The Art of Theft

by Sherry Thomas

  Had it? A chill spread at the back of Livia’s neck.

  “Those who want to disrupt the ball at Château Vaudrieu seem equally comfortable with extortion,” Charlotte went on. “It doesn’t seem farfetched to suppose that they learned from the same book, that they are, perhaps, former colleagues.”

  Mr. Marbleton took a sip of his vin chaud. “You are saying we are caught in the middle of a factional dispute?”

  Charlotte’s expression remained bland. “Dispute might be too mild a word. I’d say we are caught in the middle of a factional struggle. Obviously, the side occupying the château currently has the upper hand and the side that has to rely on the shenanigans of art thieves is at a disadvantage, but perhaps things might change at the ball, depending on whether the insurgents succeed.”

  “What do they want?” asked Mr. Marbleton, turning his glass between his fingers.

  “The code Lord Ingram recorded in the tunnel, when deciphered, becomes a series of digits. The numbers are not coordinates of a point on the map. At the moment I’m inclined to think that they are the combination to a safe.”

  Mr. Marbleton frowned. “Why would anyone transmit code this way?”

  “Perhaps our transmitter had no choice. Perhaps the unsuccessful escapee the other night should have been the one to carry out the code. We have no way of knowing.”

  “No, I mean, obviously if there is a prisoner and there are people mounting a rescue, then this person has loyalists. Yet none of them knows the combination to the safe?”

  Since the discussion began, only Charlotte and Mr. Marbleton had spoken. Now Lord Ingram joined in for the first time. “Perhaps those who have spent enough time around Moriarty become as suspicious as he and prefer to keep friends close and secrets closer.”

  A trace of sorrow came into Mr. Marbleton’s eyes. “I think I might have some idea who this prisoner is.”

  “You do?” cried Livia and Mrs. Watson at the same time.

  Mr. Marbleton set aside his glass. “Most people who choose to escape Moriarty’s orbit do not last long in the outside world, but my family has managed to remain safe and whole for two decades. We believe we have someone on the inside. My mother insists that she and my father never looked for a friend there but they had one anyway, someone from whom we received warnings, who also helped us spread misinformation about our whereabouts.”

  “And you think Moriarty finally found out?” Livia asked. Her stomach felt as if it was being twisted like a rope.

  If that was the case, then the Marbletons’ safety—his safety . . . She clutched at the glass in her hand.

  “I can’t be sure. Do you remember sending me to check the chimneys at Château Vaudrieu, Miss Charlotte?”

  Charlotte nodded.

  “I saw something that night that I didn’t think was a good idea to convey by either post or cable: I saw three bodies being carried out of the château. Out of the château, but not away from the grounds, which led me to believe that they were interred on the property itself.”

  Livia could hear her own voice rising steeply. “And you think that this person or persons who had helped your family are now dead and buried?”

  “I am of the opinion that those were not the Marbleton family’s benefactors,” Charlotte said quietly. “Remember what Lord Ingram overheard the hostess say to the female guest? ‘Let’s just say it involves a syringe and a choice of injectable solutions.’

  “Lady Ingram’s twin sister was killed by an injection of absolute alcohol. Moriarty bringing her back into the fold by sacrificing de Lacy and a couple of de Lacy’s minions would easily have resulted in three dead bodies on the property, a separate matter from the tapping of the coded numbers that Lord Ingram overheard.”

  “So that person is still alive?” asked Lord Ingram, looking intently at Charlotte.

  “I have no idea. Château Vaudrieu might be full of prisoners and executing a batch nightly, for all we know.”

  Livia recoiled. Mrs. Watson, too, turned pale.

  “Don’t worry,” said Charlotte to Lord Ingram. “I still don’t believe the prisoner is Mr. Finch.”

  Charlotte had mentioned that she hadn’t heard from their half-brother in months, but she’d said that he was most likely on a voyage to Australia and Livia had been happy to believe her. Now her heart pounded again.

  Mr. Marbleton picked up his glass of vin chaud and came and sat down in the chair nearest hers. At first she thought he’d come to bolster her courage. But perhaps Mrs. Watson and Charlotte’s repeated counsel on not thinking so little of herself was finally having some effect. He also needed his own courage bolstered, she thought.

  And I will do that for you.

  They were not alone in the room, but she briefly laid her hand over his. They nodded at each other.

  I’m all right.

  I’m all right, too.

  “Then who do you think the prisoner is, Holmes?” asked Lord Ingram.

  “If I must guess now, Madame Desrosiers,” mused Charlotte. “Mr. Finch told me at one point that Moriarty is believed to be thrice a widower—obviously incorrect, as Mrs. Marbleton, his second wife, is still living—and that since his third wife died, he’s chosen not to marry again. But he is said to have a mistress of whom he is very fond. It’s likely that Madame Desrosiers is that long-term mistress; she would also have been in position to have helped Mr. Marbleton’s family over the years.”

  Mrs. Watson walked across the library to the decanter of cognac. “Then who was that woman who acted the part of the hostess the other night, to the woman we now presume to be Lady Ingram?”

  Charlotte shrugged. “Another woman in Moriarty’s employ, possibly. Remember Madame Desrosiers was said to be indisposed the night of the reception.”

  Mrs. Watson brought back two glasses of cognac, one for herself and one for Lord Ingram. Lord Ingram accepted his, thanked her, and returned his attention to Charlotte. “And Moriarty is this Herr Albretcht, the mysterious Swiss manufacturer who owns the château?”

  “Maybe. Or maybe he is Monsieur Plantier, although Monsieur Plantier seems a bit young to be Moriarty.” Charlotte poured herself a cup of coffee. “In any case, we do not have the luxury of involving ourselves in this dispute. We are there to help Mrs. Watson’s friend, and we will restrict ourselves to that capacity.

  “However, I have racked my brains and even consulted an ingénieur, but the fact remains that we cannot work magic tricks on the Van Dyck when we won’t have the gallery to ourselves for any length of time. So I have no choice but to recommend that instead of the Van Dyck, we make the contents of this safe to which we now hold the combination our priority.”

  This was news only to Mr. Marbleton—Charlotte had already discussed her plans, in depth, with everyone else who had returned to England. Livia had fretted over whether this mythical safe in fact existed, Lord Ingram had demanded to know its exact location, and Mrs. Watson had been deeply concerned on how such a significant course change would affect her friend.

  In the end Charlotte had convinced them not only that the safe existed and that she knew where it was, but also that the contents of the safe, and not any artworks for sale on the night of the yuletide masquerade ball, were the true aim of the mastermind who blackmailed Mrs. Watson’s friend.

  As it stands we have no chance of making away with the Van Dyck. But we do have some chance with the contents of this safe. Should we extract it, we would have more than enough with which to bargain for your friend’s letters, Mrs. Watson.

  Mr. Marbleton took some time to consider Charlotte’s proposal. “Your words carry weight with me, Miss Charlotte. If you think that we should concentrate our efforts on the safe, then I trust that you have thought the matter through.

  “Still, I have to ask about the residents of the château. Don’t they know where the safe is?”

  “I think not
,” answered Charlotte without any hurry. Or any hesitation. “I think if they did, then our insurgents wouldn’t be interested in it anymore.”

  “But wouldn’t those insurgents stand in our way?”

  “I would rather face a few fellow burglars than try to get the Van Dyck off the wall and out of the château.”

  Mr. Marbleton thought for some more time, then nodded his assent.

  Livia exhaled.

  When no one else spoke, Charlotte said, “I have asked Mrs. Watson’s friend to join us today. She should hear from me directly about our change of directions. And also because I shall require her participation, since we are shorthanded.

  “She will be here at”—Charlotte glanced at the grandfather clock—“well, she should have arrived three minutes ago. Forêt should be announcing her any moment now.”

  As if she’d summoned him, a knock came at the door, followed by Forêt’s gentle voice. “Mesdames et Messieurs, a visitor to see you.”

  * * *

  Forêt showed in a woman in a black dress and a widow’s veil. She took a seat next to Mrs. Watson on the chaise longue.

  “This is Madame, my friend,” said Mrs. Watson, as if it were quite normal to welcome a covered-up stranger into the midst of a clandestine, possibly criminal discussion—and to divulge nothing of the stranger’s identity.

  Then again, they all knew this was the friend for whom Mrs. Watson had taken on this Herculean task.

  Forêt served cake and coffee to Madame, even though a woman in a veil was hardly going to expose her face to snack. When he had departed, Charlotte gave a highly condensed version of their earlier discussion, leaving out all references by name to Moriarty and Lady Ingram.

  Madame listened intently. At the end of Charlotte’s explanations she asked, “What if this safe isn’t there? Do you have any contingency plan, with regard to the Van Dyck?”

  She spoke in French, her accent subtle enough and unfamiliar enough that Livia couldn’t place it.

  “Our ally has arranged for something,” said Charlotte. “But we don’t know how likely it is to happen and cannot count on it.”

  “So we proceed without any guarantees.”

  “We proceed without any guarantees.”

  Madame hesitated. “Very well, then. Let’s proceed however we may.”

  “Excellent,” said Charlotte. “Now it’s time we discuss the specifics of the plan, which will involve some loverly conduct. Miss Olivia and Mr. Marbleton are excused from said conduct. The participation of everyone else, including Madame, will be required.”

  Livia blinked. If Charlotte was to partner with Lord Ingram, then who would Mrs. Watson and Madame partner with? Surely not each other?

  Madame glanced at Mrs. Watson. Some kind of unspoken communication passed between them. Then she nodded, the gesture extraordinarily regal.

  Charlotte inclined her head. “Very well. Let us all change into appropriate attire and proceed to our first rehearsal.”

  * * *

  In Charlotte’s bedroom, Livia helped her sister with the most important part of her costume. Charlotte’s disguise as a man required a substantial stomach to hide her generous bosom. Usually a lot of padding was used to achieve that bulk, but this time a paunch had been made specifically for the ball.

  “You are going to have Mrs. Watson and her friend do ‘loverly’ things together?” asked Livia, tightening the straps that secured the paunch to Charlotte’s person.

  “The camera is stationary. They will be able to angle themselves so that they will only appear to be intimate,” answered Charlotte with her usual detachment.

  “But even if they position themselves with one person’s back to the camera, they will still need to remain in an embrace. How awkward it will be for them.”

  A knock came at the door.

  “Come in,” said Charlotte.

  Mrs. Watson.

  Livia’s face heated. She hoped Mrs. Watson hadn’t overheard anything.

  “Oh, Miss Charlotte,” said Mrs. Watson, shaking her head, “what a thing to make two old ladies do.”

  “Extraordinary times call for extraordinary measures,” replied Charlotte, sounding not at all chastised, not that Mrs. Watson appeared at all interested in chastising anyone.

  Mrs. Watson sighed. “It will be awkward, since we have been apart and out of touch for so many years. But at least we won’t be doing anything we haven’t done before.”

  A buckle fell out of Livia’s hand. She didn’t know where to look. Did Mrs. Watson mean to imply that . . . that . . .

  Mrs. Watson chuckled. “If you have any questions, Miss Olivia, you can ask me directly. I’m standing right here.”

  “Ummm . . .” Livia finished with the straps and pulled on them to make sure they were tight enough but not so tight that they would cause Charlotte discomfort. “I take it you and your friend enjoyed a romantic friendship, like the Ladies of Llangollen?”

  Lady Eleanor Butler and Miss Sarah Ponsonby had run away from their homes in County Kilkenny, possibly to escape unwanted marriages, settled down in Wales, and maintained a household together for fifty years.

  “Well, the Ladies of Llangollen strenuously protested any characterization of their friendship as other than pure and chaste. I, on the other hand, can make no such protests.”

  Livia’s jaw fell. Mrs. Watson and her friend had been . . . sapphic lovers? Didn’t some German Herr Doktor just publish a book on sexual pathology and classify lesbianism as a type of neurological disease?

  “Anyway,” said Mrs. Watson, “I’ve been tasked by my friend to tell you that you are a cheeky young lady, Miss Charlotte, for making us old ladies engage in possibly lewd exhibitions. But between you and me, I think cheeky, coming from her lips, is a compliment.”

  She was gone the next minute, because she still needed to change.

  Livia turned to Charlotte. “I don’t know what to think about any of this.”

  Charlotte gave her a blank look. “What’s there to think about? What Mrs. Watson and her friend do and don’t do with each other doesn’t affect you to any extent.”

  But the problem seemed blindingly obvious to Livia. “Well, if Mrs. Watson is inclined toward ladies, don’t you worry that she might feel something other than friendship for you?”

  Charlotte’s look remained blank. “No more than Lord Ingram worries that she might feel something other than friendship for him. She did have a younger husband once. Who is to say that she can’t have an even younger one?”

  Livia’s lips flapped a few times. “But he doesn’t live with her.”

  “Most men and women engaged in illicit affairs do not live together.”

  Charlotte’s expression still hadn’t changed, nor had her tone. But Livia suddenly felt silly. She adored Mrs. Watson. She’d adored Mrs. Watson from the very beginning as the mother she never had. Nothing about Mrs. Watson had changed. Why should Livia now establish hurdles that Mrs. Watson must jump over, when she had never needed to prove anything to Livia in the first place?

  When she looked back at Charlotte, she said, “I think your austerity measures are working. You’re visibly farther from Maximum Tolerable Chins than you were a few days ago.”

  Charlotte patted herself under her jaw. “I will not bore you with tales of hardship, but it has been dreadful. The things I do in service to my vanity.”

  Livia smiled. In the corridor, Mr. Marbleton was calling for the rehearsal to begin. She tapped Charlotte on the shoulder. “Let’s go.”

  * * *

  Hôtel Papillon sat on a large but irregular plot of land and had its own sizable garden. In the middle of the lawn, the gentlemen who had stayed behind in Paris had installed an eight-foot-wide section of wrought iron fence.

  It wasn’t identical to the periphery fence at Château Vaudrieu, but it was of the same h
eight and the same design, with similar sharp finials on top, pickets the same width apart, and, as was the case at Château Vaudrieu, no crossbars except at the very bottom and the very top.

  The garden was shielded from view by high walls. The servants had been sent out for various tasks. The ladies, for whom the practice session had been arranged, arrived wearing bloomers. The strategy was clear. Charlotte must always be the first person to be sent over the fence, as she, along with the contraband that would be strapped to her person, made for the heaviest escapee and benefitted from having all the other three women helping her up.

  Lord Ingram and Mr. Marbleton were on the scene to lend a hand, if need be. But mostly Mrs. Watson coordinated the ladies. It took Mrs. Watson, the maharani, and Livia some time to work out how to best arrange themselves, so that they gave the greatest upward boost to Charlotte.

  The first time Charlotte got both of her feet on the top cross-bar, she became petrified. She was too high for anyone to reach up and steady her. The fence, which had felt firmly planted while she was on her way up, now seemed to sway to and fro. She was sure that if she swung her leg over, she would bring the whole thing crashing down.

  Lord Ingram was already reaching for the ladder that had been brought for just this purpose, but Mr. Marbleton stopped him. “Miss Charlotte, I promise you this fence is solid as a rock. Whatever you do, it will not tilt over. You have my word on it.”

  With that, he scaled the fence in a single motion and shook it from the top. Charlotte didn’t scream, but she did let out an audible gasp. But as Mr. Marbleton promised, the fence held. Very well, too.

  Charlotte exhaled and swung her leg over, only to then become sincerely stuck on the finials, which hooked onto the voluminous fabric of her bloomers. She sighed. She’d never been fond of bloomers, which did not flatter her figure, but now their uselessness was confirmed.

  The ladder was brought. Livia climbed up and freed Charlotte’s bloomers. Mr. Marbleton now demonstrated for her how she was to hold on to the top crossbar and gently lower herself, and then finally to let go and drop the remaining distance to the ground.