His at Night (8 page)

The height thrilled Elissande at first. A true mountain, so far above the distant plains she might as well be standing on Zeus’s own balcony. The air was thin. A bright, harsh sun shone. A black speck circled distantly in the sky. She raised her hand to shield her eyes from the glare of the sun.

But her hand moved only a few inches. She looked toward it in consternation and blinked. A dark manacle bound her wrist. A chain, each link as big as her fist, protruded from this manacle. The other end of the chain staked into the sinew of the mountain itself.

She looked at her other wrist. The same. Bound like Prometheus. She yanked her wrist. It hurt. She yanked harder. It only hurt more.

Panic, rising as fast as floodwater in a basement. Her heart pounded. Her breaths came in short, inadequate gasps.
Please, no. Anything but this
.

Anything but this
.

A sharp cry pierced the air. The dark speck grew, sinking rapidly toward her. It was a bird—an eagle, its
beak as sharp as a knife, and it was nearly upon her. She struggled frantically. Blood trickled from her wrists. But she could not free herself.

The eagle emitted another shriek, its beak plunging into her belly. In her agony she could not even scream, but only thrash madly.

She woke up still thrashing.

It took a few minutes for the residual terror to pass. With still unsteady fingers, she lit her hand-candle and excavated the guidebook to Southern Italy from her undergarment drawer.

“‘West of the village rises the almost vertical wall of limestone precipice that separates the elevated tableland of Anacapri from the eastern part of Capri,’” she read softly to herself. “‘The only way formerly of reaching Anacapri was by an ascent from the beach of eight hundred rude steps, cut in the face of the rock and constructed probably in times anterior to the Roman rule. Now a finely engineered carriage road leads to Anacapri. The views from this road are most beautiful.’”

Vere had joined the Douglas case at Lady Kingsley’s request. He was willing enough—he owed her a favor for her help on the Haysleigh case—but he was not entirely convinced as to Douglas’s guilt. Douglas had been staying at Brown’s Hotel both times, when the trail of the extorted diamonds led there. Each time he also traveled from London to Antwerp, where a
large number of diamond dealers had been subjected to extortion tactics.

But Douglas had legitimate reasons to visit both London and Antwerp, important centers for the diamond trade. And even Lady Kingsley, who was sure they had the right man, could not explain why someone who swam in diamonds wanted more diamonds.

“One reason is that he has less than we think he does—he must have exaggerated the richness of his find,” Lady Kingsley whispered to Vere, after a three-hour examination of Douglas’s papers in the latter’s study. “The rumor was that the vein was so extraordinary, any bucket of dirt yielded the fortune of a lifetime. But the reality, not quite.”

Vere hefted a box of documents back to its proper cabinet. “Perhaps there has been theft by the management.”

“There is always that possibility. But if he thought so, he has not gone back in person to check. At least the foreman and the accountants never referenced a visit from him.” Lady Kingsley lifted her lantern high so that Vere could better see where the next box should go. “What about the household accounts?”

Lady Kingsley had a special facility for business documents; Vere had come as her valet this night, his main purpose to stand guard and lift heavy items. But she had needed a rest from reading in the scant light they dared, and Vere had taken the opportunity and checked the household records.

“There is not much land attached to the estate:
very little income, and a great many expenses,” he reported. “But still, normal expenses. Nothing that would give him a motive for engaging in criminal activities.”

“Some do it for the thrill.”

“And most don’t.” Vere adjusted the boxes to sit flush with one another, the way he’d found them. “Did you see anything at all that mentioned artificial diamonds?”

“No, nothing.”

The case against Edmund Douglas had begun quite by chance: A suspect the Belgian police arrested for an unrelated matter had boasted of fleecing the diamond dealers of Antwerp on behalf of an Englishman. It had not ranked as a top priority for the Belgian police to investigate what they’d considered an instance of bald braggadocio, though Vere suspected that their lack of concern also had something to do with the fact that the diamond dealers of Antwerp were a community of Jews.

Notwithstanding the apathy of the Belgian police, the equal indifference of Scotland Yard, and the resolute silence of Douglas’s supposed victims, the case had somehow managed to pluck Holbrook’s notice and subsequently found a champion in Lady Kingsley, whose father had committed suicide when he could no longer keep his extortionist happy.

She’d been doggedly on the case for months, compiling an extensive dossier. And one thing in the dossier that had puzzled Vere from the beginning was the reason the Belgian criminal had given for
extorting from the diamond dealers: that they passed off artificial diamonds as the real thing.

As far as Vere knew, while the French chemist Henri Moissan had published on his successful synthesis using an electric arc furnace, no one else had been able to duplicate his results. Synthetic diamonds were not yet a reality. And even if they were, the world was in no danger of running out of real diamonds. The diamond dealers of Antwerp and London had no reason to traffic in man-made ones.

Lady Kingsley left the study first. Vere waited several minutes before heading up the service stairs. The door from the stair landing led out to the eastern end of the house, where the master’s and the mistress’s apartments were located.

He listened at the door of the master’s apartment, then slipped inside. A man’s bedroom saw a steady stream of servants to make the bed, clean the grate, brush his clothes, and dust the furniture. It was unlikely Douglas would leave anything particularly important there, but Vere hoped for some insight into Douglas’s character.

He retrieved a fountain pen from his pocket and carefully unscrewed it from the middle. The pen held a small amount of ink and could write a few paragraphs, but its true purpose was in the dry cell battery and the tiny lightbulb mounted where the ink chamber should have been.

He swept the apartment quickly with the small stream of light—much neater than carrying a candlestick
or a lantern, although the light did not last long and the battery always needed rest. His light came to a stop at the framed photograph on Douglas’s nightstand, the only photograph Vere had thus far encountered in the house. He crouched down for a closer look.

It was a wedding photograph of an exceptionally handsome couple. The woman possessed an ethereal, dreamlike beauty; the man, of medium height and slender build, had a similarly refined appearance. On the frame were engraved the words
How do I love thee; Let me count the ways
.

There was something half-familiar about the woman’s face. He’d seen it somewhere, and rather recently. But where? And when? He had a good faculty for faces and names. But even if he hadn’t, he would not have forgotten a woman with a face like that.

It came to him: the strange painting in the dining room. The angel’s face.

Was the bride Mrs. Douglas? If so, it would imply the bridegroom was Edmund Douglas. Of course, it would be ridiculous for a man to display another man’s wedding picture on his nightstand. But Vere had trouble reconciling the sleekly, almost delicately handsome man in the photograph with what he knew of Edmund Douglas.

Shouldn’t he be heftier in size? If Vere wasn’t mistaken, Douglas had been a boxer. And even if he had been a wiry fighter, where were his scars and his crooked nose?

In Mrs. Douglas’s room the smell of laudanum was strong and distinct in the air. Mrs. Douglas slept, her breaths laggard, her person so thin as to be almost two-dimensional.

He shone a little light next to her face. Beauty was a commodity of notoriously unreliable endurance. Still, Mrs. Douglas’s appearance shocked him. She was a mummified parody of her former self, her hair scant, her eyes sunken, her mouth half-open in her laudanum-induced torpor—a face that would frighten small children were they to come upon her unawares.

But such was the nature of life. All the diamonds in Africa could not guarantee a man a wife who wouldn’t turn into a scarecrow in time.

On her nightstand there was also a photograph. A portrait of a very young baby in a tiny coffin, surrounded by flowers and pale lace: a death memento. At the bottom was written
Our Beloved Christabel Eugenia Douglas
.

Vere put down the photograph and raised his light. The next thing he saw gave him a long pause. It was the third iteration of
The Betrayal of the Angel
, painted from a vantage point halfway between the other two. The man lying inert in the snow occupied most of the canvas; at his side, where his blood would have pooled, the dark rose bloomed furiously. Of the angel there was only the sweep of a black wing and the point of a bloody blade at the upper-right corner.

With the tips of his gloved fingers, Vere felt against and under the edge of the frame. There, the release
latch. The painting swung outward to reveal a wall safe. It made sense: Mrs. Douglas’s ill health gave a legitimate excuse for keeping the servants out, and therefore her room was a better place to hide things.

He pulled out his lock picks from the inside pocket of his waistcoat. Holding the light between his teeth, he set to work, feeling for the pins. After a few minutes or so, the lock clicked and he opened the door of the safe—only to find a second door with an American combination lock inside.

Footsteps pattered in the passage outside. Vere closed the safe, pushed the painting back until it latched, then retreated to the farther side of the bed, stuffing the pen into his pocket as he went.

The door opened. The footsteps headed directly for the bed. He flattened himself against the wall, behind half-drawn bed curtains, willing the woman—the light footsteps belonged to a woman—to come no closer.

She stopped at the opposite edge of the bed. There she stood a long minute. He found it difficult to breathe quietly. Her presence agitated him.

“I won’t give up, you know,” she said, her voice strangely bleak.

It took a skipped heartbeat to realize she was not addressing him, but her semicomatose aunt.

“It
is
possible, isn’t it?” she asked the unresponsive Mrs. Douglas.

What was
it?
What did she
want?

She leaned down, kissed Mrs. Douglas, and left.

In the morning, Elissande ordered breakfast sent to everyone’s room except Lord Frederick’s. Then she settled down in the breakfast parlor to wait for the latter to come, so that they might enjoy a leisurely time together.

She would ask him to tell her more about art, and perhaps something about London. She’d listen attentively, nod her head, and take an occasional ladylike sip of her tea. And then—what? She liked Lord Frederick. Very much. But she had no innate grasp on how best to court him, unlike…

There was no point denying it. With Lord Vere, she had not worried at all about the specifics of courting. The only thing that had mattered was that they decrease the distance between them—her whole person had yearned to be closer to him.

Until her whole person had been repelled by him.

Even so, when he had stated cavalierly that he would kiss her—

No, she had felt nothing at all at his inappropriate flirtation, nothing except outrage and disgust.

Lord Frederick appeared at the door. Excellent, her plan had worked. She smiled at him. In the next moment her smile froze. Lord Vere followed him into the breakfast parlor—Lord Vere who had copious mud on his boots and sticks of straw in his hair.

“Oh, hullo, Miss Edgerton,” Lord Vere trilled. “I was out for a long walk. Came back and met Freddie coming down the stairs. So here we are—we’ve
brought our appetites and our captivating company for you.”