The noxious malodor had significantly less presence within the confines of Mr. Mercer's study, and Rose found that she could once again breathe and think unencumbered. For that, she was grateful. This entire situation reminded her of a game of chess, and as such, she needed to keep her wits about her.

Rose looked down at the dainty teacup and matching saucer in her hands. It surprised her that Mr. Mercer had served her himself rather than having his housekeeper do it. Her parents, her mother especially, would never have stooped to anything so pedestrian. This observation alone would have been adequate cause for feelings of instant kinship toward Mr. Mercer, if it weren't for Rose's sneaking suspicion that he was simply anxious to dismiss Eleanor. Almost as though he were remiss to converse with Rose in front of her.

...But why?

Observing her host as he indulged in his immodest glass of liquor, Rose took a polite sip of her spiked tea. It was good. Very good. Eleanor knew how to brew and steep tea to perfection, and the whiskey was — even to Rose's novice palate — clearly top shelf.

Returning the cup to its saucer, she silently scolded herself. Now was not the time to be distracted by the impressive window-dressings of her host's presentation. There was a mystery to solve. Still, etiquette dictated a certain amount of polite smalltalk be made before any important topics could be breached.

A small framed photograph situated on the corner of the desk caught her eye. The image faced Mr. Mercer, but from her vantage point, Rose could make out that it was a picture of a woman. A woman with blonde hair.

“Have you a sister, as well?” Rose asked, her tone amicable. She motioned to the photograph. “How many siblings in all?”

Mr. Mercer leaned forward and grabbed the framed photo, pointedly setting it face down on the surface of the desk. “I have a sister, aye. Is that why ya came here? To ask after me family?” He fixed Rose with a cold stare. “Thought ya had questions about your friend. The Russian.”

Rose frowned at his abrupt delivery. Well, if he was going to be outright rude, she'd get right to the point.

“Yes, I have questions,” she stated, all semblance of polite subtlety gone. “To begin, when did you last see Dmitri?”

“The last time I saw him up and about?” Mr. Mercer clarified. “Yesterday afternoon.”

“Yesterday afternoon?” Rose repeated. She frowned. “Your housekeeper also mentioned she hadn't seen him since yesterday. Is there someone here who would have seen him more recently? Someone who may have spoken with him?”

Mr. Mercer took another drink, then set the glass aside. He laid his hands across his torso and laced his fingers. “Not that they would've noticed. The members of my staff are here to work, Miss Sinclair, not chat amongst themselves.”

“I'm aware that your employees are here to work, Mr. Mercer.”

“Are you?”

“Yes. But the staff members of a large manor always talk amongst themselves, whether or not their employer is privy to such idle gossip.”

“That so?”

“Yes. It is.”

“And you know that for certain, d'ya?”

Rose felt her eyebrow twitch. She couldn't continue with this line of questioning without revealing that she herself had grown up on a huge estate with an extensive household staff. For the sake of remaining inconspicuous, she wanted to keep that particular tidbit of information private.

Clearing her throat, she tried a different tactic. “And yesterday afternoon, when you saw Dmitri, where was he?”

“Here. On my property.”

“Yes, obviously,” Rose said. A hint of exasperation was beginning to set in. “But where on your property?”

“Near the garden shed. 'Round back.”

“And what was he doing? At that time?”

Mr. Mercer quirked his head to one side. “Grabbin' tools, I expect. Shrubbery shears, or the like.”

“Tools?”

“Aye. Tools. He was a gardener, Miss Sinclair. He used tools. To garden.”

“He ‘was’ a gardener?” Rose repeated. There was a tightening in her chest at the usage of past tense. “But not anymore?”

“As I told ya,” Mr. Mercer said, “he's gone.”

“Yes, you told me,” Rose murmured. She lowered her eyes and paused to sip her tea. The more she learned about this situation, the less sense it made.

In her peripheral, Rose could see Mr. Mercer staring at her. He picked up his glass, finished off the whiskey in one swallow, and set the glass back down. His gaze did not waver.

It was unnerving. Rose's tea suddenly tasted like soot.

“Any other questions, Miss Sinclair?”

Rose raised her head to meet his steely gaze. Like hell would she allow the conversation to end like this. She inhaled a deep breath of resolve. “One or two,” she stated.

Mr. Mercer did not seem pleased by her answer. The skin around his eyes tightened ever so slightly, and his mouth settled into a solemn line. “Go on, then. Ask your questions.”

“Yesterday afternoon,” she prompted, “when you saw him near the shed, was that when Dmitri informed you of his intentions to give his immediate notice?”

“That was when he made his intentions clear, aye.”

“And did he give you a reason?”

“No. He didn't.”

Rose huffed in frustration. Most men got chattier as they drank, not more tight-lipped. Mr. Mercer seemed to be an aggravating exception to the rule. “What did you say in response?”

Mr. Mercer wagged a finger at her. “Ya fibbed to me, Miss Sinclair.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“You said ‘one or two’ more questions,” Mr. Mercer clarified. He expelled a long sigh, as though she were a naughty child who had broken the rules. “That was three, by my count.”

Rose clicked her tongue in irritation. “And to think, had you simply answered it, instead of keeping score, this conversation would already be over.”

“Doubtful,” Mr. Mercer declared with a shake of his head. “You seem to like the sound of your own voice.”

“And you seem to guard yours like a hallowed secret,” Rose retorted. “What, with your two and three word answers. I'm inclined to believe you are being deliberately unhelpful.”

“Believe whatever ya like, love,” he said with a shrug. “I'm givin' ya me time. That's somethin' I'll never get back. Seems mighty generous to me.”

Rose's face fell. That was true. He was under no obligation to invite her into his study or speak with her. He was being generous. Albeit, vexing.

“My apologies,” Rose said. “My friend seems to be missing and I'm worried for him. I'm merely trying to get to the bottom of this.”

“With one hell of a bloody interrogation,” Mr. Mercer added. “You should be a copper.”

“Does that mean you won't answer my last question?”

“What was it again?”

“Once Dmitri had made his intention to leave your employ known, what did you say in response?”

“Ahh. Yes.” Mr. Mercer focused on the far wall and nodded his head. “That was the last time we spoke. I told him it was ‘too bad that things had to end this way’.”

“I see.”

Mr. Mercer produced a cigarette from a silver case and skimmed the end back and forth between his lips. “Ya mind?” he asked.

Rose could tell by the inflection in his voice that it wasn't really a question. Just to show cheek, she decided to give him an answer anyway. “The books on your shelves mind far more than I do,” she said. She waved her hand in indication that he should proceed. “It's your study, Mr. Mercer.” The scent of cigarette smoke would be downright pleasant compared to the burning odor from outside.

The corners of his mouth pulled up in a trace of a smirk. “Ya want one?”

“No, thank you.”

“Nah, 'course not,” he said. His chin bobbed in a nod as he dug through the pocket of his suit jacket for his lighter. “Proper girl like you? You don't smoke.”

“Not anymore,” Rose confirmed.

“Mm,” Mr. Mercer hummed, as though he'd already known how she would respond. He found the object of his search and struck up a flame, lighting the end of his cigarette with a practiced tilt of his head.

For the briefest of moments, the miniature flame reflected against the gold signet ring on his finger. ...A ring Rose had seen dozens of times before.

Her eyes widened and she sat up straighter in her chair. “Why do you have that?” she demanded.

Mr. Mercer removed the cigarette from between his pursed lips and blew the smoke toward the ceiling. “Have what?”

“That ring. On your finger,” Rose said, her voice tight. “I know that ring. It belongs to Dmitri Kuragin.”

【♜】【♞】【♟】

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