Not a brute? Clive had said to himself, hoping that she didn’t mean what he thought she meant. “No, Mother, I haven’t been ‘a brute,’ of course,” he said testily. “What do you take me for?”
“Well, in my experience, darling, all men are the same.”
In truth, he had been very tender with Henrietta, trying his best to comfort and console her. But he kept discovering her crying in the darkest part of the night, lying balled up beside him in their massive four-poster bed. Cut to the quick by this, he would quietly say her name or rub her shoulder, which only served to produce a tearful apology from her, as if the whole thing had been her fault. The first time this had happened, he merely held her, hushing and soothing her as best he could. The next time, however, he had tried levity, saying, “Don’t be ridiculous, darling, of course it’s not your fault,” the result of which was shockingly a fresh crop of tears. Frankly, any attempt at consoling her usually resulted in such. He had tried telling her that it didn’t matter, that there would be more chances, that he was sure they would have tons of children—too many, more than likely, he had tried to say with a grin—but none of these comments seemed to bring her any comfort. In fact, it seemed to make things worse.
Naturally, in due time he had tried to make love to her, thinking that she would respond, if not out of the sheer pleasure they both derived from their previous nights of passion but as a way to potentially create another baby. He had always been able to please her before, to skillfully bring her to a climax, with her always crying out or even groaning with pleasure as he loved her. And my God, it wasn’t difficult to do; she never failed to arouse him. But she would have none of it now, which confused him. Never had she rejected his advances, except once on their honeymoon when they had argued. Now, he wasn’t sure how to proceed. He had told her on their wedding night that he would never force himself on her, but it had been more than a month and still she held herself from him. He was beginning to worry about what the future might hold. What was he to do?
Real advice had finally come to him in the form of a suggestion from Bennett, his father’s right-hand man, and indeed, Alcott’s confidant and friend, at the firm, Linley Standard. Since his father’s death and the discovery of his killers, Clive and Bennett had come to an arrangement of sorts regarding the running of the firm, which, though not secret, strictly speaking, was, on the other hand, not one they bandied about, even to Antonia. The agreement was simply that Clive would fulfill the role of Chairman of the Board in name only, as had been the case with his father. Like Alcott, Clive would be merely a figurehead, which would allow for the brilliant Sidney Bennett to employ his astute business acumen in running the company, as he had done for all these years, leaving Clive free to pursue private detective work.
With this agreement satisfactorily negotiated between them, their business relationship now seemed to hover on the brink of being something more, just as it had been something more of a friendship between Alcott and Bennett as the years had gone on. On more than one occasion since his father’s death, Clive found himself turning to the calm, steady Bennett for advice. He reminded Clive of his father at times, but Bennett was more grounded, more practical than his father—the son of an English lord—had ever been. Many times, Clive had to shake himself a bit to remember that Bennett was indeed not his father, such as when he occasionally stopped at the house for a late-night drink, usually under the guise of needing Clive to sign some documents or other. They would sit across from each other in his father’s—now Clive’s—study in the leather armchairs in front of the fireplace, just as Clive and his father had so often done. Bennett could easily have sent whatever documents he needed signed via courier, or request that Clive stop in at the office, if nothing else but to keep up appearances with the staff. So Clive felt it very keenly that Bennett made an effort to come in person, as if Bennett somehow knew he might need to privately talk.
It was during one such evening, about a month after Henrietta’s . . . mishap . . . that Bennett casually asked if Clive had any detective cases yet come his way. When Clive responded that he had not, Bennett suggested that perhaps he try to unearth one—and that he should make sure it was one in which he could involve Henrietta.
“I don’t think she’s quite up to something like that at the moment,” Clive responded, peering intently at the fire.
“Oh, I don’t know,” Bennett answered. “Seems to me that’s exactly what she needs. Take her mind off things.” He glanced sideways at Clive.
“Ah,” Clive said, turning it over slowly in his mind. It wasn’t a bad idea, really. Why hadn’t he thought of it before? “Yes,” he said, sitting up in his chair. “I see what you mean.” He looked over at Bennett, feeling very grateful all of a sudden.
“Merely a thought,” Bennett said quietly.
Clive packed some tobacco into his pipe, wondering how he could find a case, a real case. He couldn’t just rustle one up out of thin air. Nor was he going to sniff around the Winnetka Police Station looking for crumbs, not with that idiot Callahan in charge. Clive had more than once suspected that there was something fishy there. No one could be as unaware and naïve as Callahan claimed to be and still sit as the chief of police, even if it was a sleepy little village twenty miles north of Chicago. And there had been a brief moment during the investigation of his father’s murder when Clive thought he saw something telling, something more knowing beneath Callahan’s bumbling exterior, a chink in his armor, as it were. But it was only a feeling, nothing he could prove. It was enough to cause a certain suspicion on Clive’s part, however, though he had no wish to deal with him at present. Well, he thought, taking a deep puff of his pipe as Bennett poured himself another brandy, at least he now had an idea of how he might help Henrietta.
Weeks had gone by, however, and nothing had surfaced, causing Clive to wonder if he really should formally advertise his services in the local paper. It was a thought he loathed for various reasons, one of them being the chance that his mother might see it, when he had inadvertently heard that Frank Davis was back at the station. After the Neptune affair, Clive was sure an understanding of sorts existed now between them. Indeed, he and Henrietta had visited him in the hospital on more than one occasion, Henrietta noticing that no other family or friends ever seemed to be there, an observation that Clive duly stored away for later use. Surely Davis, Clive had thought with more excitement than he knew he should feel, would have a lead, something he—or rather, they, he should say—could sink their teeth into.
The Trophy Room, where Davis had suggested they meet, was filthy and had an overpowering smell of mold (or was it sewer?) to it. Why the hell this was Davis’s preferred drinking establishment, Clive didn’t know, but it didn’t matter. It occurred to him as he walked in and looked around for Davis that perhaps Davis had chosen this place on purpose to rattle him, as the Howards’ wealth was frequently the butt of his rather dry, sarcastic humor. Well, Clive thought, it would take more than this to throw him. He had been in his share of seedy, rotten, sweaty establishments in the city, and before that it had been the horror of the trenches in the war.
He spotted Davis at a low table in the back. As he approached, he noted that Davis looked as scruffy and disheveled as usual, his near-death experience apparently having done little to change his habits, at least outwardly. Davis was slouched forward over his pint of beer but held out his hand to Clive, who took it. Clive tossed his hat on the table and rested his hands on his hips. “So how are you?” he asked gruffly.