by Karen Odden
“Well, let’s get you settled,” she said briskly and led me at a pace suited to my state through the parlor. It was an attractive but modest room with red upholstered chairs, tables full of books, and a fire that had been set early and cast a warm glow. His sister’s piano stood in the corner, its wooden lid covered by a patterned silk cloth.
Mrs. Greaves opened a door in the corner that I might have guessed was for a closet, but it led to a room, and I realized that a wall had been built to apportion part of the parlor for a guest room. It was furnished with an attractive carpet that looked as if it had been cut from a larger one, a bed, a dressing table, a comfortable chair, a washstand of the usual birchwood with a towel rail beside, and a wardrobe. One door had swung open and I saw the shelves inside, lined with paper.
“Do you often have guests stay here?” I asked.
“It was built for the nurse,” she explained. “Back when Captain Hallam was ill.” She grasped the door handle. “I’ll let you settle in, and when you’re ready, there’s tea and breakfast.”
“Thank you. I’m sure this is irregular.”
She pursed her lips. “Goodness’ sake. Matthew and Nell don’t do anything much regular. I’ve grown quite accustomed to it.”
Her tone was such that I couldn’t help but laugh, though it made my ribs twinge.
“Is Nell here?” I admitted to myself I was curious about her.
“She’s in Vienna for the next two weeks, for rehearsals.”
Mrs. Greaves closed the door behind her, and I unpacked the few things I’d brought and settled them on the wardrobe shelves.
THE MORNING CLOUDS hung low and gray, and as we took our breakfast in the parlor downstairs, it began to drizzle. We were seated near a window, and the rain had the effect of softening the colors, of blurring the shapes of the houses across the way as if they were the background of a painting—except there was no proper subject in the foreground.
“I’ve been thinking about how to find Sam Boulter.” Matthew buttered his toast. “It occurred to me that you might ask Felix.”
“Felix?” I echoed.
“He’s worked in the art world for a long time. He knew where to find Lewis straight off, and he may even have known Hiram Boulter, or had dealings with his son. We know that Boulter was in the auction room. If he is the thief, he knew how to cut a picture out of a frame. Maybe he works for a gallery too, or one of the other auction houses.”
“Should I send Felix a note and give him this address?”
“If you tell me where to find him, I’ll fetch him here.”
Remembering Felix’s irritation with me, I said that might be best.
I gave him the address, settled myself on the couch by the parlor fire, and an hour later Matthew returned with Felix and ushered him into the room. Felix didn’t look well. His eyes were red, and he smelled of spirits. Matthew asked Felix if he’d like anything besides coffee, and Felix shrugged.
“Felix.” I reached my hand to him.
He held it briefly but wouldn’t meet my gaze and took a seat.
I saw the shame on his face and attributed it to his sharpness at our last parting. “Felix, it’s no matter,” I said clumsily. “I know this is terribly difficult for you.”
“I’m fine.” It came out a rasp, as if he hadn’t used his voice for a few days. A faint nod toward the kitchen where Matthew was running water. “I’m sorry about your injuries. He told me what happened.”
“We believe the person who killed Edwin and took the painting might be someone from his old school.”
“Tennersley?” The smallest spark of curiosity came and went, and he heaved a sigh. “Well, if he was an art student, he’d know the value of the Boucher—although I’m not sure how he knew where to find it and why the Boucher in particular—”
“I don’t think the Boucher was ever his object,” I said. “I think he went after Edwin and only happened to find the Boucher.”
Felix sat back and stared, dumbfounded.
“I know.” I swallowed. “Something terrible happened to Edwin at Tennersley, and I think his death had something to do with it . . . but we’re not certain how it all fits together yet.”
Matthew entered with a tray that held three cups of coffee, steaming hot. He handed one to me and one to Felix and took one for himself, then turned to Felix.
Felix rubbed his hand over his face wearily. “He wasn’t happy at Tennersley. I know that much. But aside from Lewis, I don’t know anyone who was at school with him. And Lewis wouldn’t have hurt Edwin.”
“Did Edwin ever mention a man named Sam Boulter?” Matthew asked. Felix shook his head. “I saw him at the auction. His father was the art master at Tennersley while Edwin was there, and the son may have connections to the art world.”
Felix’s face remained blank. “I’m sorry. I don’t know him.”
I set my coffee cup aside. “Matthew, can you get me my sketchbook, please, and a pencil?”
He rose and went to the other room, returning with both. The two men sat silently as I reproduced Edwin’s drawing of Sam. I turned it to Matthew. “Is this close?”
“He has a heavier jaw now, and a mustache, but yes, that’s him.”
I passed the page toward Felix. “Making those allowances, do you recognize him?”
He glanced at the sketch, perfunctorily at first; but his eyes widened, and he looked at me. “That’s the man you call Sam Boulter?”
I nodded. “What do you call him?”
“I don’t remember the name he gave. But I’ve seen him.”
“When?”
Felix screwed up his face, trying to remember. “Two—no, three years ago, maybe a little more, at the Garrick.” I had heard of it, but I must have looked mystified, for he added, “It’s a gentleman’s club for artists and their patrons. Millais and Leighton and Rossetti, that sort. I’d been invited as a guest.” He took a breath, blew absently on the coffee. “It was after the war, when the Germans still occupied France. As you know, Parisians who could afford to leave were fleeing, and those who had valuable collections brought over paintings in order to fund their exile.” He nodded toward my sketch, and his mouth curled in contempt. “That man acted as a broker, but I heard he made a practice of purchasing items below market value and then reselling them to galleries for significantly more.”
“Not illegal,” Matthew commented. “But it’s certainly taking advantage.”
“How did Boulter get in to the Garrick Club? Was he a guest, or a member?” I wondered.
“I imagine he belongs,” Felix said. “Naturally, it’s not acceptable to conduct business formally in the club, but members could always manage it. If Boulter’s father belonged, membership is usually extended to the son.”
“Do you think Boulter is secretly selling the portrait at the club?” I asked.
Felix shrugged, and Matthew asked him, “Does Mr. Pagett belong to the Garrick?”
“You think Mr. Pagett is buying his own painting?” Felix returned skeptically.
“He wants it, doesn’t he?” I asked.
Felix grimaced. “I suppose. But he could make the case that it already belongs to him—that Celia was in wrongful possession. He certainly has enough proof to bring the case to court.”
“But the documents were in Mrs. Jesper’s possession, and a court case would open Mr. Pagett up to questions and possibly some nasty publicity,” Matthew objected. “Taking a painting from a widow.”
“Would Mr. Pagett be able to afford the painting, do you think?” I asked.
“Certainly,” Felix replied. “His mother was a wealthy manufacturer’s daughter. After she died, Mr. Pagett began attending auctions regularly.”
That caught Matthew’s attention. “So her fortune passed to her son, not her husband?”
Felix nodded. “I would assume her father made provisions for a trust for her, to keep the money in the family.”
Matthew’s eyes narrowed. “Do you have any idea about the relativ
e value of Mr. Pagett’s inheritance compared with Lord Sibley’s fortune?”
Felix shrugged. “My guess is it’s less. The Sibleys are an old family. Their title goes back over two hundred years. But I couldn’t say for certain.”
Matthew stood. “We need to talk to Mr. Pagett.”
“I’d try the Garrick.” Felix drained his cup; and whether it was the effects of the coffee or the feeling that he was doing something useful, he wore a more animated expression than before. “It’s Saturday; typically they invite a guest speaker for the members’ lunch.”
“I wish I could go with you,” I said.
“Well, it being a gentleman’s club, this is one place you can’t,” Matthew said with a ghost of a smile. He turned to Felix. “I’d appreciate your help. You know more than I do.”
Felix’s expression when he looked at Matthew was no longer distrustful but cautiously respectful. He nodded. “Of course.”
I stood at the window so I might watch them leave. As they proceeded down the street, I saw in Felix’s posture and the tilt of his head some of his old self, with the guilt and shame less evident than before. And in that moment, I began to trace some of the deepest curves of Matthew’s character—his willingness to observe before judging, his ability to step inside the minds of others, and his desire to shore up the heart in those who needed it most.
Chapter 20
After they left, I felt worn and my head began to ache again. Peggy was in the kitchen, and I didn’t want to bother her. I retreated to my room and examined the bandage. Somewhat perversely, I longed to know what the injury looked like. Taking some care, I unwrapped the linen to reveal four black stitches, the eight ends like the legs of an ugly spider. The wound appeared to be healing, but as I rewrapped my head I felt the beginnings of nausea and lay down on the bed.
It was a long, slow, horrid afternoon and evening. My head pulsed and my ribs hurt. I dozed, but when I woke, I felt at once weary and fidgety, and my thinking felt sluggish. Peggy was brisk but pleasant, fetching me tea and bringing me a tray with soup for dinner. When the clock struck nine and Matthew hadn’t returned, I prepared for bed and turned out the light, telling myself I’d wake when he returned and ask what he’d discovered. But the next I knew, the sun was etching a bright line around the curtains. To my relief, the fog in my head had cleared, and I felt almost myself again.
Peggy told me that Matthew had already left for the Yard, so I was alone at the breakfast table and, after Peggy departed for the shops, alone in the house. A good night’s rest and breakfast had made all the difference. My head felt fine; my ribs were much improved; and after pacing around the lower floor, I paused by the mirror in the foyer. My countenance appeared much as usual; in fact, if I were to remove the bandage and wear a hat, there would be no sign at all that I’d been attacked.
I had an idea of something useful that I might do; I only hoped that Mr. Pagett wasn’t at home, and I could somehow reach Mary, the maid who’d so clearly disliked him. It was Sunday, after all, and most servants had at least part of the day off.
And maids often had a fair inkling of the undercurrents in their masters’ houses.
I LET MYSELF out the front door and found a cab on Regent Street, directing it toward the park opposite the Sibleys’ home. I took up a position on a bench where I could watch for a servant to emerge. As luck would have it, I waited less than twenty minutes. The black wrought-iron gate at the side of the house swung open, and out came a young man, bearing a package. I leapt up from my seat. My ribs twinged as I did so, making me catch my breath, but I hurried across the street and reached out a hand to intercept him with a smile. “Begging your pardon, I’ve a friend, Mary, who works in that house. Is it possible you could get word to her to come out to see me?”
“She’ll be out soon enough. I heard Wilson ask her to fetch something from the milliner’s.” He eyed me curiously. “I’ve never seen you a’fore.”
“She’s an old friend and I’ve just moved to London,” I said, the lie slipping easily off my tongue. I dropped a half crown into his hand, and his eyes widened.
“Would you please let her know I’m here?”
A few minutes later the young man returned and sent a silent nod to me where I sat on the bench. Ten minutes later, Mary emerged, her eyes darting about. Her gaze caught mine, and though she turned in the other direction, she walked slowly, so I might catch up.
“Hello, Mary. Do you remember me?”
Her head ducked down a bit into her collar. “Yes’m, from when you came last week with the inspector.” She turned to look behind her and then back at me, her expression wary. “What do you want with me? I’ve done nothing wrong.”
“I know,” I reassured her. “You’re not in any trouble. My name is Annabel. May I walk with you for a moment? I need to ask you something.”
“I s’pose.” Her voice wobbled uncertainly.
We had entered an arcade. “Mary, let’s stop here for a moment, all right?” I asked. “I know you’re frightened. I am, too.”
Her eyes grew round.
I’d had to remove the bandage to wear my hat. Now I removed my hat to reveal the stitches and bruise on my head. “The man who did this stole Mr. Pagett’s painting—the one that was taken out of the Pantechnicon.”
She stared at my wound for a moment, her mouth half open. Then her pale blue eyes filled with honest sympathy. “Miss, I’m terrible sorry about you being hurt. Only I don’t know what I can tell you. I don’t know anything about the painting or it burnin’ up.” She turned her two hands palms up. “I’d barely come to London myself when it happened.” It was the most she’d spoken at once, and I heard the Midlands vowels lying heavily on her tongue.
“You sound like you’re from around Birmingham,” I said, trying to set her at ease. “Is that right?”
“Yes, miss. Wolverhampton,” she said. “My father was a smith there.”
“And how did you come to be here?” I asked.
The tension in her shoulders eased a bit. “I started working for the Sibley family at their country house in August, four years back. I’d been with them only a few months when they asked me to come to London for the start of the season.” Her expression was earnest, as if searching for understanding. “I said I would, o’ course. I like the country better, but I didn’t want to displease them straight off, and here is a good place for a girl like me.”
I smiled reassuringly. “Of course. It’s a beautiful house.”
“Well, it has its troubles like anywhere.”
“It isn’t the same since Lord Sibley died, is it?”
“No, miss. He was kind to me,” she said fervently.
“Was he?” I asked. “In what way?”
Her gaze skidded sideways as if she was ashamed. “I’d come to them without a character. But he wanted to gi’ me a chance. He said that he alwus believed in giving folks a chance, so long as they were willing to work.”
“What about his stepson? Did they get along?”
Her lips twitched, and she didn’t reply. I had a feeling it was out of loyalty to the father.
“Everyone quarrels sometimes, Mary.”
“Miss, this warn’t just sometimes.” She cast a quick look around her and lowered her voice to a murmur. “I heard they got on better back when Lady Sibley was alive. And I don’t mean they warn’t fond of each other, but so far as I saw, they quarreled most every week.”
“Really?” I kept my voice even. “Over what? The paintings?”
“Sometimes,” she admitted. “Mr. Pagett said he should be given a free hand, you see, with the collection, seeing as his father was occupied in Parliament. Said it was his responsibility to cor—to—”
“Curate the collection?” I supplied.
“Yes’m. To improve it, ’specially the French paintings. They were his favorites.”
“What about the Boucher painting? The one that supposedly burned in the Pantechnicon.”
“Oh!” She grima
ced. “They had terrible rows over that one. Lord Sibley bought it from the LeMarcs, you see, and Mr. Pagett had it hung. But Lord Sibley wanted it kept separate, so he had Mr. Franks take it down again.”
“What did Mr. Pagett do when he discovered the Boucher hadn’t burned in the Pantechnicon? Was he happy?”
“Happy?” she echoed, her eyes large with surprise, followed by something like amazement at my foolishness. “Hardly! I warn’t in the dining room, o’ course, but Edith was, and she said he nearly flew out o’ his chair. Upset the dishes, broke one of the crystal candlesticks, spilt the tea every which way. It was all she could do to clean it up before it stained the table.” She shivered and rubbed at her eyebrow with the heel of her hand. “That was an awful few days. Worst I ever saw, and he was certain the LeMarcs had played his father false. We were all on pins and needles, and him in a temper the whole time.”
I winced. “I’m sorry. That sounds wretched. Why did he have such ill feeling toward the LeMarcs?”
The blood rose to her cheeks, and she didn’t answer at first.
“Mary, please. This is important.”
She sighed. “’Twas on account of Mademoiselle. That’s what Lord Sibley and Mr. Pagett fought about mostly, at least so far’s I could tell.”
“Do you mean the LeMarcs’ daughter?”
“Her name was Hel—Hel-leese.” She shook her head. “I can’t pronounce it proper. It’s French.”
“Heloise?” I asked.
She nodded, relieved. “That’s it.”
I began to have a guess what the problem might have been. “Is Heloise pretty?”
She leaned her back against the wall. “Oh, yes—and just about Mr. Pagett’s age, which I’d guess was part o’ the reason he was so peevish about her, ’specially when she paid all her attention to Lord Sibley. When the Germans left, and it was time for them to go back to Paris, we all thought he’d ask her to marry him—”
“Wait,” I interrupted. “I’m sorry. Who would ask her to marry him?”