She flexed her fingers, testing the bandage’s limits. After several second of silence, she spoke.
“I should apologize for my rudeness before.” She glanced at the broken ladder. “I haven’t seen Horatio for days. I’d intended to search for him later, after we finished today’s work. But if you wish, I could show you the way to Horatio’s boardinghouse.” She paused, clearly unwilling to leave before the work was done.
“I can wait here until your work is done.”
“Are you certain? It will be some time.”
“I am even willing to help.”
She smiled, a wan smile laced with disbelief and a hint of suspicion. But, taking him at his word, she moved to complete her day’s business. She even allowed Clive to remain on the platform with her.
Clive watched Lena direct the men. Though he couldn’t be certain, the men seemed to be working especially hard to finish early. When she moved to the front of the platform, Clive inspected the broken ladder. Though his muscles ached with every pull of his weight, he kept climbing, noting the condition of each slat before he shifted his weight to it. At six feet up, the nails appeared to be loose, growing looser the higher he climbed. Standing eye level to the slat that had collapsed under Lena’s weight, he noticed sharp cuts on the bottom edges of the wood. As far up as he could see, each board was damaged, with the greatest damage in the highest levels. He pulled on the next slat, and it cracked under the pressure, the nails releasing easily from the wall. Someone had been intended to fall from a great height and be badly injured. But was that someone Miss Frost or Calder?
He looked down. Lena was standing in the same spot, favoring one ankle. She had lied when she said she wasn’t hurt. He climbed down to take her a stool.
When he reached the bottom of the ladder, however, Louis stepped to his side, speaking low. “Billy checks the slats every week, and he says they were well nailed and solid just this past Tuesday.”
“The rungs near the top are sawn near through,” Clive answered, but added, “Is there a reason he checks every week?”
“For months now, we’ve been plagued with little accidents. Tools and supplies going missing. The worst was like today: part of a scaffold floor broke when one of us stepped on it. Luckily Ted’s a big man and got stuck in the hole without going all the way through. Since then we’ve been looking before we step, and checking the rigging before we trust a rope. We wondered if it was one of the temporary craftsmen Miss Lena brings in to do a specific job. One crew in particular disappeared before their work was done, and the trouble stopped around the same time. We’ve kept most of this from Miss Lena. She’s worked too hard to see the exhibition fail so close to the opening.”
“Can you think of who might have wanted to harm the exhibition, Miss Frost, or Mr. Calder?”
“Not a man here would hurt Miss Lena. She works as hard as any of us, willing to climb the scaffold or sew a canvas or even skin a rabbit when we need the glue. We’ve even kept the topic of the painting secret, though we’ve all had ample opportunity and plenty of incentive to tell.”
“Incentive?”
“Ah, yes, we’ve all been approached by young toffs wanting to win some bet in a book and willing to pay for the privilege. But we send them away with no answer, and if they won’t accept that, we give them a wrong one.” Louis looked up the ladder. “The door by the ticket office was unlocked this morning when we arrived, and the main entrance door as well. We speculated that Calder forgot to lock them when he left, but perhaps someone else was in the Rotunda instead.”
“Does Calder often work alone in the Rotunda?”
“He used to be here every night, painting his part into the wee hours, but not recently.”
“His part?”
“He has a memory for faces, and he spends the day collecting them. He likes nothing better than to go to some club or gambling hell and memorize the lines of every face in the place. Then he would come here and paint through the night.”
Clive wondered if Calder’s talent for remembering faces had put him in the path of a murderer. If he only knew which clubs Calder haunted, he might be able to find the murderer without the showman’s help.
“Is there any particular place Calder likes to go best?”
“Some tavern near the wharf. He says the faces are raw there, from the weather and the weight of the work.”
“Do you know which of the wharves?”
“No, but if I think of something specific, I’ll let you know,” Louis promised. “But we’re grateful you were here. We know what a fall like that could do—Miss Lena knows too, though she’ll never admit it. And it’s time Miss Lena had a champion.” Louis patted Clive on the shoulder. “If you need anything, anytime, you let one of us know. We take care of our own.”
Lena called out for Louis to retrieve some goods from under the platform, and the man met her at the ladder, taking the steps down first to ensure each one was safe.
Clive watched her, admiring her strength and determination. Few women in the ton, having sustained such a shock as the fall, would have pulled themselves together so quickly. He watched her move, and even favoring her ankle, she was lithe and graceful. When she returned to the platform, he turned his attention to the long curtain that obscured the painting, wondering what secrets might be revealed when the curtain rose.
Chapter Seven
A few hours later, Lena stood before her plans, checking off items on the giant schedule she’d painted on the wall.
For most of the morning, Clive had worked silently beside her. Typically she allowed no one to remain on the platform with her, needing to concentrate while she coordinated the movements of the various crews. It was like a great dance, and she was its conductor. Clive, surprisingly, seemed content with saying little, and she found his silence easy, even reassuring.
But at midmorning, he’d broken their silence. “I’d like to repair your ladder. I might not be here to catch you next time a slat lets go.” She’d looked up to find him, cravat loose, shirt untucked, carrying an armload of slats, a hammer, and a bucket of nails. She’d forced herself not to stare: his clothes in disarray revealed even more the strength of his shoulders, the lean muscle of his chest and belly.
Though she would have normally objected—she could manage her own affairs—she’d nodded agreement. He had been too affable, too good-natured, to refuse, and she was not altogether certain that the broken ladder was an accident.
At the same time, she found herself distracted by Clive, high on the wall, repairing her ladder. Surrounded every day by strong men, she rarely noticed anymore how their bodies looked as they worked. But she found herself stealing glances at Clive. His arm arched powerfully as he set nail after nail, revealing the strength of his torso. And with each glance, she chose a different way to sketch him: Odysseus tied to the mast, listening to the sirens without wrecking his ship; Hercules, diverting the rivers to clean Augeus’s stables; Hermes, the god of cunning and mischief, carrying the messages of the gods. She’d worked her way through all the classical heroes, until she cast Clive as Poseidon, trident in hand, raising a storm. Of all the gods, she’d always liked Poseidon best.
Unwillingly, she pulled her attention away from her handsome rescuer and studied the sky through the high windows. Winter days were short, and typically her crews worked long after darkness fell. But it was still light. If she let the crew go for the day, she and Clive would have several hours to search for Horatio. She sighed. So much still to do, and her time dwindling every day.
“You can mark those off as well.” From behind her shoulder, Louis indicated several items on the next day’s list.
She stared in wonder and gratitude. “How?”
“We want you to rest in the morning. Until you arrive, we can clear out beneath the platform and build the sets.”
“Thank you—to you and all the crew. I promise to move slowly coming in.” She placed her hand on Louis’s forearm. “The crew has done so much—tell them to
go home while there’s still daylight to enjoy.”
The old man patted the hand she’d placed on his arm. “I’ll let them know.”
Clive joined Lena at the grid, as Louis left. “Are we ready to hunt down Calder?” His voice was like rich cream. She wished he might be—like Louis—the sort of man she could rely on, but it did no good to wish for something she couldn’t have.
“Yes.” Lena removed her heavy hooded cloak from the peg, and Clive caught the edge, holding it up for her, smiling.
“Allow me, my lady. I am at your service.”
His words felt like soft fur. It would be too easy to curl up in them and find warmth and solace there. But she knew better. Just as she knew it was best to draw the lines between them clearly, especially after her accident.
“I put on my coat without assistance every day.” She kept her tone mild, but it was still a rebuke. “And I am no one’s lady. I am simply Frost—as you would designate any of your servants or your merchants.”
“Or my friends.” If anything, Clive’s smile only deepened. “As for your capability, few men could lead this crew with greater skill.”
Lena knew she should accept the statement as a compliment, but the pull to trust him was too great. She let her tone shift into derision. “Only men?”
“My sister is more capable than any man I know, including the duke. I learned early never to discount a woman.” Clive continued to hold her coat out.
She looked up at the sunlight. There wasn’t time for dispute. Conceding, she held out her arms, allowing Clive to settle the coat around her. His hands brushed her neck, turning her collar down, and she felt a thrill at his casual touch. She shook off the sensation, but it warmed her more than the coat.
Clive added, “Besides, when I was young, I had a snapping turtle as a pet.”
“Whatever does that mean?” Lena tucked her hands deep in the fur-lined pockets, grateful that she didn’t need to pull gloves over her abraded palms.
“Sometimes a sharp bite is the best protection.”
Lena started to object, then decided not to. She’d gained some distance between them, even if she would have preferred the luxury of keeping him close.
* * *
Clive and Lena followed the crew out of the Rotunda, as Harald counted the men off to ensure no one was left behind.
“How many entrances are there?” Clive asked as she directed him the several blocks to Horatio’s boardinghouse.
“Two. The back door for those who work on the exhibition, and the main entrance for visitors. The main hallway leads in one direction to the office stairwell and in the other through a narrow passage onto the exhibition stage.”
“Is there no other way in? Windows, perhaps?”
“No. All the Rotunda windows are at the ceiling. That allows their light to diffuse through the exhibition space, without interfering with the viewing of the painting.”
He nodded, listening carefully to her explanations.
Why did he wish to know about doors and other entrances? But she was unwilling to ruin their amiable silence with questions. Soon they reached Horatio’s boardinghouse.
“This one here. Horatio’s landlord knows me.” She rapped the knocker.
“Calder’s gone.” The landlord opened the door slightly, then wider when he saw Somerville. “Who’s he?”
Lena was uncertain how to introduce Clive. Burglar? Investigator? Rescuer? Physician?
Clive spoke up. “Lord Clive Somerville, brother to the Duke of Forster. Might we come in? Mr. Calder left some materials for us to collect.” Clive held out his hand.
After shaking it, the landlord pocketed the coin Clive had passed him. “Certainly, my lord. Miss Frost knows the way. The key is above the lintel.”
Lena shook her head in mock dismay as she led Clive to Horatio’s second-floor accommodations. The stairway was narrow, forcing them together, and she breathed in the scent of him, clean and comforting, even after a day’s work. “He would have taken less. Besides, what materials do you expect to find?”
“I have no idea. But if we find something we want, we’ll have no trouble taking it away now.”
They reached Horatio’s room. Clive ran his hand across the top of the door frame. “No key.”
“It’s unlocked.” She pushed the door open and started to step inside.
Clive put his hand on her shoulder, sending a frisson of energy down her spine. “Allow me.”
* * *
Calder’s sitting room was comfortable and well appointed.
And cold.
“Horatio always has a fire.” Lena shivered.
Clive almost pulled her to his side, but, not knowing what she might have heard or read about him, he gave her his greatcoat instead. He needed—no, wanted—her to trust him. He wanted her to look at him with confidence, as she did with her foreman Louis.
The two large windows facing the street were open wide, and Clive looked out before latching them shut. The windows were too high for a man to climb in, but low enough that a man climbing out might escape a broken leg or ankle by hanging from the sill.
An interior door led, Clive assumed, to Calder’s bedroom, but it was shut. Leaving it for later, Clive examined the room where Calder hosted clients and friends. A heavy table stood in front of the small fireplace. A bookcase near the door was laden with books, and a cupboard sat in the far corner. It was the sort of residence one imagined a successful, unmarried man of business would keep.
Small paintings of various subjects hung in rows along the walls, signed by Calder himself. Clive took the first painting off the wall to see if the frame hid any secrets, but saw only the back of the painted board. He looked behind the second.
A thud drew his attention. Then another. Lena stood before the bookcase, pulling each book off the shelves. Her face was intent, her movements efficient, and, for a moment, he stood merely watching her. With each book, she examined the flyleaves and the spine, then turned the pages down and ruffled through them, dislodging anything stuck between them. A small pile of paper and other objects grew on the floor beside her.
“Any luck?” He wanted to move to her side, but he held himself back.
“A bill from his tailor—unpaid. A note from a lover—unread.”
“How do you know it’s from a lover if it’s unread?” Clive stopped working entirely, mesmerized by the way Lena held the corner of her mouth between her teeth as she concentrated. If Lena were his lover, he would never leave a letter of hers unread.
She dropped another book into the growing pile at her feet. “A lock of hair is knotted under the seal, and the paper is perfumed.” She picked the next book and began her process once more. Three slips of paper fell to the floor.
“Why are you emptying the books? Could we learn something by their location in the book? Or from his notes.”
“Horatio carries a book because he believes a man of a certain class does, but he uses it like a magpie, slipping in whatever receipts, letters, notes to himself he has at hand. Though I’ve seen him reading, I’ve never seen him make notes in a book.” She dropped another book on the pile.
“Would you mind if I look?” He stepped closer, near enough to catch a hint of her lilac water perfume.
“Certainly.” Her voice was more teasing than critical. “Would you prefer to search his cupboard yourself as well?”
She carried all the scraps of paper, letters, and receipts to the table. There, the remains of three lemons, the juice squeezed out of them, sat beside a small bowl with pulp stuck to its edges.
“What would your partner do with so much lemon?”
“He’s an odd man, and he does as he pleases.” She picked up a rind and turned it over in her hand. She reached into her pocket to pull out Horatio’s note, then changed her mind. “I might know what he’s done with the juice. But it will have to wait.”
She moved to the cupboard, opening the doors, searching the corners. “There’s nothing here.”
&n
bsp; When she looked up, Clive was seated on the floor, carefully leafing through each book. “Do you intend to read them all?”
“I am looking for marks or other symbols.” His eyes met hers, and she felt like the world had contracted to just the two of them. “If I see something on a page, I tend to remember it.”
“Tend to?” Lena stopped, watching him work, his fingers gently caressing the pages of the book as if each one were precious, and she wondered how it might feel to be the subject of such care and attention.
“I can see it again.” He turned another page, then looked at her, smiling. “In my mind’s eye I mean. It’s an odd quirk of mine.”
“I suppose that proves useful sometimes.” She wanted to sit beside him and examine the books together. Instead, she turned back to the cupboard.
“Sometimes.” He turned back to the books as well.
“There’s nothing here. I’ve pulled out all the drawers and looked behind them,” Lena announced when she was done.
“It’s a very clean room for a man you describe as a magpie.”
“No, I said he picks up information like a magpie. He’s otherwise quite neat.” She walked toward the closed bedroom door. “Never a hair out of place or so much as a speck of dirt on his clothes.” She opened the door and stopped short. “Until now.”
Horatio’s bedroom was in disarray. The bed was unmade, as if Horatio had just risen out of it, and the bedclothes in a twist. The wardrobe was open and empty, the drawers hanging out. A hatbox, also empty, lay open on the floor. A chair lay on its back near the open window, the curtains pulled through and out. Even so, the room still smelled faintly of damp, and rot, and something else.
“What is it?” Clive joined her at the bedroom door. Lena began to enter the room, but Clive stopped her. “Wait.”
He took several steps in, watching attentively, as if he were a cat on the trail of a mouse. On the other side of the bed, he stopped and stared at the floor. “Well, now we know why the windows are open,” he said, almost to himself.
“What are you looking at? What’s that smell?” She stepped toward him, but with the same catlike grace, he returned to her before she was two steps from the doorway.
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