Free The Mysterious Affair at Castaway House by Stephanie Lam Page B

now.
    ‘She loves goading people,’ Alec had said last night. ‘And she’s bloody good at it. Likes nothing better than to set the cat among the pigeons.’
    I forced myself to breathe steadily and, keeping my voice at a calm pitch, said, ‘As thrilling a romance as yours with Alec, no doubt.’
    ‘Oh,’ she said, ‘we’ve certainly had our thrills all right.’
    She stood up, her gown swirling about her, snatched up her newspaper and left the room. I stared at the buttery mushrooms, my heart beating fast, my breath scratchy inmy throat, ashamed but relieved that I had survived the skirmish; and if there were to be more – well then, I would be ready.
    Slowly, my heartbeat returned to normal. I ate the rest of my breakfast in peace, looking out of the bay windows at the cobalt-blue sky, and I thought of the sketchbook and pencils in my case. A different maid came back to clear the dishes, and curiosity got the better of me. I said humorously, ‘Cup broken earlier, was it?’
    ‘Sorry about that, sir. It was the parlourmaid.’
    ‘Agnes?’ I ventured, and she nodded. ‘A new job for her, isn’t it?’
    ‘New for all of us,’ said the maid. ‘Since Sally disappeared so sudden the lot of us’ve been moved about. One of those things, sir.’
    ‘Disappeared?’
    The maid nodded. ‘No note or nothing. Just vanished. I mean, it’s not on, is it? Well, she won’t get a reference like that, is what I say.’
    She bundled the napkins inside the tablecloth and left the room. I supposed that servants were often prone to disappearing; I certainly would have been unable to stand working in this house for more than five minutes. I went back upstairs to collect the leather bag containing the tools of my hobby, thankfully avoiding Mrs Bray, and thought no more about it.
    The sun was rising to a warm pitch by the time I left the house. I walked down the hill to the promenade, turned a sharp right and followed it along, under the cliff towards the pier, slotting my coin into the turnstile and walking along the planks. Below me, a few families were starting toset up camp on the sand, unpacking their luggage of parasols, blankets and picnics.
    I walked to the very end, passing elderly ladies and gentlemen on their morning perambulations. I settled on the furthest view, facing to sea, and took out my book. I had watercolour sketches inside, painted during my year of recuperation: the view over the rooftops from my bedroom window, the brightly coloured barges on the canal. I flipped to a new blank page, possibilities darting about as always, rested it on the rail and, pulling out a ready-sharpened pencil, attempted a rough sketch of gulls bobbing on the waves.
    ‘Mr Carver!’
    The voice in my ear startled me. The pencil scored a thick grey line across a gull’s beak. I growled to myself and looked round for my attacker.
    It was the neighbour of yesterday, Dr Feathers. He was leaning over my shoulder in a far too intimate manner, and smiling at me through his beard. ‘I was calling you from the other side of the pier,’ he said. ‘But you were lost in your own world.’
    ‘I was,’ I said, hoping he would infer from this that I wished to remain lost, but it seemed that Dr Feathers was not attuned to the subtleties of communication. He waggled a finger towards the sea. ‘Sketching the view, eh?’
    I realized I would be unable to continue while the doctor was standing behind me, and so I put away my pencil and turned to face him. ‘That’s the idea.’
    He stroked his beard as he peered at it. ‘Jolly good,’ he said. ‘No paint, eh? Wish I were a painting man myself. Always fancied a little dabble in
les beaux arts
. What do youthink of the Paris scene? Can’t abide them meself. All those horses without heads and mechanical elephants. No, give me your Monet or Manet or Degas any day. Now, they were geniuses.’
    Beyond the doctor, a little further along, I noticed two girls leaning on the rail. One, blonde and