The Three of Spades

The Heartache

The HeartacheI gaped at him. “Murdered?”

“No one you might know, mum — a police detective who’d been in our pay.” Pearson gave a small shake of his head. “Terrible matter.”

Who would dare murder a Family man? “Well, that seems odd.”

“Not as odd as you might think. But it’s being handled, mum, never fear.”

I wouldn’t have wished the heartache I’d felt so far on anyone. “Please make sure you send our condolences to his family.”

“Already done, mum.” He took a folded paper from his pocket. “I have the schedule for tomorrow, if you’d care to see it.”

Taking a deep breath to slow my heart’s pounding, I took the list and ran down it. Tony would be in a meeting on Market Center with Cesare Diamond until tea, another of the hundreds of meetings so far regarding procedures in the dredging of the South River.

The whole matter was remarkable: Cesare so far had managed to remain in the same room with my husband for all those meetings without coming to blows.

My schedule for the next day was fairly light. See Pearson’s wife Jane (the housekeeper here at Spadros Manor) after the morning meeting about the next phase in redecorating the mansion.

I’d had all the downstairs furnishings re-done and the walls painted to match. Now it was time for the upstairs. And I must decide what to do about the tile.

Until then, I’d hated the pale gray tile someone — perhaps Roy — had installed here. But it didn’t look too bad with the new wall color. Even so, I felt curious to see the samples Jane had found for me.

At noon, Dr. Salmon — our private surgeon — was to arrive for my examination. He came to visit weekly like clockwork, examining me as completely as one might, making changes to my liver tonic, diet.

He’d tried persuading me to stop my work, but I refused. To my surprise, my husband Tony supported me.

To continue my independent profession was part of our agreement to return to his side, and he’d kept his word.

Of course, this had utterly scandalized everyone. But I’d lived my life being a scandal, and the opinions of others bothered me not at all.

In the afternoon I had a meeting at my apartments: a middle-aged woman whose husband had gone missing. Privately, I suspected he’d chosen to. But I had several leads on the case and this was merely an update she’d scheduled the week prior. “Looks like I’ll need to leave at two.”

“The plain carriage, I take it?”

“Yes.”

“Mr. Dewey says the under-carriage springs need replacing, so if you don’t mind, I’ll have your driver take it to the Carriage-House on Market Center while you’re there. We don’t have the proper tools for it here.”

“Will there be time? I notice there’s a studio appointment at half past four.” I paid for the upkeep and staff on my apartments by renting the large upper room to artists by the hour. The plate glass windows gave a lovely view of the city.

“They assure me the job will take no more than a half hour, mum. With travel to and from the island, he should be back in time for you to be well gone before the man arrives.”

I chuckled. “Or I suppose I could hide until his entourage is safely upstairs.” We’d already had reports of artists and their models being hounded by reporters after their studio appointments, hungry for any tidbit of news about the Lady of Spadros they might put in their tabloid rags.

“Yes, mum.”

I hesitated to ask, but the mention of our stable-master, Mr. Dewey, had reminded me of his son. “How is Pip?”

Pip Dewey, now thirteen, had been quiet and sullen since my return. I’d gone downstairs twice to try to speak with him, but he’d begged off both times.

Pearson let out a most uncharacteristic sigh. “He does his work, mum. But it’s clear time has yet to cure his troubles.” He shrugged. “Boys this age often become so. It could be something as simple as pining over a girl. I wouldn’t trouble yourself about it.”

“Did you tell him I felt concerned for him?”

“I did, mum. He said, ‘I don’t wish to speak of it.’”

Pip seemed to have a rapport with our chef Monsieur Sabacc. Perhaps he might know what troubled the boy. “Thank you, Pearson. That’ll be all.”

* * *

The clocks struck three as I emerged from my carriage onto 33 1/3 Street, Spadros quadrant the next day. I surveyed my building; I thought I’d be back living here by now.

I crunched up the snow-covered steps, moved my carpetbag to my left arm and knocked upon the door to my apartments. While I waited, I examined the signs there:

Kaplan Private Investigations

Discreet Service For Ladies

Below this sign hung another:

Studio For Hire — Inquire Within

The sign for my investigation service had a small chip off the far edge I hadn’t noticed before. Did that happen during the shooting?

My housekeeper Mary Spadros answered the door. “Oh, there you are, mum.” Her baby Ariana sat perched upon her hip, smiling and reaching out when she saw me.

I took the little girl into my arms. “Good day, Mary. I hope you and your family are well?”

She closed the door behind me. “Quite well, thank you. My husband’s repairing the upper flue to the chimney. He saw your carriage and called down.”

Which explained why she answered the door instead of him. He’d been most protective of her lately. I handed Ariana back to her then hung my coat and hat in the hall. “Is my client here yet?”

“Not yet, mum, but I’ll let you know when she arrives.”

The door to my empty bedroom stood open, and I looked at my bed with longing. Oh, for my days before!

Mary said, “We’ve got a portrait artist coming at half past four. My husband will let you know in time to be gone when he arrives.”

It wasn’t like this woman to be late. But I did have some paperwork to finish. “I’ll be in my study.”

The door to my office, marked “Kaplan Investigations”, stood next to my old bedroom. Inside sat my beautiful cherry-wood desk, cabinets, and bookcases. Walls forest green. A high window, edged in wood with a cherry-stain and open to let in the brisk air. I closed the window and sat.

Inside my carpetbag lay a bound stack of my business mail (which inexplicably ended up at Spadros Manor no matter how many times I requested otherwise), several small envelopes bundled together with clues for my current case, the list of symbols from Anna’s notebook, my cigarettes, matches, and my magnification spyglass (neatly boxed).

I put the stack of mail on my desk, then took out my second favorite boot-knife and cut the twine binding my mail together. Many notes, letters, and a package which looked like one of the many tabloids of Bridges. Replacing the knife in its sheath upon my left boot, I took my letter-opener from its holder and opened the first letter.

And of course, it was a notice for p*****t.

* * *

The client never arrived; her mother had fallen ill.

But it didn’t matter. I relished the time alone: no demands upon me, just time to think.

One of my informants had tracked down the man in Tollkeen who cultivated the main ingredient for blood tea, now apparently, all lost to the blight. But he’d resown in another area, and had been overheard saying the prospects were good.

A disturbing motion came deep inside my low belly. Each day of delay made this plan of mine the more dangerous. But dangerous or not, I had to at least try.

I took out pen and paper and wrote to the supplier. Perhaps this man might be willing to give the first of his new crop to me directly — if the price were right.

I returned to the last of my mail: a letter from Jonathan Diamond.

Jonathan.

Did he know this would happen? Had he urged me to go to Tony after his “abduction” hoping I’d be forced to return to Spadros Manor?

Had Jon betrayed me?