Duplicity

by Sara Rosett

  Despite their late start, they made good time once they were on the road. Jasper wasn’t one to tool along admiring the view at a sedate pace. After they left London, they sped along the country lanes. The tall hedgerows dotted with autumn berries flashed by in a blur. While Jasper liked to be perfectly turned out in his clothing, his preference for luxury didn’t extend to his motor. He drove an aged Austin 10-hp that rattled and creaked as they raced along. Wind whistled through gaps between the canvas top and the windows. Olive spent most of the drive with her hands shoved into the pockets of her coat, thinking it would have been wiser to have worn her thick tweed ensemble instead of her stylish knit sweater and skirt.

  “I can see why Grigsby prefers the train,” Olive said over the rumble of the engine.

  “What?”

  Olive repeated herself, and Jasper nodded and raised his voice to be heard over the noise of the motor and the wind. “Yes, I think Grigsby was right—it is going to rain.”

  Olive didn’t attempt more conversation after that. The temperature dropped as they traveled north, and a bank of low charcoal clouds blotted out the sun. Except for a brief stop for a plowman’s lunch at a pub, where Olive snagged a table beside the fire so they could warm up, they didn’t stop. The rain held off until they left the main road at the signpost for Hawthorne Village, which pointed up a country lane. Fat raindrops splattered against the windshield for a moment, then a torrent of water pounded down. With the wipers swishing back and forth like mad, Jasper hunched forward, slowing the motor to a creep as they jounced along the rutted road, which quickly turned into a muddy mess.

  They traveled through the village, which was a single High Street with a few shops, a post office, and a scattering of houses, some of which had front gardens with profusions of Michaelmas daisies and chrysanthemums. Dahlias surrounded one particularly pretty cottage, the heads of the flowers drooping under the onslaught of the rain. Once they left the village behind, Jasper took the second right, turning in at a wrought-iron gate set in a hawthorn hedge with bright crimson berries. A deep forest closed around the road, cutting off the incessant drum of the raindrops. Some of the trees were bare, but autumn leaves still clung to some of the branches of the oak trees, glowing gold and copper even on the rainy day. Under the thick screen of tree limbs, the underbrush was hard to make out, but Olive could see drifts of fallen leaves among the brambles.

  The lane abruptly came out of the trees and into a gravel forecourt fronting a brick manor house in the Jacobean style, which was covered in scarlet Virginia creeper. Three-story bay windows on either side of the central entrance were topped with parapets and gave the impression of turrets flanking an entry.

  As soon as they cleared the trees, the motor plunged into a curtain of rain. Jasper raised his voice over the clamor of the water lashing against the motor. “I’ll stop right at the base of the staircase. You make a dash for it.”

  By the time Olive opened her umbrella and climbed the four shallow steps, she felt as if she’d walked through a monsoon. Hawthorne House’s door was a thick wooden affair. Two narrow mullioned windows on either side of it were nearly covered over with vines. She freed the bell pull from the encroaching twist of the Virginia creeper’s flaming tendrils and rang the bell, which set off a gong-like echo inside the house. The small overhang above the door didn’t protect Olive from the slanting rain that drummed on her umbrella and gurgled through the downspouts around the house.

  Nervousness sparked through her. She couldn’t imagine Mr. Carter would be pleased to have someone descend on him unannounced. Once he realized she was here to check up on him . . . well, he certainly wouldn’t be pleased—with her or the situation. She pushed those thoughts away and told herself not to be a rabbit. Sebastian had offered her a job. She’d accepted it and would complete it. Mr. Carter’s opinion of her didn’t come into it.

  Jasper splashed up the steps as Olive rang the bell again. She shifted the umbrella so that it partially covered both of them. Water drenched one of her sleeves and her stockings around her ankles. The last deep vibrations of the gong were fading away when the door was wrenched open.

  A man in his early forties said, “Goodness. Have you had a breakdown in this weather? Come in. Come in. Let’s get you out of the rain. Nasty day.”

  He had a sweep of thick black hair that curved away from his forehead and heavy eyebrows over liquid dark eyes. He wore a cashmere sweater with a silk ascot at his throat and held a half-eaten biscuit. “I do apologize. You caught me during my afternoon tea. Your ringing was so insistent, I came along myself instead of waiting for Mrs. Lum.” He popped the biscuit into his mouth and motioned for Olive and Jasper to come in as he dusted crumbs from his sweater.

  They stepped inside, leaving copious puddles on the parquet floor. When the man closed the door, it cut off most of the light in the vast entry. Olive had a quick impression of ornately carved heavy wood, a monstrous staircase, and a fireplace on one side of the room that would have been large enough for both Olive and Jasper to walk into. Wan light coming from the narrow windows on either side of the door illuminated a small section of the room, and Olive was able to pick out two paintings, one with horses and hounds on a misty morning, and another of a landscape done in the picturesque style with a crumbling ruin.

  Before Olive could tell the man who she was and about her assignment, he said, “Come along to the drawing room,” and set off toward a thin string of yellow light that Olive hadn’t noticed. It came from around a partially closed door at one side of the entry. Olive propped up the umbrella by the door and followed him. Moving through the gloomy room was a bit like walking about in the dark, and Olive put out a hand to make sure she didn’t run into any furniture. As they crossed the old wooden floorboards, they set off a cacophony of creaks and squeaks.

  The man threw open the door. “Come warm yourself by the fire. I’ll ring for a fresh pot of tea.”

  Olive entered the room and sent up a silent prayer of thanks that she wasn’t inventorying the décor. The spacious room was crammed with heavy Victorian pieces, and every surface was packed with porcelain figures, silver picture frames, fringed lamps, and all sorts of preserved specimens like flowers and butterflies under glass globes. A thick layer of dust covered all the bric-a-brac.

  Once Olive looked past the décor, she saw the room itself had once been beautiful. Pilasters with classical capitals framed the fireplace. The walls and ceiling were covered with strapwork. Intricate plaster carvings of birds, flowers, and draped swags of fabric circled the top edge of the walls. The grooves in the carvings were layered with grime, and large chunks of plaster had crumbled, leaving gaps in the design. The ceiling strapwork with its less complex geometric design of ovals and squares had fared better than the walls and was mostly intact.

  A blaze crackled in the fireplace, and they all gravitated to it. Olive sidestepped her way between a console table and an enormous world globe that came up to her waist. The furniture had been shoved back to create a little alcove of space in front of the fire, which must have been where the man was before they had disturbed him. A floor lamp curved over the back of an upholstered chair. The ottoman in front of it still showed the imprint of his heels. A crinkled newspaper lay on a nearby table beside a tea tray. A button-back Chesterfield sofa completed the little area of habitation.

  When they’d entered the room, the man had yanked on a bell pull, and now an older statuesque woman entered the room. She wore a simple black dress, which was the same shade as her close-set eyes. Wiry gray hairs had escaped from her bun and frizzed out around her face. He murmured something to her, and the gaze she turned on Olive and Jasper before leaving the room was not friendly.

  The man joined Olive and Jasper in front of the fire. “Mrs. Lum will return in a moment with tea.” He jabbed at the logs with a poker, and sparks sprayed out from the wood. “We don’t have many visitors, so you’ll have to excuse us.”

  “It’s we who should apologize for dropping i
n on you unexpectedly, Mr. Carter,” Olive said. “You are Mr. Carter, aren’t you?”

  He looked sharply over his shoulder at the mention of his name, then he replaced the fireplace tool. “It appears you have the advantage of me.”

  Olive extended her hand. “I’m Olive Belgrave.” Mr. Carter automatically reached out to shake her hand, but his expression had become guarded. “Sebastian has sent me to do an inventory of the paintings here. I’m sorry to arrive without warning, but Sebastian insisted I leave straightaway.” Olive took Sebastian’s letter from her handbag. “You’ll find all the details in here.”

  Mr. Carter held the envelope between two fingers as he stared at Olive for a long moment, then he transferred his gaze to Jasper. “And who’s this?” Olive opened her mouth to explain why Jasper had brought her, but then she realized if she told the truth, she’d immediately convey the urgency of her visit, and she couldn’t do that. After a second, she said, “This is my assistant, Mr. Jasper Rimington.”

  Olive felt Jasper turn to look at her, but she kept her gaze on Mr. Carter.

  “Indeed,” Mr. Carter said. “He’s your assistant?”

  “Yes. Mr. Rimington is quite a valuable chap to have around.”

  Mr. Carter made a humming noise as his gaze darted back and forth between Olive and Jasper. Then he ripped open the envelope and skimmed the letter. “Well. This is a surprise.”

  Clearly, it was not a happy surprise for him.

  He stuffed the letter back into the envelope. “Most irregular. We only have a skeleton staff here, and we do not have the ability to put up guests.”

  “We won’t be any trouble at all. We’ll discharge Sebastian’s commission and be on our way. It probably won’t take us more than a few days.” As Mr. Carter’s gaze continued to cool, Olive was glad the Morris hadn’t started. It was much easier to stand up to Mr. Carter with Jasper at her side.

  “I’m sorry, but your staying is out of the question.” He smiled as he said the words, but there was no regret in his tone.

  “Well, I have my instructions from Sebastian, and I intend to carry them out. If you have any concerns, I suggest you contact him and discuss your thoughts on altering his plan.”

  Mr. Carter seemed outwardly calm, but his breathing was a little heavy. Olive could see the rise and fall of his ascot. After a few seconds, he looked away from Olive’s steady gaze and tapped the envelope. “I’ll have to confirm this, you understand.”

  “Of course. We’re sorry to turn up unexpectedly, but Sebastian was quite insistent that I begin at the first possible moment.”

  “That’s not surprising. My dear cousin is not one for considering the impact of his actions on others.”

  “Oh, I didn’t realize you were related.”

  He waved the envelope. “Distant cousin, several times removed.”

  Mrs. Lum entered with a rattle of crockery. Jasper moved to shift the tea tray to make room for the new tray she’d brought with fresh tea and more cups. After she’d set down the tray, Mr. Carter said to her, “It appears Miss Belgrave and—ah—Mr. Rimington, was it?—will be staying with us for a short time.”

  Mrs. Lum turned a sour expression on Olive and Jasper. “I’ll prepare two guest rooms.” Her tone indicated that she considered them as welcome as a trip to the dentist for a tooth extraction.

  Her attitude was insolent, and if anyone had spoken in that manner at Parkview, the stately home owned by Olive’s aunt and uncle, the servant would have been turned out immediately. But Mr. Carter only nodded and said to Olive and Jasper, “Please have a seat.” Mrs. Lum left, closing the door with such force that the thud reverberated around the high-ceilinged room. Olive expected bits of plaster to rain down after the slam of the door, but only a little dust spiraled through the air. Olive and Jasper sat on the Chesterfield sofa opposite the fire, releasing a puff of dust from the cushions.

  Mr. Carter seemed to have recovered a smidge of his bonhomie. “You’ll have to excuse Mrs. Lum. Her feet pain her greatly. Corns. You know how difficult it is to keep anyone on, especially in such a remote location as this. Help yourself to tea. I’ve already had mine. If you’ll excuse me for a moment, I’ll ring Sebastian.”

  As soon as he left the room, Jasper turned to Olive. “Assistant?”

  “We had to have some sort of explanation for you to stay here as well. I’m not about to send you out into the gale.”

  “And I’m not about to leave you in this mausoleum.” He brushed a dusting of plaster from his shoulders before pouring a cup of tea and handing it to her. “You’d better drink up. It looks like you have your work cut out for you.”

  Olive hadn’t really looked at the paintings yet. She’d been so overwhelmed with the number of furnishings in the room, then she’d been focused on the confrontation with Mr. Carter. She swiveled around, surveying the room. One wall was taken up with windows, which were covered with threadbare drapes that looked as if they’d disintegrate if they were touched. The fireplace dominated another wall. The remaining two walls were covered with art. Rows of oil paintings, one on top of another, rose from the wainscoting to the ceiling. “And this is only one room.” Olive tilted her head back as she looked up to the ceiling. “How many rooms do you think a house like this has?”

  “At least fifteen or twenty, I’d imagine.”

  “I think we’re going to need more tea.”

  7

  Zoe

  Present Day

  * * *

  Zoe flipped to the next page, eager to see what Olive had found when they inventoried the artwork, but there were no more pages.

  “Where’s the rest of Olive’s report?” Zoe muttered as she flicked back through the papers. She looked at each page, but she hadn’t missed them. There was nothing else from Olive Belgrave.

  Jack touched her arm. “Zoe, we’re boarding.”

  “What?” She looked up. People were standing and shrugging into jackets or reaching for their suitcases. Zoe had been so wrapped up in Olive’s report that she’d completely lost track of what was going on in the gate area.

  Jack tilted his head toward the folder Zoe was cramming into her messenger bag. “Something wrong?”

  “There are some pages missing. It’s a report from the woman I was telling you about, the high society lady detective. She went to the country house in nineteen twenty-three to do an inventory of the paintings. I have the beginning of her report to the owner, but then it just cuts off. I’ll need to get in touch with Ava and see if she has the rest of the pages and the inventory Olive did for Blakely.” Zoe grabbed her rolling suitcase and joined the line. “Maybe she forgot to send them.”

  “That doesn’t sound like Ava.”

  “I know. Maybe Harrington took them out to read them and they didn’t get put back in the file.”

  Jack looked doubtful.

  “It’s a long shot, I know, but I need the rest of Olive’s report. If the inventory from nineteen twenty-three lists Woman in a White Fur, that will go a long way to filling out the provenance.”

  By the time they’d inched their way down the crowded aisle of the plane and stowed their suitcases, Zoe was on the phone, poised to leave a message for Ava.

  Zoe dropped into her seat and tucked the phone against her shoulder. She was surprised when Ava’s smooth voice answered. “Hi, Ava. It’s Zoe. You’re working late.” It was evening in London.

  “I’m finishing up an assessment that has to go out tomorrow. How can I help you?”

  Zoe described the missing pages, and Ava said, “I sent you copies of everything we have.” Her tone was matter-of-fact and assured. “I checked with the archive at the Blakely estate, and they say there’s nothing else.”

  “There has to be more. This Olive Belgrave went up to Hawthorne House to do an inventory of the paintings. Surely she completed it. And if she didn’t, there should be a note or summary indicating she wasn’t able to finish.”

  “I agree. I’m just passing on the information I
’ve received.” Ava’s tone was calm. She was one of the most mellow people Zoe had ever dealt with. No matter what drama was going on around the office, she remained as cool and unmoved as an iceberg. Zoe had told Ava she should become a professional poker player. With her head for “maths,” as Ava called them, and her unflappable personality, Zoe thought Ava would make a fortune. Besides her unflappable nature, Ava was organized and methodical. If she said she’d sent everything, the last pages of the report hadn’t been misplaced somewhere around the office. Ava would have sent them if she had them.

  “Well, I’ve got to find them,” Zoe said. “I’ll try the Blakely Archive again. Thanks, Ava.”

  Zoe reached for her messenger bag, which she’d tucked under the seat in front of her. The strap caught and wouldn’t budge. Jack leaned forward to unwind it. “Ava doesn’t have the missing pages?”

  “No.” Zoe took the messenger bag from him. “And if she doesn’t know where they are, then you know they’re not in that office.” Zoe took out the folder and flipped back to her copies of the inventory and the typed report. The top corner of each piece of paper had been stamped with the words Property of the Archive of Sebastian Blakely. A string of numbers was printed under the text.

  Zoe typed in a quick search on her phone for the Blakely Archive and dialed. Passengers were still shuffling down the aisle, but it wouldn’t be long before she’d have to put away her phone for takeoff.

  An automated voice announced, “You have reached the Archives of Sebastian Blakely. Our hours are . . .”

  Zoe left her name and phone number along with the details of what she was looking for, reading off the inventory number printed on the top corner of the report. “I look forward to your call.”

  Zoe sat in the hotel breakfast area, trying to keep her eyelids open. They’d had several delays before their flight had taken off, which had pushed their arrival time in London to nearly noon. By the time they’d cleared customs and traveled to their Knightsbridge hotel, it was edging toward teatime. They’d eaten an early dinner at a nearby restaurant and called it a day, but even after hours of sleep, Zoe’s internal clock was still messed up—and she wasn’t exactly at her best in the morning to begin with.