Artful Deception (The Clearwater Mysteries Book 6)

by Jackson Marsh

  ‘Which mean what, exactly?’ Silas asked, leaning in to see clearly.

  ‘I’ve got no idea, mate,’ James admitted. ‘The Rook? What’s that? A bird, a poem?’

  ‘And the Roman letters?’ Jake asked. ‘Are they a code?’

  ‘If they are, they can’t have been put there by Quill,’ James reasoned, and pointed to a gash across the bottom of the picture. ‘It’s been slashed, see? Hence the restoration, but apart from that, it doesn’t look like it’s been tampered with. The stuff on the plinth looks original.’

  ‘So where does that leave us?’ Silas sat back frowning.

  ‘In need of this, I imagine.’ Thomas entered with a large tea tray and placed it safely away from the photographs. ‘Jimmy, would you fetch plates for the cake?’

  ‘Very homely, Mr Payne,’ Silas grinned.

  ‘Without Mrs Norwood or a maid, we must all do our best.’

  ‘Quite right, Tom.’ James rose to collect the plates. ‘And, Jake, we must say nothing of this business to anyone. Did Lady Marshall say anything about you and Oleg being absent?’

  ‘Oh no, Mr Wright, Sir. She was happy enough. Said something about how it’s best not to ask what Lord Clearwater gets up to. She’s a game old bird if you don’t mind me saying.’

  ‘I don’t when we are here like this, Jake, but otherwise, certainly I do.’

  ‘Message received, Mr Payne.’

  James couldn’t help but smile at the young man’s eagerness and had no qualms about his discretion. His heart was also warmed by the way Thomas served tea, and made sure everyone had a cup and a something to eat.

  They discussed the possible meaning of the clues as they ate, and James entered the thoughts and ideas in his notebook. Turning a page, he saw that Archer had made notes of his own and drawn a pencil sketch of the forged painting, paying attention to the details.

  ‘What clues do we have so far, Jimmy?’ Thomas asked. ‘You’re our code reader. Do your skills extend beyond Morse?’

  ‘Nice of you to think I have skills,’ James replied. ‘Morse code is a question of practice, like anything else, but all we’ve got are these words and those numbers, which could, after all, be letters. Quill chose this painting for a reason, and the answer is written on that plinth.’

  ‘We should map the clues.’ Unlike the others, Thomas was standing, watching over the party as he ate with a fork. ‘Perhaps on the chalkboard?’

  It was a logical suggestion, and James suggested they work from the study. ‘You should get on, Jake,’ he said. ‘Her Ladyship will wonder where you are, and please thank her for the loan of Oleg. First, you’d better go and find Fecks and get those costumes back to the Opera House.’

  ‘Right you are, Sir.’ Jake’s chair scraped in his hurry to obey.

  Back in the study, Silas had just finished writing on the chalkboard when Thomas arrived carrying a stack of books. At the desk, James was studying the photograph, from which he had been calling out features for Silas to note, his sleeves rolled. The afternoon had warmed under the July sun, and the casement window was open, allowing some air to circulate.

  ‘Leave the door open, would you?’ James asked, when Thomas was about to close it. ‘It’s stuffy in here.’

  ‘Er, don’t get used to this,’ Thomas warned, and James sniggered. ‘I must say, though, it rather suits you. I brought these from the library.’ He placed them on the reading table and glanced at the board. ‘Is that really all we have?’

  ‘That’s it.’ James stood, and they studied the clues. ‘The rook sixty-six. Any thoughts?’

  Silence.

  ‘Anyone?’

  ‘One,’ Thomas said. ‘Where is this painting set? I mean, where’s the scene? Did you find anything in what you were reading, Jimmy?’

  ‘Only that Vaine was known for his use of dark tones, moody skies, and troubling atmosphere. Apparently, he was quite mad at the end of his life.’

  ‘Exhibit A.’ Silas slapped the photograph with one hand and circled a finger at his temple with the other. ‘Which is why Quill chose him, I reckon. Takes one to know one. Why d’you ask?’

  ‘In case the setting of the picture was relevant,’ Thomas replied. ‘It might be a clue in itself.’

  Silas flopped into an armchair releasing his collar and discarding it as Thomas opened a large volume and ran his finger over the index.

  ‘Does this new lighting give off more heat than gas?’ Silas asked. ‘I’m bloody boiling.’

  ‘It is cooler than gas,’ James told him. ‘And a lot safer. I still find myself trying to turn up the switch rather than flick it on. We’ll get used to it.’ He opened the window some more though, without a breeze, it made little difference.

  ‘Ah.’ Thomas drew their attention to his book. ‘Wolfgang Vaine… Seventeen fifty-seven to eighteen twenty… German mother, Scottish father… Born in… How do you pronounce that? Achnasaul?’

  ‘In Scotland?’

  ‘Yes, Jimmy. Do you know it?’

  ‘Rings a bell. Near to Lock Locky if I remember right.’

  ‘Loch Lochy?’ Silas laughed. ‘Is that near Keyhole Key-holy?’

  Thomas ignored him and pointed out a paragraph in the book. ‘Quite right. He was born in a village in Scotland. Studied at the Glasgow School on scholarship, made his name in the late eighteenth century with depictions of classical figures in modern settings.’

  ‘Not that I would call this particularly modern,’ James put in, pinning the photograph to the wall. ‘We have a hill, and a castle on a ridge or a cliff. A storm coming in from beyond the mountains, and a tree.’

  ‘Plus, two underdressed scholars chatting over a Romanesque column.’ Thomas had come to join him.

  ‘Everything is worth considering,’ James said, thumbing through the book. ‘What else does your logic tell you, Tom?’

  ‘Well, obviously someone was hired to forge the original. And some time back. The paint must have been dry before it was rolled for delivery.’

  ‘Which tells us what?’

  ‘That Quill has been planning this for a while, as one plans in advance in chess. But, that doesn’t help us understand his riddle. We…’

  Unable to help himself, James threw an arm around Thomas’ shoulder and kissed him.

  ‘Chess!’ he said. ‘Got any books on chess?’

  It took Thomas a moment to understand. ‘The rook?’

  ‘Quill’s words in court? “Our game is not yet at an end.”’ James was at the bookcase dragging a finger across the spines. ‘Archer plays chess…’

  ‘So?’ Silas asked, helping himself to water from a decanter. ‘What’s a rook?’

  ‘A chess piece,’ James said. ‘A castle.’

  ‘Oh, a castle, why didn’t you say?’ Silas took a sip of water and spat it out. ‘What the fuck?’

  ‘It’s a heavily distilled Russian vodka His Lordship keeps for Mr Andrej,’ Thomas tutted and took the glass. ‘That one is water. I wish you would leave such things to me.’

  ‘And in the painting, we have a castle,’ James pointed to the wall, trying not to snigger at Silas’ expression. ‘Quill plays chess, so what’s sixty-six got to do with anything?’

  ‘Squares on a chessboard?’ Silas spluttered.

  ‘Sixty-four.’

  ‘Okay, so is there anything else about this painting in the book you were reading, Jimmy?’

  ‘Not a lot.’ James picked it up. ‘Just says, “Brothers in Arms”, finished in eighteen-eighteen. “Makes use of…” some technique or other, but I don’t think it’s relevant, it’s about oils and stuff. Er… “Setting of a lonely, ruined lookout or castle, possibly Askival on the island of Rum, shows…” Oh!’

  ‘What?’

  James’ outcry was almost comic, but it b
rought the others to the table. Even Silas stopped languishing by the decanters and came to lean over his shoulder.

  ‘”The inclusion of the Roman lettering is a mystery”,’ James read.

  ‘Yeah, well I could’ve told them that,’ Silas quipped.

  ‘Askival? Isle of Rum?’ Thomas’ reaction was less flippant. ‘I think Quill may have overstepped his obscurity.’

  ‘Unless it’s that easy,’ James said. ‘He intends to meet Archer at a ruined castle on the island of Rum.’

  ‘Then why cut out the plinth and not the castle?’ Tom reasoned. ‘No, it is something to do with “The Rook sixty-six.” The books I found in the library were mainly about military campaigns and law, but that was only one section. Perhaps I should see if there is anything about chess.’

  James agreed. ‘And I’ll look in here once I get back from the post office. I must message what we found.’

  ‘Archie’s got bloody loads more books upstairs,’ Silas said. ‘I’ll see if there’s anything up in his sitting room.’

  Agreeing to meet later, they went their separate ways, unaware that they were looking in entirely the wrong direction.

  Thirteen

  After an evening of fruitless searching among the hundreds of books at Clearwater House, James woke early the next morning to find he was sleeping alone. It wasn’t unusual for Tom to be up first, because his daily duties started earlier than James’, but the viscount was not home, and half the house was not in use. His bedside clock read half-past six, and when he washed in the bathroom, the towels were dry, telling him Tom had been awake a while.

  Shaved and dressed, he found Mrs Norwood alone in the kitchen.

  ‘Have you seen Mr Payne?’ he asked, yawning as he felt the side of the teapot.

  ‘He’s in the library, Mr Wright,’ the housekeeper replied. ‘He’s been there most of the night as far as I can see. Will it be the five of us for lunch, or are you men up to some more skulduggery today?’

  Unlike Mrs Baker, Mrs Norwood was more relaxed around the servants’ quarters, and that morning, she seemed particularly cheerful and in a mischievous mood.

  ‘No more skulduggery,’ James smiled as he poured tea. ‘But while his Lordship is away, you will find us using upstairs as if we owned the house.’

  ‘I noticed. Is it something else I can help with?’

  James shook his head, watching as she prepared toast, and noticing a pile of laundry on the dresser beside the order books and a list of groceries. Mrs Norwood and her husband were the family retainers, caring for Clearwater House in the viscount’s absence, but her role had now extended to that of housekeeper, cook and maid, and that was on top of her Sunday school and other teaching. Now, she was doing it without the help of her husband. It wasn’t James’ place to ask about her problems, but Tom had said she was not having an easy time with her divorce, and he wondered how any woman could manage such a pressured life.

  ‘I’m sorry if yesterday added to your troubles,’ he said. ‘And once again, thank you for helping out.’

  ‘To be honest, Mr Wright,’ she sighed, placing his toast in front of him. ‘It took my mind off matters for a while and was quite a spectacle to see. Were you rehearsing for some play or other? Only, if you were, you could always use the church hall.’

  ‘No, not a play,’ James smirked. ‘And it wasn’t the kind of thing us servants usually get up to, but it was with His Lordship’s permission.’

  ‘Of course, I’ve not said anything to anyone, and I never will, but I didn’t know Mr Hawkins could do that with a door lock and so quickly.’

  ‘Oh, you saw that?’

  ‘I keep my eye on all my boys,’ she said with a motherly air. ‘Someone has to. Use your napkin, or you’ll drip marmalade.’

  James obediently laid his napkin over his lap and chewed on his toast.

  ‘Do you know what Mr Payne has been doing in the library?’ he asked.

  ‘Not with your mouth full,’ the housekeeper chided. ‘Oh, sorry, but I still think of you as little Jimmy Wright, star pupil and sometimes naughtiest boy in the class.’

  James grinned. He didn’t remember being naughty, but school was a distant memory, and when he did think of it, it was mostly clouded with feelings of dread, calmed only by Mrs Norwood’s presence. A woman, he realised, he had known for twenty years. Her presence was reassuring enough for him to consider telling her what ‘her boys’ were doing upstairs while she was taking care of their laundry and meals. That privilege, however, was reserved for Archer.

  ‘May I ask you something, Mr Wright?’ She slipped into the opposite chair and poured tea.

  ‘Of course,’ he said, and thinking it might comfort her, added, ‘And if you want, you can call me Jimmy down here when Mr Payne is not around.’

  The offer pleased her, but she didn’t repay the compliment, for which James was grateful. He couldn’t think of her as anyone other than Mrs Norwood, and it occurred to him he had never known her first name. She was, after all, once his teacher.

  ‘We shall see,’ she said. ‘I like to think of you now as Mr Wright, a viscount’s valet. Jimmy was a shy, clever boy who always had a clean slate ready for lessons, wearing short trousers in the summer and sitting at the desk where the sun shone. Mr Wright is a man, and as such, I wanted to ask you…’ She sipped her tea, glancing to the kitchen door briefly before holding his gaze. ‘Do you think Mr Hawkins would be able to do me a favour?’

  ‘You’d have to ask him. What kind of favour?’

  She lowered her voice. ‘Something akin to what he did yesterday with the door lock. I need to retrieve some papers from…’ She hesitated. ‘From Mr Norwood, but he has them locked in a bureau.’

  ‘I see. Is this to do with your, er… situation?’

  ‘The divorce? Yes, completely. It’s proof of my case, but he says he has burnt them. He hasn’t, I’m sure of it.’

  ‘As I said, you’ll have to ask Mr Hawkins. He won’t mind. I expect he’ll be down shortly.’

  ‘Then, if you don’t think he will be offended, I will do that, thank you.’

  ‘He won’t be. And now, can I ask you something?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘What do you know about the game of chess?’

  She blinked before replying. ‘You have the mind for it, Mr Wright. Have you taken it up?’

  ‘Hell, no. I get bored with it too quickly, but I’m interested to know if there’s a move called a Rook sixty-six. I know they have numbers and letters for the board, but they are one to eight and A to H.’

  Her brow furrowed, and James could see her wondering what their performance at the gallery had to do with the game of chess. Again, he was tempted to tell her everything, and was about to let slip that the viscount was in trouble, when she interrupted.

  ‘I know that the game started out in India,’ she said. ‘A very long time ago. I think it became popular in Europe after being carried by merchants on the trade routes, but I might be wrong there. They used to take small sets with them through Persia, where it first became popular, and the Moors brought it to Spain. It turns up in literature through the ages. I read that a Mr Steinitz is considered the world’s chess master at the moment, but I can’t remember where I learnt that.’

  ‘Oh? Is he British?’

  ‘No, American, I think. Why?’

  ‘No matter.’ The idea that he might meet the man and ask him had flashed through James’ mind, but was instantly dismissed.

  ‘I expect you will find much written about the game in the British Library,’ Mrs Norwood said, rising. ‘And that’s where today’s lesson ends. I must see to the laundry.’

  ‘You are doing a great job, Mrs Norwood.’

  ‘So, Mr Payne keeps telling me,’ she replied. ‘For which I am grateful.
These days, the only thing that keeps me going is staying busy. I shall make lunch for the five of us unless I hear otherwise.’

  She left with the pile of laundry, and having finished his toast and washed his plate, James took the backstairs to the hall, and found Thomas in the library, bent over a book, deep in study.

  Sitting at a table by the window, with the morning sun catching fire to his dark red hair, he had hung his tailcoat on the chair and was sitting in an atmosphere of studious thought, with only the twitter of sparrows beyond the window for company. James watched silently from the doorway as Thomas turned a page, laying his fingers delicately on the tabletop one at a time afterwards. Fingers which had, the previous night, explored James’ body with tender strokes as he fell asleep in his arms.

  ‘I know you’re there,’ Thomas said, without looking up.

  ‘I’ll always be here.’

  James came to him, and after glancing back to make sure they were alone, kissed the top of his head. His hair was perfumed with sandalwood oil, a scent which he carried with him every day, and which James had come to associate with Thomas, the lover, rather than Mr Payne, the butler.

  ‘Not above stairs, Mr Wright,’ Thomas mumbled, and then whispered, ‘Love you.’

  ‘And you, Mr Payne.’ In a louder voice, James asked, ‘Have you been here all night?’

  ‘I couldn’t sleep. I’ve been reading for hours and still found nothing.’

  ‘We should hear back from Archer later.’ Hs mind slipping into work mode, James pulled up a second chair. ‘I dispatched a message to his hotel, so it will be there when he wakes. You never know, he may know exactly what Rook sixty-six means.’

  ‘Let’s hope so,’ Thomas said, sitting back and twisting to crack his spine. ‘Because we’re not getting anywhere until someone does. What did your message say?’

  ‘Word for word? Seventy-two, three, six, stop. Fifty-nine, two, one, stop. Paris. End.’