Betrayal at Blackcrest by Jennifer Wilde Page B

“I can’t imagine why he wants to waste his time at Oxford. What we need is people who can do things. Everyone can read Latin nowadays, but no one can repair a stone wall or fix a leaky faucet—”
    â€œI have the tools,” he said, interrupting her.
    â€œOh? Tools?”
    â€œThe heating unit,” he replied.
    â€œHurry along,” she said peevishly. “The cats are freezing, and you stand here making idle conversation.”
    Neil stepped into the tower room, opening the door cautiously. I saw a swarm of furry creatures before he closed the door. Andrea led me to the stone staircase that wound up around the tower rooms. The steps were steep, and there was hardly enough room for one person to move between the outside wall and the wall of the room. It was damp and dark, and there was no railing. I could smell moss and lichen. When I touched the wall, it felt slimy. We reached a small landing, and Andrea opened the door to a room identical in size and shape to the one below.
    â€œThis is the study,” she said, leading me inside. “Here’s where I write and compose my letters and get away from everyone. It’s messy—I have forbidden Agnes and Betty to touch anything—but it’s all mine.”
    The room was perfectly round, surprisingly large, yet snug and intimate. The walls were plaster, painted a dull brown, with three narrow windows set high up, mere slits that would afford little light. An old sofa covered with worn orange velvet sat to one side, the springs sagging in the middle, its surface littered with newspapers and books, a brown cup and saucer perched precariously on one arm. A rolltop desk, incredibly cluttered, sat beneath one of the window slits, a tall lamp with a beaded shade standing beside it. There was a blue chair, a footstool to match, a plump tailor’s dummy, a tarnished golden harp, and a table laden with priceless Dresden figurines. One could hardly take a step without stumbling over piles of books and magazines.
    For all its disarray, the room had personality. I stepped over to the wall to examine a print that I was sure was an original Hogarth. A delicious smell of lavender pervaded the whole room, mixed with something I thought must be peat moss.
    â€œHere they are,” Andrea said, picking up a stack of lined yellow tablets that sat on the desk beside an ancient typewriter. In the various compartments of the desk top were letters, news clippings, oil cans, glue, fountain pens, pill bottles, and a gorgeously bejeweled snuffbox. It might have been a Fabérgé. Andrea waved the tablets.
    â€œMy memoirs,” she said proudly. “They’re going to shock the pants off the natives! So delightful! Such a lot of typing to do. You shall have your own hours. All I want is to see that the typing is done. Can you manage it in a week?”
    â€œI’m certain of it,” I replied.
    â€œA few hours during the day. I’m sure there are many other things you’ll want to be doing, and I don’t believe in sweatshop labor.”
    â€œAs a matter of fact, I am interested in exploring Hawkestown.”
    â€œWhat ever for? It’s a dreadful place, not an interesting person in the lot, and such abominable shops. The Tea Shoppe used to be rather nice until that awful woman was hired as hostess. Tottie? You can’t convince me that anyone is actually named Tottie.”
    I murmured some reply. The name on the cover of one of the books at my feet caused me to lose track of what Andrea was saying.
    â€œMy nephew actually sees her. Can you imagine anything so scandalous?”
    â€œDerek?”
    â€œNo, no. He wouldn’t pass the time of day with such a loathsome person. Alex.”
    â€œAlex,” I said.
    I picked the book up. It was called Bloodstains on Bella , and the author was Alexander Tanner. On the back of the jacket there was a photograph of the man who had changed my flat tire the night