The Withdrawing Room by Charlotte MacLeod

chest, a comfortable armchair and hassock, a couple of lamps, a sturdy table and ladderback chair that she hoped would be an adequate substitute for a desk. Mr. Bittersohn must have to do some kind of paperwork in that strange profession of his.
    She’d splurged on a new mattress and box spring, got Mr. Lomax to screw wooden legs into the frame, then sat down at the old Singer and run up some bright red print pillow covers to make the bed look more like a studio couch and brighten the faded blue denim spread. She’d made little curtains to match the pillows, and put pots of nephthytis and sansevieria on the high, narrow, sidewalk-level windowsills, knowing nothing less hardy would survive there. Charles gave the worn old brick floor a good scrubbing and waxing, and Mariposa laundered the least faded rag rugs Sarah could find at Ireson’s. By the time Sarah had everything in order, her two helpers were insisting this was the best-looking room in the house and they ought to charge more rent.
    “Mr. Bittersohn is a very distinguished man in his profession,” she replied primly. “We could hardly expect him to live in a dump.”
    “Classy guy, eh?”
    “Very classy, but not a bit stuffy. You’ll like having him here.”
    “You like him yourself?” Mariposa asked a shade too innocently.
    “He saved my life not long ago, among other things. I owe him a debt of gratitude.”
    “We still collect the rent, though, don’t we?” Mariposa took the family finances much to heart.
    “Certainly we do. I’m not that grateful.”
    In fact, she was. However, Sarah had known by instinct that Mr. Bittersohn would have been horrified if she’d so much as hinted at his getting the place for nothing, though she knew people with far greater pretensions to gentility who’d have leaped at the chance. She’d compromised by naming a lower price than she’d meant to charge. Mr. Bittersohn had insisted it ought to be much higher, and named his own. At last they’d split the difference and come up with what Uncle Jem had set as a reasonable rate in the first place. Sarah had broken down and told him so, whereupon they’d laughed and parted with mutual satisfaction.
    At least Sarah hoped the satisfaction was mutual. On her side there could be no question. The more she watched Professor Ormsby wolfing his food and listened to Mr. Porter-Smith enumerate the mountains he had climbed, the more impatient she became to have Mr. Bittersohn at her dinner table.
    As for Mr. Hartler, he’d been on the doorstep with an armload of belongings almost before Sarah had got around to telling him he could come. Getting his room ready had been no problem. Mr. Quiffen had barely lived in it long enough to track up the rug. The heirs had been only too happy to remove the dead man’s personal effects.
    Anora had approved Sarah’s taking quick action. So had George, once his wife had managed to prod him awake long enough to get official consent for the clearing-out of Mr. Quiffen’s possessions. Even Dolph showed a grudging admiration of his young cousin’s acumen in not being done out of a week’s rent for which she might otherwise have to sue the Metropolitan Boston Transit Authority. Dolph had already been considering legal action on the grounds that Quiffen would have wanted it that way.
    Doubtless Dolph was right. Barnwell Augustus Quiffen had been an incredibly cantankerous, vindictive old man. The problem would be not to find out who’d had a serious grudge against him, but to sort out one from the many. Sarah had learned a hard lesson about meddling in situations she wasn’t equipped to handle, though. She put Mr. Quiffen as far out of her mind as she could, and concentrated on the tasks that lay at hand.
    With not one but two new lodgers to welcome, Monday night’s dinner had to be a gala occasion. It certainly was. Mrs. Sorpende wore her emerald green aigrette. Miss LaValliere, having evidently realized her jersey stovepipe wasn’t going