Free Death on a Silver Tray by Rosemary Stevens Page B

sedan-chair. Two of Mr. Griffin’s lackeys held it a few inches off the ground by a pair of removable wooden poles attached to the sedan-chair’s sides. These poles extended about three feet in front and to the back of the equipage. The men positioned themselves between the poles, one fore and one aft.
     In such a vehicle, I could be carried about town without ever setting foot in London’s muddy streets. The sedan-chair could be brought into the hall of my house, convey me to White’s Club, or Almack’s Assembly Rooms, or any other destination, and ferry me to the front door without the risk of marring my boots or evening shoes. As a further benefit, I would not be subjected to the rain that so often lingers in London, nor to windy days which have the cruel effect of ruffling my cravat. What could be worse, I ask you, than the hand of nature wrecking what human hands have worked so hard to achieve?
    A sedan-chair was perfect for my needs for yet another reason. It did not require horses. I prefer not to keep horses. They are a drain on one’s pocketbook when one could better put one’s funds to use buying Sèvres porcelain, fine wines, or new clothing.
    Furthermore, there is a tavern nearby called The Porter & Pole which I hear can be depended upon to provide me with men to carry the sedan-chair at my summons. The sobriety of the men might be in question but then oftentimes so was mine.
    I stood by the vehicle and ran my hand along the wood
    Mr. Griffin had used.
    “This is a rather unknown wood called calamander,
    Mr. Brummell. I had it specially sent from India.”
    “Hmmm. It seems strong.”
    Mr. Griffin nodded his agreement. “Yes, sir. A heart wood, it is both dense and heavy.”
    The wood was dark and subtly striped. It had been varnished to a high gloss. Admittedly, the craftsmanship was superb.
    “Sir,” Mr. Griffin said, “calamander was well known to the Greeks and Romans. Today, it is ... ahem, costly to be sure. I thought it might be in keeping with your fine taste.”
    Robinson had been standing mute while I examined the wood, but now gave voice to his opinion. “If calamander wood is as rare as Mr. Griffin explains, sir, perhaps you will set a new fashion.”
    Now there was a pleasing idea.
    My face must have reflected my interest as Mr. Griffin seized on the comment. “That’s true, Mr. Brummell. Everyone follows your lead.”
    He swung open the door of the sedan-chair’s box-like structure, showing off the construction of the portal. “I consider myself an artist, if I may be so bold to say so, and I am proud of this chair. I have long wanted to work with calamander wood. Will you not view the inside?”
    I remained stubbornly doubtful, but complied with his request to inspect the interior of the vehicle. Ah, here I must report that everything was what I had hoped for. The perfection moved me to cry out, “Robinson! Come and see the white satin lining. Is it not everything I envisioned?”
    Robinson came to stand beside me. “Yes, indeed, sir.” He reached inside and touched the seat. “Down-filled?”
    I nodded. “And feel this rug. White sheepskin can only be the height of elegance in sedan-chair floor coverings.”
    Mr. Griffin entered an enthusiastic voice to the praise of the interior of the chair.
     The three of us were so absorbed that a knock on the front door barely registered a response. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw that one of Mr. Griffin’s lackeys took it upon himself to open the door to a servant delivering some sort of parcel.
    But I did not give the matter my immediate attention. Instead, I straightened from my examination of the inside of the chair. “Mr. Griffin, as pleased as I am with the interior, I cannot help but feel dubious about the wood used to construct the frame.”
    “I see, sir,” the merchant acknowledged. “But perhaps you might live with it for a week and delay a final judgment? It is my hope that the calamander wood will reveal to you its