He stood back and regarded the upper windows that were built into the eaves—presumably these were bedrooms. Solomoneyed up the lower and upper windowsills, and the drainage pipe from the guttering. Then, after handing Constance his hat, he leapt up onto the kitchen sill, discovered a decent foothold, and climbed up, holding on to the pipe and the upper sill alternately and scrabbling for footholds. With difficulty, he hauled himself onto the upper sill and, feeling like a Peeping Tom, forced himself to peer in the window.
It was not a bedroom, but another parlor, and a rather cozy, feminine one, too. A fire also burned in this grate beneath a handsome mantelshelf. Above it was a portrait of a young woman in ball dress. She wore an old-fashioned, high-waisted gown and a tiara in her hair. She was not particularly pretty—there was a certain hardness about the eyes and mouth—but it was a face of character, and it bore a strong resemblance to Miss Fernie’s. Her left hand rested on her right shoulder, showing off a glittering bracelet made of two strands of diamonds with a ruby at the center. The artist had made it seem that the light reflected off the diamonds and onto the lady’s face.
Solomon glanced down at the ground quickly and almost lost his hold on the stone. Constance’s anxious face was turned up to him.
“What did Miss Mortimer’s bracelet look like?” he asked.
*
Constance stuck Solomon’shat on the end of a tree branch and clambered onto the windowsill with some difficulty.
“Don’t come up,” he said in alarm.
Naturally, she ignored that, for she had to see. On the other hand, he had a point. Climbing in a crinoline was no easy matter. Since her arms and legs were shorter than Solomon’s, she found it easier to shin up the pipe, as she had often done in her reprehensible childhood, until Solomon reached precariouslyfor her hand and helped her jump across the windowsill beside him.
He was scowling, but didn’t waste his breath on pointless remonstration.
Secretly glad of his hand at her back, she gazed straight ahead. The portrait and the bracelet gleamed at her through the glass.
“The bracelet,” she murmured, “looked just like that. According to Miss Mortimer’s description.”
She gazed around the rest of the room, which was furnished with a comfortable, upholstered chair, a table set for one with a tall-backed dining chair, and a couple of smaller tables with ornaments, knickknacks, and a vase.
One of the little tables was draped with fringed silk cloth.
“Could that be the Keatons’ stolen shawl?”
“It could,” Solomon said grimly. “Look at the round table by the fireside chair. I suspect that is the vicar’s prayer book.”
It was certainly a small book bound in burgundy leather with elegant gold tooling, the page edges also gleaming with gold leaf.
“All those years ago,” Constance said slowly, “she must have stolen Miss Morton’s bracelet to wear for her London Season. Or even just to wear to have her portrait painted. Why on earth would she bother when she has to hide it away? She’ll never bring anyone here. No one will ever see it. The parlor downstairs is where she takes her guests. Do you suppose all of these things are stolen?”
“Possibly.”
An intricately carved, small wooden jewel box stood on top of the shawl-covered table, presumably the one Miss Mortimer had given Mavis Cartwright. Perhaps the bracelet was inside it.
“Why would she take that?” Constance demanded. “Why would she take any of those things? Just for spite?”
“Who knows? I have known an otherwise very fine person who seemedcompelledjust to take things. As if he couldn’t help it. But this is…like a shrine to her cleverness, her fantasy. She must have plenty things of her own in that storage room downstairs. This is her secret pleasure. A portrait that can never be admired, surrounded by things she must hide. Can you climb down again?”
That was another good question. Having come this far on the false courage of sheer curiosity, the journey back made Constance’s stomach quail. She wanted to close her eyes and beg Solomon to somehow get her down again, but that was just too poor spirited for her to live with.
Heart in mouth, she launched herself from the sill to the pipe. Her hands and feet scrabbled for purchase and she slid painfully almost half the way down before recovering some measure of control. She reached the bottom with her dignity mostly intact and regarded the front of her skirts and coat with some disfavor. They were covered in dirt, and crumbs of paint and rust, with several pulled threads if no actual holes.
She shook out her skirts, brushing furiously with her equally grubby gloves, which had the leather scraped off a couple of fingertips.Better than my skin.
“Are you hurt?” Solomon asked. “Your arm…?”
She flexed it very carefully. “I didn’t feel it until now.”
“I could just have told you what I saw.”
“I know. I wanted to see it for myself.”
He helped brush off her skirts with his bare hands. “Well, you were right about Miss Fernie, whatever her reasons. The question is, what do we do about it?”
“Break in and take it all back?”
