by Josh Lanyon
M. Thibault started to speak, but the door opened and a slim, blond, twentysomething in a brown herringbone tweed suit entered the room. He deposited a thick folder on Thibault’s desk and departed, throwing Miles a curious look before pulling the door quietly shut after him. Capucine Martel’s bizarre will was no doubt the talk of Thibault, Thibault & Thibault.
“Would you have any idea in a case like this how soon I might be able to get back into the house?” Miles asked.
“Not before midweek. I will contact the police for you and verify when it’s permitted for you to return.” M. Thibault thoughtfully flipped the folder. “Hm. Everything appears to be in order.”
“Oliver mentioned Capucine had a few pieces of jewelry that might be valuable.”
The lawyer looked pained, though whether at Oliver’s lack of taste or Miles’s was unclear. “Yes. I believe there are one or two very good pieces. Those will be in Madame Martel’s safe-deposit box.”
“I could probably sell those.” Miles added quickly, “Anything that Oliver and Linley don’t want, I mean. Linley mentioned there was a signet ring that had belonged to his father.”
M. Thibault raised his eyebrows. He said dryly, “Did he indeed? I think you can assume that if Madame Martel had wished to give such a ring to Linley, she would have done so.”
That provided a natural opening to the question Miles had been wanting to ask of the one person who was most likely to be completely objective on the matter.
“Monsieur Thibault, do you know why Capucine didn’t leave the house to her sons?”
“You needn’t concern yourself on that score. Madame was beyond generous with Oliver and Linley. Both were pampered and indulged from the moment of birth. Both received ample provision upon attaining their majority. Additionally, Linley received a sizeable inheritance from his father.”
“Oliver’s father—?”
“Oliver’s father spent much of his fortune purchasing Braeside for Oliver’s mother. Nonetheless, to my knowledge, both Oliver and Linley have prospered financially.”
That sounded straight out of Dickens, but it was also reassuring.
“I see.”
“After the death of your mother, Madame wished to ensure your financial future as she believed your mother would have done had she the means.” He shrugged. Something about the way French people shrugged seemed to convey so much more than a shrug in any other language.
“It’s an amazing thing to have done—leaving me the house and her belongings.”
“She was an amazing woman.”
“Is there a copy of the list of the house’s contents?”
“Mais certainement.” M. Thibault removed a sheaf of papers from the folder in front of him and slid it across the desk to Miles. “This is not up-to-date. Nothing has been recently appraised. For the sale of any of the better articles, may I suggest Sotheby’s or Christie’s?”
***
Miles left the lawyer’s office with a very long inventory list, several letters of authorization, and a key to Capucine’s safety-deposit box.
At the bank he went through the safety-deposit box and found the usual papers—marriage certificates, insurance papers, real estate deeds—as well as several pieces of jewelry. With the exception of a man’s platinum signet ring with a green-blue stone and diamonds, the jewelry was all women’s things: rings with blingy, outsize stones, clunky, glittery bracelets, and heavy, showy necklaces.
According to the insurance papers, some of the sparkling pile was costume, some the real thing. He would have to get it appraised to know which was which. But before he bothered with that, he would let Oliver take a look. He suspected Oliver was hoping to find a potential engagement ring for Juliette. And of course, he would give Linley the ring he had requested, regardless of it not showing up in Capucine’s will.
He snapped a bunch of photos with his phone, slipped the heavy signet ring on his finger, and returned the safe deposit box to its shelf.
***
Since it did not sound like he’d be able to return to the house for a few days, Miles decided to return to the pawn shop to find out what he could about the ginger jars.
He was happy to find Monsieur Comptant’s open. An elderly woman was showing wristwatches to a much younger woman.
The older woman smiled and greeted Miles in French.
He smiled back. “Just looking.”
For a fleeting instant, she looked surprised. “Take your time,” she called.
Miles went to the window display. The ginger jars were still there, priced at a staggering $555 for the set.
Were they the same ones? His gut told him yes, but he had no real grounds for thinking so.
The shop proprietress was still busy, so he began to browse the cases of jewelry and silver. In one such case was a small, silver, funnel-shaped object topped with what appeared to be a grinning dog—no, a fox. A midcentury English fox-head cocktail jigger.
The midcentury English fox-head cocktail jigger currently missing from the barware collection at Braeside. He’d bet on it.
He took a photo with his cell phone, and the old woman looked up. She said sharply, “Pas de photos, s’il vous plaît.”
“Excusez-moi,” Miles said. He put his phone away.
She harrumphed but returned to speaking with the girl.
Miles waited, hovering, until at last the girl purchased a watch and departed. Miles stepped up to the counter.
“I was curious about the jars in the window.”
The old woman brightened. “Monsieur has an excellent eye. The jars are vintage 1880s. The phoenix of Chinese legend is a symbol of heaven’s favor, virtue and grace, luck and happiness. It is worshipped as one of four sacred creatures presiding over China’s destinies.”
“Cool. Would these be unique?”
“Unique? No. But at the same time, they do not grow on trees.”
“Do you remember where you got this pair?”
She continued to smile, but her dark eyes grew wary. “Je regrette, je ne me rappelle pas.”
Miles held his hand above his head. “Tall guy—er, garçon—about forty? Reddish-grayish hair?” In his excitement, he was forgetting the little French he knew. Was garçon right? Or was that waiter?
She stared blankly at him, not bothering to answer.
“What about the pewter jigger with the fox head? Do you know where that came from?”
Her gaze automatically slid in the direction of the case with the jigger. “Je ne sais pas de quoi vous parlez.”
Yeah, right. Or as they said in California, Me no comprende.
But she comprended, all right. Not that he would get anything more out of her. That was obvious.
His suspicion hardened into certainty. “Well, thank you for your help.”
She nodded politely, motionless and staring as he left the shop.
Miles hesitated on the sidewalk outside, then opened the door and ducked back in. The old woman was on the phone, which she promptly hung up when she spotted him.
It was such a guilty, revealing action that Miles couldn’t remember why he’d returned—oh, to give her his cell number in case she decided to remember anything. He saw now that was liable to be a bad idea.
The woman glared at him.
“Sorry,” Miles said and hastily ducked out of the shop again.
Chapter Ten
It turned out M. Thibault was wrong about Miles not being able to get into Braeside, because when Miles checked his phone on the Metro, he had a message from a sergeant at PDQ12 informing him Dube’s death had been ruled an accident and the house was cleared as a potential crime scene.
This was unexpected good news. Miles could return to Braeside whenever he liked—and he liked as soon as possible.
He phoned Linley’s cell but got his voice message. He left a message saying he was returning to the house, and would Linley like to have dinner there.
He got a reply shortly after.
Linley was regretful. “It looks like I’m
going to have to pass on dinner. We have a buyer flying in from Japan.”
“Damn,” Miles said. “Are you driving back to Gore afterward, then?”
“I was planning to.” Linley hesitated. “But if you don’t mind my showing up late, I could swing by after dinner and spend the night.”
“I’d like that,” Miles said.
There was a smile in Linley’s voice as he replied, “So would I. Are you always this easy-going, Miles?”
What did that mean? “Is there something not to be easy-going about?”
Linley gave a funny laugh. “I’ll see you around midnight or so.”
“See you then.”
***
After picking up a few additional groceries at the Atwater Market, Miles lugged his suitcases and an ungodly amount of cheese, bread, and chocolate to 13 Place Braeside, letting himself in the tall gates and walking across the wide, leaf-strewn courtyard.
The sunny promise of the morning had faded into a cool, moist afternoon. Behind the long black silhouettes of the trees, the sky looked bleached of all color…the gray-white of old bones and storm-tossed seashores.
When he unlocked the front door it felt…maybe not like coming home, but familiar. He was glad to be back.
“Hello?” he called.
Which was kind of silly since no one was there to hear him.
Or maybe Agathe was there?
He walked past the Spanish staircase, staring at the polished perfection of the marble tiles—no indication that a man had died at the bottom of those steps just two days ago—carrying his bag of groceries to the kitchen. He set the sack on the counter and went to listen at the head of the narrow corridor leading to the servants’ quarters.
Silence.
Either Agathe had not yet received word they could come back, or she did not want—was not ready—to return to the house where her son had died.
Miles poured himself a glass of the leftover Clos la Neore. He put the cheese and bread and chocolate away, finding his way around the kitchen, remembering he had not clarified with M. Thibault what arrangements could be made regarding Agathe. There had to be some mutually agreeable arrangement they could come to.
Maybe Linley would have an idea.
When he had finished in the kitchen, he went upstairs—the staircase had to be faced eventually—and unpacked his suitcases in Linley’s old room.
In time he settled in the library with its amazing view of the red-gold treetops and the silver-blue city beyond, and began to unfold the list of papers M. Thibault had given him. He slowly read through the pages.
A lot of pages. A lot of stuff.
Aynsley oak leaf bone china, antique sterling and enamel silver, embroidered linens, assorted ivory carvings—uh-oh, what were the laws in Canada regarding ivory?—Waterford crystal… Ah, two Tom Thomson paintings… Yes, Linley had been telling the truth; those were valuable, all right. Chippendale furniture, Persian rugs… Miles’s eyes began to glaze.
There was no mention of the fox-head jigger, but maybe that was too small and insignificant an item to make the inventory list. It didn’t matter; he knew he wasn’t mistaken. He vividly remembered the jigger. Remembered Capucine mixing drinks, shaking back the sparkling bracelets on her tanned arms as she reached for this bottle and that, talking animatedly all the while.
And remembered his mother’s easy laughter, her endless tolerance for the theatrics—stagecraft?—that defined Capucine’s life, her amused affection for her dearest and oldest friend.
“Not so much of that oldest business, darling!” Capucine’s ghostly voice reminded him.
Miles smiled faintly, returned to Thibault’s inventory list. Blue and White Porcelain Chinoiserie Ginger Jars, Pair. There they were. At the top of the fourth page.
So the jars had been in the house until a few weeks ago.
Not sold by Capucine.
Stolen.
The question was, what to do about it? Was there any chance of recovering them? With Erwan Dube dead, how could he prove the jars at Monsieur Comptant’s were the jars from Braeside? How did the laws of stolen property work in Canada? Probably M. Thibault would know.
Preoccupied with his thoughts, he barely registered the distant closing of a door.
When Miles realized what he’d heard, he jumped up, heart pounding, and went to investigate.
The front door was still locked.
He went through to the kitchen and found that door locked too.
There were other doors. French doors leading off bedroom balconies. Side doors opening onto private terraces, small staircases winding down to the garden. There were lots of ways in and out of this house, but as Miles checked them, one by one, they all seemed to be locked securely.
He returned to the kitchen and nearly jumped out of his skin at the sight of Agathe standing motionless—almost spectral—in the corridor leading to the servants’ quarters.
“It’s you,” she said. She looked dreadful. Haggard, white-faced, red-eyed, as though she had aged a hundred years over the weekend.
“Yes. Did I startle you?” No question she had startled him; his heart was still pounding.
She didn’t seem to hear the question.
Miles said, “Agathe, I’m sorry about…Erwan.”
She glared. “My son was not a thief.”
Miles had no answer to that. Erwan had literally been caught red-handed.
“Circumstances are to blame,” she insisted, as though he was arguing with her.
“Uh…I’m not a police officer. I don’t—”
Weren’t circumstances always to blame? For everything? What did that have to do with it?
“Erwan was driven to do the things he did. He had to survive. No one would hire him when they discovered his record.”
She was freaking him out. That glazed stare, that furious, trembling voice. He was very sorry for her, and with every word she spoke, he was more determined to buy her out and remove her from Braeside once and for all.
“I’m sorry,” Miles said. “I know it must be very difficult.”
Her gaze seemed to focus. “You don’t know anything. You don’t belong here. You’re not part of this family.”
“Okay, well, I’m not going to argue with you about it,” Miles said. “You’ve been through something terrible, and I’m very sorry for your loss. That’s all for now.”
That’s all for now? Was he signing off for the evening?
No, apparently he was dismissing her—those episodes of Downton Abbey coming in useful at last—because Agathe turned without a word and vanished down the dark hallway.
The door to her room opened and closed with an eerie softness.
“Ohh-kaaay.” Miles resisted the impulse to close the door leading off the kitchen to the servants’ quarters and bar it after her.
Had she been here the whole time? Hiding out from the police and the emergency services? He wouldn’t be entirely surprised. She needed to be with friends and family, but maybe she didn’t have anyone. At the very least, she needed to speak to a grief counselor. For the second time the thought came to him: maybe Linley will know.
He needed to watch that. He should not be relying on Linley for everything. In fact, he should not be relying on Linley for anything.
He washed his hands and fixed a light supper of bread and cheese and fruit and wine—a meal that would have seemed sort of frivolous at home, but that somehow seemed exactly right in Montreal—and carried his plate and glass back toward the library.
He was passing the large pen-and-ink Japanese mural in the hall outside the library when something caught his eye. He stopped, scrutinizing the edge of the mural, and saw tiny lacerations in the painting as well as chips in the doorframe next to it.
It looked like someone—not realizing the painting was executed directly onto the wall—had attempted, or at least explored, the possibility of removing the mural.
Surprising to think Miles had stood in that alcove, being interviewed by Cons
table MacGrath for how many minutes, and never even noticed the gouges at the edge of the mural.
Thank God Dube had stopped before he destroyed it. That had been a close call. But who knew how many other of Braeside’s treasures he might have destroyed or disposed of before his fatal overreach?
***
Miles had his supper watching the sunset from the library. He hoped Linley might call, but he did not. No one called, and the evening stretched endlessly while Miles dutifully finished reading through the list of house inventory.
The good news was there were a lot of things he could sell over the next few months to finance his stay at Braeside. The less good news was he did not really want to become a curator for Capucine’s collection. He wanted to paint, he wanted to explore where this thing with Linley might go. Maybe, ironically, the house and all its contents were liable to get in the way of that.
He was still thinking that over when he went upstairs.
He showered, undressed, once again uncomfortably aware of a certain listening unease—how long before he was truly relaxed in this house?—and climbed into bed to read Linley’s art books while he waited.
But his lack of sleep from the night before caught up with him, and before long he was asleep.
***
He dreamed he heard someone scratching at the front door.
Miles climbed slowly out of bed and walked down the hall, across the landing, down the deadly curve of marble stairs, only to discover the noise was coming from the library.
He followed the cutting sounds until he came upon Erwan Dube using a penknife to dig the Japanese mural out of the wall.
“Hey, you can’t do that,” Miles objected. “You’ll destroy it.”
In answer, Dube gave a wide, weird grin, snatched the mural from the wall, and rolled it up in a single snap, like a piece of wallpaper.
Miles put his hand out to stop Dube, and Dube sliced him across his palm with the now very large butcher’s knife. Dube began to laugh.
Miles gasped, staring down at the blood streaming from his hand. He raised his head to look at Dube, and Dube, eyes blazing with a maniacal light, sprang at him.
***
Miles jerked awake.