Dangerous Dalliance by Joan Smith Read Free Book Online Page A

some attention. And some blood,” he added, peering down at the striped sofa.
    I stiffened, and began to look around the carpet and sofa.
    “I already checked,” Mrs. Lovatt said. “If it happened in this room, the hotel has cleared away all signs. You might ask that nice, friendly clerk exactly where it happened, Mr. Smythe.”
    “I’ll have a word with him, too.” He lifted a ham sandwich, frowned at it, then returned it to his plate. All this talk of blood had taken away everyone’s appetite for meat. He reached for a slice of cream cake instead. Two slices later, he was just rising to leave when there was a tap on the door.
    An image of Lord Fai r field leapt into my head. I made an unladylike bolt for the door. A shy smile sat on my lips as I drew it open. The smile faded to a question at the first view of the caller. He was as insignificant and uninteresting as Lord Fairfield was outstanding and memorable. The man was of medium height, pale of face, with straight brown hair and hazel eyes. He was outfitted like a gentleman in a decent blue jacket and faun trousers, but one looked in vain for any elegance or charm. Stick a pencil behind his ear, and he might be a junior clerk from any place of business.
    “Miss Hume?” he asked, in a flat voice.
    “I am Miss Hume.”
    “Depew,” he said, handing me a card. I glanced at it and read Sir Chauncey Depew, K.B.E. The name meant nothing to me, but my lively imagination soon suggested that Lord Fairfield was involved.
    “Might I have a word with you?” He looked up and down the hall, as if afraid of being overheard.
    “Certainly,” I said, and stood aside to let him enter.
    “I have come about your father’s death,” he announced.
    “Pray come into the saloon, Sir Chauncey.” He looked taken aback to see I had company. “This is my aunt, Mrs. Lovatt. Mr. Hume’s sister,” I explained. “And this is my cousin, Mr. Smythe.”
    Bunny narrowed his eyes in suspicion. Sir Chauncey bowed. He looked unhappily at Smythe. “This is a private matter,” he said to me, sotto voce.
    “Mr. Smythe is here for the purpose of helping me look into Papa’s death. You can count on his discretion,” I said.
    “Mum’s the word,” Bunny said, tapping his nose.
    Sir Chauncey was given a seat. He looked around nervously, moistened his lips, and said, “An extremely distressing business. My first duty is to tender my condolences. An extremely regrettable affair.”
    “Thank you,” I said dutifully, waiting to hear what more pressing reason had brought him.
    “I was to meet your father here the evening he ... passed away.”
    “Did you meet him?” I demanded. At last, someone who knew what had really happened!
    “No, he was gone by the time I arrived.”
    “Do you mean gone from the premises, or dead?” I asked bluntly.
    “Deceased.” He could not bring himself to use the common four-letter word.
    “What was your business with him , Sir Chauncey?” Mrs. Lovatt asked.
    “He was to give me some information—a message,” he said vaguely.
    “We don’t know what you are talking about,” I said bluntly. “We have come here to look for information, not give it. Was it something to do with the pigeons?”
    “Precisely!” he said, with a significant nod of his head , which meant nothing to any of his auditors.
    “You would have to speak to Snoad, my father’s helper with his birds, about that. He is at Gracefield,” I explained.
    “Snoad,” Depew said, puzzling over the name. “Were the birds your father brought with him returned to Gracefield then?”
    I just stared a moment, thinking. “That is odd! His coffin was returned, and his valise, but what happened to the birds? He usually took a dozen with him.”
    “They are not here. I inquired,” Depew said.
    “Was it a particularly valuable bird you were interested in?” Mrs. Lovatt asked.
    “Extremely valuable,” Depew replied, frowning.
    Smythe took no part in the conversation, except to listen