Stuart Woods - Imperfect Strangers

"Well,' the old fellow says, 'First you prepare the ground, then you plant the seed, and then you roll it and cut it and roll it and cut it… for about three hundred years.'"

She burst out laughing. "So time is the best designer."

He took her in his arms and kissed her. "I'm sure you run a close second," he said.

They walked back to the hotel, collected their key from the night porter, and took the lift upstairs.

"Mmmm, linen sheets," she said, snuggling into bed. "My grandmother used to have linen sheets on all the beds in her house. That was when people could afford to hire someone to iron them, I suppose."

"I'm afraid you're right," Sandy said, climbing into bed beside her. "In the case of the Connaught, all the laundry is sent to the Savoy Laundry, which is a kind of Victorian institution, in a London suburb, with a great deal of equipment that has been there for decades. When you send out some laundry you'll see what a wonderful job they do."

She wriggled across the bed and put her head on his shoulder. "This is nice," she said. "I'm going to sleep well here."

Soon she was breathing deeply, but Sandy continued to stare at the ceiling. Whenever he closed his eyes he saw Thomas Wills, swinging by the neck in his jail cell.

Sandy left while Cara was still dressing and walked to the shop, so that she could present herself at a later hour. It was a little soon after Joan's death, he thought, for the staff of the London operation to conclude that he was seeing another woman.

As he was about to open the shop's door, a man across the street caught his eye, for no other reason than that he was wearing a bowler hat. The English had given up the bowler reluctantly, Sandy reflected, but still, he hadn't seen one for at least ten years. He entered the shop, greeting staff as he went, then headed upstairs to his office.

Maeve O'Brien, the office manager and secretary, greeted him warmly. "Did you have a good flight, Mr. Kinsolving?"

"Yes, thank you, Maeve."

"All of us here are so sorry about your double tragedy. We hope you're feeling better now."

"Yes, I am, and thank everyone for me, will you? By the way, a Miss Cara Mason from New York will be calling at the shop this morning. She's an interior designer here to see how she can make the New York shop look more like this one. Will you send her up as soon as she arrives?"

"Yes, of course, Mr. Kinsolving. I've put the monthly figures on your desk; I expect you'll want to have a look at them."

"Thank you, Maeve, I think I'll do that right now." Sandy sat down at his desk and began going over the computer printouts.

A minute later, Maeve was back. "Mr. Kinsolving, I'm sorry to disturb you, but there's a gentleman here to see you, a Mr. Jeremy Morris."

"Do I know him?"

"I don't think so, sir, but he's been here a number of times during your absence." She lowered her voice. "He's a little peculiar, sir."

"Oh, all right, send him in." Sandy sat back and waited for the man, then rose and extended his hand as he entered.

"Jeremy Morris, sir," the man said, shaking hands, "and it's very pleased I am to make your acquaintance."

It was the man in the bowler hat Sandy had seen across the street a moment before, and his accent was all over the place-a little cockney, a little south London, even an occasional attempt at upper-class pronunciation. He was wearing a worn Macintosh and a small, waxed moustache. Along with his slicked-down hair, Sandy thought he looked like something out of an Agatha Christie novel.

"Please sit down, Mr. Morris," Sandy said. Where the hell had he heard that name? "Are you a lover of wine?"

"Well, mostly I take a little beer with my supper, if you know what I mean, sir; I've never acquired an especial fondness for the grape."

"That's too bad," Sandy said. "Now what can I do for you?"

"I've been eagerly awaiting your return from America," Morris said. "Having spoken with, but not actually made the acquaintance of your late wife."

"Oh?" Where the hell did he know that name from? "My wife?"

"Yes, yes," Morris said.

"In what connection?"

"Well, the late Mrs. Kinsolving had the occasion to employ my services a short while ago, you see." He looked around at the office door, then pushed it shut. "I hope you don't mind; I wish to be discreet."

Sandy suddenly remembered where he'd heard the name; it had been on a compliments slip. "Go on, Mr. Morris."

Morris fished in an inside pocket and came up with an envelope; he handed it to Sandy. "For your perusal, sir," he said.

Sandy didn't need to look at the pictures, but he made a show of doing so, nonchalantly. When he had done so, he tossed them onto the desk. "Well?"

"Well, sir, I thought perhaps you'd wish to have the opportunity to purchase these snaps before-"

"I was under the distinct impression that my wife had already purchased them-and the negatives," Sandy said.

Morris managed an obsequious smile. "Well, sir, you know how these things go; you and I are both men of the world, are we not?"

"Not the same world," Sandy said.

"Be that as it may, sir, I thought that, from what I've read in the New York newspapers, you might like to keep these snaps away from the eyes of the New York police department, and I'm here to be of service."

"Why should I wish to keep these from the New York police?" Sandy asked.

"Well, sir, given the circumstances of your late wife's demise, I thought perhaps it might be in your interests to keep these rather on the quiet side, if you know what I mean."

"I'm afraid I don't have the slightest idea what you mean," Sandy said.

"Must I be blunt, sir?"

"Please do."

"Well, to be quite candid, sir, I've read that you stood to inherit quite a large amount in the event of your wife's untimely death."

"So?"

"I don't wish to give offense, sir, but surely you can see that these photographs might very well plant in the mind of the New York police that you might have had some motive…"

Sandy took a pad from his desk drawer and began writing on it. "Mr. Morris, if you feel you have some relevant information in the matter of my wife's death, then you should immediately contact a Detective Duvivier of the Nineteenth Precinct. I'll give you his number." He held the slip of paper out for Morris to take.

"Sir?"

"Mr. Morris, when did you last read the New York newspapers?"

"Well, I-"

"Perhaps you should read yesterday's New York Times. There you will learn that my wife's murderer confessed to the crime over the weekend."

Morris looked momentarily flummoxed, but then he recovered himself. "Well, I'm so very pleased to hear that, sir; I'm sure it's a great load off your mind. However, there's the matter of the newspapers on this side of the water, you see."

"I beg your pardon?"

"I'm very much afraid that our newspapers, especially those of the tabloid size, take a very much greater interest in one's personal habits than do your American ones."

Uh oh, Sandy thought.

"Not in your personal habits, sir, but they do take a very deep interest in the, shall we say, extracurricular activities of the nobility."

"The nobility?" Sandy was playing for time now.

"Peers of the realm," Morris said. "As in the Earl of Kensington and his wife, the countess." He indicated the photographs on Sandy's desk. "I'm not quite sure as yet who the other lady in question might be, but if the photos were published, then I'm sure we'd hear her name in no time at all." He smiled. "If you see my point, sir."

There was a rap on the door, and Maeve stuck her head in. "Excuse me, Mr. Kinsolving, but your next appointment is here."

"I'll be another minute, Maeve," Sandy replied. "Would you please introduce Miss Mason to the downstairs staff? I'll be down in a moment."