The Devil You Know Read Online Free PDF Page A

out to get a car from the garage and bring it around to the front, then retreated to his basement sanctuary. When the pastor and the others arrived, he came up to answer the bell. I caught a glimpse as he crossed the entry hall; he’d gotten rid of the beard, washed and combed his too-long hair straight back, and was in a suit so sharp you could cut paper on the creases.
    He brought the pastor in, introduced us, and smoothed over what might have been an awkward moment by explaining that this was a re-internment for the deceased who had died outside the country.
    “It was her wish to be brought home,” he concluded.
    “You show a great benevolence of spirit to go to such lengths, Mr. Barrett,” the pastor said.
    “She was a good and kind lady, the like of which I shall not see again.”
    “Were you related?”
    “There was a distant blood relation between the three of us, yes,” he said with an absolutely straight face. He shot me a look, but I’d not made a sound, having successfully resisted the urge to snort.
    “You gentlemen are cousins?”
    “Several times removed,” I put in.
    “Miss Francher the younger will not be attending?”
    By that address I understood Emily, assuming the identity of a young namesake invented for the purpose, had been accepted by the community.
    “Miss Francher will not be attending,” Barrett confirmed. “You may have heard she sold the estate to me and moved away.”
    “I’m not one to pay mind to town talk,” the pastor said, proving himself to be as human as the next man with that fib. I decided I liked him and wondered if he’d crossed his fingers or would later do some sort of penance or prayer to get himself off the hook with his Boss.
    The imperfect clergyman noticed the portrait and offered praise for the artist’s skill. Barrett discussed the painting’s history while sturdy guys in black suits took the casket from the room to load it into a hearse parked under the porte cochère . They came back for the flowers—two trips—and then it was time to leave.
    We pulled on coats, hats, and gloves against the cold night. My snap-brim fedora looked racy next to Barrett’s aggressively somber Homburg, but then my hair wasn’t sticking out from under like a circus clown’s wig.
    Parked a few yards behind the hearse was an impressive white Studebaker Champion; Barrett must have bought it from Emily along with the house. A nice car, but I preferred my newer two-door coupe.
    “Blood relations,” I muttered, getting in.
    “Perfectly true,” he said, starting the motor. He let it idle and warm up while the muscle brigade made adjustments to the loads of flowers. Some had to be put in with us, filling the car with the out-of-season smell of fresh greenery. As the estate sported a generous covering of snow from the last fall, I considered the miracles of modern living that made roses in February possible. It kept my mind off what was to come.
    When things were resolved with the flowers, the hearse took the lead down the long drive to the main road. The white painted ironwork gate showing the name FRANCHER was wide open, the gatehouse utterly dark, its shutters closed. I asked after the couple that lived there. The woman had been the head housekeeper, the man the gardener.
    “The Mayfairs left not long after Emily’s accident.” There was no hesitation from Barrett on that last significant word. Apparently he was long used to referring to her murder in that way. “At first I thought I could influence them into accepting her changed condition, but she said it wasn’t something she wanted to force upon anyone. Mrs. Mayfair gave notice for the both of them, and they found employ with one of the Francher relatives in Connecticut.”
    “Probably giving them an earful.”
    “Hardly. She’s of a breed apart from most servants, very correct, intensely loyal, with no tale-telling. I can’t say her husband has the same disposition, but she’ll see to it he keeps his mind on