by Karen Odden
“Well, say it cost twenty pounds to insure a headboard for a year. It was seventy to insure some very expensive jewelry. So people would hide the jewelry inside the headboard.”
“Oh, I see.”
He set aside the pocketbook and unfolded the paper, revealing a rough sketch. “Here’s the street and the building. It was five stories high, covered almost two acres of land.” He pointed. “These are the hallways and square rooms. Most of the building was stone. There were steel doors at intervals that could be shut to contain a fire, and the roof was girded so it wouldn’t collapse if it was doused with water. The second, fourth, and fifth floors were all rooms for individual collectors, and they could be locked. There were approximately twenty-five hundred depositors, including everyone from landed gentry to railway board members and MPs”—he glanced up—“many of whom had substantial art collections. Sir Richard Wallace had two entire rooms for himself. He lost a good portion of his painting collection, valued at something upward of one hundred and fifty thousand pounds.”
“I remember reading about that,” I replied.
One eyebrow rose. “It’s astounding, isn’t it?”
“Did Mr. Radermacher remember anything about the Sibley collection?”
“The Sibleys had a room for themselves.” A gleam came into his eye. “But when I asked about the Boucher, he said the arrangement for that particular painting might have been a shared dock. He couldn’t remember at first, and then after a bit, he seemed more certain.”
“A shared dock?”
“It’s when a person or family rents a space for a specific item in their collection that another, unrelated person can remove at any time. Shared docks were housed in a separate room, so the Boucher wasn’t with the rest of the collection.”
My mouth fell open. “So the painting could have been placed by Lord Sibley—”
“And withdrawn by Mr. Jesper. Yes.” He paused. “Legally.”
“Were shared docks common?” I asked.
He shrugged. “It wasn’t out of the ordinary. Most often it was a solicitor who was authorized, but it could be any two individuals.” He flipped through his pocketbook to refer to some notes and then returned to the sketch. “This”—he pointed to a corner—“is the northwest corner, where the paintings were held. And it’s where the fire began. It spread this way, along the corridors to the south and east. So it’s very likely that if someone did start the fire in that particular section of the building, it was because they were targeting a painting.”
“It may not be only a painting that was targeted,” I said slowly, and I relayed to him the substance of my conversation with Celia, including her husband’s trips to Birmingham and what she had suggested about Stephen’s and Lord Sibley’s deaths.
He was quiet for several minutes after I finished. At last he said, “There’s one additional piece of news. Someone is trying to sell the painting.”
I sat bolt upright. “What? You’ve found it?”
A ghost of a smile. “I didn’t say that. I found someone who heard from someone else that it’s available for sale.”
“And you’ve no idea who is selling it?”
“No, but I’m—”
A sharp rap at the door startled us both.
I froze in place, but Matthew instantly reached one hand for his truncheon and the other for me, pulled me to standing, and jerked his head in the direction of the bedroom. Silently, I stepped over Edwin’s journals and slipped behind the torn curtain.
Chapter 13
Who is it?” Matthew asked.
“My name is Mr. Pascoe. I was a friend of Edwin’s.”
“It’s all right, Matthew. It’s the vicar from the funeral,” I whispered.
“Stay there a moment,” he said.
Obediently, I remained where I was as Matthew opened the door.
“I beg your pardon.” The man’s voice was strained but low, as if he was trying to conceal his agitation. “I’m looking for Miss Annabel Rowe. I hoped someone here might tell me where I could find her—and then I saw the light.”
I came out from the back room and walked toward the door. The vicar wore a black coat and a weather-beaten hat, and he carried a newspaper in his left hand. I caught a glimpse of the masthead of the Beacon and guessed what brought him here at half past eight in the evening. “Please come in, Mr. Pascoe,” I said.
Silently Matthew stepped aside, and the vicar entered, looking from Matthew to me, his expression discomfited.
I felt myself flush; of course he’d wonder what we were doing alone in Edwin’s rooms at this hour.
“This is Inspector Hallam, from the Yard,” I said as matter-of-factly as I could manage. “He’s looking into Edwin’s murder. We were just going through Edwin’s sketchbooks.” I gestured toward the one comfortable chair. “Please, sit down. Would you like tea?”
“No, thank you.” He laid the newspaper on the worktable and removed his coat with a deliberateness that suggested he was accustomed to maintaining his equanimity in trying circumstances, although I noticed his cleric’s collar was askew, and he’d left a middle button undone on his shirt.
He sat down and rubbed fiercely at his hair so it spiked in several directions. “Miss Rowe, I beg your pardon for disturbing you, but I only just read this paper, and I had to come straightaway.”
“How did you know Edwin’s address?” Matthew asked idly.
“I’d been here to visit him once or twice.” He turned back to me to add, “Generally he came to see me at the church.”
I drew one of Edwin’s stools close to the vicar, perched on it, and waited to hear what he’d say.
He steepled his hands as if in prayer and touched the fingertips of his forefingers gently to his chin, his expression grave. “At the funeral, the priest gave out that Edwin’s death was sudden, of course, and naturally most of us assumed it was the result of an accident, though it wasn’t made explicit. Afterward, when you told me it wasn’t . . . well, I thought . . . that is, I assumed he had taken his own life.”
My shock at the idea silenced me, but Matthew leaned toward the vicar. “Why would you think so?”
“When he was in prison, he spoke of it several times.”
My mouth went dry. “Was he in earnest?”
The vicar’s eyes met mine, and his expression was full of regret. “It wasn’t uttered impetuously, if that’s what you mean. I’ve seen men speak of committing that desperate act, and I know when someone is considering it with some purpose. And then, less than a week before Edwin died, he returned some books I’d lent him.” He spread his hands. “At the time I thought nothing of it. He seemed tranquil and cheerful. He even teased me a bit about some notes I’d made in the margin. So I assumed he was merely returning books he’d finished reading. Then, after he died, I wondered if he returned them because . . .”
“Because he wanted to put his affairs in order,” Matthew supplied.
“Yes.” He pointed to the newspaper. “But tonight I saw this. Is it true? Was Edwin murdered? Are you certain?”
“He was killed in such a way that he couldn’t have done it himself,” Matthew said quietly.
At Matthew’s words, the vicar’s head dropped into his hands. “That poor boy,” he muttered. We sat in silence, and when the vicar raised his head, his eyes were wet. But a heavy burden seemed to have slipped away, and I thought I understood.
“You were afraid you hadn’t helped him enough,” I said softly.
He looked ashamed. “My own concerns are nothing compared with your grief. But I’ll admit, since the funeral, I’ve raked through my memories, trying to see a sign of . . . of his desire to destroy himself, and I couldn’t find one. The last few months, he seemed increasingly at peace, as if he were settling into his new life.” He leaned forward, his expression earnest. “When he came to drop off those books, I saw no signs of the dark thoughts he had when I first met him.”
“What was he like then? In prison?” I asked.
&
nbsp; “Oh . . . the first few visits were very difficult,” he admitted. “He was distrustful and sullen and angry, unwilling to accept any sort of comfort from me. He wasn’t even much interested in the food I brought—indeed, he hardly ate at all.” He sighed. “Several times I left feeling quite discouraged, and it wasn’t until I brought him books that he began to respond. At first I tried the Bible, of course. But he absolutely refused to hear it.”
Recalling how my father would recite scriptures about ungrateful sons, I imagined I understood why.
Mr. Pascoe spread his hands. “He said he didn’t believe in a benevolent God.”
“Yet you didn’t give up on him,” Matthew said.
“Of course not.” A smile flickered. “Plenty of my conversations with prisoners begin that way.”
Matthew made a sound of acknowledgment.
“What books did you give him instead?” I asked.
“The volumes of my favorite philosophers. He seemed to take a modicum of comfort in the works of David Hume.”
“The Scottish skeptic?” Matthew asked.
“Yes. Edwin’s intellect was lively—and at times so quick and so shrewd that I found the intricacies of his thoughts difficult to follow. More than once after I left, I’d spend my walk back to Camden mulling over some point he’d made.” He shrugged. “He may have left school prematurely, but not before he’d absorbed patterns of logic and argument. Truly, he might have made an extraordinary philosopher.” His right hand scratched at his temple. “Eventually he came to trust and confide in me. Over time, I attempted to persuade him that a certain kind of contemplation—I didn’t call it prayer—might help him grapple with his sorrow. Sometimes there were moments when light was forgotten and despair took over. But those moments were fewer and farther between.” He leaned toward me. “Forgive me—but I think he began to escape the shadow of your father’s expectations and disappointment. He didn’t have to quarrel with him anymore. Do you see?”
I nodded. Edwin had made a few comments along those lines in the weeks before his death.
“And as his time in prison drew to an end, he was determined to avoid his old ways and make amends. I know he spoke of this with you.”
“Yes, he did,” I said slowly. “I must admit, Vicar, at first I wasn’t sure how sincere he was. I’d seen him apologetic before—so many times.” I shook my head. “Eventually Father gave up on him and told him never to come back. I think it broke my mother’s heart.”
“And yours?” Mr. Pascoe asked gently.
My throat tightened. “Mine, too.”
He reached over to pat my hand and gave me a smile. “He’d always thought of the two of you as allies, even after he was sent away to school. And—” He broke off. “Well, I think it took him time to understand how his reckless years affected you.”
I couldn’t trust myself to speak.
“I counseled him to be patient,” he said. “It would take more than a few months to win back your trust. But I assured him that time often heals even the deepest wounds. And from what he’d told me of you, I believed you were generous enough to forgive him.”
I’d been the beneficiary of this man’s compassion, and I hadn’t even known it. I felt tears prick at the corners of my eyes. “Thank you for that. I’m—I’m so grateful that Edwin had you,” I said. “I never knew it was you who’d helped him. And he was changed when he came out of prison, certainly for the better.”
“Knowing that makes me feel a bit easier, I suppose.” He laid his open hand over his shirtfront and rubbed absently. After a moment, he gave a sigh and shifted toward the front of the chair. “I suppose I should go.”
“Before you do,” Matthew said, “would you mind if I asked you a few questions?”
“Of course.” The vicar settled back against the cushion.
“When did you last see Edwin?”
He tipped his head to the side as he thought back. “He came to see me on Wednesdays. So I suppose it was about a week before he died.”
“You said he was cheerful,” Matthew said. “But did he say anything about his work?”
“He mentioned he’d received two commissions that he thought would be remunerative. One was for a copy of a landscape and the other for cleaning a painting. I assume it’s the one mentioned in the newspaper, the French portrait.”
“Did Edwin ever talk to you about the painting itself?” Matthew asked.
“No.”
“And did he mention anything peculiar—or say anything about disagreements with anyone the last time you saw him?”
“Not at all.” He frowned as he considered. “Mostly we discussed John Locke.”
Matthew nodded. “Thank you.”
“Of course.” He stood and put on his coat. As he walked toward the door, I noticed his limp had diminished.
I retrieved the newspaper he’d brought and handed it to him. “Did you injure your leg?”
He paused at the threshold and grimaced. “Yes, a few weeks ago. Stupid of me. I stepped in a hole in the garden and twisted my ankle. It’s better now, although it might be worse tomorrow. I ran in search of a cab tonight. I was so stunned by this”—he waved the paper—“all I could think of was getting here as quickly as I could.”
“There’s one other thing,” I said. “In Edwin’s sketchbooks, certain drawings suggest Edwin was unhappy at Tennersley. Did he ever say anything to you about it?”
I saw the flinch around his eyes, as if he’d dodged a physical blow. Then his face smoothed. “Miss Rowe, I’m sorry. Anything confided in me as a priest is sacred, between Edwin and God.”
It was as good as an admission that Edwin had told the vicar something, and I felt a sudden heat along the back of my spine. “I can appreciate you honoring that confidence for as long as Edwin was alive, Vicar. But it’s possible it has something to do with his death.”
“With his death my promise to him becomes all the more important to honor,” he said. He lowered his chin and looked at me from under his brows. “I’m sorry.”
He turned and stepped onto the landing, but I was desperate to keep him for another minute.
“One of his sketchbooks is missing. Do you know anything about it?”
He started down the stairs and answered over his shoulder, “If it is missing, I imagine it is because your brother no longer had any use for it.”
I hurried out to the landing and leaned over the banister. “One of his fellow students came to the funeral. A man named Will Giffen. Do you know him?”
He continued down the stairs. “I do not.”
“Mr. Pascoe, please,” I begged. “Do you think we should visit Tennersley? Will we find anything there?”
He stiffened, and paused on the step, turning to look up at me. By the light of the sconce on the landing below I saw a flash of resentment in his eyes. I felt a pang of regret at having persisted. But after a moment, his expression softened. “Good night, and God bless you both.”
I listened to his footsteps until they faded and the door thudded behind him.
“That was unexpected,” Matthew said. “And informative.”
I grimaced. “I shouldn’t have kept on. I made him angry.”
“I imagine upon reflection, he’ll understand.”
“I hope so.”
He took up his coat. “It’s late. Shall we go?”
I donned my own coat and gloves, stacked Edwin’s sketchbooks on the table, and locked the door. At the street, we turned in the direction of my flat, our steps taking us from one gaslight to the next. The night air was cold, and Matthew had no gloves. He thrust his hands into the pockets of his coat.
Finally, when we’d walked most of the way, he broke the silence: “What the vicar said about Edwin considering you his ally surprised me. I guess I hadn’t had that impression from you, and your father’s letter suggests you were more rivals than allies.”
I gave a short laugh. “Well, my father certainly did what he could to cultivate it.”
&n
bsp; “He did?”
“When I was a child, I was allowed to sit in on Edwin’s lessons—not because they would help me in any way but because my father believed that it might spur Edwin on.” My voice flattened. “He’d praise me as a way of rousing Edwin.”
“Ah,” Matthew said. “As he did in the letter.”
“Yes. Edwin always saw it for what it was, of course.”
“Hm.”
My thoughts were taking a different turn. “For years, I regarded Edwin’s behavior as a rebellious response to my father’s constant haranguing. But clearly something happened at that school. Just the way the vicar said—”
“Yes, I noticed that, too,” Matthew said. “And the look on his face when you asked.”
We had arrived at my door, and I turned to him. “I need to go to Tennersley,” I said. His expression was wary—and as he opened his mouth, I added, “Please don’t make a fuss.”
“Of course you should go. And I’ll join you.” He frowned. “If your brother’s murder has something to do with what happened there—if someone will kill to keep it a secret—then you’re not going alone.”
Chapter 14
Matthew couldn’t leave until midmorning, and we met in front of the Doric pillars of Euston station for a railway train going north. “I’ve already purchased the tickets,” he said and led me inside to the Great Hall, where the windows just below a lofty coffered ceiling admitted a grayish light. Most of the tracks were occupied by trains, their engines belching steam, their carriages the sites of rapid loading and unloading of passengers and freight. The air was warmer than the outdoors, and the stink of coal and the bitter tang of hot metal stung the back of my throat.
“London and Nawf Western down train for Live’pool!” bawled one of the railway servants. His left hand was clenched around his watch, which hung on a chain from his waistcoat. “Twe-e-n’y minutes! Twe-e-n’y minutes to depa’ture! Stops at Watford Junction! Connections at Bletchley for Oxford ’nd Cambridge! Transfers at Roade for a’ points nawf! Transfer at Rugby fo’ Nuneaton and Lichfield! Stops at Birmingham, Wolverhampton, and Stafford. Transfers at Crewe for Holyhead. Nineteen minutes to depa’ture! The down train! Nineteen minutes—”
