“Now, if you will excuse me for a moment, I will go and prepare the papers for your approval,” Miss Carr said.
“Yes, yes,” said the Countess Magda. “Everyone go away. We wish to talk among ourselves. Not you, my dear,” she said, taking the girl’s hand as Miss Stimson attempted to follow. “We wish you to stay with us.”
The last thing Miss Carr saw as she closed the door on the salon was the girl’s frightened eyes.
The invoice took little time to prepare. Miss Carr had but to transfer to it the name and price of the gowns ordered, note the name of the buyers and their impressive-sounding address. Carfax Abbey, Sussex. The owner would be pleased with everything from this night’s work.
She returned to the salon in time to see the mannequin staggering back to lean against the wall, pale as a ghost, with a few drops of blood on her neck. She was wrapped in a dressing gown, and the silk ball gown was on hooks against the wall. No doubt one of the countesses had wanted to try it on, but the blood was a puzzle. Perhaps Miss Stimson had been injured by the pins holding the incomplete stays together, which had to come off over the head. Miss Carr checked the gown for spots. The girl seemed to have had the presence of mind not to bleed on the dress. Miss Stimson stood looking at her employer with the dazed expression of a sheep.
“Are you all right?” Miss Carr asked.
“Yes, madam,” the girl said, rather stupidly. She blinked at the lamp, her pupils shrunk to pinpoint size. Miss Carr saw how pallid she was, red rings around her eyes very much in relief to the parchment color of her skin, and put it off to the lateness of the hour. No wonder she had scratched her neck. “It’s a trifle bright in here, madam.”
“Perhaps,” Miss Carr said. “You have done well, Miss Stimson. I will tell Mrs. Feldon-Jacobs so. You may retire and take tomorrow off. But I expect to see you here bright and early Thursday morning.”
“Yes, madam.” The girl tripped clumsily out of the room. Miss Carr was tired too, but she didn’t dare to give in to the sensation. Thankfully, the visitors read over the invoice with little interest. The eldest countess signed her name at the bottom beside the sum total, a colossal number that made Miss Carr want to dance, if only she wasn’t so tired.
“Our bankers are Coutts & Co. The count has a substantial letter of credit with them. This should take a substantial bite out of it.” As if it was part of an old joke, the senior countess showed her teeth, and the other two laughed. “We thank you very much for your hospitality, Miss Carr, but we must now be going.”
Miss Carr dropped her half-bow, half-curtsy gratefully. It was after one in the morning. She’d be lucky if her bespoke cab would still be outside.
“Very well, Countesses. May I say, on behalf of the House of Feldon, that it has been a great pleasure to serve you? Is there anything else at all with which I may assist you?”
“No, thank you,” said the youngest, rising from her grand chair and licking her lips. Miss Carr noticed again how very, very red they were. Was that a drop of rouge on her chin? “We have got everything that we came for.”
Long-Term Investment
Chelsea Quinn Yarbro
The coffins bothered him, no doubt about it. Ever since the foreign gentleman had hired him to supervise his warehouse, the coffins had bothered him—that, and working late, although he was not completely alone at any hour, for even at night the London docks bustled; ships tugged restlessly at their moorings out in the Thames and those secured to the vast wooden piers strained at the lines holding them. Lamps gave off a fuzzy glow, tingeing the docks with gold and lighting the busy efforts of all who labored here. Activity was everywhere: longshoremen worked steadily, loading or removing cargo from the waiting holds; sailors from a hundred foreign ports polished brightwork, swabbed decks, inspected rigging, bucked cargo, hauled lines, all as if it were midday. Many of the office windows in the warehouses were lit, testimony to the industry of the owners of the vessels as well as the men they hired. The brackish smell of bilgewater and the odor of tar hung on the air, stronger than the clean scent off the distant sea, although there was a tang of salt in the fog.
Edward Hitchin sat in the dusty office above the warehouse floor and tried to keep himself busy. The foreign gentleman— calling himself Carfax—was paying him welclass="underline" ten shillings for a day’s work, and twelve when he had to remain past nine at night, handsome wages for a young man from Stepney who was little more than a watchman. He was determined to keep the job as long as possible, for he liked the jingle of coins in his pocket and the respectful nod from the patrolling constables.
A ship was due in from Varna, and Mister Carfax had told Edward to expect another load of coffins. “Not that we haven’t a fair supply on hand already,” he had added before leaving Edward alone. “Still, it is good business, is it not, to have an ample supply. Coffins are a long-term investment, are they not?” He had chuckled, which Edward found disquieting, but there were so many things about Mister Carfax that gave him pause that this chuckle seemed a minor intrusion.
“Too true,” Edward said to himself as he looked out the window and down onto the warehouse floor where several dozen elaborately carved coffins were stacked. He had been thinking about Carfax’s remark all evening—that coffins were a long-term investment; he had decided that in its way, the observation was witty. Coffins always got used, eventually. Another load of them and the warehouse would be more than half-filled, and that load would arrive in a matter of hours.
Edward was considering lighting up his pipe when a sharp rap on the entry door claimed his attention. Surely the ship had not yet off-loaded the cargo for Mister Carfax. When the knock was repeated, he bolted from the office, running noisily down the stairs as he called out, “In half a tick!” Opening the door, he found himself facing a man he had never seen before, but knew at once, though the man wore a suit instead of a uniform, that he was a member of the police. Edward blanched but held the door steadily. ”Good evening.”
“Good evening. Am I addressing Mister Carfax?”
“No,” Edward answered, wondering what the police wanted with the tall, foreign gentleman. “‘He’s away just now. I’m his… assistant. Edward Hitchin.” He could not make himself ask what the police were doing here, so he waited while the policeman stepped inside.
“Do you have a little time to spare, Mister Hitchin? I am Inspector Ames of Scotland Yard.”
This polite inquiry, along with being called “Mister” caught Edward off-balance. “Sure enough,” he said after he thought about it.
“You’ve been here all evening?” The policeman took a notebook from his inner breast pocket, and a pencil from his outer breast pocket, and prepared to write.
“Is this official, you taking down my answers and all?” Edward asked, trying to conceal his anxiety.
“Should it not be?” Inspector Ames asked so mildly that Edward had to resist the urge to spring from the room. “Now, have you been here all evening?”
“Since eleven in the morning. I came in late because I have to be here late to receive a new shipment of… stock.” He indicated the dimly lit warehouse.
“The sign over the door says D. Carfax, importer and purveyor of fine coffins and caskets” said the policeman. “Is this the stock on hand?”
“Yes,” said Edward. “The bills of lading are in the office. What you see here comes from Varna, most of it. Very elaborate carving they do in that part of the world—very elaborate.” He pointed to the nearest stack of coffins. “These are the simple ones. There are fancier toward the back. We even have some with bells to be secured above in case someone should be buried alive, and need to be dug up again.” He had been told to mention this desirable feature even though he thought it ghoulish.