I spent the time waiting for Hannah’s return studying the landscape paintings I’d noted before. One portrayed a lavish country house built in a square, classical style with many columns and porticoes. Meadows dotted with flowers surrounded it, and wooded hills became misty blue in the background.
A closer look showed me tiny figures in the meadow, possibly a young Edwin and his sister, though I couldn’t be certain when this picture had been painted. A man with a shotgun blasted away in the distance, which was ridiculous. The scene was of spring or early summer, and one didn’t shoot grouse and other birds until autumn. I suppose the painter was trying for an ideal picture of the house, presumably Viscount Peyton’s country estate.
Hannah returned before I’d had the chance to examine more than the one painting. She put her finger to her lips and guided me out.
We went quietly back up the stairs to the floor where we’d met with Lady Fontaine. I feared we’d encounter the housekeeper or Fagan shuffling about, but we saw no one. I was prepared to make an excuse that I’d left my handbag behind orperhaps had another message from Lord Fontaine, but it proved to be unnecessary.
Hannah deftly unlocked the first door from the staircase and opened it noiselessly. I couldn’t see if she had keys or had picked the lock.
Once we were inside, Hannah closed the door behind us.
“What are we looking for?” she asked.
“I wish I knew.” I stood in the middle of the neat room, surveying its entirety. “Anything that tells us who killed Lord Peyton, or anything tying him or anyone in the house with either the blackmail letters or Fenians.”
Hannah’s eyes widened. “Fenians?” her whisper held alarm. “You threw me amongthem, did you?”
“I’m sorry I couldn’t tell you before. I was sworn to secrecy.”
Hannah regarded me in disquiet, then she blew out a breath. “Don’t matter. If I see a man who might be laying a bomb, I’ll hit him with a brick and drag him off to the police. Don’t like that it’s not safe to walk in the streets without worrying about being blown to bits.” She shivered. “D’ye think Fagan is one of ’em? I can see him blowing things up and feeling justified.”
“I once thought so, but I’m not certain now that I’ve met him,” I confessed. “He is very upset about Lord Peyton’s death.”
“That don’t mean he ain’t a mad anarchist. He’d a done anything for Lord Peyton, including plant dynamite in train stations.”
“In any case, we’d need to find proof that Lord Peyton asked him to do it.” I paused as we surveyed the large and rather cluttered chamber. “Why were the draperies open?” I asked.
Hannah blinked. “Eh? What draperies?”
“The window curtains on the landing. Whenever I’ve seenthis house, the drapes have always been drawn in the back. Now they’re wide open.” I gestured to the drapes in this room that had been pulled back from the window, which also looked out into the mews. “Why were they open that night?”
Hannah regarded the curtains in bewilderment. “I don’t know, but now that I’m thinking it through, you’re right. Lord Peyton liked everything closed up tight. After he died, Mrs.Proctor had me open all the drapes in the upstairs rooms, saying they needed light and air.” She thought a moment. “The ones on the landing was the only ones open when Fagan found the viscount, and we all came rushing downstairs. I don’t know why. I’ll ask Mrs.Proctor if she knows.”
“Thank you. That will be a help.”
We fell silent and searched. Lord Peyton’s wheeled chair stood in the corner, as Lady Fontaine had indicated. Made of wicker, it had a deep cushion on the seat and a smaller one for Lord Peyton’s back. Blankets that must have warmed his legs had been neatly folded on the seat.
Hannah and I thoroughly looked through the desk, shelves, and tables, finding nothing but innocuous books and letters. Hannah knew how to locate secret drawers or nooks in the furniture, including chairs and the sofa, that might contain valuables and other things worth stealing. Between us, we had every possible hiding place opened and explored.
We moved to Lord Fontaine’s bedchamber, reached by a connecting door. It had fewer furnishings, but we searched those too, and Hannah slid under the bed to look for things tucked beneath the mattress.
After a half hour of this, we’d turned up no stacks of blackmail letters or envelopes addressed to the victims, nor any damning plans of how anarchists or the Fenians would terrorize London until their demands were met.
Nothing in the study or bedchamber hinted that Lord Peyton was anything other than a formerly fit man who did little more now than read books, debate current politics with his friends, tolerate his sister for their childhood’s sake, and once in a while suck on a pipe he could no longer smoke.
“Well, I don’t know what they were talking about in here so furtively,” Hannah said when we returned, disgruntled, to the study. “I could swear they were planning something sinister, and your man, Daniel, was certain of it too.”
Daniel could not have been wrong. Likewise Hannah had much experience with crime and would have recognized the signs of a conspiracy.
Lord Peyton had been in on a plot, I was certain, but what plot, we couldn’t say. I was equally certain that both Lord Peyton and his former secretary had been killed for it.
We could remain no longer. Hannah had warned the other servants to stay below stairs and make no noise to disturb Lady Fontaine, but at some point, they’d have to continue their duties on the main floors. The more I lingered, the less plausible my explanation would be for doing so.
As I began to follow Hannah out of the study, my eye fell once more on the wheeled chair.
Hannah turned back when I paused, giving me an anxious gesture to come away. I ignored her and approached the chair, fixing it with my gaze as though commanding it not to move.
I lifted the folded blankets that reposed on the chair and handed them to Hannah, who’d joined me. She took them, mystified, while I pried the cushion from the seat.
