Devil Take The Hindmost

Chapter Twelve

I have, in my long years of private detection, done many things which it might be argued warranted arrest. In my defence, all of them were undertaken in pursuit of the truth and justice. They were also in pursuit of a fee, but if it ever came to it, I would gloss over that bit in court.

This encounter, on the other hand, registered pretty far down the list of my intermittent bending of the letter of the law.

Detective Constable Cat Dee was smiling at me, a movement that did not make it the short distance from her lips to her eyes, themselves harder than chips of obsidian and fixed immovably on me as I brushed myself down and tried to regain some composure.

Her grin made her already prominent cheekbones seem to extend so far up and out they almost left her face entirely. She looked as if she were somewhere in the early stages of losing a bet to swallow a coat hanger and remained silent, staring at me.

Odd, I thought, but was shaken out of further pondering by the appearance of a second woman.

The new arrival was taller and leaner than Cat and when she reached to the wall and flicked on the light switch, I saw she was in her late middle age, with a wiry frame and a dash of steel in her chestnut hair.

I had assumed the person who descended the stairs to open the front door would be either Sylvia Distain or Molly, but in fact it was neither.

"Who are you?" I demanded of the newcomer. Cat cocked her head a fraction in surprise.

"I might ask you the same," the woman retorted, drawing a thick plaid dressing gown more tightly around her rangy body. "This is my house, after all."

"I beg your pardon?" I stammered. "This house belongs to my current client, Sylvia Distain, and I'm here to see her," I started to lay out my defence.

It was the taller woman's turn to look surprised with an expression which passed fleetingly but left more questions in my mind.

"You climbed through a window to meet your client?" Cat scowled. "And had an appointment to meet her under a writing desk?"

Sarcasm didn't suit her, I thought.

"... in the dark," she concluded unnecessarily.

I waited for the rest of it, but still it didn't come.

"My name is Miriam Calhoun, and this is my house. Gloriana left it to me in her will." The tall woman brushed past Cat, who was still holding an extendable baton with the air of someone itching to use it.

Arriving at the desk, the woman reached into the folds of her plaid dressing gown and opened the central drawer with a small silver key she wore on a chain around her neck.

"Here," she said, laying out what looked very much like the last will and testament of Gloriana Wyntham for me to see.

I scanned the section she was pointing at and nodded at the passage noting the Wyntham Estate, and all of its contents, were bequeathed to one Miriam Calhoun.

"Well, there has obviously been some sort of terrible mistake," I proposed, wondering what the fuck was going on.

"And you appear to have made it," Miriam chimed, crossing back to the door. "Now you will do the courtesy of telling me your name before Cat takes you away."

I paused for a moment, suddenly becoming less concerned about the legal ramifications of my predicament.

"My name is Satchmo Turner, and I'm a private detective. The Waifs and Strays Agency, perhaps you've heard of us?" I fumbled in my pockets looking for a business card, but an expressive twitch of Cat's baton saw me abandoning the search.