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EIGHT

M y nerves are quite delicate, Mrs. Kern.

” Valerie, Lady Fulbrook, clasped her hands on top of her desk.

“I have difficulty sleeping. At unpredictable times and for no apparent reason, I am suddenly overcome with anxiety and dread. I am easily tossed into the depths of despondence by matters that, to those who possess sturdier nerves, would seem the merest of trifles. But I have discovered that writing my little poems provides me with significant relief. I was fortunate to find a small publisher in New York that has been kind enough to take some of my efforts for its magazine.”

“That would be the Paladin Literary Quarterly ?” Ursula asked. “I found the address in Anne’s files.”

“Yes. Paladin doesn’t pay, you understand, except in free copies of the Quarterly . But I am not writing to make an income. It is therapy.”

“I understand,” Ursula said. “I’m glad that you have found the services of the Kern Secretarial Agency helpful.”

They were alone in Valerie’s small, private study. A short time ago a dour-faced maid had brought in a tea tray, poured two cups and departed. She had moved like a ghost throughout the process, making almost no noise.

There was, Ursula noticed, a curiously oppressive hush about the entire household. It was as though the inhabitants were waiting for someone to die.

Ursula had been to the Fulbrook mansion once before when Valerie had sent a message to the agency saying that she wished to hire a secretary.

Ursula always insisted upon meeting new clients personally.

She took the precaution for two reasons.

First, and foremost, it sent a clear message that the agency was an elite establishment and it expected clients to treat the professional secretaries with respect.

The second reason she insisted on an initial face-to-face meeting was so that she could gain an impression of the client.

This afternoon Ursula concluded that her initial impressions had been accurate.

Valerie was a beautiful but fragile flower that could easily be crushed underfoot.

Her blond hair was pinned into a chignon that emphasized her pale skin and fine-boned features.

She was small and thin but elegantly, gracefully proportioned—a dainty fairy princess.

She appeared composed but there was a bleak desperation in her blue eyes.

Her voice suited her appearance, weak and faint, as though the slightest breeze would blow it away.

Valerie was a woman who, in the right gown and endowed with an air of confidence, could have been capable of lighting up a ballroom. But it was clear that she had retreated almost entirely from life.

“I do not pretend that my poetry has any claims to literary merit,” Valerie said. “But my doctor tells me it is doing wonders for my nerves.”

“I am happy to be able to assist you in the endeavor,” Ursula said.

“As I explained when I first engaged a secretary from your agency, I would write the poems myself but I find that I gain a much clearer impression of how they will appear in print if I read them in typewritten form. Also, I fear that I become quite anxious when I try to write down a final version of my own poems. I cannot stop myself from going over them again and again. I get quite frustrated and depressed. But for some reason when I dictate them, the words come more freely.”

Ursula had stayed awake late into the night contemplating two things—the fact that she might never see Slater again and a way to introduce the subject of Anne Clifton when she met with Lady Fulbrook.

There was no answer to the problem of Slater Roxton but when it came to the matter of the investigation she concluded that a few straightforward questions might not seem suspicious.

“I realize it must have come as a shock to learn that Miss Clifton had passed,” she said gently. “You were accustomed to working with her, after all, and had no doubt established a certain routine.”

“Yes, Anne—Miss Clifton—was an excellent secretary.” Valerie sighed. “I will miss her. You say the police believe she took her own life?”

“Yes. Those of us who knew her at the agency were astonished by that news but evidently there is little doubt about the facts.”

“I see.” Valerie shook her head. “How sad. Anne was not only a flawless stenographer and typist. Our working relationship was such that, toward the end, she was actually quite helpful to me. When I had difficulty with my poems, we would discuss the overarching theme. Often the perfect word or turn of phrase became clear to me.”

“I doubt that I will be as helpful in that regard,” Ursula said. “But I will do my best.”

Valerie glanced out the window with the air of a prisoner peering through the bars of a cell.

“You will be surprised to hear this, Mrs. Kern, but these past few months, Anne was the closest thing I had to a friend. I never leave the house now, you see. I looked forward to my twice-weekly appointments with Anne. She was my lifeline to the outside world. I feel her loss quite keenly.”

“I understand.”

There was a moment of silence and then Valerie rose from her chair with a dignified but weary air.

“Shall we begin?” she said. “I think best in my conservatory. That is where I receive my inspiration. I trust you will not mind if we work there?”

“Of course not.” Ursula collected the satchel containing her notebook and pencils and got to her feet.

Valerie led the way toward the door of the study. “I frequently employ images and themes taken from nature.”

“I see.”

At the end of the cavernous hall, another silent, somber-faced maid opened the door. Ursula followed Valerie outside and across a stone terrace. They walked toward a magnificent iron-and-glass conservatory that loomed in the foggy afternoon light.

When they reached the door Valerie took out a key.

“The conservatory is my realm, Mrs. Kern,” she said. “It is the one place where I find peace of mind. The poem I am currently working on is titled ‘On a Small Death in the Garden.’”

It was, Ursula concluded, going to be a very long and rather depressing afternoon.