No Good Deed 38

The café was empty save for ourselves, a grizzled old man asleep face down in a dirty plate, and George. My companion motioned with her head toward the exit. I stood and drew back her chair, earning myself a splinter in the process. At no time did money change hands, which was the most pleasing aspect of our repast, for me. Afront the restaurant, Miss Shepherd bade me accompany her, at least, to the main thoroughfare. I assured her that I would accompany her to the very side of her bed. She, in turn, informed me that no such thing would be necessary – or indeed desirable, on her part.

Nonetheless, we took ourselves off in a direction that she informed me was 'Downtown', although a large proportion of the route appeared to be in an upward direction. We stopped before a large town-house, which would not have looked out of place in fashionable parts of Paris. It did look somewhat incongruous in Hannibal; a single file of stone-built, several-storey residences dwarfing the less pretentious clap-board houses in its vicinity.

'Well, Mr Northrup, I thank you.'

She was atop the steps, hand already on the bell pull.

'You might invite me in; I might tell you something of myself.' I said.

'I might, but I am certain that you would not.'

She offered the encouragement of a smile.

'Surely this grand edifice,' - She gave a snort as the last word escaped my lips – 'has a drawing room? Would you not be entirely safe in the company of your parents?'

'What makes you think that my parents live here?' she asked.

'Oh, please don't tell me you are the orphaned ward of a rich and philanthropic couple!'

She smiled, 'Not everything is what it seems, Mr Northrup.'

This observation was not something to be denied by me.

'Come, Miss Shepherd, I give you my word. I shall tell you all you might wish to know.'

I did not enjoy the tone of supplication in my own voice. Still less, the bell-like laugh she gave in answer.

'Surely you would take a gentleman at his word?' The words came rapid and hot, it was true.

'I would if there were any such present,' she said, as she gave the bell-pull a masculine jerk.

The door opened wide. It was opened by a white man of middle years, who raised his eyebrows. Whether this was in greeting in honour of Miss Shepherd's return, or in surprise at the company in which she had arrived, was, of course, open to argument. The eyebrows had almost descended to a customary level by the time he sputtered a

'G-G-Good evening, Miss Shepherd, ah... were we expecting a guest?'

'Don't worry, Fishbein, Mr Northrup will take a drink and be gone within the hour.'

I was unsure whether to feel flattered or insulted at the relief visible in the retainer's face. He ushered us along a wide vestibule, lighting our way with a candelabra which sported a familiar number of branches. We passed into a withdrawing room in the English style. Fishbein lit candles in sconces, of which there were many. He stopped short of finding the long taper required to light those in the chandelier, but the light was comfortable, if unsuitable for reading. A long case clock in the corner chimed 11. Fishbein backed out of the room and Miss Shepherd gestured me toward an upholstered chair in the style of Chippendale, while she sat primly and – to my eye – uncomfortably on a chaise-longue whose pattern matched said chair.

'Fishbein will see to some wine in a moment,' she said. 'You may begin.'