Chapter 15 #2
I gazed out the window of Sidney’s Pierce-Arrow as we motored west toward Grantham Street where the friend Mrs. Harlow was staying with resided, trying not to think of Wick or the recent news out of Tralee where the citizens were still under siege from the Black and Tans.
This was in addition to the usual crop of shootings and reprisals and the continued tit-for-tat violence occurring throughout the country.
A few days earlier, Max had even witnessed the mayhem directly when the IRA had thrown a bomb into an RIC tender near the Rotunda and a gun fight between the rebels and the Crown Forces had ensued, albeit a short one.
I’d seldom seen Max look so grim as he described the scene.
The streets of south Dublin were quiet now, though there was no guarantee that would last for long.
Sidney parked at the edge of the pavement before the brown brick Georgian edifices lining Grantham Street.
It was a respectable neighborhood, home to the prosperous middle class who took comfort in neatness and uniformity.
In fact, the only things to mark out the home of Mrs. Harlow’s friend, Mrs. Mitchum, as different was the number on the shining gold plaque and the wisteria arching over the columns flanking the door.
I imagined it was quite lovely in May and June when the flowers were blooming.
We’d not been certain what to expect, but we were swiftly ushered inside, either our celebrity or our claim to be paying a condolence call paving the way.
The drawing room we were shown into was also neat and uniform, as was the woman I assumed to be its owner—a pretty brunette in a demure lace-trimmed blouse.
My assumption was proved correct as she rose to greet us, her eyes wide with either shock, awe, or alarm.
I suspected it wasn’t the latter, for her welcome was effusive.
The woman who had been seated beside her on the beige settee, on the other hand, eyed me with blatant suspicion.
But even though she clearly knew enough to be wary of my presence, she also couldn’t completely stifle the exhilaration she seemed to feel at finding us sitting across from her.
Her crystalline-blue eyes glinted with a sort of cagey elation.
She was exactly Ardmore’s type. Beautiful, elegant, slightly spoiled, and frightfully bored. Of course, I couldn’t tell the latter two upon first sight, but our subsequent conversation did nothing to disabuse me of my initial impression.
As for her guardedness, it was also obvious who had instilled it in her, and I decided not to waste either of our time dancing around the proverbial elephant in the room like from the Russian fable.
So once our condolences were given and tea was poured, I turned to address Mrs. Harlow directly.
“I understand we have a mutual acquaintance. Though Lord Ardmore is more your particular friend than mine.”
Mrs. Harlow did not react to this remark; however, our hostess took umbrage.
“Mrs. Kent,” Mrs. Mitchum gasped, as she glanced anxiously at her friend. “I hardly think that … that this is appropriate. Mrs. Harlow is a respectable widow and to … to imply …”
“Oh, hush, Louisa,” Mrs. Harlow interrupted, never removing her sharp gaze from mine. “Mrs. Kent isn’t the type to be shocked by such things.”
“But Gigi …” She leaned toward her friend to murmur in a hushed whisper before peering about us as if afraid she might be overheard.
“Walter isn’t here. But close the door if you wish.”
Mrs. Mitchum blinked at her friend for a moment before rising to comply with her suggestion.
I deduced that Walter must be her husband and the real cause of her unease.
I imagined how displeased he might be to discover his wife’s friend and guest was an adulteress.
If nothing else, it might taint their respectable image.
“He told me you would pay me a visit.” The way Mrs. Harlow spoke it sounded like an accusation.
“Lord Ardmore, I presume. Not Walter,” I couldn’t stop myself from quipping, having been caught off guard by her pronouncement and eager to conceal it.
She glared at me before turning toward the side table to open the box of cigarettes and extract one. “You’re precisely as he described you.” Her scrutiny narrowed to my injured eye. “Though perhaps not as flawlessly lovely.”
I ignored the baiting remark, wondering why Ardmore had been making comments about my attractiveness to his mistress. Unless it was to make her jealous. If so, he’d succeeded.
Mrs. Harlow turned to Sidney with an arch smile, gesturing with the cigarette held between her fingers. “Mr. Kent, you must have a lighter. Would you mind?”
Sidney, being the gentleman he was, reached inside his brown tweed coat pocket even as Mrs. Mitchum protested. “Gigi, you know how Walter feels about women smoking.”
“Oh, hush. Walter won’t know.” Mrs. Harlow cast another flirtatious smile toward Sidney as she leaned forward, holding the cigarette up to her pouting lips. “And I’m sure Mr. Kent will join me, so if Walter smells the smoke later, you can tell him that a gentleman caused it.”
I felt a sharp tick of annoyance, for this placed my husband in an awkward predicament.
As a rule, a gentleman did not smoke in such situations, particularly if he were the only man present and the females were generally unknown to him.
Yet it would also be ungentlemanly to decline Mrs. Harlow’s request for assistance, even self-serving as it was.
But I should have known Sidney would find some middle ground.
“I prefer to abstain,” he replied as Mrs. Harlow took her first drag on her cigarette, before turning to Mrs. Mitchum. “But you may tell your husband I did so if it will make things easier for you.”
Mrs. Mitchum smiled gratefully at him while Mrs. Harlow tossed her blond bobbed hair in irritation and exhaled a stream of smoke. “As you wish,” she declared with a flick of her wrist.
It was almost alarming how much she reminded me of Ada, the late Lady Rockham, the beautiful little fool.
Yes, Ada had been dark where Mrs. Harlow was light, but they exhibited the same coquettishness, the same self-absorption, the same forthrightness and flair for the dramatic.
I wondered if she would allow Ardmore to ruin her just as he’d ruined Ada. If he hadn’t already.
“Then Ardmore knows we suspect that he murdered your husband,” I stated plainly, electing to meet her candidness with my own.
Mrs. Mitchum gasped aloud, pressing a hand to her open mouth while, once again, Mrs. Harlow’s reaction was more restrained, though no less telling. I saw the way her hand shook as she brought the cigarette to her lips.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” she scoffed after she exhaled. “Ardmore doesn’t get jealous.” She sounded disgruntled about that.
“Yes, but the motive needn’t be you,” I replied, rubbing salt in the wound, for which she tossed me an angry scowl. “As we understand it, he and your husband were friends before you became lovers.”
She gave no answer to this, perhaps because it did not speak well of her, but simply arranged herself flatteringly in her corner of the settee, one leg crossed over the other as she continued to smoke.
“Do you recall how they met?” I asked.
She shrugged one shoulder. “Some way or another.”
I turned to Sidney, indicating he should take over. Maybe he could get something out of her.
He cleared his throat. “We wonder if he might have been making use of your husband’s special skills.”
Mrs. Harlow tilted her head to blink at him, evidently at a loss as to what he was talking about.
“You understand your husband was a quartermaster until recently?”
“Sure. In charge of all the supplies and such.” It was evident from her dismissive tone that she equated this to the role of essentially a housekeeper.
“We didn’t talk about it much. He preferred not to discuss the war or his career.
” Her mouth flattened in displeasure. “Or really anything to do with the army. At least, not with me.”