Page 20 of The Paid Companion

T he old man gazed into the crackling fire, one gouty foot propped on a stool, a glass of port in his gnarled fingers. Arthur waited, his arms resting on the gilded sides of his chair. The conversation with his companion had not gone smoothly. It was obvious that for Lord Dalling time had become a deep pool in which the currents of the past and the present were intermingled, rather than a river that ran in only one direction.

“How did ye happen to learn of my interest in old snuffboxes, sir?” Dalling asked, frowning in a befuddled manner. “Collect ’em yourself, do ye?”

“No, sir,” Arthur said. “I visited several shops that specialize in selling fine snuffboxes and asked for the names of those clients the proprietors considered their most knowledgeable customers. Your name came up in several of the best establishments.”

There was no need to add that it had been considerably more complicated obtaining the old man’s current address. Dalling had not made any additions to his snuffbox collection in years, and the shopkeepers had lost track of his whereabouts.

In addition, the elderly gentleman had moved two years previously. Most of his contemporaries were either dead or suffering great gaps in their memories and could not remember the location of their old friend’s new lodgings. But fortunately one aging baron who still played cards every night at Arthur’s club had recalled Dalling’s new street and number.

They sat together in Dalling’s library. The furnishings and the books on the shelves dated from another era, as did their owner. It was as if the past thirty years had never happened, as if Byron had never written a word, as if Napoleon had not been defeated, as if men of science had not made astonishing strides investigating the mysteries of electricity and chemistry. Even his host’s tight breeches dated from another time and place.

The tall clock ticked heavily in the silence. Arthur wondered if his last question had sent his companion back into the murky depths of the pool of time, never to resurface.

But Dalling stirred at last. “A snuffbox set with a large red stone, you say?”

“Yes. With the name Saturn worked into the design.”

“Aye, I recall a box such as you describe. An acquaintance carried it for years. Quite a lovely little box. I recall once asking him where he had purchased it.”

Arthur did not move for fear of distracting the old man. “Did he tell you?”

“I believe he said that he and some companions had commissioned a jeweler to create three similar boxes, one for each of them.”

“Who was this gentleman? Do you remember his name?”

“Of course I remember it.” Dalling’s face tightened fiercely. “I’m not senile, sir.”

“My apologies. I never meant to imply that.”

Dalling appeared somewhat mollified. “Glentworth. That was the name of the man who owned the Saturn snuffbox.”

“Glentworth.” Arthur got to his feet. “Thank you, sir. I am very grateful for your assistance.”

“Heard he died recently. Not long ago. Within the past week, I believe.”

Hell’s teeth. Glentworth was dead? After all the effort it had taken to track him down?

“I didn’t attend the funeral,” Dalling continued. “Used to go to all of them, but there got to be too many, so I gave up the habit.”

Arthur tried to think of how to proceed. Everywhere he turned in this maze, he met with a blank wall.

The fire crumbled. Dalling took a jeweled snuffbox out of his pocket, flipped the lid open and helped himself to a pinch. He inhaled the pulverized tobacco with a quick, efficient little snort. Closing the box, he settled deeper into his chair with a heavy sigh of satisfaction. His heavy lids closed.

Arthur started toward the door. “Thank you for your time, sir.”

“Not at all.” Dalling did not open his eyes. He fingered his exquisite little snuffbox, turning it over and over in his hand.

Arthur had the door open and was about to step out into the hall when his host spoke again.

“Perhaps you should talk to the widow,” the old man said.