by Karen Odden
Chapter 22
The upper floors of Celia’s house had a strangely vacant appearance, and it took a moment for me to realize what the difference was: the curtains were gone. With the downstairs windows bare, even the dim light from a few lamps shone starkly through. From deep inside me came a sound that was half a cry and half a sigh of relief—the removers had come but someone was still home. I knocked at the door and it swung open to reveal Celia, her coat and shawl over her arm. “Why, Annabel!” she said in surprise. “I was just about to leave for my sister’s.”
My eyes fell on the empty hallway behind her. The sight made me think of a hollow log, scraped raw.
“Annabel?” Her expression was one of concern. She reached out and took my hand to draw me inside. “What’s the matter? My goodness, you’re freezing!”
I hadn’t even noticed, but as I stepped into the comparative warmth of the house, I began to shake, and her hand felt almost feverish by comparison with mine. Still, I didn’t reply; inside me rose the feeling that I longed for Celia to know everything without my having to speak the words.
My breathing echoed in the barren space.
Numbly, I let her guide me to the stairs and push me onto the second-to-last step. “I’m afraid it’s the only place left to sit,” she said. “The removers are coming for the last few paintings tomorrow.”
“It feels so empty,” I said.
She sat on the step beside me. “What is it?” She peered at me, and her expression became alarmed. “And what happened to your head?”
I put my hand up. “Someone—probably the man who killed Edwin—was waiting at my flat the other night. Matthew was there, too, so I’m all right. But he got away.”
Her breath sounded like a soft scrape, and in the ambient light from a hallway sconce, I saw the whites of her eyes. “Good Lord, Annabel.”
“I’m staying with Matthew until this is over.” I attempted a smile. “And don’t worry, his housekeeper is there as well, so there’s no impropriety. I think he just didn’t know what else to do with me.”
“Of course,” she murmured.
I reached inside my bodice, drew out the two pages, and offered them to her. “I found these in Edwin’s room.”
Her eyebrows raised, she took them from me and studied them silently for a moment, her mouth forming a small O. When she looked up at me, her eyes were enormous. “So it was here to be shipped. No wonder! Stephen . . .” Her voice faded, and I could see her beginning to assemble events in her mind, her mouth opening to ask questions—
“Will you come with me, please?” It came out a choked plea. “To see Matthew, at his house. I have things to tell him, but I want you to know, too, and—and I don’t want to explain it all twice.”
She didn’t demur for a moment. Silently she donned her coat, drew a key from her pocket, and locked the door behind us. She signaled a cab at the corner, and we climbed in.
“You look exhausted,” she said softly. Inside the cab was just as cold as outdoors, and I felt every muscle clenching. She reached out a gloved hand, and I clung to it like a lifeline all the way to Matthew’s house.
To my relief, I saw his bulky silhouette moving across the window and then back, as if he was pacing.
“He’s home,” I whispered.
“Yes, he is,” she said quietly. “Thank goodness.”
And I realized her curiosity was at least as great as my desire to share what I knew. I hated the feeling of holding it all alone.
As the carriage drew up, I saw Matthew halt and draw the curtain aside. His face appeared at the window and then vanished. The door was open before I reached it, and I gazed up at him. His face was white to the lips, his eyes dark with what looked like a potent mix of fear and fury. His words came out jerkily, as if they might explode out of him, and he was trying to mete them out in some reasonable way: “Where—the devil—have you been?”
Wordlessly, I thrust the papers at him.
He didn’t even glance at them.
“Mr. Hallam, she’s done in, and she’s freezing.” Celia’s gentle voice behind me carried a note of caution.
His jaw clenched, he stepped aside and held the door for us to enter.
My teeth were chattering, and the wound on my head began to pulse. Stiffly, I made my way toward the fire and held out my hands. Far from soothing them, the warmth made them itch.
From behind me, I heard the squeak of a cork and the sound of pouring, and Matthew was at my side, holding a cut-crystal glass of something golden brown. “Here.”
“What is it?”
“Good brandy,” he said tersely. “Get it down.”
Dutifully, I sipped and felt the burn of it like a fire down to my belly.
Matthew dragged a chair closer to the fire, and then left the room.
“You’ll warm faster without your coat,” Celia said.
I set the glass down on the small round table beside me and reached for the top button, but the ends of my fingers felt numb.
“Can you manage?” Celia asked when she saw me fumbling, and then she gently moved my hands away, undid the buttons, and eased my arms out of the sleeves. She set the coat aside and drew the chair and a footstool closer to the center of the hearth, where it was warmest.
“He’s so angry,” I said as I sat down. “What did I do wrong?”
“He’s not angry,” she corrected me. “He was afraid.” She found a warm woolly blanket and tucked it around me as if I were a child. “Now I’ll go help in the kitchen. Just stay there and get warm.”
I closed my eyes and put the soles of my boots as close to the fire as I dared.
A few moments later, I heard footsteps. The brandy had begun to work its magic, and the sharp edges of my exhaustion and emotions had begun to blur into a pleasing softness. I turned to see Matthew and Celia reappear with Peggy in tow, and I smelled the rich aroma of chocolate. Matthew carried a bucket of coal to heap on the fire. Celia was unfolding a second blanket, and Peggy bore a tray with three cups and some biscuits on it. Peggy frowned at the glass of brandy. “Hmph,” she said. “Chocolate will do you a world of good, better than that vile stuff.”
I said gratefully, “It smells wonderful.”
She gave a nod as if she’d proven us all wrong about something. “I’ll finish the stew,” Peggy said, “and set another place. We’ll have supper in an hour.”
“Thank you, Peggy,” Matthew said. To my relief, I noticed that his expression, while still unsmiling, reflected some of his usual equanimity. I sent a small, appreciative smile toward Celia, for I had a feeling she had something to do with it. He and Celia each drew a chair close on either side of me, and Matthew brought over a lamp and took up the pages I’d brought.
He separated them carefully and smoothed them, and while Celia and I sipped our chocolate, he read them over, each one twice. He didn’t raise his head for several minutes, and when he finally did, he looked at me.
“Where did you find these?” he asked soberly.
“Inside the leg of the easel in Edwin’s room.”
His eyes narrowed, and before he could ask, I blurted out, “I’ll tell you everything.” I glanced at Celia and then back to him. “But it will make far better sense if I tell it in order.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Celia nod encouragingly. Matthew picked up his chocolate with his right hand and turned his left palm up in a gesture of acquiescence.
Our chairs were in a tight little triangle, and I leaned back in mine, so I could see them both without turning my head as if I were watching lawn tennis.
Both of them looked at me expectantly, and I began:
“I went to the Sibleys’ house this afternoon, to see Mary, the maid . . .”
As I related the events of my day, Matthew’s eyebrows rose at parts, and Celia shivered in sympathy, but both of them remained silent until I gave the conclusion I’d reached: “I think that Mr. Pagett is going to try to get that painting back somehow, even though he probably g
uesses that it doesn’t rightfully belong to him.”
“I think you’re right,” Matthew said as he set his chocolate back on the tray. “What’s more, I think Boulter knows about Mr. Pagett’s interest.”
Suddenly I remembered where he’d been heading last time I saw him. “Did you find him at the Garrick Club?”
He shook his head but his eyes were keen. “Boulter isn’t a member, but Mr. Pagett is, and the valet told us that he delivered a letter from Boulter to Mr. Pagett this past Tuesday.”
I heard Celia’s soft gasp beside me.
“The day after the auction,” I said in surprise. “Perhaps Boulter knew to contact him because he saw him in the auction room.”
“Or because of the Beacon article,” Matthew countered. “Boulter was likely Fishel’s source for it. And I think he fed Fishel that information because he knew an article like that would send a message to whoever wanted the painting that it was available for sale.” He raised an eyebrow. “Remember the lines about experts believing it’s still available for a price?”
I nodded thoughtfully. “If Mr. Pagett saw the article, he would call upon Fishel, wouldn’t he?”
Matthew shrugged. “I would if I were him. And Fishel would pass along his information to Boulter. Hence Boulter’s letter to Mr. Pagett at the club.”
“My God,” Celia said under her breath and set her half-drunk chocolate on the tray with a clatter.
“What is it?” I asked.
Her eyes were wide and dark with apprehension. “I just wonder how far Mr. Pagett would go to obtain that painting. If he’s willing to deal with someone like Sam Boulter, then who’s to say he didn’t threaten Stephen last year, to keep him from shipping it out?”
“You’re wondering if Mr. Pagett had anything to do with your carriage accident?” Matthew asked guardedly.
Her fingers were knotted together so tightly the knuckles were white.
“Celia?” Matthew’s voice was quiet. “I can’t see Mr. Pagett involved in a murder. He just doesn’t seem the sort. But why—”
“I know how Lord Sibley and Stephen knew each other,” Celia blurted.
“You found the second link, then. The professor in Leuven?” I guessed.
She nodded. “After you left the other day, I wrote to him, as I said I would. His reply arrived last night in the post.” Her gaze shifted from me to Matthew. “He wrote that he gave Stephen the keys to his house, for a series of private meetings beginning in February of 1871.”
“In Leuven?” Matthew clarified.
“Yes.” She bit her lower lip and let it go. “Five men attended. Two Frenchmen and two Englishmen besides Stephen. One was an MP and the other was a gentleman”—she glanced at me before returning her gaze to Matthew—“from Birmingham.”
So this is why Stephen had made those trips, I thought with a twinge of relief for Celia. She had been right not to suspect a mistress.
Matthew shifted. “Was the Jesper company shipping guns?”
I nearly choked on the last of my chocolate. I stared incredulously at him and turned to Celia, expecting her to deny it. But to my surprise she was nodding, albeit reluctantly. She leaned forward in her chair, her hands clasped tightly in her lap, her expression pleading. “Truly, I didn’t know about Stephen’s trips to Birmingham until this past week. He never told me, probably because he knew I’d ask if he was conveying weapons.”
“Why would you assume that?” I asked, bewildered.
Matthew rubbed his fingertips over his mouth. He removed them long enough to say, “Because Birmingham is the gun-manufacturing center for England. And for most of Europe.”
“Oh.” I frowned. “But how many guns was Stephen’s company shipping? Lord Sibley’s a wealthy man, but—”
“Oh, I don’t think he funded it himself,” Celia corrected me. “A man in his position could channel money from a Parliamentary account. Indeed, this entire plan could have been accomplished sub rosa, without Parliament’s knowledge—or the knowledge of the prime minister.”
I stared. “Surely there’s more oversight in the government than that.”
“Celia’s right.” Matthew rose, took up a poker, and nudged at the coals. “Scudamore managed it. Two years ago, he diverted over a million pounds to keep the telegraph system going. He was found out, and he wasn’t even censured by Parliament.”
I vaguely remembered reading about it in the papers. “But that’s different,” I said. “That time, the money was staying in England.”
“Some would say that keeping our nation safe from invasion was even more critical than keeping the telegraphs going,” he replied. “And I can imagine how Sibley would justify obtaining the guns secretly. As soon as people knew the government was in the market to buy, the prices would double.” Matthew sat back on his heels, eyes on the fire. “The new prime minister would never condone this sort of interference. Disraeli likes von Bismarck.”
Celia stood and paced about the room, drawing her shawl close around her. “Well, perhaps Mr. Pagett had nothing to do with the accident. But I still think it’s a strange coincidence that Lord Sibley and Stephen died within weeks of each other.”
“To be sure, I’ll be in a position to question Mr. Pagett soon, and we’ll look into your husband’s death further,” Matthew said as he replaced the poker, and there was enough decisiveness in his voice that Celia was satisfied and nodded gratefully in reply.
He sat down, settling his elbows on his knees, and tapped his thumbs against his mouth. “But for now, our surest strategy is to confront Mr. Pagett with what we know for certain—the painting never belonged to him at all—and that he probably knew his father intended to return it to the LeMarcs.” He frowned. “With the family back in Paris, maybe Mr. Pagett assumed they’d never hear about its reappearance—because it was Bettridge’s auctioning it, instead of one of the other houses.”
“I don’t think he would have thought so,” I disagreed. “It’s an important painting. Surely he knew someone would mention it to the LeMarcs. The art world isn’t large, and the market for these paintings—”
“I agree with Annabel,” said Celia. “I think they’d hear of it.”
“All right, then.” Matthew stood and rested his right forearm heavily on the mantel. “So the painting has to remain stolen, or it goes to the LeMarcs. But still, Boulter has to sell the painting to Mr. Pagett.”
I frowned. “But Mr. Pagett wouldn’t be satisfied with merely owning the painting.” I looked up at Matthew. “You remember that room. He’ll want to display it, make it part of his collection, show people that he owns it. So he must do it legally, somehow.” I shrugged. “Maybe he’ll say it’s a reproduction.”
“No,” came Celia’s voice from the other side of the room. She had halted by the window, and the black of her dress and shawl made her appear almost a silhouette against the green curtains. Her words came slowly: “Mr. Pagett could display it legally—could own it legally—so long as he buys it under the rules of marché ouvert.”
“What?” I asked.
She looked at Matthew, as if she expected him to know, but he looked mystified as well.
She returned to the chair, resting her fingers lightly on the wooden back. Her voice was quiet but certain. “It’s an English law that’s been on the books since medieval times. It states that for any item sold in a designated open market—free to the public—between the hours of sunrise and sunset, its provenance cannot be questioned, and it is irrevocably and legally the property of the buyer.”
I stiffened with surprise. “Even if the goods are stolen?”
She looked for confirmation to Matthew, and he was nodding, though he wore a stunned look on his face. “The open market law, yes. I’ve heard of the odd case when it comes to a cow or a pig.” He spread his hands. “But not something like this.”
It was on the tip of my tongue to ask how Celia knew about the law—until I remembered her father had been a barrister.
Celia’s eyes wer
e glistening in the light of the fire. “Some years ago, my father handled a case in which a medieval manuscript was stolen from a print shop and sold for only a few pounds in an open market. The rightful owner had no recourse, although he made things unpleasant for the buyer. No doubt the law will be revoked someday, but it’s still valid.”
I leaned back against the cushion again. “So if Sam Boulter sells the painting to Mr. Pagett in the open market—”
“It’s a legal purchase,” she said, her voice steady and certain. “Today is Sunday. The market in Islington occurs every fortnight. It’s open on Tuesday at dawn.”
“Are there designated markets besides this one at Islington?” I asked.
“Yes, but not here in London, and not this week.”
“Any time between dawn and dusk, you say?” Matthew asked.
She nodded. “Don’t you think we should tell Felix?”
Matthew winced and his eyes darted from Celia to me. “I’ve something to tell you, about Felix.”
I felt a beat of fear. “Has something happened?”
“He’s alive,” he replied hurriedly. “But he’s in hospital. I saw him earlier today.”
My hands gripped the arms of the chair. “Why? What happened? Did Boulter try to—”
“No,” he interrupted. “I don’t think Boulter had anything to do with this, except incidentally. Felix fell in front of a cab in the road last night.”
A groan escaped Celia’s lips. “Was he intoxicated?”
I felt a jab of surprise that she’d guessed.
“I’m afraid he was,” Matthew said.
“How did you know to go looking for him—and in hospital?” I asked.
“I didn’t. The hospital found my card in his pocketbook. From the day we went to see him at Bettridge’s. They called the Yard.”
“Was he conscious when you saw him?”
“No,” he said. “He was sleeping.”
“Is he badly injured?” Celia asked.
He hesitated. “They said he’s slightly concussed. But they were more concerned about his inebriation.”
