by Sara Rosett
“Either Farina is completely wrong or Pieter’s lying. I’m leaning toward the first option. I think she’s got the jitters about her paintings and she’s grasping at straws.”
“Could be.” Jack looked over the menu. “Or he could call you.”
“I think that’s unlikely. He probably tossed my card into the trash the moment I left.”
“No, he didn’t. He put it in his pocket.”
Zoe popped the last bite of the stroopwafel into her mouth and savored the mixture of the crunchy waffle exterior and the sweet layer of caramel. She crumpled the paper wrapper and stuffed it into her pocket. “Well, that was worth the wait in line.”
“Yep, I agree. A quintessentially Amsterdam kind of dessert.”
They’d stopped at a street stall to pick up a stroopwafel as they made their way back to the hotel. They paused at the gentle peak of one of the arched bridges and watched as a tour boat putted away from them. The lights of the tall buildings on either side of the canal glittered in the wake of the boat. A few moments later, Zoe pushed away from the railing with a sigh.
“That was quite a sigh.”
“I’m debating. Should we contact the police with the information Farina gave us about Pieter?”
“We don’t have any proof, just hearsay.”
Zoe looked up at Jack out of the corner of her eye. “You were all for going to the police earlier.”
“I was all for Farina going to the police. There’s obviously something going on there, and she’s not telling us the full story. If we go to the police with that information . . .” He shrugged. “I don’t think they’ll take it too seriously. It’s secondhand.”
“It might give them a lead.”
“Now you’re the one sounding like you want to go to the police.”
“I just want to do the right thing. But you’re right. It’s not much for them to go on.” They walked a few more yards, passing by shops that had closed for the night. The rows of brightly packaged tulip bulbs and wooden shoes stood out even inside the dimly lit stores. “I’ll give the information to Harrington,” Zoe said. “I’m sure he knows someone in the police force here in Amsterdam. He can pass it along to his contacts.”
“That’s a much more effective way to convey it than you and I going to the local police station. That could take up most of our day tomorrow.”
“Okay, then. I’ll contact Harrington.” With that decision made, Zoe felt a little lighter as they walked along. “Speaking of tomorrow, what’s on our agenda?”
“The Van Gogh Museum in the morning, then the afternoon’s open.”
Zoe twisted toward him. “You’ve actually blocked in free time?”
“All the best tours have one free afternoon,” he said with a laugh. “And then we switch to your schedule. What’s our next destination?”
“Well . . .”
“You haven’t given it a thought, have you?” There wasn’t a trace of accusation in his tone.
“Honestly, no. I’m sorry. I’ve been a little preoccupied.”
He wrapped his arm around her shoulders and squeezed. “There is no rush—especially since we’re just taking the train. We’ll get our tickets tomorrow morning. You have Olive’s reports, and you’ve been waiting days to read them. You should do that first.”
Zoe snuggled into his shoulder. “Thanks for being so understanding.”
“I’ve had my city tour. Now we can do things your way and ramble around, looking at whatever takes our fancy.”
The doorman wished them a good evening as they went inside the hotel. Upstairs in the room, Zoe changed into a pair of yoga pants and a T-shirt, left a message for Harrington about Pieter, then opened the safe.
Earlier that evening, they’d used the hotel’s business center to make two copies of the reports. She’d put the first copy in an envelope and addressed it to Ava at the London office, then dropped it off at the front desk to be sent overnight. She’d put the originals of the reports along with the second copy in the safe in their room.
She punched in the code, and even though she expected the papers to be there, she still breathed a tiny sigh of relief when she saw the crisp copies on top of the faded originals. She left Olive’s original reports and removed the copies. The pages were sturdy, and she didn’t have to be careful handling them. She curled up on the bed. “Do you want me to pass the pages to you as I finish them?”
Jack sat at the desk, the faint blue light of his laptop reflecting on his face. “No, you go ahead. I’ll read them later. I have to answer these emails.”
Zoe adjusted the lamp and settled in to read.
Olive
5 November, 1923
Hawthorne House
* * *
“There you are, old bean.” Jasper handed Olive a sheet of paper filled with his neat handwriting. “Those two walls, all done.”
“Thank you, Jasper. You are a dear—not only to drive me up here, but also to help me inventory the paintings.” Olive rubbed her neck, which had a crick in it from tilting her head back to see the paintings at the very top of the wall. “It would take me weeks, not days, if I had to do it myself.”
Once they’d finished their tea, Olive had decided to get right to work. It would be much harder for Mr. Carter to force her out if she were already industriously working away, but he hadn’t returned since he’d announced he was going to contact Sebastian.
Olive had come to Hawthorne House armed with a tape measure, paper, and pens. She was working from the inventory done before the war that Sebastian had given her before she departed London. She checked off the paintings on the original inventory as she found them, then transferred the details to her new list. She put down a brief description of what the painting depicted, the type of frame, and noted any signature along with the size of the painting. For the larger paintings that were high on the wall, she’d transferred the dimensions from the original inventory list with the notation that she wasn’t able to measure them at that time. For the smaller canvases that were within her reach, she used her tape measure and double-checked the dimensions.
“At least we’ve finished in here. I hope the other rooms aren’t brimming with paintings like this one.” Olive looked at her wristwatch. “Since it seems Mr. Carter isn’t going to return, let’s take a little tour of the house. I think we have time before dinner.”
Jasper waited for Olive to precede him through the maze of tightly packed furniture to the door. “If we’re so fortunate as to be served dinner.”
“The welcome has been decidedly chilly.”
They left the drawing room and paused in the gloomy entry to get their bearings, then explored the rooms on the ground floor, which were the library, the dining room, a small sitting room, and a morning room. The rooms were much smaller than the drawing room and contained less artwork, with only a few paintings decorating each wall.
After their quick survey, Olive suggested they go to the morning room and work there. “I think we’ll be able to list all the paintings in that room before it’s time to change for dinner.”
Jasper held the door. “After you, old bean.” The morning room was papered in a busy pattern of vines intertwined with yellow roses. Heavy velvet drapes in what might have once been deep green had faded to a sage color. Their frayed hems spread across the floor, and Olive had to wipe her fingers on her handkerchief after switching on several dusty lamps.
Olive shuffled her papers and pulled out a fresh sheet, tucking her handwritten pages to the back of the stack. “I’ll copy these out in a fresh list to send to Sebastian when we finish.”
“Or you could type them up.” Jasper nodded to a desk in the corner of the room. A typewriter sat on it behind a stack of books. “If you’re in luck, there’ll be carbon paper in the desk. You could type up your list and make a copy at the same time.”
“I wish I could type, but my education focused on the classics, not practicalities. It’s something I should look into, I know.”
&
nbsp; “Well, you’re fortunate you brought me along.” Jasper tugged the handwritten pages out of her stack and went to the desk. “Allow me.”
“You know how to type?”
He began opening and closing the drawers. “Ah, there we are—carbon paper, quite a healthy stash of it, along with plenty of paper too. I’m sure Sebastian won’t mind if we help ourselves.” He settled into the chair, dusted off the typewriter with his handkerchief, and settled a pair of spectacles on his nose. “It’s a skill I picked up during the War. Had to make myself useful, you know. The old peepers were too weak for the battlefield, but not the War Office.” He took two sheets of paper, slipped a carbon between them, and rolled them into the typewriter with a practiced motion.
He poised his fingers on the typewriter keys, fixed his gaze on the list beside on the desktop, and began clacking away at a rapid rate.
Olive said, “Very impressive.”
Jasper didn’t look up from the paper and didn’t slow his typing. “I have to fulfill my designation as a handy chap to have around.” The typewriter bell dinged, and he threw the carriage back with barely a pause.
“You are full of surprises.”
Jasper’s finger stilled, and he looked at her for a moment over the rim of his glasses. “Hidden depths, my dear. Hidden depths.”
With a smile, Olive took up a new blank sheet of paper and a pen.
They worked away, Olive’s pen scratching across the paper while Jasper clattered away at a truly impressive rate on the typewriter, the counterpoint of the bell ringing out at steady intervals. It took Olive about half an hour to list the paintings in the room, and Jasper had just typed up the last line of her notes when a man with a slight build opened the door and froze when he saw them.
19
The man hesitating on the threshold of the morning room wore rough work clothes and a heavy cardigan. He held a lamp with a fringed shade in one hand. “Beg your pardon, miss, sir.” He ducked his head and reached to close the door.
Olive said, “No, it’s fine. Please come in. We don’t want to keep you from your work.”
The man didn’t move.
Olive stepped forward. “I’m Olive Belgrave, and this is Mr. Rimington.” She motioned to Jasper, who’d replaced the chair under the desk and was moving across the room, the typed pages in his hand. “We’re staying at Hawthorne House for a few days.”
The man wiped his hand over his forehead, pressing down his thinning pale brown hair as he stepped into the room. “Pleased to meet you. I’m Hendricks.”
Carter appeared in the doorway behind the man and said, “Hendricks sees to the gardens as well as repairs around the house.”
Hendricks started at Carter’s voice, and his free hand shot out to hover over one of the pockets of his cardigan. A square-shaped bulge made the fabric sag on that side.
Carter surveyed the stack of typed pages Jasper was handing to Olive, but he spoke to Hendricks. “Were you able to fix the lamp?”
“Yes. It was a fault in the flex. Works fine now. I’ll set it up quickly and be out of your way.”
“Good.” Carter waved his hand, indicating that Hendricks should go ahead with his work, then he turned to Olive and Jasper. “As I said earlier, we don’t stand on ceremony here. No need to change for dinner. Mrs. Lum has laid out cold sandwiches in the dining room, if you’d like to join me.”
“Sounds lovely.” Olive and Jasper followed Carter into the dim entry hall. “We were able to get a good start on the inventory. I’ll just put the papers in my room, then I’ll join you.”
“Suit yourself,” Mr. Carter said. “I believe Mrs. Lum intends to put you in the chintz guest room. Turn right at the top of the staircase, then it’s the third door on your left.”
Hendricks, who’d come out of the morning room without the lamp, said, “I’ll bring up your luggage and show you the way, Miss Belgrave.”
“Thank you,” Olive said. “That’s most kind of you.” And the least someone could do for a guest. Was Carter doing as little as possible for them to make a point, or was he simply a poor host? Olive suspected it was the former.
Carter said, “Take the gentleman’s bags to the north guest room, Hendricks.”
Hendricks bobbed his head and went to the shadowy corner of the hall where Jasper had left their luggage. He’d retrieved it during a break in the rain while they were cataloging the paintings in the drawing room.
Olive followed Hendricks to her room, which was a small, musty space with a plain white counterpane, one chair covered in chintz, and a bureau. Hendricks put down her bags and left.
The room was surprisingly warm, and Olive was happy to see a modern radiator. She wouldn’t shiver all night. The walls were a faded blue above scratched wainscoting. Cobwebs festooned the corners of the ceiling, and a layer of dust covered the bureau. Olive pulled the thin drapes closed, blocking out the grimy windows. The intermittent tap of rain spattering against the window indicated the storm had abated. Had it passed over, or was it only a respite? Depsite the lack of welcome and the sad state of housekeeping, Olive was glad to be warm and dry. Even if they’d wanted to leave now, she was sure the road to the village was a muddy, impassible mess.
A quick inspection of the bed showed fresh sheets—another thing to be thankful for. Olive put the papers away in her luggage and freshened up in the bathroom down the hallway from her room. The basin had a copper-colored streak running from the faucet to the drain, but the tub looked clean, and fresh towels were stacked on a stool.
Olive went downstairs and followed the low rumble of the men’s voices to the dining room, which was a long room with gray walls and gilded trim. The mahogany table must have been the only thing in Hawthorne House that wasn’t coated in dust. Its polished surface reflected the light from the massive chandelier above, which looked as if it were pulling the ceiling downward. Olive decided it must be the shadows from the chandelier and her rather overactive imagination. Surely the beams of the ceiling wouldn’t actually bow in that alarming manner.
The edges of the room were in darkness, and Olive crossed from the shadows into the light under the chandelier and joined the men at the table. The room had the same tinge of musty aroma as the chintz guest room. Mr. Carter probably had his meals in the chair in front of the fire, not in the dining room.
Dinner that evening was a platter of roast beef sandwiches and a cheese plate. While the meal was not elaborate, the bread was soft with a hint of warmth from the oven, and the roast beef was well-seasoned.
Conversation was strained until Jasper mentioned an acquaintance that both she and Carter knew. The discussion moved from their mutual friend to clubs to a recent gallery opening in London.
“I myself can’t do more than admire the art,” Carter said as Mrs. Lum removed their empty plates. “I must leave the art collecting to Sebastian. Fortunately, he has a rather good eye—most of the time.”
“He certainly has quite an extensive collection here,” Jasper said. “I didn’t realize he was such an avid admirer of art.”
Carter waved a hand at a painting of a man in a doublet and thick lace ruff. “He inherited most of these paintings. They’ve been in the family for generations. Much of the furnishings and artwork were sent here from the town house in London to keep it safe during the War. Because of the Zeppelin air raids, you know.”
So that explained the warehouse-like situation in the drawing room, Olive thought as she sipped the last of her wine.
“Not many of the things here are from Sebastian’s collection,” Carter said. “He keeps most of the paintings he’s purchased himself in London.”
Jasper offered the cheese plate to Olive. “Very sensible. It would be awful to lose some of these works of art.”
“Terrible,” Carter agreed as he settled back in his chair. “We had even more artwork here during the War, you know. The house was bursting at the seams for several years. The National Gallery crated up some of their art and sent it here during the W
ar. Too risky to leave it in London.”
“Goodness, where did you put it all?” Olive asked.
He motioned around the dining room. “We had heaps of it in here. Had to use the morning room for all our meals. Of course, we only had a small portion of the art from the National Gallery. They divvied it up. Some of it went into unused tube tunnels in London, while some were sent to various homes in the countryside.”
“Spreading out the risk of loss.” Jasper’s tone was approving. “Did you receive any of the more well-known pieces?”
“A da Vinci or a Rembrandt?” Carter smiled and shook his head. “No, nothing like that. And everything was so cramped, we couldn’t admire the artwork anyway.”
Jasper said, “I noticed a painting in the small sitting room, a woman in a white fur stole. It’s quite arresting.”
“Now that painting is actually one of Sebastian’s acquisitions, one of the few of his we have here.”
Olive had noticed the painting as well on their speedy tour of the ground floor. It was striking—dramatic and modern—but art appreciation wasn’t her main concern at the moment. She was interested in whether Carter would try to shove them out the door in the morning. “Speaking of Sebastian, were you able to get in touch with him?”
Carter’s mellow mood seeped away. “Yes. He confirmed that you are his ambassador.” Carter tossed his napkin on the table. “I’m to welcome you with open arms.” He gave her a brief smile that only involved moving the muscles around his mouth. There was no warmth in his eyes. He was following orders, but only because he absolutely had to.
“Wonderful.” Olive infused her tone with sincerity despite Carter’s cold eyes. “I promise I’ll complete the task here as quickly as possible.” Olive pushed back her chair. “I’ll leave you gentlemen alone to enjoy your port.”
Carter and Jasper stood when Olive did, but Carter said, “There’s no need for you to depart. As I said, we’re very informal here. Afraid I can’t linger. I have paperwork to attend to. It must be sent off in tomorrow morning’s post.” He turned to Jasper. “You’re welcome to stay on and sample the port. It’s excellent.” He bid them good night and left the room.
