Hard upon that thought, though, came another. If she was as large as it seemed and if her dresses were the same quality as her incidentals then there would be plenty of cloth to make it worth unpicking them.
Feeling the thrill of the chase—for she loved a bargain—and relishing the prospect of having a frock admired and saying very airily, “It’s American, of course—New York,” Miss Grant turned to the second trunk and began rummaging.
The dress she held up did not disappoint her. It was amethyst silk, true silk, generous across the back, even if the waist was as waspish as the fashions of the day had demanded, and from the length of it Za-Za-Zita must have been almost six feet tall. It seemed to be decent cloth, too, from the weight as she held it high. Eagerly, she turned the seam to look at the finish. She rubbed the material between her fingers and found herself frowning.
“Hmph,” she said. “Flimsy. Weight’s in the lining.” Miss Grant had not been above helping a cheap dress hang better with a sturdy lining, in her younger days.
And yet, when she subjected the lining to the same scrutiny, it appeared to be finest lawn. The weight, she now saw, was all in the bodice and such a weight, so oddly placed, that her fanciful mind immediately leapt to jewels. Jewels, or banknotes, or shares in a goldmine, stitched in and left there.
The explanation, of course, was far more humdrum. Za-Za-Zita had not been blessed with womanly lines. Her bodice was heavy because into it she had sewn a pair of little pockets stuffed with . . . Miss Grant palpated one of them and tried to determine what that odd yet familiar substance might be . . . sawdust! There were bags of sawdust sewn in behind the boning of this amethyst dress. And the emerald satin gown underneath it in the trunk, and the pink and yellow bombazine frock which was surely the partner of the pillbox. Miss Grant laid it aside and reached for the next one, but her fingers touched paper instead of cloth. Paper rolled into a scroll and tied with a ribbon.
She took it over to the little sky-light window to read it there.
There was something written on the outside of the scroll in a pretty, feminine hand. Miss Grant squinted at it in the dying light.
“Dearest Edward, you are free. With my undying gratitude for your chivalry, Z.”
What could it be? Miss Grant asked herself. Divorce papers? A suicide note? An annulment? How could Zita simply set her husband free? Carefully, she pulled on one end of the bow and let the loosened ribbon drop to the floor.
It was not a letter, she saw as she unrolled the crackling paper. Not legal papers. It was something much, much more exciting. Something so exotic and undreamed of that Miss Grant could scarcely believe it was real. She had seen them in the pictures but she had never imagined she would hold one in her hands.
It was a WANTED poster. A drawing of a scowling face with $100 REWARD printed in red ink underneath. Miss Grant’s heart thrilled at the sight of those penetrating eyes as it had seldom thrilled in all her years.
“This must be the jewel thief she was in with,” she said to herself. And then she grew very still as an idea rolled towards her and washed over her, head to toe, unstoppable.
She had seldom thrilled at the sight of a stranger’s face, but not never. Once before she had seen those eyes, when they were smiling. And the hair had been clean and soft and had looked like raven’s feathers on a milk-white brow. It was him. It was her American stranger. She had watched him walking away down the lane, into his future, leaving his past behind, and leaving Edward Coulter his freedom—if he had only looked in this trunk and seen it there.
Years of shame and misery, thought Miss Grant. A ruined career, a broken family, and a sister who was about to get the shock of her rotten, greedy little life.
“I’m using your telephone,” she announced to Lorna and the cook, putting her head round the kitchen door. “I don’t suppose they’re on the phone at Bonnethill, but it’s worth trying. If not, I’ll ring Drysdale to take me to Pitlochry in the cart.”
For that poor weeping woman should not spend another wretched minute before hearing the news that she was the first Mrs. Coulter after all.
THE CASE OF THE SPECKLED TROUT
by Deborah Crombie
My name is Sherry Watson. It’s a crap name, Sherry, I know. But what can you do? It’s not like I had a say in the matter. My parents, to give them credit, were trying to do the right thing—a sentimental gesture I wondered if they were sorry for after.