Pushed against the wall was a rustic pine table at least ten feet long. It held an array of copper bowls and, more intriguingly, big-bottomed flasks of the kind you'd find in a chemistry lab. Rounded Florence flasks were clamped to chrome support stands, and long-necked filtering flasks shared the space with Bunsen burners and stand-alone hot plates. Neatly lined up on the shallow shelves against the wall was a large variety of brown paper bags labeled in a flowing hand: juniperus virginiana, dwarf sumac (stem), trifolium protense, viscum album, rosa canina…
The shelf below was filled with small plastic tubs. He picked one up and lifted the lid. It was labeled alkaline ash and he had expected the tub to be filled with dust. Instead it was brimful with a white gooey substance. He took a sniff. Not a bad smell exactly, but he now knew the origin of that acrid scent he had picked up on first entering the house.
Fascinating as all of this was, though, it did not provide any clues as to what might have happened to Robert Whittington. And so far during his exploration of the house, he hadn't recognized any of the rooms. They hadn't figured in his ride. The only thing he recognized was the Monas. The coat of arms was everywhere; it even sat on top of the kitchen door. The sisters must like it a lot. He made another mental note to ask Isidore to check it out.
The kitchen opened directly into the front hallway, which sported high walls and skirting boards at least a foot tall. The hall was packed with plants in pots: ferns, velvety African violets, a large number of milky orchids sitting ghostlike next to one another on a low windowsill. And even more roses. These women had a thing for roses. He liked plants himself, but this was like hacking your way through a freaking jungle.
Against the wall, hanging from highly polished hooks, were a number of light raincoats and jackets. As he walked past them, he noticed a silky fuchsia scarf, which had escaped the grasp of one of the hooks and was lying on the dark timber floor like a pool of melted jewelry. He stooped to pick it up. The scarf was fragrant with perfume. He could smell it even as he carefully draped the oblong of silk over the shoulders of a glittery evening jacket. It stirred a memory inside of him. The masked woman in his ride, hadn't she been wearing the same perfume? For a moment he concentrated hard, but then he gave up. The problem was that although smell was evocative, it made for a very tenuous memory byte. He couldn't be sure.
He placed his foot on the first step of the staircase, looking upward to where it unfurled itself in a graceful elliptical spiral. The lacy wrought iron banisters were quite beautiful. But as he started to climb, he grimaced. They were wooden steps and they creaked. Loudly. A real problem should he have to visit the house again when the occupants were present.
The first floor didn't yield anything much: a blandly decorated room in blue and white, which had guest room written all over it, and an adjoining bathroom. The only other room on that floor had been converted into an extremely generous-sized walk-in closet, which was obviously used by both sisters. The differing shoe sizes alone made that clear.
The walls were lined with rails from which hung dresses draped over padded hangers and shelves holding hatboxes, printed blouses and piles of sweaters. The sisters did not lack for clothes. And they certainly did not buy at H &M. He looked at the label stitched into the neck of a taupe dress suit: Gucci. The shoes to match were Christian Louboutin. He wondered where they got the money from. Frankie had been vague. She hadn't known what the sisters did for a living. It was probably a case of old money, he thought, running his hand down a silky backless evening dress with diamond trim. Some people were born under a lucky star. The rest had to make their own luck.
Under normal circumstances he would have been delighted to find himself surrounded by fragrant silk and lace, but at that moment, as he looked at all those shelves of female lingerie and other accoutrements, he couldn't help feeling like some sleazy Peeping Tom. Actually, to be honest, the house was getting to him. On the one hand he was fascinated by the place-it was certainly not your usual chintz palace-but there was just something about it that made him feel uncomfortable. He would have been hard put to articulate his unease except to say that it felt as though the house was holding its breath, causing him to hold his breath as well. Which sounded pretty damn ridiculous, he had to admit.
Anyway, he doubted he was going to find any traces of Robert Whittington here among the Jimmy Choos and Birkin Bags. Maybe he'd have better luck upstairs. He turned to the staircase once again.
When he reached the top landing, he stopped, slightly out of breath. To his right was an arch-shaped window. The landing itself was dominated by a high and very beautiful walnut tallboy. On either side of the chest was a closed door. They would probably lead to the bedrooms.
As he stretched out his hand to turn the knob of the door on his left, something made him pause. Why did he have this feeling of being watched, all of a sudden?
He turned and looked over his shoulder. The staircase stretched down empty behind him. The sun was setting in earnest now and the arch-shaped window framed a burnt orange sky hazy with pollution. The window ensured that there was still light up here, but when he stepped away from the closed door to look over the edge of the banister, the hallway down below was almost completely dark. The spidery ferns on the console table and the coats hanging from the hooks threw hardly any shadows.
Slowly, he straightened. He was being ridiculous. There was no one here. He approached the door once more and turned the knob.
A streak of black exploded past his ear with a vicious snarl. Something had jumped off the top of the tallboy behind him and was now disappearing through the half-open door. It was so unexpected, he found himself staring at the door stupefied. His mind told him it was only a cat, but his pulse was racing off the charts and the hairs on his neck were standing up.
Cautiously he pushed the door wider. It creaked on its hinges, setting his teeth on edge. A foot away a coal black cat was watching him malevolently, tail swishing, one paw lifted expectantly. The cat spat at him and made a harrowing noise at the back of its throat. It sounded like a baby being tortured.
"Here, kitty, kitty…" He held out his hand placatingly. Anything to stop that unearthly sound.
The cat moved at lightning speed, and the next moment he was looking at four deep scratch marks on his wrist. The amount of blood welling up from the gouges was quite extraordinary.
Holy shit. He felt suddenly queasy and a little light-headed, which was stupid-it wasn't as though he was mortally wounded. Taking a handkerchief out of his pocket, he tied it into a clumsy bandage around his hand. If he wasn't careful, he'd be dripping blood all over the place.
He flipped the light switch at the door to help him see better: no use giving this spawn from hell an added advantage. The cat's pupils narrowed. It was still screaming, and the noise was excruciating. He moved threateningly toward the animal, which must have sensed what he had in mind, because it scrambled up the side of the curtain and onto the top of a wardrobe where it crouched into a tense ball of fur, staring down at him with an evil expression. But at least it had stopped its caterwauling.
OK. Time to regroup. He took a deep breath. When he got home, he would disinfect the wounds. But for now, ignore the cat. Focus on the task at hand. He just needed to remember to kick the damn thing out of here before he left. The door had probably been closed on purpose especially to keep the dratted animal out of the room.
And a charming room it was too. Now that his heart had stopped racing, he could give it his full attention. The color scheme was peach and pink, but whereas such a color palette could easily be cloying, this room was anything but twee. The giant whale skull sitting on top of a dresser, one eye socket stuffed with daisies, was already a sign that the person who slept in this room had a taste for whimsy. Not to mention humor. The bed lamp was purple and plastic and in the shape of Michelangelo's David. David minus his head, that is.