Free Good Man Friday by Barbara Hambly Page B

turning her face beautiful, like sunlight on marble. ‘Mr Bray was here the first time Mr Singletary called and hadn’t the slightest idea what to make of him. In many ways my husband is … I suppose what you in New Orleans would call a
Kain-tuck
, though you could search the earth and not find a nobler heart.’ She frowned for a moment, as if troubled at some thought concerning her husband.
    Then she gave her head a little shake and went on gaily, ‘And of course Mr Singletary, having no more small talk than the kitchen cat, proceeded to explain to him the principles of double-entry accounting, with an aside into methods of converting Turkish lire into pounds, poking at him with his eyeglasses all the while …’
    Her smile faded. ‘What do you suppose happened to him?’
    â€˜I spoke to the Chief Constable yesterday.’ Henri straightened his spectacles and fished in his vest pocket for his notebook. ‘He said that no – er – body has been found bearing anything that might be identified as his, although I must say the constabulary did not impress me. At the coach office, the clerks said they had no record of anyone of his name purchasing a ticket to Charlottesville, and I can’t imagine why he would have done so incognito. Now that we have some idea of what he looked like we can inquire at the hospitals …’
    â€˜Surely if he’d been taken ill,’ protested Mrs Bray, ‘the hospital would have written to me. I know he had my card. In any case –’ her dark brows knit – ‘when it became clear that Mr Singletary was missing, Mr Oldmixton at the British Ministry – Sir Henry Fox’s secretary – sent a clerk to make enquiries along the stage route to Charlottesville. It was then,’ she finished simply, ‘that I wrote to you.’
    In the silence that followed, the voices of slaves drifted from the kitchen, then dimmed as the door closed, which divided the small office at the back of the parlor from the kitchen quarters behind. The long parlor, looking on to the rose garden at the east of the house through three tall French windows, was suffused at this hour with a gentle dimness that would turn into twilight soon. January guessed the two marble busts – one of Athena, the other of a young woman with a hairstyle of fifty years ago – had been brought by this soft-voiced young woman to her marriage; probably the handsome spinet piano as well.
    Chloë asked, ‘And he spoke of no one else that he might have seen here?’
    Mrs Bray shook her head. ‘Though conversation with Mr Singletary was always a bit problematic. I wish I’d insisted that he take Mede with him to Charlottesville …’
    â€˜Mede?’
    â€˜Ganymede, my husband’s valet. His Good Man Friday, he calls him – when he’s not ordering him about quite shockingly. An invaluable young man. But Mr Bray wouldn’t hear of it.’
    Through the long windows January glimpsed a flurry of movement as a groom ran out to meet the horseman who’d come up the drive at a canter on a horse that easily could have cost a thousand dollars. The man who leaped from the saddle was tall, wide-shouldered, and moved with feral grace. Honey-colored hair, straight, clear features … he sprang toward the front stairs and January heard him yell, ‘Mede! Where the hell are you, you lazy savage …? Get my bath ready …’
    An expression of tightness fleeted across Mrs Bray’s face.
    But Henri, his thoughts pursuing other tracks, asked suddenly, ‘Should we be inquiring about Mr Singletary’s friends? Or asking about his enemies?’
    â€˜Enemies?’ Mrs Bray looked startled. ‘I shouldn’t imagine the poor old man had an enemy in the world! What makes you say that?’
    Henri frowned, clasping and unclasping his kid gloves in his plump, ink-stained hands. Like his tiny wife, he was