“I know the name,” she replied. “My Robbie delivers regular to Hampton Place, The next street over and out near the park. The bill is always paid on time, though I doubt she pays it herself.
“Calls herself an actress. Keeps to herself, that one. Usually sends round a list of what she wants for the day, though we’ve not received it this mornin’.” She leaned in close and gave me a secretive look.
“She has visitors, if you know what I mean, and has ordered up some French wine that we had a devil of a time finding, expensive as well. I’ve seen her from time to time out and about. She visits the gallery across the way, and she’s been seen at the coffeehouse as well.
I inquired how long she had lived at Hampton Place.
“Must be goin’ on a full year now, lives mighty well for an actress, if you ask me.”
“How would ye describe her?” Brodie inquired.
“She’s not as tall as you,” she directed the comment at me. “Slender, but well-proportioned in the right places, if you get mymeanin’. Blonde hair, pretty enough, though I wouldn’t bet that it’s her own color, brown eyes, real private-like.
“What reason might ye be looking for her?” she asked again, curious, and no doubt eager for the latest gossip.
Instead of a direct reply, Brodie thanked her for the information.
We now had the location where Adele DeMille lived, and apparently ‘entertained.’
Brodie gave Mr. Jarvis the woman’s description of where Adele DeMille lived when we returned to the coach.
Absent the usual congestion of London streets, it was only a short ride to Hampton Place, a discreet distance from the village, according to directions Mr. Jarvis obtained from an attendant at the street cafe where a handful of men gathered for late morning coffee.
The manor at Hampton Place was set back from the street discreetly behind a stand of trees and a stone wall fence with wrought-iron gate.
Brodie had Mr. Jarvis wait across the street as we left the coach and approached that gated entrance.
The manor was red brick with white stone in the Georgian style, with tall windows that looked out on well-kept gardens. A flagstone circular drive for guests boasted statues of two life-sized lions, one at each side of the steps that led to those double doors.
No one arrived as we announced ourselves with the bell pull, nor were there any lights within to be glimpsed through the glass-paned door panels.
“Out about the village?” I suggested the possibility.
“Perhaps,” Brodie replied, and then tried the latch at one of the doors.
“Or perhaps not,” he added as the door slowly swung open.
Brodie announced our arrival as we stepped to the entrance of the manor. Once again, there was no response.
A long hallway led from the entrance, with rooms on each side. Double doors to the left opened onto an elaborate dining room with a table and a dozen chairs for guests.
A carved door to the right of the hall stood slightly ajar. Brodie reached back stopping me as he opened the door to a large parlor. The room had been completely turned over.
A chair before the hearth sat on its side, the satin brocade seat cut, layers of horsehair padding gaping through the opening. A side table had been toppled to the floor, and a mahogany cabinet stood with glass doors ajar, the contents strewn across the carpet.
“Someone was looking for something,” I commented.
“So it would seem,” Brodie replied.
Whoever had been there, the search was not confined to the parlor. The small adjacent library had fared no better.
Books had been pulled from the shelves and lay scattered open on the floor. The drawers of a desk were turned out. Upholstered chairs with padded arms and seats had been cut open as we discovered in the parlor.
We both turned at a startled sound from a young woman who now stood in the doorway with a stunned expression. By the clothes she wore, she was obviously a maid.
“Are you with the police?” she asked. “I heard they were here.”
“We work with the police,” Brodie replied. “Who might ye be?”
