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They passed the delivery room full of parcels and documents. Next, the porter’s alcove with its wall-mounted panel of little brass bells, each with its own label plate. After that, the stamp office, the accountants’ offices, the junior and senior clerks’ offices.
The air was permeated with the unique combination of scents found in every bank she’d ever been in: the musty fiber of old rag paper, the chalkiness of ledgers and receipts, the tannic bite of iron gall ink, and the barnlike animal-hide glue of book bindings. But the largest part of “bank smell” was money: the skin oils from human hands reacted with the oxidized coin alloys, creating a fragrance not unlike fresh blood. It diffused through every inch of the building.
They came to a paneled and polished oak door with a brass plate that read “Mr. W. Farlow.”
Something writhed uneasily in Reina’s chest at the sight of it.
John reached for the brass doorknob and discovered the night latch had been locked. He leaned closer to the doorframe and ran a forefinger along the seam. Wordlessly he handed the lantern to Reina and took out a clasp knife. After flicking it open, he inserted the blade between the frame and the latch. A slight shimmy and twist of the blade, and the door opened.
“You’re positively nefarious,” Reina said in admiration, before preceding him into the office.
John made sure the heavy velvet curtains were completely closed before lighting a handheld oil lamp. He turned a slow circle to survey the room.
“Christ,” he muttered.
Reina had become so accustomed to William’s spacious office, she’d forgotten how dazzled she’d been by it at first. Every square inch had been artfully designed, from the ceiling of recessed plasterwork panels to the parquet medallion tile flooring. The elaborate carved mahogany of the grand double-sided desk had been French-polished to a glassy sheen. Oak paneling with insets of crimson silk damask covered the wall behind it. Another wall consisted of floor-to-ceiling bookshelves.
A painting hung above the marble fireplace: Nelson Awaiting the Dawn by J.M.W. Turner. It depicted the legendary admiral aboard HMS Vanguard in the hour before his victory at the Battle of the Nile. William had paid a thousand pounds for it at a private estate sale.
John went to the painting and eased a corner of the frame away from the wall to look behind it. He began to walk along the paneled wall, pushing against molding and insets, testing for any give.
“Shall I start with the fireplace?” Reina asked.
“Aye, look for seams that are slightly wider or darker than the rest. Or places where the light strikes an edge differently. Scratches, discolorations, loose ornaments or fittings—anything that stands out.”
They were busy for the next few minutes, hunting for any sign of a safe.
John walked slowly around the desk, which had been set on an antique hand-knotted Axminster rug. In a moment, he set the lamp on the floor and crouched beside the desk.
“Did you find something?” Reina asked.
“A diagonal crease in the corner of the rug.”
He had folded back the rug to reveal the parquet flooring beneath. Each square wood tile featured an intricate medallion of walnut, ebony, and mahogany.
Reina went to kneel beside him. “You think there might be a safe under the floor?”
“Aye.” He pointed out a bit of thread caught between two panels.
They both ran their fingertips over the waxed wood tiles. No seams, chips, or ridges.
“This part isn’t as shiny as the others,” Reina commented, trying to pick at the edges of a circle with her fingernails.
John contemplated the medallion with a thoughtful frown. He reached out to flatten his palm over the circle, pressing down. In a moment, he twisted counterclockwise. The medallion rotated within its setting, and a hidden spring mechanism popped the entire circle upward.
Reina’s breath caught with surprise.
As John continued to turn the circle, it pivoted to the side, revealing a steel plate with a keyhole.
In Reina’s excitement, it was difficult to keep quiet. “Eureka,” she exclaimed.
John didn’t seem at all pleased, however. He pinched the corners of his eyes and sighed shortly.
“We’ll need a key to open it,” he said.
“You can’t pick that lock?” she asked.
He shook his head. “It’s a Bramah lock. Even an expert locksmith would need days to solve it.”
