Ben shook his head and led Clara to the seats on the farthest side, placing himself between her and Mr. Pocket.
Lawson, or maybe it was Dawson, strutted out first. Dressed in all black, the only coloured things about him were his shock of red hair, painted white face, and white gloves. The other twin followed, and they bent low, making way for Charles, who entered bearing a sign that read NEWS OF THE REALM ~ A SILENT REVIEW OF 1850.
Clara smiled up at Ben. He smiled back with an arch to his brow, and her heart warmed. So, he’d remembered. Pantomimes were her favorite sort of entertainment.
Without a word, the actors parodied an important event for each month from the past year, from the creation of the first public library last January, all the way up to December and the death of some banker.
A banker? Clara cocked her head. Not that a man’s death wasn’t important, but who was the fellow?
Mr. Tallgrass startled. “What’s that? Who’s the money-snatchin’ banker what died? Act that out, ye blimey stooges.”
Lawson and Dawson dramatized the man’s name, but by the time they made it to the last syllable of the last name, Mr. Tallgrass pitched forward in his chair, practically spilling onto the floor.
“Flap! Bayham Bagstock is dead you say? Oh, that’s rich. That’s more ’n rich.” Mr. Tallgrass laughed so hard, his breath wheezed and moisture ran from his nose and eyes. He tilted dangerously to one side. “Oy me rumpus! Jilly, lend a hand.”
Clara exchanged a glance with Ben, who shrugged, as much at a loss as her.
“Mr. Tallgrass, are you quite all right?” she asked. “Did you know this Mr. Bagstock?”
“More ’n right, I’d say. Turn me around, girl.” Jilly shoved him so that his chair faced them instead of the players, who now stood watching the show put on by the guests.
Mr. Tallgrass grinned. A rare occurrence—in fact it was the only time Clara could remember ever seeing his teeth exposed in a truly pleasurable fashion. “Mr. Bayham Bagstock is the bugger what’s been squashing me beneath his greedy thumb. Now that he’s kicked off, there’s no more Bagstocks to hound me, not a one. That’s what’s what and what’s right. I’m free!” His shoulders shook with another peal of laugher. “Jilly! Get me rumpus out here. We’re done with this mad house.”
Scowling, the girl leaned her weight into the chair, wheeling him across the carpet and out the door.
“Good riddance.” Mademoiselle Pretents shifted in her seat and looked down her nose at them. “That imbécile was getting on my nerves.”
Clara pressed her lips tight, trapping a retort behind her teeth.
Mr. Pocket sniffed, his enormous nose bobbing with the force of it. “It seems our number is dwindling, by design or by accident.”
Accident? Next to her, Ben snorted, and she would, too, were she not a lady. There was nothing accidental about anything related to Bleakly Manor.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
The tallest Penfold wrapped his multicoloured scarf around his neck with a flourish, and Ben widened his stance on the foyer tiles, resisting the urge to help the brothers out the door more quickly.
Next to him, Clara squeezed his arm and whispered, “Patience is a virtue.”
He quirked a half smile down at her. “Whatever gave you the impression I was virtuous?”
Despite their thick wraps, the three Penfolds backflipped, then lowered to one knee, aligned in a row in front of the door. “Adieu, good gentles,” they said in unison.
“Pah!” Mademoiselle Pretents whirled toward the sitting room. “Good-bye, silly men.”
Lawson and Dawson rose to their toes and pirouetted. Charles somersaulted to a stop in front of Clara.
Oh no. Not again. Ben sidestepped between the man and Clara. “Godspeed on your journey, Mr. Penfold.”
A rogue grin spread across Charles’s face, and he rose to join his brothers. “A blessed new year to one and all.”
The three dipped a bow, then slipped out into the waiting arms of a January morning. By the time the door closed, a blast of air embraced Ben and Clara as well.
She huddled a step closer to him. “They were merry fellows, were they not?”
His mouth twisted. “Perhaps a little too merry.”
“I am sorry to see them leave. At least they were a diversion.” She sighed, as if the weight of so many days inside the bleak walls could no longer be contained. “My mending basket is nearly empty, and I confess I shall scream if I must spend another day listening to the mademoiselle badger the inspector for a lead on her missing jewels.”
Ben rubbed out a kink at the back of his neck. Just thinking of the harping woman tightened his muscles. “Nor do I wish to write any more letters. By now I’ve canvassed every lawgiver in all of England.” He blew out a sigh and smiled at Clara. “What say we go for a stroll? I’ve a new appreciation for fresh air.”
She hugged herself. “It’s rather cold outside.”
He glanced at the front door, wishing for a good leg stretcher, but indeed, hoarfrost crept around the edges of the frame. He turned to Clara and offered his arm. “All right. We shall have an adventure indoors.”
She gaped. “Do you think we should? I mean, what if the master of the manor finally arrives, only to find us nosing about his home?”
The shrill voice of Mademoiselle Pretents pestering Mr. Pocket couldn’t have been timed better. Ben nodded toward the sitting room.
Clara grabbed his arm. “Adventure, here we come.”
Before passing beneath the lion head, Ben veered left, taking them down a corridor he’d seen only the servants use. Before long, shadows closed in, and he retraced their steps back to the foyer.
Clara arched a brow at him. “That was a quick adventure.”
Opening a drawer in the trestle table, he retrieved a vigil candle in a glass, lit the wick, and set off again.
Clara matched her steps to his, and that simple action caused an ache deep in his chest. Despite all the wretched treachery of the past year, and yes, even her betrayal at losing faith in him, his heart still yearned to make her his own.
But what did he have to offer her other than the status of a convict? He clenched his jaw to keep from grinding his teeth, determination to find who did this to him—to her—pumping a fresh rage through his veins with each step.
“Have you heard from any of the solicitors or barristers yet?” Clara’s sweet voice pulled him back from such abysmal thoughts.
“No. I’m beginning to think my attempts to contact the outside world are being thwarted. That the desk set up in my chamber is nothing but a ruse and the stable boy isn’t delivering any of the letters.”
“To what end?”
He paused in front of a narrow door and shook his head. “Perhaps I’m being too cynical.”
Trying the knob, he shoved the door open, expecting it would lead to a servants’ stair. Daylight flooded into the corridor, blinding him for a moment. Blinking, he strode into the room.
“I don’t blame you.” Clara trailed him. “This is a curious situation.”
Inside the chamber, Ben’s shoes sank into plush carpeting. A hearth fire burned warm and inviting. A bed, rumpled bedclothes atop it, was to his left, and a small library lined the opposite wall. Writing pens, nibs, parchments, and bottles of ink inhabited every possible horizontal surface. He inhaled, dissecting the air. The smoky scent of Bright Leaf tobacco mixed with the spicy aroma of fine wine, possibly an aged Bordeaux, if he wasn’t mistaken. Did the master himself reside in this small chamber?
Clara grasped his sleeve. “We don’t belong here. Please, let’s leave.”
He patted her hand and led them out, taking care to close the door exactly as it had been. In the murk of the corridor, he winked at her, hoping to soothe her fears. “I promised you adventure, did I not?”
She swatted his arm.
Turning, he led them down the rest of the hall, Clara’s fingers digging into his arm all the while. If he didn’t put her mind at ease, his
exploring would be put to an end before he could discover exactly who dwelt in this wing.
“Any news of your aunt?” he asked.
“No, but I suppose no news is good news. Perhaps she is on the mend.”
He smiled down at her. “One would hope.”
The corridor ended at another door. This time he rapped on it first, just in case it wasn’t a stair—and if it wasn’t, if a gentleman answered, what ought he say?
Clara grasped his arm with two hands, jostling the candle so that the light guttered. “I think I should prefer Mademoiselle Pretents’s badgering to this. Let’s go back.”
He tried the knob. Locked.
“Ben!”
Ignoring Clara’s protests, he pressed his ear against the wood and listened. Only Clara’s quickened breaths filled the small space. He’d have to investigate the possibility another time.
Turning his back to the mystery, he offered her a half smile and led her the other way. “So, I take it you’ve not heard from your brother, either?”
“No, not since he sailed.”
Strange, that. Why would a brother, so close to his family, not send word of a safe arrival after traveling the expanse of an ocean? He held the candle higher and glanced at Clara. “Then how do you know that’s truly where he went?”
Her brow dipped. “What do you mean?”
“Just that your faith in him is unrivaled.” He forced the words out smoothly, struggling to keep the bitterness raging inside from rushing out. Would that she’d have had that much confidence in him.
“I should think as his partner those many years at Blythe, working together for the good of the company, you’d have faith in him as well. Mr. Blythe certainly did, or he’d not have considered George for partnership. But you know this. So why question my brother’s whereabouts? George lost his livelihood the very same day you lost yours.”
“No, he didn’t.” He stopped and turned to her. This close to where the corridor opened up to the front foyer, light poured in so that he could read her face. “You said yourself that a week passed before he was summoned by the solicitor.”
“Oh, Ben.” She rested her palm on his cheek, the touch so intimate, so familiar, it almost drove him to his knees. “I know you want to find out who did this to you, to us, but my brother cannot be to blame. Lay such logic to rest, if for no other reason than for me.”
He averted his gaze, looking at anything but the violet pleading in her eyes. Of course he didn’t want to blame his friend, his colleague, but the timing of everything was off. And if—hold on. What the devil?
Candlelight caught on a gap in the paneling just beyond Clara. Sidestepping her, he ran his fingers along the edge.
“What are you doing?” she asked.
A nudge, followed by a shoulder shove, opened a small door, just wide enough for him to edge through sideways.
Clara grabbed his coat hem. “Do you think that’s safe?”
“Wait here. I’ll find out.” Narrow stairs forced him to cross foot over foot. A dark ascent, impossible without the candle.
“What is it?” Clara’s voice called from below. “What’s up there?”
“Looks like …” The stairs ended, and he held the candle out in front of him. A remnant of Bright Leaf tobacco wafted like a ghost in the darkness.
“Ben?”
“It’s a crawl space,” he called down.
Crouch-walking, he worked his way along a thick timber, the walls barely wide enough for his shoulders. Ahead, a beam of light pulled him forward, not brilliant, but enough to indicate it leaked in from somewhere. He pressed on and stopped where a large circle had been cut into the plaster. Beyond the circle was a shadowy depression with two smaller holes at center and a larger one below. Cautiously, he leaned forward, putting his head into the tiny cave, and peered out the two gaps.
Below him was the foyer. The front door straight ahead. The sitting room to the left. A view that could only be seen from one angle.
The lion’s head.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Tucking her needle case back into her sewing basket, Clara glanced at the mantel clock as it chimed. Then frowned. Both Mademoiselle Pre tents and Ben had disappeared after breakfast—five hours ago. Now that she’d caught up with her mending, she’d have to invent something else to bide her time.
Across the room, Mr. Pocket gazed at her over the top of the book he’d been reading. “Looking at the clock will not make Mr. Lane appear any faster, you know.”
Her face heated from his assessment, yet how could she not help but fret? Ever since discovering that locked door yesterday, Ben had been dead set on revisiting the area. She’d held him off, but apparently not for good—none of which was Mr. Pocket’s business.
She straightened her skirts, smoothing her palms along her thighs. “I could just as easily be waiting for Mademoiselle Pretents.”
“Could be.” He rubbed a hand over his shorn head, the peppery bristles shushing with his touch, then ended by working a muscle in his neck. “But that pretty blush on your cheeks says otherwise.”
She averted her gaze, suddenly preferring the burning embers in the hearth to the questions igniting the inspector’s brown eyes. How to turn this around? She bit her lip and—that was it. Turn it around, back onto him.
She flashed him a smile. “Have you never been in love, Inspector?”
“As a matter of fact.” He set down his book and leaned forward, hands dangling between his knees. “There’s a certain woman I intend on courting very soon. Tell me, Miss Chapman, have you any advice on the matter?”
Leaving her sewing basket behind, she crossed the rug to take a seat adjacent to his. “Does the lady return your affections, sir?”
“She does.” Mr. Pocket scratched at his side-whiskers before continuing. “Her father, however, is another matter altogether.”
“I am sorry to hear that. You seem a fine-enough fellow.”
“Thank you, miss. I like to think so.”
The melancholy twist of the man’s mouth tugged at her heart. He wasn’t a dashing figure, to be sure, but neither were his garments threadbare. She looked closer. A ruddy complexion, but no pockmarks. Teeth somewhat stained, yet all present. Clearly he was a capable man, as evidenced by his keen mind and hale body. She tapped a finger on her skirt as she further evaluated him but came up empty-handed. “What is the problem, sir, if I may be so bold?”
“I wish I could say it wasn’t money.” Furrows creased his brow. “But it always seems to boil down to that, does it not?”
“Indeed.” A bitter taste soured the back of her throat. She’d personally experienced all too well how lack of funding and social status turned away those she’d thought were friends. She swallowed and focused instead on the man in front of her. “But surely you make a sustainable living as an officer of the law?”
He nodded. “I’m comfortable enough, but it’s not so much the jingle in my pocket. It’s more than that. All the trimmings and show of society concern her father the most. He’ll see her live nowhere but in a fine London town house.” A shadow darkened his face, sinister and almost demonic. “As if Clapham wasn’t good enough.”
Clara edged back in her seat.
Then just as suddenly, his eyes cleared, and he smiled at her. “Not to worry, though. In three days’ time, all will be remedied. I’ve put a deposit on just such a town house already.”
Alarm tightened her tummy, and she pressed her hand to it. How did he know he’d be the one to receive the prize?
“Was that not a bit premature?” she asked.
His dark eyes pinned her in place. “Not if I can pay it off before mid-January.”
“But what if you cannot?”
“Then I lose everything.”
Her jaw dropped. “Mr. Pocket, do you think that was a very wise act?”
“Sometimes one must act boldly to bring about a bold hope.”
“Or a bold failure,” she whispered under her breath.
“Nothing.” She forced a smile and glanced once more at the clock, longing for the sanctuary of Ben’s presence. “I wish you the best with your lady, Mr. Pocket.”
“Thank you. I believe you mean that, and as such, I am almost sorry my gain will mean your loss.”
She shot her gaze back to his. “What do you mean?”
“Thief!” A grey storm cloud blew through the sitting-room door. Mademoiselle Pretents marched over and planted her feet in front of the Inspector—a gun in her hand. “You are ze one who stole my jewels. No wonder you could not tell me who took them.”
Sucking in a breath, Clara shrank into the chair, putting as much space as possible between her and the crazed woman.
Mr. Pocket merely chuckled. “You are confused, mademoiselle. I operate on the right side of the law.”
“Liar!” The woman’s voice shook. So did the gun. “Give them to me.”
All mirth faded from Mr. Pocket’s face, replaced by the same disturbing shadow of moments before. “Put the gun down. Now.”
“I will not! I will have my jewels or shoot you like the dog you are.” Her voice rose to a screech. “You think I won’t use this? Give me the jewel pouch.”
With each quiver of the gun’s muzzle, Clara’s heart beat harder, seeking escape, as did she. She crept to the edge of her seat, debating if the woman would allow her to leave unharmed.
Mr. Pocket reached inside his dress coat.
And whipped out a gun of his own.
Two shots exploded. So did Mr. Pocket’s chest. His pistol dropped from his hand, and he flew back against the cushions with a curse. Blood oozed out the torn fabric of his waistcoat. His hand slammed to his chest as he tried to staunch the flow. Red oozed between his fingers.
Clara stared, unable to stop a scream.
The gun barrel swung her way.
“Shut up, lay-dee, or you are next.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Two shots rang out, violating the solemn January afternoon. Ben jerked away from exploring the drawing room and ran to the door, listening with his whole body. The gunshot was nearby. Definitely on this floor. Down the hall. Likely the sitting room.
12 Days at Bleakly Manor Page 11
