The pictures on the walls were photographs showing wide-eyed children, a gathering of about a dozen people who looked as though they wished to be doing anything other than standing for a photograph, and one of Clementina herself in an artful pose. The photographer had seated her in a chair half turned from the camera and curved her gracefully over a bouquet of flowers she held in her arms. A lovely picture, but I imagined holding the pose until the camera made the exposure must have been excruciating.
“Clemmie.” Lady Cynthia stretched out her hands as Clementina came to us.
Lady Godfrey was Cynthia’s age, in her late twenties, slim of build as was the fashion in the upper classes. Her light brown hair was dressed in complicated braids and ringlets coiled and pinned around her head, a much more formal style than the relaxed one of her portrait, where her hair was in a loose knot, a curl draping to her shoulder. That picture must have been taken several years ago, perhaps just after Lady Godfrey’s debut, because the fresh softness depicted in the photo had gone from her face.
Lady Godfrey was still very pretty, with high cheekbones and blue eyes, but those eyes had lines feathered about them now. They also held the look of a woman who’d been through harrowing times. I wondered what had happened to a wealthy, pampered woman living in luxury to etch such an expression onto her, but I had learned, working in the houses of the privileged, that their existence was not always a happy one. Money did much to alleviate basic needs—ensuring food to eat and a warm place to sleep—but wealth and power could cause as much pain and sorrow as it alleviated.
Clemmie had dressed in an airy frock of pale blue, which was frothy with lace and ribbon. Cynthia, in contrast, wore a more tailored gown of dark gray, its close-fitting bodice, stiff placket, small round buttons, and upright white collar mannish in style. Cynthia’s gown’s bustle was small, in contrast to the broad platform of Lady Godfrey’s, which was piled high with lace and bows.
I thought Lady Cynthia the more comely of the pair, with her simple knot of hair contrasting Lady Godfrey’s fussy coiffure. Lady Cynthia’s sister had been rather colorless, but Cynthia’s cheeks could flush a becoming pink, her eyes sparkling with animation when she grew interested in a thing.
Cynthia and Clementina kissed each other’s cheeks, professing great delight to see each other, although Clementina had been to supper only two evenings ago. Nonetheless, they held hands and exclaimed over each other until they finished with their greeting ritual.
“I’ve brought Mrs. Holloway,” Cynthia said, waving a hand at me. “I told you about her, remember? She is marvelously clever.”
I curtsied to Clementina and tried to look respectable rather than clever. Lady Cynthia was prone to exaggeration.
Cynthia plopped herself down on the Morris chair while Clementina lowered herself more gracefully to the sofa. I decided to take the plainest seat in the room, a balloon-back side chair, its seat a pleasant blue pattern of embroidery.
“Tell her,” Lady Cynthia said to Clementina. “I regaled her with a few of the details, but I don’t know them all myself. Do not worry, you may speak freely to Mrs. Holloway. She is frightfully discreet.”
“My husband is certain what happened,” Clementina said, anger in her voice. “He believes that I took his old paintings from the wall and sold them to pay my debts. It is true I owe money, but I would hardly lift down a painting, frame and all, and sell it out the back door, would I?”
“Exactly,” Lady Cynthia said. “Why would you do something so obvious and then not make it look as though there’d been a burglary? And you still owe the debts, do you not?”
Clementina flushed a dull red. She was not a woman for whom more color in her face was attractive. She went blotchy, her eyes moistening.
“As a matter of fact, the debt has been paid.”
Lady Cynthia sat back with a thump. “Good Lord. Who by? Never your husband.”
“No.” Clementina rose swiftly and nearly ran to the bellpull. “Where is that wretched girl with the tea?”
Since I hadn’t heard Lady Godfrey ask for tea, she could hardly call the maid wretched for not bringing it. I knew, however, that her movement was to cover her sudden confusion.
Lady Cynthia drew a breath to ask a puzzled question, but I shook my head ever so slightly behind Clementina’s back. Lady Cynthia was not a fool—her brows climbed and she closed her mouth.
Clementina yanked on the bellpull as though she intended to summon a fire brigade. I’m certain it jangled horrendously in the servants’ hall. She remained at the bellpull for a moment as though to compose herself, and when she turned back, her scarlet cheeks had cooled. By the time she sat down, sending Cynthia a smile, she was sanguine again, and the maid appeared with the tea.
Clementina graciously poured out, which seemed to further compose her. She asked me how I liked my tea—sugar, no cream—and handed me the cup as though I were a highborn guest.
I took a sip and then cleared my throat. “I beg your pardon, my lady, but have any other items gone missing?”
Clementina jumped. “No. That is, not since the last painting.”
Lady Cynthia took a long swallow of tea and returned her cup to the delicate-legged table between us. One leaf of the table bore a scar across its surface. That leaf had been turned toward an empty chair in an attempt to hide the flaw, but my eyes caught it.
“Tell her all about it, Clemmie,” Lady Cynthia said. “It’s why I brought her.”
Clementina cast me another doubtful look, but it was clear she trusted Cynthia, because she set down her tea, clasped her hands, and launched into her tale.
“Three paintings have gone missing in all. Quite valuable ones. I don’t know much about art, but I do know famous names. A Gainsborough that has been in Sir Evan’s family for a century, a Rembrandt, and one from an Italian-sounding name I can’t remember. I know they must be worth thousands and thousands of guineas. They’ve gone. One in January, right after New Year’s. One in March. This last a week ago.”
One every two months, as though the thieves stole to a schedule. “Lady Cynthia said there was no indication that someone had broken in,” I said. “Are you certain? That is, there might not be an obvious sign, such as a broken window or door latch. Nothing was amiss below stairs? The scullery door left unlocked by mistake? A window in the attic open? The thieves may have also picked the locks.”
“Our front door is bolted,” Clementina said decidedly. “With quite a heavy bolt, drawn across it every night by Mr. Brampton, our butler. He has been serving my husband and his family for decades and wouldn’t dream of leaving the door unbolted at night. Nor do I think he’s been stealing the things himself. He’s growing decrepit, poor man, and could hardly lift a heavy painting from a wall.”
I nodded in agreement. I hadn’t suspected the butler in any case. I hadn’t imagined the distress I’d seen in his eyes, and it was true, he was quite bent with rheumatism. Not that he could not hire others to do the physical labor for him, but Mr. Davis spoke highly of him, which counted a long way toward his character.
“Is the scullery door bolted as well?” I asked.
“Good heavens, I have no idea,” Clementina said. “I will have to inquire.”
I would do that myself, but I held my tongue. “Would it be possible, my lady, for me to see the space where the paintings hung? I might be able to discern more about the thefts.”
“Well, I don’t see how that will help.” Clementina looked to Cynthia for confirmation.
Cynthia sprang to her feet, kicking the hem of her skirt out of her way. “Of course it will help. Your husband wants to find the damned things, doesn’t he?”
“Yes, all right.” Clementina flushed as she rose. “Don’t swear in front of Evan, please, Cynthia. He’ll never let you into the house again.”
Cynthia’s brows shot up. “Evan is here? I thought he couldn’t be dr
agged from the City for any reason, not while the Exchange is open.”
“He had an appointment with the prime minister and decided not to go farther than Whitehall today. He came home for luncheon and hasn’t left since.” Clementina’s distress was apparent.
I remembered the day I’d realized I loathed my husband. I had been out shopping with our meager funds, and when I’d returned to the tiny rooms we shared, he’d been there instead of out laboring as he should have. I remembered my heart sinking, knowing I’d have to go inside and be with him the rest of the day and into the night.
I’d understood in that instant that I didn’t love him, didn’t even like him. My head had been turned by romantic nonsense and excitement, sinking me into a fog that had hidden the true man he was.
Clementina’s expression was similar to what mine must have been when I’d returned home with the shopping that day—dismay, unhappiness, resignation.
Clementina led the way out of her chamber in a rush, Lady Cynthia on her heels. I walked swiftly after them.
We went down the stairs under its pointed arches and tiles. The wallpaper above rich wooden wainscoting was a deep blue and crimson pattern, quite lovely, if twenty years out of date. We emerged on the first floor—one above the ground floor—and into a lofty room lit by high windows that gave on to the street.
Our hostess marched to the fireplace and flung up her hand at the wall above it. “The Gainsborough was here. I had this photo moved here to cover the gap once it was gone.”
The photograph was a portrait of a man in an officer’s uniform standing stiffly near an arch that resembled the ones in this house. A palm tree curved over him, and his foot rested on the head of a tiger who’d ended up a rug, poor thing.
“A bit grim,” Lady Cynthia said, studying it. “Very pukka sahib.”
“Sir Evan when he was in India,” Clementina said. “He was in the Punjab. It was dreadful, I’ve been given to understand.”
I had thought tigers were found in Bengal but I wasn’t certain, so I said nothing. I gazed up at Sir Evan with his fair hair, thick mustache, and side whiskers, his eyes hard as diamonds. Though I could not be certain about the eyes—the harsh lights used for photographed portraits, especially twenty years ago, might have given them that appearance. The tiger’s eyes had the same glitter.
The frame was heavy, gilded, befitting the portrait of the man of the house. Older than the photo, I thought. It must have been taken off another picture and given a second duty here.
“The Rembrandt was there.” Clementina pointed to a rectangle on the wall where the wallpaper, the same blue and crimson, was a crisper color. “A biblical scene. I never liked it, but it was my husband’s pride and joy. He won’t let me move anything there, because he lives in hope we can hang it again. The Italian—I wish I could remember the artist’s name—was there.” She pointed at a place high above the window where there was another rectangle, this one horizontal. “Again, Sir Evan hopes for its return. His friend Mr. Harmon—Sir Evan’s man of business—says we might get insurance to pay out for it, but he’s not certain.”
I walked to stand under both empty spaces in turn and looked them over. They told me little but that the wallpaper around the paintings had faded a great deal, which was not surprising. London grime destroyed all.
“Canaletto,” came a stern voice from the doorway. “A painting of Westminster Bridge.”
“Was it, darling?” Clementina’s voice changed in an instant from uncertain and worried to bright and cheerful, with a brittle edge. “I never paid it much attention.”
Sir Evan gave his wife a look of scorn but a slightly more respectful one to Cynthia. “Lady Cynthia,” he said with a stiff nod.
His gaze went to me, puzzlement on his sharp face. I hadn’t been wrong about Sir Evan’s eyes—cutting, intelligent, penetrating, and not in a comfortable way. I could understand Clementina’s unhappiness that he was home.
Clementina flushed as Sir Evan looked me over, opening her mouth to explain me, but Lady Cynthia broke in.
“I brought my cook,” she said, as though daring him to wonder what mad thing she’d do next. “She’d come to confab with yours, but then Clemmie told me you’d had a burglar, and we had to see what he’d stolen. How frightfully thrilling.”
“Not so much thrilling as a damned nuisance,” Sir Evan snapped. “Clementina, I’m sure Lady Cynthia will want tea. And the kitchen is below stairs, not in my front sitting room.”
“Well, we know that,” Lady Cynthia said, unfazed. “I dragged the poor woman in here—don’t blame her.” She looked past Sir Evan. “You there—yes you, in the hall.” She imperiously beckoned a footman. “Show Cook the way to the kitchens, will you? I imagine she’s had enough of the upstairs.”
I curtsied with all the humbleness required of me and walked unhurriedly out of the room. I did not look Sir Evan in the eye as he stepped back so I could go around him, but one does not have to stare at someone directly to see all.
I perceived several things as I observed Sir Evan from the corner of my eye. The first was that he did not blame me for being in his parlor, nor did he blame Lady Cynthia. He blamed his wife. The second thing I saw was that he was not angry with Lady Cynthia and her outrageous behavior. I saw admiration in his glance at her, liking, and something even more than that.
Dear, dear. Not that I believed Lady Cynthia would reciprocate. I’d come to learn she was determinedly loyal to her friends, plus I could see that Lady Cynthia had little use for Sir Evan.
I followed the footman through a door and down the back stairs. The footman was jolly curious about why I was here, but my severe look kept him quiet.
I did wish to speak to the cook, Mrs. Martin, whom I’d known for some years, but only to confirm my suspicions. I believed I knew who had stolen Sir Evan’s paintings, and why.
5
Mrs. Martin was in her fifties and the very picture of what was expected of a cook—plump and white-haired, her cap starched and pinned on straight, her apron dusted with flour.
I’d known her for some years, as she’d been a friend of the woman who had trained me, though we’d gone our separate ways.
Mrs. Martin was at the moment putting a light meal together for upstairs, and I automatically began to help her, patting out dough for scones and cutting them. I did not feel right to sit with my hands idle while another cook bustled about.
“Oh aye, they’re good enough, the master and mistress,” Mrs. Martin said in answer to my questions. “Never tell me you’re looking for another place, Mrs. Holloway. Ye can’t have mine, anyway. It’s comfortable here, though the master can be mean with money. The mistress wants oysters and truffles, but the master tells me I’d better buy skate and plain mushrooms. And then the mistress runs off with her friends, and the master mostly dines alone in any case.”
“He was upset about the thefts?” I asked. “The paintings that were stolen are worth a fortune, I gather.”
“So I’ve been told.” Mrs. Martin diced carrots, and I shoved the scones into the oven and sat down at the table to shell peas. “I’m sure he feels it dreadfully. He spends what little he has on his bits and bobs he collects and shows to his cronies. More important to him than his wife’s frocks or new furniture.”
“Anything else taken?” I asked.
“Not that we found. Butler and I went through the silver so carefully, and the wine too, but all was there. But I don’t feel safe in my bed. He’s been all over Mayfair, hasn’t he, this thief? Other houses have been burgled.”
“Have they?” I’d not heard this. Daniel had mentioned that thievery was rampant in London, but he’d been speaking generally.
Mrs. Martin gave me an ominous nod. “The Smoke is a dangerous place, I’ve always said. I don’t feel easy, you living in that house in Mount Street. Lord Rankin is off his head somewhere down in Surrey, they say, a
nd young Lady Cynthia is a wild sort. Her aunt and uncle ought to take her in hand.”
I was not surprised Mrs. Martin knew all this, as Mayfair was a veritable pool of gossip, but I did not like to hear Lady Cynthia disparaged. “Her ladyship is high-spirited,” I said, “but a good soul.”
“That’s as may be.” Mrs. Martin looked unconvinced. “Are you done with those peas yet, dear? The master is home early and will be shouting for his dinner soon.”
I gave over the peas, and at about the same time, the footman who’d shown me downstairs returned and told me Lady Cynthia was ready to depart. I gave Mrs. Martin a polite good-bye and a promise to deliver her my recipe for stewed mushrooms, which she’d always admired.
Lady Cynthia was in the landau by the time the footman trundled me into it. “Well?” she said the moment the footman slammed the door and the carriage jerked forward. “Can you help poor Clemmie?”
“I’m not certain if I can help,” I said. “But the answer to the puzzle is perfectly simple. Sir Evan Godfrey stole his own paintings and sold them himself.”
Lady Cynthia stared at me. “Evan? Good God, are you sure?”
I rested my hands on my lap, my feet perfectly in line with each other. “It is my belief that Sir Evan has been losing money steadily and recently has felt the pinch. The furnishings in that house are old and need repair. It is likely they were all put in when he returned from the Punjab, if that is indeed where he’d been, twenty years ago. You say he married Lady Godfrey a few Seasons ago, yet he has not allowed her to redecorate his house in any way, and only her sitting room has furnishings to her taste—I would guess from their wear either brought with her from her father’s house or purchased secondhand.”
Lady Cynthia’s quick mind darted through my reasoning. “Yes, yes, I see. You are right, she did bring things she liked from her father’s attic. But Evan—or rather Mr. Harmon, his man of business—had been paying up Clemmie’s losses at cards without fuss until this year.”
Scandal Above Stairs Page 5
