“The kidnapping has become a cottage industry for the locals,” Hugh remarks.
A large black carriage, drawn by two black horses, stops before us. The driver climbs down from the box, tips his cap, and says, “Lord Hugh Staunton. Miss Bain.” Apparently Sir Gerald gave him our descriptions. The driver has rugged features, a muscular physique, and the same Liverpool accent as Sir Gerald. “At your service.”
He stows our bags and helps me into the carriage; Hugh climbs in beside me. We ride quickly out of the town and along a wide, level road that runs between fences and hedgerows. Beyond these spreads Hampstead Heath—moors interspersed with woods, seemingly without limit. It’s beautiful, but I have a disturbing fancy that we’re leaving all that’s dear, and I can’t imagine what awaits us. As the road ascends a hillside, the sunlit moorland gives way to dense, dark forest, the air grows colder, and unease creeps into our mood. The only sounds besides the clatter of the carriage wheels and horses’ hooves are birdsong and the wind. The heath is too quiet for our comfort.
“We can still change our minds.” Hugh’s tone is half joking, half serious.
I’m still feeling guilty because of Barrett, and I have yet to tell Hugh about Barrett’s proposal. I feel under pressure because the future of our detective agency hinges on this case. “I won’t if you won’t.”
The carriage turns onto a narrower road that zigzags higher up the hill. At the summit, I glimpse chimneys and pointed rooftops above the trees. The carriage stops on a flat, paved expanse of ground where other carriages are parked outside the high brick wall that surrounds the Mariner estate. A crowd loiters by the black iron gates. A group of ladies listens to a tour guide lecturing, “The original house was built in 1806. Sir Gerald Mariner bought it in 1879 and enlarged it. He’s got a whole room full of hunting trophies—wild animals he’s shot.”
Reporters armed with notebooks and pencils rush to our carriage, calling, “Who are you? Have you any news about the kidnapping investigation?”
Police constables are among the crowd. I sink down in my seat. The driver cracks his whip, someone opens the gates, and as the carriage rolls through, Hugh says, “Abandon hope all ye who enter here.”
The grounds, where trees arch over carpets of bluebells, are more welcoming than Dante’s hell. The carriage stops on a semicircular drive in front of the mansion—three stories of ivy-covered red brick with perpendicular wings at either end, white trim, dormers studding the slate roof, and countless gleaming windows. The whole thing is as long as several city blocks. I feel like an intruder in a world high above my station.
Even Hugh is impressed. “This puts my family’s pile to shame.”
The man who opens the door under the columned portico is the same rugged, muscular type as the carriage driver; they seem less servants than guards. He verifies our names, ushers us into the mansion, and carries our bags. The foyer is two stories high, with a huge crystal gas chandelier suspended from a carved plaster ceiling and a gallery on the second story. Our footsteps clatter on white marble and green malachite tiles. Statues I’m too intimidated to examine stand in niches. Open doors lead to vast, opulent rooms. Perhaps his wealth really is the attraction that Sir Gerald holds for me.
Another guard helps the first carry our baggage up a grand marble staircase, and we’re left alone in the foyer. Hugh murmurs, “How many of those chaps do you think there are?”
“Welcome to Mariner House.”
Hugh and I whirl, surprised by the speaker’s soundless approach. The man is of medium height, in his late forties, with a lean, wiry build and rust-colored hair. His complexion is sunburned, roughened, and marred by freckles and old scars. His clothes are as expensively tailored as Hugh’s but not the latest fashion, designed to deflect rather than attract attention.
“I’m John Pierce, Sir Gerald’s chief aide.” His voice is hushed like an undertaker’s, with an accent I can’t place. His sharp features could have been attractive if they had showed humor instead of wary caution.
Hugh introduces us. Shaking hands with Pierce, I feel strength in his sinewy fingers, his callused palm. His narrow eyes are a blazing blue, the inner lids around them red.
“Is Sir Gerald here?” Hugh asks.
“He’s at his bank. He’ll be back for dinner. I’m to get you settled in.” Pierce gestures at the staircase. “This way to your rooms.”
I’m disappointed not to see Sir Gerald. As Hugh and I climb the stairs, I sense Pierce’s stare on my back, but I can’t hear his footsteps behind us. He moves like a ghost. A shiver runs through me. He escorts us along the gallery, then down a wide passage where gas lamps illuminate framed oil paintings that hang on walls covered with gilt paper. We pass many closed doors. Carved tables stand at intervals along the walls, displaying art objects. We round a corner into a similar passage.
“This is the north wing,” Pierce says. “Sir Gerald and his family live in the south wing.”
“And you?” Hugh asks.
“My room is in the south wing too.”
Pierce must count as a suspect, although he’s not a family member. He opens a door and says, “Miss Bain, you’ll be staying in the Chinese Room.”
We step into a chamber saturated with brilliant red. It has scarlet wallpaper patterned with scenes of an Oriental palace, red-and-gold brocade curtains, and a plush rug like a crimson pond afloat with deep-pink lotus blossoms. The only relief comes from the white silk quilt and a white canopy on the black sleigh bed, which looks ready for an emperor to despoil a concubine. My trunk, satchel, and photography equipment look shabby placed among the antique furniture and knickknacks. Although the room is three times bigger than my room at home, I feel closed in, oppressed. I hasten to the window, crank it open, and breathe as I take in the view of a topiary garden, the hillside below, and distant marshes and woods. The faint sound of carnival music drifts from the Hampstead Heath fairground. I feel small and forlorn in this alien world.
Pierce opens an adjoining door and says to Hugh, “Here’s your room. You can lock this door if you want.”
The door connecting my room with Hugh’s isn’t the one that worries me. As Hugh inspects his quarters, I glance at my door to the passage. A key protrudes from the lock. I wonder who has a master key.
Hugh returns. “Did Sir Gerald tell you who we are and why we’re here?” he asks Pierce.
“He said you’re private detectives who are supposed to rescue Robin and catch the kidnapper.” Contempt for us shades Pierce’s tone.
“Who else besides Lady Alexandra is in the family?” Hugh asks.
“Sir Gerald’s older son, Tristan, and daughter, Olivia.”
I didn’t know Sir Gerald had other children; I don’t recall the newspapers mentioning them. Hugh asks, “How old are they?”
“Tristan is twenty-nine. Olivia, seventeen. There’s also Tabitha Jenkins. She’s Lady Alexandra’s sister.” Pierce says, “There’ll be a cold luncheon set out in the dining room at noon. Dinner is at seven. Is there anything else you need?”
“Can you introduce us to the family?” Hugh asks.
“Tristan and Olivia have gone out. Lady Alexandra is indisposed, and Miss Jenkins is with her.” Pierce sounds pleased to disappoint us.
“In that case, can you show us the crime scene?” Hugh says.
“The police already went over it with a fine-tooth comb.”
“A fresh set of eyes can’t hurt,” I say.
“Very well.” Pierce condescends to humor us in what he clearly thinks a waste of time.
I unpack my camera and then Pierce leads us outside the mansion to a garden landscaped like a scene from a neoclassical painting by Poussin. Marble statues of Greek gods and goddesses pose amid cypress trees. Pierce points upward at the mansion.
“There’s Robin’s nursery.”
I photograph the high, ivy-covered brick wall and the mullioned window on the second floor. Hugh asks, “Do the police have the ladder that was found after Robin went mis
sing?”
“They examined it for clues and didn’t find any. They gave it back.”
I doubt that Hugh and I could find any either, but I say, “May we see it?”
“It’s in the toolshed.” Pierce leads us down steps to the lower level of the garden, to a small stone building, and opens the door.
Hugh raises an eyebrow at me, noting that the door was unlocked and anyone from the house had access to the shed. Pierce drags the ladder out. It’s old and dirty, two sections of rough wooden beams and slats joined by metal hinges. Hugh carries the ladder up to the mansion, extends it to its full length, and positions it below the nursery window.
“May I?” Hugh says.
“If you insist,” Pierce says.
Hugh climbs the ladder, pushes open the window, and disappears inside. Pierce directs his sardonic gaze at me. Compelled to prove I’m a bona fide detective, I set my camera on the ground, grasp the ladder with one hand, lift my skirts above my ankles, and climb. The ladder wobbles so much that I’m afraid I’ll fall. Glancing over my shoulder, I see that Pierce has vanished, and so has my camera. At the top, I pull myself over the windowsill and tumble into the room.
Hugh helps me to my feet. “Here’s one piece of evidence to support Sir Gerald’s theory. It was hard enough to climb up that ladder and get in here in broad daylight. At night it would be even harder.”
“And almost impossible to climb down while carrying a baby.” I look around the room. It’s as big and lavishly appointed as mine. The rosewood crib—with its turned rails and four posts, the ship resembling the statue on the Mariner Bank carved on the headboard, its white lace canopy, white eiderdown mattress, and white lace skirt—is fit for a Prince Royal. Armoire and bureau, chairs upholstered in striped blue silk, and washstand are similarly ornate. Shelves display enough tin soldiers, stuffed animals, jack-in-the-boxes, picture books, and other items to stock a toy store. In a corner are a painted rocking horse, a child-sized table and chairs, and a train set. All the toys look expensive and new.
“Have you seen enough?” Pierce enters the room and hands me my camera.
Again we didn’t hear him coming. How did he get here so fast?
“Is everything the same as it was the night of the kidnapping?” Hugh asks.
“Yes,” Pierce says. “Sir Gerald’s orders.”
Hugh points at dirty footprints on the blue carpet. “Whose are those?”
“Probably the police’s. It was raining that night. They tracked mud all over the house and likely obliterated whatever prints the kidnapper left.”
If the kidnapper was someone from inside the house, he wouldn’t have left any. While I photograph the crib, Hugh says to Pierce, “Have you spent time in America?”
“I was born there.”
So that’s the source of his accent.
“Whereabouts?”
“Virginia.”
“Ah, the Confederacy.”
“Not since the Civil War ended in ’65.”
I observe no signs of a trespasser, a struggle, or any other clues, but I take more photographs in case something shows up in them that my eyes miss. Hugh looks inside the armoire and bureau while asking Pierce if his family owned a cotton plantation.
“Tobacco,” Pierce says.
“You’re a long way from home. Why’d you leave?”
“My father lost the plantation in a card game.”
We glance at him to see if he’s joking, but his face is as expressionless as I imagine it would be if we asked him point-blank whether he kidnapped Robin.
After Hugh elicits from Pierce that he had gone to sea on merchant ships that traveled to South America, the West Indies, and Africa, I ask, “How did you come to work for Sir Gerald?”
“I met him in Jamaica. The first mate on his ship had just quit. Shouldn’t you be looking for the kidnapper?”
“Right,” Hugh says cheerfully. “Maybe you can help us with that. Did you see or hear anything the night of the kidnapping?”
“No. I was asleep. My room is downstairs at the other end of the wing.”
“The newspaper stories said that Robin was kidnapped between eleven thirty and midnight,” I say. “Is that correct?”
“Yes. The afternoon nurse quit her shift a half hour early. She had a headache and went to bed. When the night nurse came on duty, she discovered the empty crib and raised the alarm. The afternoon nurse has been fired.” Pierce says, “If you’re finished here, I’ll show you back to your rooms.”
Hugh and I need some information that we neglected to get from Sir Gerald. “Who put the ransom money in the dinosaur park?”
“I did.” Pierce herds us out of the nursery. “In case you’re going to ask me if I saw who took it, the answer is no.” He closes and locks the door.
“We’ll find our way back after we have a look around the estate,” Hugh says.
“Suit yourselves.” Pierce laughs, a brief, raspy, mirthless chuckle. “You two don’t have a chance in hell of finding Robin, and you know it. You’re here to swindle Sir Gerald.”
“Not true,” Hugh says smoothly. “If there’s anything we know, it’s that swindling Sir Gerald would be even harder than finding Robin.”
Pierce’s feverish, hostile blue eyes stare us down. “I deal with people who make trouble for Sir Gerald. Those I’ve dealt with in the past would tell you I’m not gentle—the ones who are still able to talk, that is. If you’re smart, you’ll resign.”
He turns, walks noiselessly down the passage, and vanishes into a room. Hugh and I look at each other. “He’s scared,” Hugh says. “He must know we think he’s a suspect.”
A dangerous man who’s scared is even more dangerous. “I’m certain he knows. I just wonder whether he realizes we got the idea from Sir Gerald.”
“He hasn’t an alibi for Robin’s kidnapping,” Hugh points out. “He was in the dinosaur park. He could have killed Noel Vaughn and Ethel Norris.”
I wonder if my father saw the murder or if Mrs. Albert and Sally know anything that could help me find him. “Let’s go outside and look for clues the police missed.”
As we walk toward the back staircase, following the trail that Sir Gerald thinks the kidnapper took that night, Hugh tries the knobs on the doors along the passage; they’re all locked. I hear muted voices, their words and location obscured by echoes. I have an uncomfortable feeling that hidden lurkers are watching and listening to us. I pause at a table set against the wall. It holds a tall Chinese vase, a figurine of a dancing man with many arms, and a large photograph in a gold frame. The photograph is of Robin, wearing his sailor suit and sitting on Lady Alexandra’s lap; it’s the original image from which the engraving in the newspapers was made. The fine nuances of tone, from white through shades of gray to black, are clearly visible, whereas in the engraving, they’re converted to patterns of inked lines. My photographer’s eye perceives a difference that disturbs me.
“There’s something wrong with this,” I say.
“It looks fine to me,” Hugh says.
“Robin is twenty months old, but in this picture he must be at least six months younger.”
“So he’s small for his age.”
“It’s not just his small size. I’ve photographed many children, and I know how they are at different ages. Look in the shadows behind Robin.” I’ve noticed something that wasn’t visible in the newspaper images. “Lady Alexandra’s hand is supporting his head. At twenty months, a child can hold his head up by himself.”
“But why would the Mariners give an old photograph to the press? A recent one would be more likely to help the public spot Robin.”
Lady Alexandra’s famous smile seems strained, and when I cover it with my hand, her eyes look haunted. Robin’s eyes are half closed. My heart contracts as I think of another possible reason Robin couldn’t sit up by himself.
“What is it?” Hugh asks.
“This looks like a postmortem photograph.”
It’s common for pa
rents to pose with deceased children who are propped up to look as though they’re alive. Sometimes the parents are too poor to afford the luxury of photographs, but when their child dies, they somehow find the money, and a picture of their child dead is better than no picture at all. Other times they just want one final memento. They can seldom completely hide their distress from the camera. Postmortem photography is a staple of any studio, and I’ve done it. Is this photograph a likeness of Robin in death rather than in life? Now Hugh’s face reflects my dismay as he catches my meaning.
“If you’re right, then Robin wasn’t kidnapped sixteen days ago,” Hugh says. “He’s been dead for six months.”
9
We spend that afternoon exploring the estate. Its grounds contain some ten acres of gardens and outbuildings. Five gates in the brick wall give access to the wooded hillside, which is riddled with trails. Below the hill, the heath covers a vast area, and around it are miles of streets leading to all points distant. It’s far more territory than Hugh and I can search thoroughly. We return to the mansion at twilight, cold, dirty, hungry, and tired, having found no sign of Robin or the kidnapper.
“If there was no kidnapping, that would explain why there are no clues,” Hugh calls.
We’re in our rooms with the connecting door open while I braid my hair at the lacquered Chinese vanity and Hugh shaves in his bathroom. I’ve already bathed in the huge claw-footed tub in my own bathroom, and I’m wearing my best dark-blue frock, which was ironed by the maid who unpacked my clothes and hung them in the teak wardrobe. I locked my door before I left, but now I know that at least one other person has a key.
“If Robin died six months ago, why would the Mariners pretend he was kidnapped?” I say. The gas lamps in my room are brass dragons holding translucent glass globes in their mouths. The red walls, carpet, and curtains give my reflection in the mirror a rosy tint, as if my skin and hair are suffused with blood. “Why would Sir Gerald hire us?”
“Good questions.” Hugh, sleekly groomed in black evening coat and trousers and white silk shirt, accompanies me out of our rooms and down the grand staircase.
A Mortal Likeness Page 7
