old lady? How’s she holding up?”


    “I got someone to look after her,” said Scarlet, struggling not to sound smug but feeling it. Would he ask about the nanny? I mean, here she was, so SOMEONE must be looking after Nick. Did he understand? Did he care?


    Apparently not. He evidently thought a house of old ladies and old lady minders could look after an infant. I despise this man, thought Scarlet a bit angrily. I actively despise him!


    “Well, I’m moving into the BBC flat,” he said. “It’s dreadfully big for me.”


    Should she remind him he needed a room for Nick and possibly for a nanny as well? She should ask Enid if she’d consider staying with Nick elsewhere. Would Nick be swarmed instead by Ian’s girlfriends – Scarlet felt certain that to the extent he thought about it at all, THAT was his plan, to fob Nick off on a series of impressionable girls. That wouldn’t do at all, but she knew Pelham would want her to say nothing. But there was SO MUCH she wanted to say! About his detective, for example! Trying to horn his way into Miss Bottomley’s! But she realized there was no point – he’d disavow knowledge, certainly. Anyway, why question a committed liar?


    “Would you like to…help furnish the place?” He asked this respectfully, almost shyly. “I could use your assistance.”


    Scarlet stared at him. He’d had plenty of ideas about Wyvern House! So why the sudden dearth – the need for her help and intervention now?


    She experienced an unnerving thrill of power. Was that his goal? Or was he admiring her, courting her even, for refusing to lie down and accept ill treatment?


    She hadn’t considered this possibility – that once she no longer wanted him he would want her again – but she realized she should have. It had been true of all her boyfriends in the past. Probably some quirk of the male character – they always wanted to be the one to walk away.
    “I’ll help you do Nick’s room,” she offered.


    He pulled up to Foyle’s while traffic flowed around them. “This is fine,” she said, and jumped out of the car before he could argue. Parking really was a nightmare around Foyle’s – buses were everywhere. Once through the glass revolving door she watched him grinding gears as he swept into the roundabout. She wanted to make certain he was really gone.


    And then she saw a redhead step out of a cab – a strawberry in sunglasses – surely that wasn’t Candi? It looked like her! She pulled away from the glass as if fearful of contamination.

  • 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 37. The Nanny

    After all this excitement Miss Bottomley wanted to return home for a nap, so Scarlet cabbed alone to the nanny agency. Nick was unhappy in the stroller and needed skin to skin contact, so she was forced to carry and jiggle him as she told the receptionist she had arrived for her appointment with Miss Gorgon.
    Miss Gorgon’s name wasn’t actually Miss Gorgon – it was really something like Bourgoyne – but she was apparently so shocked, so downright appalled by everything Scarlet said that she would be Miss Gorgon in Scarlet’s memory forever after.
    No nanny could be found for a newborn this late in the game – newborn nannies were engaged as soon as a due date was decided. No nanny would enter someone else’s home – a residence owned by someone other than the employer’s for a temporary three month stay! Miss Gorgon was insulted by the very idea.
    Such a thing was QUITE out of the question. Scarlet was recommended to try Talliver’s who handled nursemaids, companions and au pairs. She MIGHT find something suitable there. Mrs. Rumson was going there also, so if she hurried, perhaps they could go together.
    “Mrs. Rumson!”
    Miss Gorgon called into the waiting room where a plump middle-aged woman with reddish silver hair and an unfashionable and too-tight tweed suit was sitting on a side bench drinking muddy tea from a thick china cup. At the sight of Miss Gorgon she slid her feet guiltily back into her shoes.
    “Mrs. Wye is going to Talliver’s also,” said Miss Gorgon. “Perhaps you could guide her.”
    And slamming the door, she visibly washed her hands of the pair of them.
    “I hope it’s no trouble,” said Scarlet, trying to figure out Mrs. Rumson’s place in the scheme of things. If she was the office go-fer, why the uncomfortable shoes?
    “Not in the least,” said Mrs. Rumson. “Allows me to start practicing my “companioning” right away, so to speak. You know, fetching and carrying, holding tickets and maps, reading guidebooks aloud – I’m a very experienced traveler. Oh, what an adorable baby! He’s so new!”
    “Eight weeks,” admitted Scarlet.
    Mrs. Rumson sighed with ecstasy. “May I hold him?”
    Scarlet gave Mrs. Rumson a second – then a third – look.
    “Certainly,” she said, handing him over.
    Mrs. Rumson – “Call me Enid” – handled him so expertly Nick didn’t mind or even seem to notice the change. Scarlet snapped the stroller shut with some relief. It was SUCH a problem on the stairs.
    “And why are you going to Talliver’s, if I may ask?” inquired Enid, as they descended.
    “Because I’ve just been told I can’t have a nanny,” said Scarlet. “And do you know, I don’t really WANT a nanny. I want someone trustworthy to watch this baby so I can do a job of editing.”
    “Well,” said Enid boldly and perhaps a tad hopefully, “Perhaps what you need is a companion.”
    This was rapidly turning into a job interview.
    “Have you had lunch?” inquired Scarlet.
    “I have not,” agreed Enid. “But won’t you be late for your appointment?”
    “I don’t have an appointment,” Scarlet admitted. “I feel I’m on my “last chance” so to speak. And I don’t like the feeling.”
    “Welcome!” laughed Enid. “Last chance” isn’t such a bad place. I’ve been there quite awhile by now.”
    They hied themselves to the nearest restaurant, a self-serve cafeteria with an Oriental theme and special on meat pie and sprouts.
    “I should have a salad,” sighed Enid Rumson, “But it’s been SUCH a day. I feel I must fall on my food before I fall on my sword.”
    Scarlet admired the expert way she handled tray and baby – she showed no inclination to give Nick back and Nick didn’t seem to mind. Scarlet would have almost felt jealous if she hadn’t been in search of exactly such a person. Enid bravely ordered the special, Scarlet chose the baked beans on toast with coffee. Scarlet insisted on paying and they found a quiet corner table.
    “Have you been companioning long?” Scarlet enquired officiously.
    “Not in the least – I’ve never actually companioned at all. Bourgoyne’s told me it’s all that I’m good for so I’m just starting out in the game. I actually wanted to be a nanny – I love babies – had five of my own – but Miss Gudgeon told me I didn’t qualify. Whereas with all my travel experience –“
    “You had five children?”
    “Yes. Only one daughter in England – she’s at college for physiotherapy – the rest are very far flung. No surprise since they grew up all higglety-pigglety. Such is the life of the foreign service.”
    “You were in the foreign service?” The coffee really wasn’t bad. Scarlet was feeling better every moment.
    “Yes and no. That is, my husband was – is – and there’s quite a lot of work – unpaid, naturally – for wives to do. I’m just back from Morocco, actually.”
    “Morocco?”
    “I hope you don’t think me odd for bringing this up – thank goodness you’re an American – they have such a free and easy way – but I just discovered –“ she paused delicately, a lost pastry crumb falling unnoticed to her substantial bosom – “that my marriage is a sham. I can’t decide how to tell the children – so I told them instead that I just needed a complete rest – but I fear –“ she took a long sip of coffee – “This coffee is good – I fear my husband doesn’t really care for women.”
    She gave Scarlet a meaningful look. Scarlet’s eyes widened in sudden comprehension. Enid nodded.
    “He says he’s tried us, he didn’t like us and I don’t think he’s ever coming back,” she confided. “I think Bert has found his – nirvana was the word he used. Among the young Arab boys.”
    Scarlet put a hand on Enid’s, noticing the mark of an absent ring as she did so. And Enid – who was quite sharp – noticed her noticing.
    “Sold my wedding set first thing,” she said. “For money in my pocket –hotels and trains, you understand.”
    “Surely…” Scarlet was shocked by this, “Your husband’s income at this point is more than adequate for two.”
    “Correct. But he’s not in the mood to share. He has – other expenses – according to him. Especially if I leave and he has to cover – er – hostessing.”


    “But he wouldn’t want word of his – er – peccadillos getting out.”


    Enid looked shocked. “But that’s blackmail! I would never do that! Think of the children!”
    “Not blackmail exactly,” Scarlet soothed. “It’s just that you shouldn’t end up being punished for wanting the values of your wedding vows.”


    “What an American way of putting it,” sighed Enid faintly, taking up a big glob of pudding.
    ‘You need a good matrimonial attorney to point this out to him,” Scarlet went on, itching to get this case under Pelham d’Arcy’s purview. On the face of it, it certainly looked easier than hers. “And I know just the one.”


    Enid flushed very red. “I really have no money left,” she gasped.


    “It’s perfectly all right,” said Scarlet. ‘Your husband will pay.” And PAY, she thought, righteously. “Are you staying at a hotel?”


    “I parked my bags at the Paddington left luggage,” said Enid. “I thought it was the best plan to come to the agency first thing, in case they wanted to send me out of the city.”


    She looked a bit dashed as she admitted this fact, but for the most part she was braver and more confident than Scarlet thought she herself would be in the same situation.


    “We are in similar circumstances,” Scarlet confessed. “My husband just announced he plans to enjoy a mistress. Preferably several.”


    “What a cad!” Enid remarked. “Funny how often men seem to wait to make that announcement until they’ve rendered us utterly helpless.” She leaned forward. “But we’re not helpless, are we? I will certainly see your matrimonial – er – agent. But what I’d really like is for you to explain about this job you have going.”


    “Are you – by any chance – familiar with a book series about a detective named Miss Clew?”
    “I grew up with them!” A happy light of reminiscence broke over her face. “My brother actually called me “Our Miss Clew” when I was growing up, because I was always very nosy. Wanting to know everything about people. Life’s such a mystery, isn’t it, to the young? And I went on to I miss the biggest one right in front of my face! You know I actually wished my husband DID keep a mistress – that’s how bad things were. It’s terrible to be told your partner has always found you secretly disgusting and had to force himself to carry on and think of England. Are you the new Miss Clew?”


    “Miss Clew is very much alive,” said Scarlet. “I’m taking you to meet her and then you can decide if you want the job. It’s just three months to start with but it’s live-in. Looking after Nick so I can help Miss Bottomley get on with modernizing her work.”


    “I’ve landed on my feet, haven’t I?” gasped Enid, “What a fairy godmother you turned out to be!”
    “Just one thing,” said Scarlet, “I’m calling you a “nanny” instead of a “companion”, if you don’t mind. Miss Bottomley is elderly and I don’t want her to feel –“


    “Oh I quite understand,” agreed Enid. “Battlefield promotion for me! Nanny it is!”


    Scarlet was convinced she had chosen exactly the nanny she really needed. Better for Enid in the long run. She was certain to get a settlement from her husband – Scarlet felt sure her story was not a new one for Pelham D’Arcy – and she would make a much better nanny than a travelling companion, since she was clearly built for comfort, not for speed.

  • Devoured Heart – romantic suspense by Alysse Aallyn

    Chapter 35. Sops of Wine

    Scarlet gave Nick his bottle right at the table and Miss Bottomley eagerly joined in. She ate like a starved person, which it turned out, she was. The bacon and cream Scarlet had seen in her refrigerator were for the exclusive delight of The King of Wessex. Scarlet determined to shift him to tinned cat food and begin charging groceries to Miss Bottomley as Pom suggested. Feeding the old lady and the cat would have definitely bankrupted her.


    “These apples are delicious,” said her employer. “What are they called?”


    “Sops of wine,” Scarlet told her. “Who could resist that?”


    “Most romantic,” Miss Bottomley agreed.


    Pom said he must be on his way and refused a lift. Miss Bottomley closely watched Scarlet change Nick. This became less embarrassing when her employer confided her nursing experiences from World War I. The things she’d seen were worthy of a memoir. Scarlet began thinking her new employer was starved for human contact, too.


    As soon as a clean Nick was stomach-down on the rug Miss Bottomley changed the subject.


    “I do like your Pom person,” said Miss Bottomley, whose still-sharp eyes apparently missed nothing. “Hiring a detective, indeed! Seems so drastic. Is that husband of yours a dreadful Heathcliff? A would-be tenant of Wildfell Hall?”


    “I’m no longer certain,” said Scarlet. “I thought I was in an equal marriage but he seems to have been playing a long game to maneuver me into a corner.”


    “Into his harem,” Miss Bottomley agreed. “Men often do that, I find. Their excuse is that they must decide for us because we’re so supposedly “emotional”. But in my interviews with Mr. Inkum he’s always the one to fly off the handle! After all these years if I’ve learned nothing else I’ve learned how to keep my temper, I can assure you.”


    “May I look at those documents the solicitor wants you to sign?”


    Miss Bottomley fetched a blue legal-looking folder, settled down by the kitchen fire and promptly fell asleep.


    Scarlet had discovered there was a telephone extension upstairs in the serving area and she put in a prompt call to Pelham D’Arcy at his home number.


    “Miss Bottomley’s inherited some dreadful solicitor pretending to represent her but as far as I can see he’s representing himself. He wants her to turn her estate into a trust with himself as sole trustee!”


    “Sounds most unsavory,” agreed Pelham. “Tell you what, Bob Thomas is our wills & trusts man – the old ladies love him. I happen to know he’s free tomorrow at ten o’clock.”


    “We’ll be there,” promised Scarlet. She had had enough excitement for one day.


    It wasn’t difficult to convince Miss Bottomley that she needed “a second opinion” in the matter of solicitors.


    “Why of course I do,” she said, “Someone who represents my interests to the best of my ability and who’s willing to explain to me what those are. But how to find him was my dilemma? Who to trust? When anyone learns out about this estate they become so overly deferential – I don’t know how else to explain it – I feel certain they’re disguising their true face. Dilemmas of the wealthy! Who’d have thought?”


    “I don’t actually know my solicitor’s partner,” said Scarlet, “but he works with my solicitor whom I like very much. Just use your instincts – we’ll interview as many solicitors as you feel you need to get a true perspective.”


    “How refreshing!” said her employer. “I love options! It’s such an extravagance!”


    “There’s been a development,” said Pelham meaningfully to Scarlet, after hands had been shaken all round. Bob Thomas looked more like a farmer than a solicitor with his round, cheery red-cheeked face and gleaming bald head, but Miss Bottomley seemed to take to him. Scarlet left them alone so that they could study the papers Miss Bottomley brought and transact their own business.
    Nick was decidedly fussy. Scarlet wasn’t sure he’d calm down enough for a conversation. He insisted on being the center of attention. Scarlet walked the floor with him, apologizing. “I’m interviewing nannies today.”


    “Think nothing of it,” said Pelham. “I’ve got four of my own. I’ll make tea while you settle him.”
    Fortunately, he did settle, allowing Scarlet at least sit down and look at the grainy black and white photos he spread before her.


    “As I informed you, we now have a detective of our own.”


    Scarlet gazed at the photos uncomprehendingly, as if these were stills from some bizarre English version of La Strada. A man, a woman, suitcases and parcels – a big house – Ian. Here was his unmistakable face – looking guilty. Rather an uncommon expression for him. Had she ever even seen it? Who was this dark-haired female with the too-tight skirt stretched over the too-big bottom? Then a face shot – expression unreadable beneath Cleopatra makeup.


    “Candi!” Scarlet gasped.


    “Moving in to your marital residence!” Pelham rubbed his hands together enthusiastically. “It’s really the greatest good luck for us. Your husband went back to town,” Pelham confided, “So I transferred our detective’s attention to her. I must say I do hope she’s planning a long stay.”
    Scarlet burst into tears, waking Nick, who wailed as well.


    Pelham was aghast. He rushed around the desk wielding a handkerchief.


    “You must think me an insensitive monster! I do apologize!” He threw open the door and called to his clerk, “Gotobed! Fetch a cup of tea and a baby bottle immediately.”

  • 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 33. Miss Austen Entertains

    There followed the happiest, most relaxed afternoon Scarlet could recall since – well, girlhood!

    With the baby in a shawl-sling they explored Jane’s old house in the company of a large, friendly group of Japanese tourists all oohing and ahing and picture-taking.


    “I didn’t know she was only forty-one when she died,” said Scarlet, feeling sadder than she’d felt since her own separation, “She seemed so mature.”


    “Luckily, she left sufficient books to delight us,” said Pom. “Not just tantalizing glimpses, the way it is with most artists who died young.”


    “I think you’re agreeing with me,” said Scarlet.


    “I suppose I am. She seemed fully formed.”


    They gazed in awe at Jane’s “writing table,” a small, round, unremarkable piece of wooden furniture.


    “Looks uncomfortable,” commented Scarlet. “Where would she put the finished pages?”


    “She must have broken each novel down into small, manageable bits,” Pom suggested. “Just the opposite of the way I work, as you have seen. I like to mess up every part of the studio, as well as the canvas.”


    Scarlet, who had always aspired to work at a beautiful desk, said, “I always end up doing my best writing on my lap. In the train, or a café, or somewhere.”


    “Poets are lucky,” Pom said. “You can give yourself to inspiration. In my case it’s a hard, disgusting slog – usually for nothing. First you must commit to some physical piece of canvas – prime it and so forth. Too bad for me that I hate drawing, watercolor – nothing easy for the Bronfens.”


    “I do wonder what I may be getting into in my new job.”


    “The editing doesn’t sound as difficult to me as the old-lady wrangling.”


    “That’s just what my husband said.”


    Pom sniffed. “Well I certainly don’t want to be like HIM.”


    “You’ll meet my employer if she’s in residence. And I don’t know why she wouldn’t be.”


    Pom was suitably impressed by her new home’s location, but Scarlet began to worry as she inserted her new key for the first time in the bright green front door. Esmé Hope Bottomley stood on the other side.


    “I’m sorry,” gasped Scarlet, “I was hoping not to startle you. Should I have rung?”


    “Not at all. I saw you drive up. I was just beginning to think I’d imagined you – a stitch in time, as they say, so long desired.”


    “Allow me to present Mr. Pomeroy Bronfen,” said Scarlet, “A neighbor who offered to help. He’s a painter.”


    “I’m accustomed to wrestling vast canvases upstairs, so I’d hoped I could be of moving assistance,” said Pom, as he took Miss Bottomley’s hand.


    “Any extra pair of willing. manly arms is always welcome at our vast estate,” said Miss Bottomley, blushing like a girl. Handsome Pom was having his effect. “Scarlet – may I call you Scarlet? will show you round.”


    “You’re a lucky girl,” he commented appreciatively as he helped her move her trunks to the upper floor.


    “I do seem to fall on my feet,” Scarlet agreed. But she warned, “Remember, it’s just for three months. A try-out for us both.”


    Her few items were soon moved in. Miss Bottomley had prepared tea downstairs, offering a carefully segmented orange and a sadly stale wholemeal loaf.


    “Thank you,” Scarlet sighed as they sat down, “This is very welcome. It reminds me I’ll need to get to the grocer’s.”


    “And you do have a nice big car,” said Pom. “If Miss Bottomley needs anything.”


    Miss Bottomley positively flirted with him. “Scarlet is fortunate to have such uncommonly attractive errand boy, Mr. Bronfen,” she said.


    “I am an errand man,” insisted Pom. “And please call me Pom.”


    It turned out that Miss Bottomley had her small weekly allotment of groceries delivered by Sawditch & Sawditch – her bacon, apples, oranges and cheese barely took up one drawer of the vast refrigerator. She offered to “watch” Nick, napping peacefully in his carrycot.


    “Simply rock him if he wakes up,” Scarlet suggested. And when she was alone with Pom remarked,
    “I think we must buy some fresh vegetables. I worry Miss Bottomley isn’t getting her nutrients.”


    Pom’s fond comment sounded indulgent rather than censorious, as it would have been had Ian phrased it. “More Americanisms. I must say I like it. Too many old people subsist on spam and tinned peaches.”


    “And that’s only the most fortunate,” said Scarlet. “We’ll see what they’ve got.”


    When he insisted on taking the wheel even although the grocers were right around the corner Scarlet teased, “Why Mr. Bronfen, how very American you are becoming.”

  • Devoured Heart – romantic suspense by Alysse Aallyn

    Chapter 32. High Tea

    While feeding Nicholas in the “ladies’ retiring room” Scarlet read in the available pamphlet all about the antique pub. “Lady Catherine’s Garden” was named after a character in Pride & Prejudice and was originally built by a fan of Jane Austen’s work. Chawton, the author’s last home, was situated nearby. Today the weather was too cold to sit in the garden but the glass tearoom built almost to the river’s edge offered a suitable summer illusion of swans and willows. From his collapsible stroller, an alert and cleaned up Nicholas seemed riveted by the sunlight playing on the tile floor.


    “It’s just good pub food,” Pom apologized in advance, “Though of course some people say that’s the best English cooking. But look at this view!”


    Scarlet looked. A snow-free water meadow spread out endlessly before them.


    “Seems like it’s always spring around here,” she agreed.


    They ordered tea and ham salad sandwiches. The waitress was very young and did not recognize Pom. He breathed a sigh of relief.


    “Well, there’s one fear that didn’t come true,” he said.


    “Tell me about the last time you visited,” Scarlet prompted.


    “Three years ago. There are charming rooms upstairs. We made use of every one of them but not – I hasten to add – on the same day.”


    “Mr. and Mrs. Pomeroy Bronfen?”


    “Mr. and Mrs. Pomeroy Bronfen.” He did not blub.


    “So, you thought she was a wolf and she turned out to be a dog.”


    “That’s not it. Because she was cheating on her husband I knew she was a dog. I just tried not to care.”


    “But you did care.”


    “I wanted what I wanted and I ignored every warning until finally I got a warning I couldn’t ignore.”
    “Was it a “shop closed” sign?”


    “Oh no. She was willing to continue after her wedding – which, by the way, she invited me to. I don’t know what I would have said during the, “Speak now or forever hold your peace” part, because I didn’t go.”


    ‘Did you try talking her out of it?”


    “Oh, yes. She tried completely humorlessly to clue me in on the deadly importance of cash and titles.”


    “Sounds like she’s some kind of third animal in your bestiary. The sharing kind? Or the devious kind? Maybe a cuckoo?”


    “She certainly took me for a cuckoo. She offered possibilities like the plot of a Henry James novel. “He can’t last forever! We could enjoy his money together.”


    “Those novels always end badly,” she agreed, feeling illiterate in Pom’s presence. Which James novel could he be referring to? The Golden Bowl?


    “I can’t rid myself of the idea that I should have warned the poor old thing,” Pom said seriously.


    “The Catholic peer? Surely not.”


    “But what if he ends up dead? What if she gets her next teddy boy to kill him?”


    “Oh, Pom! I’m starting to appreciate your interest in Hitchcock. But do people really do those things?”


    “Yes, Scarlet,” he said seriously. “They do. I actually don’t know of a single aristocratic family without a murder in its history.”


    “Good God!” Why was she surprised? Miss Clew wouldn’t have been! She brought herself into the conversation. “Very Turn of the Screw. Reminiscent of my situation, that temptation. Why couldn’t having a castle and a flat in town compensate me for losing my husband’s fidelity?”


    “Oh, Scarlet, you American girl,” he said it admiringly. She felt a gush of gratitude. Was this the first time in England that “being American” hadn’t seemed a social liability?


    “How much were you actually tempted?” she asked him.


    “I’ll never know. I might have considered it if she hadn’t started going on about how much she “loved’ me. It was the first time she’d ever used that word.”


    “Traitor!”


    “Exactly how I felt. Stomped away in a wounded huff. That sort of thing.”


    “Haven’t contacted her since?”


    “I have not.”


    “And she?”


    “Total silence. I’m sure she replaced me. I did read about Her Ladyship’s wedding in Country Life. Couldn’t resist that.”


    “I can see it would be difficult.”


    Their food arrived.


    “In the spring they have watercress,” sighed Pom nostalgically.


    “This looks nice.”


    Nicholas’ eyes had drifted shut.


    “They’re very easy at this age.” said Pom.


    “He’s being particularly good today. I’ve heard they like traveling in cars. It’s the motion.”


    “So,” said Pom, “Now you owe me a story. You’re really going to have to tell me about how you and Ian met.”


    How long ago it seemed! Four whole years. How different she felt now from that long-ago girl.
    “I too ignored all the warnings. Ian was considered the prize at Oxford, a real heartbreaker.”


    “But you thought you’d be different.”


    “He told me I’d be different. And then he married me so I thought I must be. I was so proud of having bagged him.”


    “One does tend to think in these big-game metaphors.”


    “It would be good to get over that,” she reflected. “And stop trying to “capture” people. It turned out he assumed I came from a rich family!”


    “Brits think all Americans are rich.”


    “It must be because we try to pretend we are. Everything new. We call it, Keeping up With the Joneses.”


    “There’s another thing we all have to get over,” agreed Pom. “This competitive furor.”
    “We call it the capitalist fervor.”


    “Obviously that has to go!” agreed Pom. They both laughed. Pom went on, “This is exactly why friendship is so important. Why I’m willing – I hope this won’t embarrass you – to wait for you.”
    It did embarrass her. She blushed the color of her name.


    Pom went on smoothly, “You know, I never had any female friends at college. Coming out of an all boys’ school of course it’s different. Girls seem so exotic. Did you and Ian share a tutor? Or did he see you from afar and think – rare species? I’m sure the big game metaphor operates here as well.”


    “I doubt it. He made me work for it. We shared editorship of a student literary publication – lasted a mere three issues – the St. Euphrosyne Review.”


    “Good Lord! There was a Saint Euphrosyne?”


    “It’s a bad joke. I think the joke was on us female students – apparently St Euphrosyne disguised herself as a man to become a monk. That’s the legend.”


    “Irksome.”


    “I’ll say. We Americans don’t put up with that sort of thing. We’re coeducational all the way. I was always wrestling with Ian to get him to respect my poetry – we just didn’t have the same taste. He really felt “female poet” was a contradiction in terms.”


    “But suddenly he stopped wrestling?”


    “Suddenly he let me win. I should have known.”


    “I’m sure he was in love.”


    “As much as he could be, I think, which isn’t enough, I’m afraid.”


    “They do say people can only respond to another’s depth to the extent of their own.”


    “Meaning there’s a lot of shallow people in the world.”


    They smiled at each other.


    The sandwiches were delicious. Scarlet produced the advertising brochure she’d been reading.


    “Know what it says here?”


    “Remind me.”


    “Jane Austen’s house is nearby and I’ve never been.”


    “Must you arrive in London at any specific time?”


    “No. How about you?”


    “Never anyone to please but myself.”


    “What a fortunate state of affairs!”


    “It has its highs and its lows. Shall we go then?”


    “Do let’s.”