The Rose of Birmingham | ᴘᴇᴀᴋʏ ʙʟɪɴᴅᴇʀꜱ

Four | ʀᴏꜱᴇ

The noxious malodor had significantly less presence within the confines of Mr. Shelby's study, and Rose found that she could once again breathe and think unencumbered. For that, she was grateful. This entire situation reminded her of a game of chess, and she needed to keep her wits about her.

Rose looked down at the dainty teacup and matching saucer in her hands. It surprised her that Mr. Shelby had served her himself rather than having his housekeeper do it. Her parents, especially her mother, would never have stooped to anything so pedestrian. This would have been adequate cause for instant kinship toward Mr. Shelby, if it weren't for Rose's sneaking suspicion that he was simply anxious to dismiss Frances. Almost as though he were remiss to converse with Rose in front of her.

...But why?

Observing her host as he indulged in his immodest glass of liquor, Rose took a polite sip of her spiked tea. It was good. Very good. Frances knew how to brew and steep tea to perfection, and the whiskey was — even to Rose's novice palate — clearly top shelf.

Returning the cup to its saucer, she silently scolded herself. Now was not the time to be impressed or distracted.

"Yes, I have questions," she stated. "To begin, when did you last see Dmitri?"

"The last time I saw him up and about?" Mr. Shelby mused. "Yesterday afternoon."

"Yesterday afternoon?" Rose repeated. She frowned. "Your housekeeper also mentioned she hadn't seen him since yesterday. Is there someone here who would have seen him more recently? Someone who may have spoken with him?"

Mr. Shelby took another drink, then set the glass aside. He laid his hands across his torso and laced his fingers. "Not that they would've noticed. The members of my staff are here to work, Miss MacClare, not chat amongst themselves."

"I'm aware that your employees are here to work, Mr. Shelby."

"Are you?"

"Yes. But the staff members of a large manor always talk amongst themselves, whether their employer is privy to such idle gossip or not."

"That so?"

"Yes. It is."

"And you know that for certain, d'ya?"

Rose felt her eyebrow twitch. She couldn't continue with this line of questioning without revealing that she'd grown up on a huge estate with an extensive household staff. For the sake of remaining inconspicuous, she wanted to keep that particular tidbit of information private.

Clearing her throat, she tried a different tactic. "And yesterday afternoon, when you saw Dmitri, where was he?"

"Here. On my property."

"Yes, obviously," Rose said. A hint of exasperation was beginning to set in. "But where on your property?"

"Near the garden shed. 'Round back."

"And what was he doing? At that time?"

Mr. Shelby quirked his head to one side. "Grabbin' tools, I expect. Shrubbery shears, or the like."

"Tools?"

"Aye. Tools. He was a gardener, Miss MacClare. He used tools. To garden."

"He 'was' a gardener?" Rose repeated. There was a tightening in her chest at the usage of past tense. "But not anymore?"

"As I told ya," Mr. Shelby said, "he's gone."

"Yes, you told me," Rose murmured. She lowered her eyes and paused to sip her tea. The more she learned about this situation, the less sense it made.