Chapter 4: The Olive-Green Suit at Breakfast
Morning sunlight cut through the diamond-paned windows of the breakfast room in long, pale slashes, illuminating dust motes dancing over a heavy silver coffee service. Julian sat at the head of the table, wearing a fresh olive-green suit and an immaculate black shirt buttoned to the throat. He was nursing a small porcelain cup of black coffee, his eyes fixed on the financial section of the Wall Street Journal spread out before him.
The deadbolt had been quietly thrown back from the outside around five in the morning by the housekeeping staff, allowing me to slip out of the study and back to my room before the morning shift change. Now, standing near the sideboard with a silver warming dish, I felt every movement scrutinized by the man at the head of the table.
Arthur entered the room a few minutes later, leaning heavily on his carved cherrywood cane. He wore a fresh maroon velvet robe, his silver hair neatly brushed, though his face had the gray, translucent pallor of someone who had spent the night fighting shadows. He shuffled toward his usual chair, his eyes fixed on the polished wood between his feet.
Julian didn't look up from his paper as his uncle sat down with a slow, painful groan.
"Sleep well, Uncle?" Julian asked, his voice smooth, devoid of any genuine warmth. "The storm last night was quite severe. I hope the wind didn't disturb your room."
Arthur lowered himself into his chair, his hands trembling as he gripped the carved armrests. He didn't answer immediately. He looked at the silver coffee pot, then across at Julian, his jaw working as if he were chewing on bitter words.
"I heard footsteps," Arthur said finally, his voice raspy but surprisingly clear. "In the library. Someone was turning the locks."
Julian slowly lowered the financial section, folding it neatly in half before resting his forearms on the table. He looked past Arthur, his dark eyes locking onto mine as I poured hot water into a porcelain cup of chamomile tea at the sideboard.
"Old houses settle, Arthur," Julian said, his tone dripping with patronizing calm. "The timbers contract when the temperature drops. Or perhaps the nurse was checking the barometric pressure. She seems to have a habit of wandering into rooms where she doesn't belong."
I carried the cup of tea over to Arthur’s place setting, setting it down gently beside his toast. My hands were steady, though I could feel Julian’s gaze burning a hole through my shoulder blades.
"I checked the hallway windows during the storm, Mr. Vance," I said, my voice even and quiet. "The latch on the east library casement was loose. It rattled in the wind."
Julian’s eyes narrowed slightly, a thin line appearing between his dark eyebrows. He took a slow sip of his black coffee, never breaking eye contact with me. "Indeed. The east casement. How thorough of you, nurse. You seem remarkably attentive to the architectural quirks of this estate for someone who has only been here three weeks."
"Care is in the details," I replied, meeting his gaze without flinching.
Arthur reached out with a trembling hand, wrapping his fingers around the porcelain teacup. He didn't drink. He looked up at his nephew, his cloudy blue eyes suddenly flashing with a sharp, long-dormant defiance.
"She stays," Arthur said, his voice dropping into a register that brook no argument. "The agency contract is paid through the end of the quarter. And I want the lawyer called. Miller. Not your firm in Manhattan. Miller from the village."
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The silence in the breakfast room turned brittle. Julian’s hand froze halfway to his coffee cup, his knuckles whitening against the white ceramic. The mask of polite family concern slipped for a fraction of a second, revealing the hard, desperate ambition underneath.
"Arthur," Julian said, his voice dropping an octave, smooth and venomous. "Let’s not make things complicated before the doctors arrive. You aren't in any condition to manage legal appointments."
