by Karen Odden
I climbed the steps and rang the bell. Betsy the maid opened the door and frowned.
“Please, may I come in?” I asked. “I’m not here to distress her, I promise.”
She pursed her lips, her mistrust of me deep enough to form dimples in the soft areas at the sides of her mouth. But I couldn’t take offense. I liked her all the better for being loyal. She drew back from the door and motioned me in. “I’ll see if she’s at home,” she said and left me standing in the foyer. When she returned, her expression still held disapproval, but she said, “She’ll see you, but she hasn’t much time.”
I was shown to the parlor, where Felix, the inspector, and I had met Mrs. Jesper the first time. She was already present, standing behind the couch when I entered, and her face was composed but her spine belied her tension. She was braced for a blow, and my heart went out to her.
“Good afternoon, Miss Rowe.”
“Thank you for seeing me,” I said.
“Where is your inspector?” she asked, her voice measured.
“He . . . well, we attended the auction, and I just left him,” I admitted honestly. “He said he had something he needed to do alone.”
Her delicate brows lifted.
Impulsively, I dared to speak part of the truth: “He also suggested you could use an ally, more than you need a policeman.”
Her eyes dropped to her hands where they rested on the back of the couch, and when she looked up, her flush suggested a mix of rue and embarrassment. “So you have been coerced into taking the role.”
“Not coerced,” I said and stepped forward. “Not at all. The other day when we left, I felt nothing but sympathy—and a deep regret for the shock we’d given you.”
Her expression softened at my words. She came around the front of the couch, then gestured toward a chair close by, and we sat. A ray of afternoon sun streamed in from the window behind me, and her silver-and-jet earrings caught the light. Her hazel eyes were fixed on me, and I began, “Two interesting things happened at the auction. May I tell you?”
“Of course.”
“The first is that Mr. Pagett, Lord Sibley’s stepson, has somehow discovered your name.”
She frowned slightly. “Is that a problem?”
“No. But he”—I fumbled—“he wants to know how you came by the painting.”
She grimaced. “Well, that’s understandable. So do I. What is the second thing?”
“Mr. Bettridge announced at the start that the Boucher had been withdrawn. But he also announced that a rare David portrait from a private collection would be offered in its place.”
Her head tipped slightly as she considered this. “It’s a reasonable substitution.”
“Yes, most of the audience seemed placated—and intrigued. He may have managed to save his house’s reputation, even if some people wonder if it was just a sleight of hand.”
“I expect so.” She plucked absently at her skirt. “I wonder where he found such a work so quickly.”
“Mr. Pagett suggested it might be from his private collection.”
“Mm. Perhaps.”
I was silent for a moment, considering where to begin, but before I could speak, she said abruptly, “Do you know, the day you were here, I took at face value your friendship with Felix, and your being a painter. I was so stunned by what Felix told me that it was only later I wondered where precisely you figured in all this.” Her wide eyes met mine intently, as if she longed to penetrate to the truth of the matter. “Now here you are again, this time alone. I assume Felix shared why I’m not at ease with policemen, and no doubt your inspector sent you because he has further questions for me. But before I say anything else, I’d like you to clarify your interest in my affairs.”
Her tone was direct but reasonable, and I felt a wave of relief at the civility of her words. “Mrs. Jesper, I am happy to do that. In fact, it’s partly why I’m here. I asked Mr. Hallam if I might confide in you, and he agreed.”
Her chest rose and fell, and the tension in her frame eased.
“The truth is,” I said, “my brother, Edwin, was the person commissioned to clean the painting for the auction. On Tuesday last, I went to his room to see him. But I found the inspector there because Edwin”—my breath caught—“had been murdered.”
Her eyes widened, and her lips formed into a small O.
“It wasn’t until later that night, when Felix came to see me and told me about the Boucher, that we began to guess why. I’d spent some time in Edwin’s room that day, searching through his things with the inspector, and I knew there was no portrait of Madame de Pompadour.”
“Oh dear God.” Her eyes closed for a moment, and when they opened, they were full of sorrow and growing horror. “So he was killed for that painting?”
“Well, the room was in shambles, and some frames were broken and empty, so it seems likely. The inspector believes Edwin may have”—I swallowed down the tightness in my throat, so I could continue—“interrupted the thief in his search.”
A faint groan, and her hands came up to cover her face for a moment before they dropped back into her lap. “Your brother should have just let him leave with it. No painting is worth a man’s life.”
“Honestly, I think Edwin would have let him go, given the choice. But if the thief was seen, then he . . .”
“Of course. He was caught.” She gave a ragged sigh. “I had no idea. I’m so very sorry for your loss—and here I was feeling indignant and suspicious of your motives in coming here. I’m sorry.”
“Please don’t be,” I said, leaning forward. “There is no possibility that you could have intuited any of this. And I suppose I could have told you when we met, but it seemed hearing about the painting’s disappearance was quite enough of a shock for one afternoon.”
She gave a wan smile. “It was.” She looked down at the hands clasped in her lap, and when she raised her chin, there were pink spots in her cheeks. “It was painful and terribly mortifying. I felt like such a fool. Not even knowing the painting wasn’t mine when I tried to sell it. And having no idea when or how Stephen had brought it here . . . You must have thought me oblivious and—and benighted and idiotic, for goodness’ sake.”
“Mrs. Jesper—”
“Call me Celia, please.” A wince. “We’re speaking rather candidly, don’t you think, not to be calling each other by our Christian names?”
“Annabel, then.”
She nodded.
I spoke earnestly. “We didn’t think any of those things. I—well, I can’t speak for anyone else, but I sensed you would never dream of selling what didn’t rightfully belong to you. You had the papers, after all. And of course I understand your distress at discovering that the painting belonged to a man you thought your husband barely knew.”
Her face went still.
I shifted in my chair. “Forgive me, but I sense what pained you most is the idea of him keeping a secret from you. And I can imagine how upsetting that would be. But perhaps if your husband kept something concealed, it was because the secret belonged to Lord Sibley and not to him.”
“I could understand if that were the case.” Her brow furrowed, and she sighed. “You can’t imagine how I’ve tortured myself since your visit—wondering if everything I knew about my husband was in error. Oh, I know we only ever discern people’s characters in part. Even our most intimate friends aren’t transparent to us. But I spent hours that night staring at his photograph, wondering if I’d misread his countenance all along . . . or if he’d changed, somehow.”
Her words made a lump rise in my throat. “I know.”
She might have dismissed my reply as mere politeness, but instead she caught me up. “You do?”
I nodded. “My brother was . . . erratic. I often wondered what to expect from him.”
Her eyebrows rose and she leaned forward. “That’s what’s so difficult! Five days ago, I thought I knew Stephen as fully as it is possible to know anyone! I’d have sworn he had no secrets from me.
But now? I seem to be uncovering them at every turn.”
“Oh?”
She made a restless movement, as if she couldn’t contain her inner discomfort. “After you left, I dug out his journals and read them. I hadn’t done so before because—well, they’re just daily records, really, nothing personal. Mostly a log of his travels and expenses. But I discovered that about six months after we were married, he . . .” The flush returned to her cheeks. “He began to travel regularly to Birmingham. Trips he never told me about.”
I understood the reason for her embarrassment. “Did he perhaps have shipping concerns there?”
“I doubt it. The company’s ships are all based in Liverpool and here in London.”
I couldn’t think of a word to say.
“I know what it looks like,” she burst out. “And my heart tells me he was incapable of being unfaithful. But is that merely what I want to believe?” Her expression was strained. “It doesn’t seem at all like him; he was so kind and affectionate, for our whole marriage, and he shared his concerns with me, his feelings about . . . oh, everything.” She turned up her right palm. “But perhaps it was merely to mitigate his guilt. I feel completely . . .” Her voice faded, and she shook her head.
“How long did the visits go on?”
“They were frequent for about six months, and then they tapered off. The last one was fourteen months after they started.” Tears came to her eyes, and she blinked rapidly to keep them at bay. After a moment, she rose and went to a long table piled with books and other items. She retrieved a silver picture frame, returned to her seat, and silently handed it to me.
The image looked like one of Mr. Hughes’s renowned society photographs, but the man who looked out from the frame had nothing of the stiff dandy or the portly gentleman about him. While he wasn’t strictly handsome—his hairline was receding and his nose was slightly snubbed—his eyes were clear and intelligent, and the lines around his mouth suggested a fine sense of humor.
“He has an attractive face,” I said truthfully.
“Yes.” She held the frame between her two hands, her eyes fixed on it with such love and longing that I had to look away.
At last she set the photograph on the table in front of us, at an angle where we could both see it, and her voice was calm again when she asked, “Did Felix tell you much about him, and our marriage?”
I shook my head.
“I was already twenty-six when Stephen and I met, six years ago. He was thirty-four. We were married in April of the following year.” Pensively she touched her fingertips to her mouth. “I had been engaged before then, to a man who . . . you see, I lost my mother very young, and then my father passed away. So at first Leonard’s protectiveness made me feel cared for. But later, it felt—” She grimaced. “Well, it doesn’t matter. The point is, he broke the engagement, although he represented to the world that I had broken it off. He said he offered that story to protect me from the humiliation. But I’d have rather he told the truth. I felt as though it made me look changeful and inconstant.”
“I understand.”
“When I met Stephen, he was kind, but he didn’t make me feel like a child who needed to be coddled and protected from the world. He’d say things under his breath to make me laugh.” Her expression softened, and she smiled so a deep dimple formed in her cheek. “One of the things I liked about him was he was forthright and—and open.”
“Was he very occupied with his business?” I ventured.
She shifted her position to perch her elbow on the arm of the couch and leaned her head on her hand. “Yes, I’d say he was, but only when he was working. Oh, he spoke with me sometimes about the shipping business, and there were days when I could tell there were difficulties and problems, but it didn’t preoccupy him.” Her smile grew wistful. “When he came home, he said he wanted to enjoy his dinner in peace and hear about my day. And in the evenings, he wanted to sit by the fire with me and play chess or have me read aloud.”
“You play chess?” I asked.
She nodded. “My father taught me. He was a barrister—a brilliant one—so he was terribly in demand and away a good deal. But sometimes he’d be home in the evening, and he’d ask for a game to soothe his nerves. He didn’t have any sons, just daughters, and my sister Gwendolyn didn’t like the game. She’d invent stories about the pieces instead of playing with them.”
“Stories?”
A small laugh escaped. “About how the bishop was secretly in love with the queen, who’d tried to murder her husband, the king. She always liked to tell stories, while I preferred to read them. As a child, I spent so much time alone that I came to think of other people’s stories as gifts.”
“Does your sister live here in London?”
“Yes, though she’s been in Edinburgh the last few weeks. She writes novels.” One eyebrow rose, and she gave a wry smile.
I smiled with her. “That sounds fitting.”
Her smile faded, and her fingers absently pleated the fabric of her skirt. “Why do you think the Boucher was here? Do you think it was something connected with Stephen’s business?”
“I don’t know,” I admitted. “Mr. Hallam believes the painting isn’t the only connection between Lord Sibley and your husband. Do you have any idea what another connection might be? A club, or a business dealing, or even a mutual friend?”
“Believe me,” she said, “I’ve been turning the possibilities over in my mind since your last visit, and I’m at a loss. We didn’t meet socially, and Stephen never mentioned him that I can remember. Even the painting . . .” She shook her head. “If Lord Sibley purchased that painting, he was a serious collector. Stephen wasn’t. So even the painting isn’t the connection it might be.”
“I see what you mean.” I took a breath. “I want to share some things that we—Mr. Hallam and I—have discovered, in the hopes that maybe they’ll make more sense to you, or perhaps you can add to them.” With that, I plunged in, telling her the most important pieces of information the inspector and I had learned thus far.
As I concluded she sat motionless for a long minute. At last, she stood and went to the nearby window. Her slender figure was silhouetted against the light. Her fingertips touched the sill; I saw they were trembling.
“Are you all right?” I asked.
She turned. “Aren’t you frightened by all of this?”
“Frightened?” I echoed.
“Don’t you realize the most obvious connection between Lord Sibley and Stephen—not to mention your brother?” Her eyes were blazing dark in her pale face. “They’ve all died.” My expression must have revealed my thoughts for she waved impatiently. “I don’t believe the painting is cursed or any such nonsense. But it makes me think whatever the connection was between Lord Sibley and my husband—and perhaps your brother as well—it led to their deaths. Don’t you wonder the same?”
“Well, not really,” I said honestly. “Edwin’s death was so long after the others’. Lord Sibley’s death was from the influenza, and your husband’s death was an accident.”
“Felix told you?”
“About the carriage? Yes.”
“But . . . what if it wasn’t an accident?” Her voice was tight with tension. “Even at the time, I wondered. Stephen was always scrupulous about keeping our carriages in good repair and the horses well cared for.”
“I see.” I felt a prickling along the back of my neck and down my arms, and my voice was faint: “Felix didn’t give me the particulars.”
“We were together in our open trap, and Stephen was driving.” She began to pace back and forth, her hands fidgeting at her waist. “It was an unusually mild day for the end of February, after a spell of terrible cold. We were on Trenton Street—do you know it?”
I shook my head.
“It slopes downhill, and we were rolling forward, when suddenly I felt an odd jolt—more than usual on cobblestones—followed by a loud noise, and our poor horse spooked and reared.” She halted, staring
into the middle distance, as if she were watching the scene in the street all over again. Her voice had become curiously monotone. “The trap continued to roll forward, but it lurched, as if it had gone over a curb, and it was clear the axle was damaged. Stephen all but threw me out of the carriage before it picked up more speed. But he stayed in it.” There was a catch in her voice. “I know what he was doing. He was trying to keep from hitting anyone else. By the time I’d recovered myself and turned to watch, Stephen had lost control of the horse, and the trap was careening toward a building at the corner. He was thrown from his seat—” She halted mid-step. “And then the trap flipped and came down on top of him.”
She had put a vivid picture into my mind.
“You saw it?” I asked.
She shook her head. “The carriage blocked my view. My leg was broken”—she tapped her leg—“that’s why I have this limp now. I couldn’t get up. I couldn’t go to him.” The pain of her helplessness was etched starkly on her face. “The doctor said the weight of the trap broke his ribs, making them sharp as knives inside his chest. They punctured his left lung, and it filled with blood.” She blinked several times, as if in disbelief. “He drowned in it, you see, right there in a street that was dry as a bone, and I couldn’t go to him.”
“I’m so sorry,” I said gently. “Your husband sounds wonderfully brave and selfless.”
“So far as I’ve known him, he was both of those things. That’s partly why I don’t think his trips to Birmingham were for—for what they might have been.” She gave a sad smile. “He truly believed that a good person participates in the events of the world—intervenes when needed, steps in rather than turning away, speaks the truth even when it is unpopular. It’s something I always admired about him.” She looked faintly ashamed. “I tend to hold myself back.”
You and I are alike in that, I thought.
“He was always curious about people, especially if they came from other parts of the world.” She shrugged. “It’s not surprising, I suppose, given all the traveling as a child.”
