A tense, eerie silence descended upon the room. Rose stared at Mr. Mercer, suspicious and agitated, and he stared back, stoic and frigid.

Rose's mouth had long since gone dry. She suffered through a swallow and repeated her question. “Why do you have Dmitri's ring?”

In the stead of giving an answer, Mr. Mercer took another drag off his cigarette and exhaled the smoke, each movement slow and precise. Rose couldn't tell if he was stalling for time or simply didn't care.

At last, her host said, “He left it here.”

“He left it here,” Rose repeated, a sharp edge to her words.

“Yes.”

“He left his family heirloom here. With you. When he ‘resigned’,” she clarified.

“Yes.”

“As what? A gift?”

“Could be. I didn't ask.”

Rose balled her hand into a fist and squeezed the handkerchief in her lap, willing herself to remain calm. “Mr. Mercer, do you honestly expect me to believe that Dmitri left your estate without his family ring?”

Mr. Mercer released a plume of smoke from between his lips and snubbed out his cigarette. “I have no expectations whatsoever regarding your beliefs, Miss Sinclair.”

Something inside of Rose snapped. Whatever metaphorical line had kept her tethered to this farce of a polite conversation was severed by an invisible knife. A knife wielded by her host's blasé tone of voice and mirthless eyes.

“You're lying,” Rose stated through clenched teeth.

Mr. Mercer regarded her in his habitual aggravating silence, the slight expression on his face falling somewhere between offense and amusement. “Am I?”

“Yes!” Rose exclaimed. “Yes, you're lying! Dmitri would have died before parting with that ring. His father gave it to him just before he passed on. It has been in Dmitri's family for six generations. He told me the whole story behind it. Look at the face: the engraving. That word is the Russian spelling of the name ‘Kuragin’! Why would he give it to any person who did not bear that name?”

Mr. Mercer did not spare the engraving a glance. His gaze remained fixed on Rose. “I can't say.”

“You can't say because you're lying!” Rose reiterated, her voice rising in pitch and fervor. “All of this, everything you've said to me since I walked through that door, has been a pile of rubbish. You're a liar.”

Mr. Mercer's nostrils flared. It was the first sign of emotion Rose had witnessed since meeting him.

“Be careful, Miss Sinclair,” he said. His voice was low and dangerous, and a chill seemed to emanate from him as he spoke. “It isn't wise to call me a liar in me own house. I've given ya me time. I've answered your questions. You look like a smart girl. Don't take me kindness for granted.”

“Then tell me the truth!” she insisted.

“The truth?”

“Yes! The whole truth. Where is Dmitri Kuragin?”

Mr. Mercer sucked on his teeth. “Think ya want the ‘whole truth,’ d'ya?”

“Yes!”

“I shot him.”

“You—” Rose's words cut off, as though a field stone had dropped onto her chest. She struggled to take a breath, instead choking on the air like it had turned to poison. When at last she managed to utter her thoughts aloud, they came out a whisper: “You...what?”

Mr. Mercer shrugged. “I'd had my suspicions about him for some time. It became clear through his behavior that he wanted the job here so he could get close to me. To spy on me. Likely, to kill me. In the end.”

Rose blinked at him in disbelief. She attempted to produce a few words in argument or explanation, but all that came forth was a throaty strangled sound.

“I've been up to my neck in problems with the Russians for years now,” Mr. Mercer continued. “Since before the war. They said they'd be keepin' an eye on me, and so they were. Now, either you didn't know your mate Dmitri half as well as you thought y'did, or you're workin' for them, too.”

“Working for...them?” Rose questioned, her voice still breathy from shock. “For whom? I volunteer with the Russian refugees that are being sheltered in the catacombs beneath St. Mary's Catholic Church! I have no employer!”

With a dismissive wave of his hand, Mr. Mercer continued as if she hadn't spoken. “I don't take kindly to spies or traitors in me house, Miss Sinclair. Your mate Dmitri was both. He thought he had me fooled, and when I confronted him and told him that I'd sussed him out, he made to attack me. Kept shoutin' the word ‘sestry’ at me. Meant as a curse, I expect. I considered that his resignation, and I shot him.”

A horrified nausea grew within Rose's stomach with each sentence that Mr. Mercer uttered. It wasn't true. None of it. Not a word. How had the simple truth become so twisted and profane?

“Attack?” Rose gasped. “You think he meant to attack you? So, y— You...shot him? You shot him?!”

Her teacup and handkerchief tumbled from her grasp, and she vaulted up from her seat as though the varnished wood had transformed into hot coals.

“Dmitri Kuragin does not want you dead!” Rose cried. “He's not a spy, or a traitor, or anything else your paranoid mind could conjure! He's a refugee from St. Petersburg, chased from his home for a fabricated association with Tsar Nicholas II. Three weeks ago, he didn't even know who you were. He needs money to send back to Russia so that his three sisters can afford to escape. ‘Sestry’ is the Russian word for ‘sisters’!”

Mr. Mercer's eyes shifted, betraying the tiniest hint of uncertainty, but his expression remained one of formidable resolve. “I know what ‘sestry’ means,” he stated. “I've known many a Russian man with a ‘sestra’.”

Rose was beside herself. What was that bizarre, almost reminiscent statement supposed to convey? Was it even meant for her ears? “Well, if you knew what the word—”

Mr. Mercer made an aggressive slicing motion with his hand, cutting her off. “Sisters. Brothers. Cousins. Makes no difference, Miss Sinclair. He was a threat to me.”

Appalled, Rose slammed the palms of her hands against the desktop, fury blazing in her eyes. “Where is he?” she demanded. “Where is Dmitri? If you shot him, we must get him to a hospital!”

Her host stared at her with his icy eyes, but made no effort to stand or reach for the telephone. “I'm afraid a hospital will do him no good. I shot him here.” Mr. Mercer tapped his brow in between his eyes. “He's dead. As to his current whereabouts...well. His body is burnin' in the side yard.”

Rose felt the floor lurch and give way beneath her feet. She swayed precariously and grabbed the edge of the desk for support. The jumble of noise that was her mind tried to work backward through the illogical prattle she'd just heard.

Shot. Dead. Burning. Side yard.

Oh, god.

That horrible smell...

The stench of the brush fire from outside. It was Dmitri.

Rose put a hand to her mouth. “You...unimaginable bastard,” came her muffled voice from behind her palm.

She hadn't seen him move, but Mr. Mercer was suddenly at her side, a hand on her elbow to steady her.

“It was either him or me,” he said in her ear, his volume low. “I had every right to protect me'self on my own property. Don't do anythin' foolish, Miss Sinclair. If you choose to report me to the authorities, I'll say it was self-defense. Which it was.”

Upon feeling Mr. Mercer's steadying hand on her arm, Rose didn't know whether to feel grateful that he'd prevented a certain fall, or completely sickened by his close proximity. He repulsed her. How was it possible for any person to be so heartless and laissez-faire in regards to another human's life?

Once the urge to collapse had left her, she jerked her arm free of his grasp and wheeled around to face him, her eyes narrowed in disdain.

“Inconceivable. The level at which you're lying,” she seethed. “‘Self-defense,’ indeed! Dmitri didn't have an aggressive bone in his body. His passion was making things grow, not cutting them down! He wasn't a spy for any faction, Russian or otherwise, and he never would have attacked you. And yes, I most certainly will be going to the authorities. His family deserves justice, even if it's too late for him.”

Mr. Mercer's eyes hardened as they settled on her face, and he clucked his tongue behind his teeth. “If ya know what's good for ya, you'll tell no one, Miss Sinclair. Your Russian friend posed a threat. My reaction was completely warranted.”

Rose expelled a defiant huff. “If you knew me at all, Mr. Mercer — which you don't — you'd know that I rarely do what's ‘good’ for me. I've always been burdened with more care for others than I have for myself. A disposition that we clearly do not share.”

He slid his hands into the pockets of his trousers and inclined his head toward her. “You're makin' a mistake, Miss Sinclair.”

Squaring her shoulders, she countered, “Doing the right thing is never a mistake. Tell yourself this murder was ‘warranted’ all you like. Threaten me, if it makes you feel big—”

“Oh, that wasn't a threat, love,” he stated, cutting her off. “If you knew me at all — which you don't — you would know that I don't need to make threats.”

Her eyebrow twitched in indignation. “Threat, coercion, negotiation, bullying, call it whatever you like,” she retaliated. “I will not allow this dreadful injustice to go unanswered.”

She turned on her heel and strode to the door, her head held high. Before leaving the study, she paused and glanced over her shoulder at her reprehensible host.

“You have a lovely home, Mr. Mercer,” Rose said. “I wonder how long the authorities will let you keep it once they know there are human remains on the grounds.”

With that, she turned and left in haste.

【♜】【♞】【♟】

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