by Adele Whitby
“This beach is my favorite place in the whole world,” Alfred said when he reached the bottom step.
My sister and Alfred both ran toward the waves. Elizabeth didn’t seem to care that her shoes and the bottom of her skirt were getting sprayed with salt water.
“Isn’t it wild and wonderful!” my sister exclaimed over the roar, twirling about in the white foam. “Don’t you wish we lived nearer to the ocean?” she asked.
“Not me,” I said. “The ocean’s beautiful but savage, too. It’s so vast. I feel like a tiny speck of a thing beside it.”
Maxwell stood back with me. “I’m happy enough in the English countryside,” he said amiably. “Give me a smooth, flowing river, or better yet, a trout stream, and I’m perfectly happy.”
“That’s too tame for me,” Alfred said. “The sea is in my blood.” He turned to Elizabeth with a grin. “You must come on a sailing trip with Father, Anna, and me. One day we hope to sail down the coast, stopping at ports along the way to visit friends and having adventures. Then we’ll continue all the way around South America and up to California before returning.”
“It sounds splendid!” Elizabeth took off her bonnet and let the wind whip and tangle her hair. “When I’m grown, I think I’ll spend all my time at the ocean,” she declared. Then she turned to me with a grin. “Except when I am visiting my dear sister.”
“But you’ll live at Chatswood Manor,” Maxwell blurted. He immediately began to blush, as he always did at the thought of his one-day wedding.
I gazed out to sea, not wanting to witness his and Elizabeth’s discomfort.
Then I heard a shriek. Elizabeth’s hat had been ripped out of her hands by the wind. Both Alfred and Maxwell ran off after it, laughing and calling out to each other.
Elizabeth came and stood beside me, shouting encouragement at the boys.
We watched it bounce along the sand. Each time the boys came close to it, a wind gust picked up the hat and carried it farther away. It was as if Mother Nature was having a good laugh at the boys’ expense. Finally a wave took it and then sent it back again. A laughing Alfred and Maxwell finally made their way back to us, Alfred holding the soggy bonnet.
“I thank you, noble knight,” Elizabeth teased. “You have rescued my bonnet from the evil sea monster.”
Alfred laughed and lowered himself into a deep bow. “A knight’s duty, milady.”
We were laughing still when we made our way back to the house. Elizabeth and I planned to walk the boys back to their unfinished chess game before we went upstairs to ring for Essie—Elizabeth had to change her dress and shoes before luncheon—but we stopped short when we entered the parlor.
Where Alfred’s mother’s portrait had hung just that morning was now a big, empty space. The painting was gone!
Alfred strode across the room to the empty space on the wall. “Where is Mother’s portrait? It’s been hanging in this same spot every day for my whole life. Why would it be moved now?”
Maxwell, Elizabeth, and I didn’t have any answers for Alfred. I knew that if Mama’s portrait had suddenly disappeared with no explanation, it would have felt like a kick in my stomach, so I understood why Alfred’s face grew redder with every passing moment. “Surely there’s a practical explanation,” I assured him. “Perhaps it’s been moved for cleaning.”
Alfred shook his head. “Father would have told me about something like that,” he said.
Elizabeth put a calming hand on Alfred’s arm. “Why don’t you go and find him now?” she suggested. “He’ll know why it’s been moved.”
“Yes, you’re right,” Alfred said. “There’s a practical explanation, and Father will know what it is.” He tried to smile at her, but worry creased his forehead.
I remembered what he had said yesterday, about this being the only portrait he had of his mother. We had two beautiful paintings of Mama at Chatswood Manor, and we had had daguerreotypes made in the months before she died. Elizabeth and I had each carried one in a small leather frame on our voyage. They graced our nightstands now. Of course, those kinds of pictures had not yet been invented when Alfred’s mother was alive.
“Perhaps Anna did not want the first Mrs. Vandermeer’s portrait in such a prominent room,” Maxwell said quietly when Alfred was out of earshot. “At least for the wedding.”
I shook my head, feeling the need to defend my new friend. “Anna said nothing but nice things about Alfred and his mother at luncheon yesterday. I can’t imagine that she would have had the portrait moved. And certainly not without discussing it with Alfred first, at the very least.”
Henry Vandermeer returned with his son and was just as perplexed as we were about the location of the missing portrait. “Don’t worry,” he told Alfred. “We’ll get to the bottom of this.”
I thought of Louisa Branson’s story about the missing family heirloom. Miss Millhouse began her investigation by questioning the person who knew the most about the comings and goings in the house—the butler. I suggested Henry Vandermeer send for him now.
He summoned Mr. Baxter to the parlor.
“It was here after breakfast when I inspected the room, Mr. Vandermeer,” Mr. Baxter said. “I can assure you that I gave no one permission to move the portrait.”
Mr. Baxter and Henry then proceeded to question the footmen, one by one, but not one of them had seen the portrait being removed or knew where it might be. Next came the housekeeper and the maids. Even the kitchen staff was examined and any servants of the guests staying at Vandermeer Manor for the wedding. All yielded the same response—no one admitted to seeing anything or to knowing why the portrait had disappeared.
Alfred and Henry Vandermeer’s distress grew with each negative response.
“We’ve questioned everyone on the staff and then some,” Mr. Baxter announced. “The only member not here is Mr. Willem’s valet, and he departed for Providence this morning.”
“How could no one have seen the portrait being taken down and carried away?” Alfred asked his father.
Henry put a hand on his son’s shoulder and tried to assure him the portrait would be found. “We’ll ask our guests at luncheon,” he said. “A portrait that size can’t have walked off on its own. Someone must know its whereabouts. Surely there’s a simple explanation, especially with all this hustle and bustle in the house.”
Elizabeth and I took the opportunity to slip upstairs and find Essie. My sister’s dress and hair weren’t a sight to be seen at luncheon, and even I trailed sand with every step. I rang for her as soon as we reached my room.
“We must hurry, Essie, and change for luncheon. Have you heard?” Elizabeth asked. “Mrs. Vandermeer’s portrait is missing. Poor Alfred.”
“It’s a terrible thing,” Essie said, shaking her head. “But it must be somewhere. I do hope for Mr. Alfred’s sake that it will be found soon.”
I don’t know why I didn’t think of it before that moment, but Elizabeth’s words made me remember those I had heard the night before. “Portrait!” I said. “I distinctly heard that word last night. It was one of the few words I could make out.”
I quickly filled Essie in on what I had heard as I was dropping off to sleep while she helped me into a new day dress. The embellishment on the bodice clashed with my heart pendant, so I slipped it inside, next to my heart.
“I’m not convinced that it was footmen and housemaids getting ready for the wedding like Alfred said,” I mused. “What if it had something to do with the missing portrait? Something very sneaky could be underway around here.”
Elizabeth thought about it for a moment while she stepped into her own dress. Essie began to comb the tangles out of her hair. “But the portrait was still in the parlor this morning,” my sister said. “Don’t you think that whoever you heard would have taken the painting last night, when you heard them?”
I nodded, thinking. “There would be a smaller chance of being discovered late at night. Why risk being discovered in a busy house in midmorning?” I r
emembered Miss Millhouse and how she thought through all possibilities before coming to any conclusions. “Maybe they were thwarted in their efforts last night and did the deed this morning. A busy house, servants and guests running around. That could have been the perfect cover for a thief.”
“We’ve yet another real-life mystery unfolding around us,” my sister said. “We must help Alfred get his mother’s portrait back.”
“You’re right,” I said. “I can’t imagine who would want to take the painting, but we must do everything we can to help.”
Essie finished fixing Elizabeth’s hair and then nodded at the two of us with satisfaction. “I know firsthand that if anyone can solve a mystery, it’s the two of you sweet girls.”
Elizabeth rushed to a seat next to Alfred when we entered the dining room. Maxwell took my arm and led me in the same direction. I thought that he, once again, must have confused me with my sister. Our hair was drawn into identical styles with none of my waves to give me away, and we had both changed our dresses.
Maxwell pulled a chair out for me. “Sit here, Lady Katherine,” he said.
With a start, I realized that Maxwell had known who I was even though my twin and I were both wearing our pendants under our dresses. Maxwell, like Mama and Essie, was able to tell us apart. It was astonishing that he could do so, when even Papa could not.
I was about to remark on that when Henry Vandermeer made an announcement about the missing portrait and asked all the guests if they had seen anything. “Anything at all,” he said, “even if it seemed unimportant in the moment.”
I watched all the guests carefully, looking for a telltale smirk or shifty eyes, but everyone seemed genuinely shocked. No one remembered seeing any unusual activity in the parlor and most of the guests had been in and out of the house all morning—visiting other friends in Bridgeport, strolling in the gardens, or walking to the ocean, as we had.
Anna DuMay hadn’t come downstairs for lunch.
“She wants to finish her story before the wedding,” Samuel had said when he joined us. “She’s been scribbling away all morning. I don’t think she stopped for breakfast, and no doubt her lunch will remain uneaten, too.”
I was surprised that no one had told Anna about the missing portrait. Surely this was grounds for disturbing the writer at her work.
Even Samuel seemed distressed about the disappearance of the portrait, but when a search of the house and grounds was organized, I noticed that he slipped away without offering to help.
I thought about Miss Millhouse and the missing jewels. She had led a careful search of the entire house, and I proposed we do the same. Elizabeth, Maxwell, and I explored the house’s main level, while Alfred, Papa, and Alfred’s father took the upstairs rooms and Mr. Baxter supervised a search of the grounds, including the stables. None of us found the portrait, or even a clue as to what had happened to it.
We gathered in the parlor an hour later. Alfred looked sadly up at the blank space on the wall. The paper that had covered the portrait for all those years was much brighter than the wallpaper surrounding it, allowing us to clearly see the outline of where the portrait should be.
I shared again about the voices I had heard in the night.
“Did you recognize the voice?” Henry Vandermeer asked.
I shook my head. “It was very deep and gravelly,” I said. “And angry. I was quite frightened by it.”
Papa shook his head. “Deep and gravelly could describe any number of people—servants and guests.”
“I will recognize it if I hear it again,” I told them. “Of that I’m sure.”
Alfred slumped into a chair, staring at the chessboard with unseeing eyes.
His father patted him on the back. “Don’t worry, son,” he said. “We’ll find the portrait, and there will be a perfectly good explanation for its being missing. Perhaps Uncle Willem, when he returns tomorrow, will be able to shed some light on the matter.”
“Come,” Papa said to Henry Vandermeer. “Let’s you and I make another search of the stables. Perhaps we’ll turn up something the servants missed.”
Alfred rose to go with them, but his father urged him to stay with us. “Do something fun with the young people,” he said. “Try to get your mind off it for a bit.”
Alfred nodded, but his heart wasn’t in it.
Elizabeth sat across from him and took his hand. “I’m so sorry, Alfred. I can’t imagine losing our only portrait of Mama. I wish there was something I could do to help.”
“You’ll keep your ears open, won’t you, Katherine?” he asked me. “Maybe you’ll hear something more tonight—something that will lead us to the portrait.”
“Of course,” I said. “And I’m going to make an effort to talk to each and every one of your guests and your servants until I discover the owner of that voice.” I shivered, thinking about how much I didn’t want to hear that angry voice again, but it would be worth it to help Alfred.
Alfred’s mood lightened for a moment, but then he groaned and slumped back into his chair. “I just realized that you’ve already heard everyone’s voices,” he said. “Father spoke to all of the servants and every single one of the guests who was in the house this morning, and you heard them all say that they hadn’t seen anything.”
Alfred was right, but there was still one person who had been at home at Vandermeer Manor all day who hadn’t yet been questioned—Anna.
When I said as much, Maxwell turned to me with a confused expression. “Anna has a deep, angry voice?” he asked.
“No, but she was here all morning, in her writing room. Perhaps she heard something. It’s worth asking, don’t you think?”
Alfred seemed uncertain.
“This is something that she won’t mind being disturbed about,” I insisted.
Tabitha answered our knock. Like Alfred, she was uncertain about interrupting Anna, but I assured her this was an important enough matter. In fact, I was a little surprised that neither Henry nor Samuel had thought to tell her what had happened.
“Oh, Alfred, I am sorry,” she said, when she heard about the missing painting. “I know how important the portrait is to you.”
“Did you see or hear anything that might help us uncover its whereabouts?” I asked.
“I’m afraid not,” she answered, shaking her head. She waved in the direction of an uneaten breakfast tray sitting next to an untouched lunch tray. “I’ve been shut up in my writing room all day, trying to finish my story. I don’t hear a thing when I’m in there.”
I could see by the fresh ink stains on her fingers and the manuscript pages strewn about her desk that she had indeed been writing all day.
“What can I do?” she asked Alfred, putting her arm around his shoulders. “How can I help?”
“There’s nothing,” he said, once again trying—and failing—to smile. “We’ll get back to our search. You finish your story.”
We made our way downstairs to see if Papa and Alfred’s father had discovered anything. They were just back from the stables—empty-handed. We were about to tell them that our inquiries had come up empty too when we all heard a loud thumping noise just over our heads, followed by a cry.
Henry Vandermeer turned on his heel and rushed upstairs, followed by Alfred, Elizabeth, Maxwell, Papa, and me. We found Samuel DuMay in his mother’s sitting room, trying to pick up a large, rectangular object hidden under a sheet. His face was red and he was hopping about on one foot. He had obviously dropped whatever he carried on the other.
Anna came out of her writing room just as we reached him.
“What is going on here?” Henry Vandermeer asked. “What’s under that sheet?”
Samuel began to stammer an answer, but he saw it was no good. Reluctantly, he bowed his head and ripped the sheet from the object.
It was the portrait from the parlor. And it was horribly vandalized with haphazard streaks of paint.
Anna looked at the portrait in her son’s hands and gasped. Alfred’s moth
er’s pretty face was splattered and smeared with paint.
“I demand to know why you have done this disrespectful thing,” Henry Vandermeer said.
“I’ve done nothing,” Samuel answered, his voice low and quiet. “I only—”
“This is the only portrait Alfred has of his mother,” Henry Vandermeer interrupted. “Our only remembrance.” He choked up for a moment, but he took a deep breath and grabbed the portrait out of Samuel’s hands.
“I didn’t,” Samuel said. “I only found it.”
“I only hope the damage you’ve done can be repaired,” Henry snapped, storming off with the painting.
Alfred ran after his father, his face a mask of grief and concern.
Anna DuMay leaned against the wall, her face white.
Samuel turned to her, his eyes pleading. “I didn’t do it, Mother. I didn’t.”
“Please leave me with my son,” she said quietly.
Papa, Maxwell, Elizabeth, and I went back to our rooms. I felt as queasy as I had on the ship.
“Those voices I heard the past two nights,” I said to my sister. “If only I had mentioned them to Cousin Henry or to his uncle Willem, maybe we could have stopped this.”
“You did try to tell Alfred and me,” she said miserably. “And we thought there was a logical explanation. Plus, we don’t have any idea if those voices even did have anything to do with the portrait being defaced.”
But what if they did? I thought. “I should have been braver—like you would have been,” I said aloud to my sister. “I should have searched harder to discover the source of the sounds instead of cowering in my bed. I might have prevented this.”
Elizabeth gave me a hug. “You didn’t cower. You came into my room, looked in the closet and the hall,” she said. “Don’t blame yourself. Blame Samuel.”
“If he did it,” I said. “He seemed as shocked about the missing portrait as everyone else at luncheon. Maybe what he said was true, and he really did find it already damaged.”
“You’re much more practical about these things than I am,” Elizabeth said with a sigh. “I wanted to fly at him for hurting Alfred, but I suppose we must give some credit to his story.”