Paint the Town Red (Fox & Oakby Murder Mysteries Book II)

Nosy

Imogen's first impulse was to give the Mayor an honest - and a somewhat smug - answer 'He offered to represent my art.' It could roll off her tongue so easily, she thought. And it would sound so nice too. 'My art.' As in Imogen's own. But that was where the barney suddenly occurred. Because the art was hers, and hers alone; and two men had already tried to manhandle it; and quite honestly, Imogen had had enough.

"It was just a... misunderstanding," she mumbled, and pulled a plastic smile. "Do you know him?" she then asked.

The Mayor looked as if he did, and wasn't happy about it.

"We've crossed paths."

The answer sounded as sincere and open as Imogen's 'misunderstanding' remark.

"Oh," Imogen responded.

"He's a double-faced bastard," the Mayor grumbled; and Imogen's jaw slacked.

Never before had she heard such a categorical and opinionated description from the man!

"And I do not wish to tell you what to do and whom to socialise with; but as a person not so remote from you, I have to..." The Mayor gave out a small cough. "I have to warn you to be careful around him. Not that I'm saying you aren't. I don't know if you are. And you do have a sound judgement in my mind, in the most trying circumstances. So, you don't actually..." He coughed again. "Don't need my warning."

He then looked at the ceiling, then at his hands, turned around, and left Imogen's office.

Imogen proceeded sitting with her mouth half open.

***

After a short call to the Mayor's office announcing that she was leaving and his no less concise 'See you later,' Imogen took a taxi to Oakby Garden, the large mansion where the Mayor grew up, and where he never again wanted to set his foot.

Oakby Garden was indeed the best example of the 'Englishman's castle:' with its meadows, little creeks, stables with well looked after horses whom no one rode, and the priest's hole inside, and an ice house, and a keeper's cottage, and even its own chapel and a priest's cottage attached to it. All of it was kept in an excellent condition by the efforts of many servants that were generously paid and no less generously abused by the current Mr. Oakby.

Imogen rang the bell, having half a mind to feel uncomfortable when ringing the front door - but then she reminded herself that she wasn't a servant or a delivery person. In this 'upstairs-downstairs' world Imogen after all was sort of standing on the balcony, outside the normal hierarchy. 

The door opened, and a strict looking middle-aged woman gave Imogen a thorough look over.

"Ms. Fox?" she asked.

"Yes?" Imogen wasn't sure why it sounded as if she was asking. "Mr. Oakby asked me to come."

"I am Mrs. Fellowes, the housekeeper," the woman said inviting Imogen with a reserved wave of her hand.

Everything about Mrs. Fellowes consisted of clean prim lines: the starched white shirt, the suit jacket, the pressed trousers. The hair was tied in such a tight bun that her head looked varnished.

"Allow me to show you to the drawing room. Mr. Oakby will be with you shortly. Should I ring for tea?"

'God no!' Imogen wanted to exclaim.

"Thank you, but no. I'm here on an official business," Imogen decided to assert herself.

Mrs. Fellowes gave Imogen another examining glance and left. Imogen felt a certain degree of admiration towards the woman's ability to radiate sarcasm and skepticism without expressing either in any way.