Jack was missing.
The Reynoldses and Mr. Finch were missing.
Inspector Verga had been attacked, and Miss Benetti appeared to know nothing about any subterfuge at all.
What on earth was happening?
Grace stared out the window of their hotel, the sunset hues across the Grand Canal bowing to the deep purples of evening. Frederick had gone with the police to search the lagoon for any sign of Jack but to no avail.
The police had taken charge of Miss Benetti in order to question her and escort her to her home.
Frederick had left a half hour ago to secure transportation back to the island in the morning to look for Jack, and despite their desire to return immediately to the island, searching at night would prove less effective and much more dangerous, especially with murderers and possible man-nappers on the loose.
There was no doubt about murderers and man-nappers now. Because where Jack was concerned, one of the two was the only conclusion. Grace pressed her fist to her chest. She prayed for a man-napping over the alternative.
How had the Reynoldses and Mr. Finch managed to get away with a man-napping right under their eyes? They would have heard the scuffle and motorboat, wouldn’t they?
She drew in a breath. Not if they couldn’t hear over the sound of Miss Benetti’s screams when she’d fallen into the lagoon. Grace turned back to the room, all their evidence strewn across the nearby table. Someone had pushed Miss Benetti over the edge of the ferry to create a distraction in order to attack the inspector and man-nap Jack Miracle.
Heat fled her face. Unless they’d killed Jack and pushed him over into the canal after incapacitating the inspector. Grace’s pulse took an upswing at the thought. She’d lost people to death before. She knew the pain of it. Her grandfather had been the hardest one of recent memory. But Jack?
No! Pushing the consideration from her mind, she approached the table, her gaze taking in what paper evidence they had. The photos of the paintings, the news clippings, and some notes she’d taken from their interviews and Jack’s information. Could the murderers associated with the paintings be the same people who had stolen them from the gallery and Laraby? And which people? If the reported people in service were young, then could it have been Mrs. Reynolds?
She needed to sort things out.
Sitting at the table, she took out her notepad and pen.
What do we know?
1. Mrs. Reynolds is not Mrs. Reynolds.
She stared up at the ceiling. But then who is she? An art collector, as she confessed her husband to be? A former servant of the house?
2. Mr. Finch is likely not Mr. Finch, and he’d been on the scene of one of the Juliet murders. Which one?
Grace pulled out the article about Mrs. Chambers in Cumbria and reviewed it.
Mrs. Chambers. Now why was her name familiar? Something about Jack? Grace’s eyes shot wide. Mrs. Chambers had been Jack’s neighbor! Which meant Mr. Finch probably knew Jack and had made the recommendation to Zappa. But why recommend Jack? What could anyone possibly want from him? And why would Finch, a possible criminal, recommend Jack?
Grace shook her head and returned to her list.
3. Almost all the paintings were in a secret room in the villa, which means whoever stole the paintings knew the villa well enough to find the secret room. That suggests that the thieves have a much more personal connection to the paintings than being mere art collectors. Former servants? Friends? The lost grandchildren?
The only people close to the Accardi grandchildren’s ages were Lydia and Paul. Perhaps Laraby, but he had a lineage with his grandfather, so he wouldn’t fit. Lydia and Paul had known Laraby most of their lives, so it wasn’t likely they were long-lost children, was it? Maybe Paul?
4. Who had access to the villa’s secret room and could have been present to steal the painting when the ghost appeared? Anyone at or near the dining room.
She drew in a breath. Even if Jack was off being man-napped, she could use his methods like she’d done, somewhat successfully, in Egypt.
The MAP method. Method, ability, and purpose.
She scanned over the papers. Perhaps she should start with purpose. Who would have a reason to steal the paintings? Art enthusiasts, of course. Money seekers, especially with a reputed treasure. And children who not only had their family taken from them but their inheritance as well.
Method? Well, taking into account all the ways the individuals died, the murderers used various methods. Poison, early heart attack, pushing down stairs, drowning, and so on. And with the accounts of the people involved, the whole affair would require more than one person, as Jack and Frederick had thought. A man, for one, who could have passed as a footman and a woman to pass as a maid. Could Mrs. Reynolds have been the woman who pretended to be a maid? She wasn’t old, but she certainly was not as young as the person described in the articles. The same could be said for Mr. Reynolds or Mr. Finch. The articles described a “young” man. How young was young?
She would describe Laraby, Paul, Jasmine, and Lydia as young. All a little older than she was, she’d guess. Some of Laraby’s servants were young as well. Martina and Mr. Zappa along with a few others, and they all had service experience, at least currently.
But Laraby didn’t seem to have any previous connections to Italy and had been acting much too carelessly to be the thief. Paul’s history was ambiguous. Jasmine was Italian, so her connections were rather strong, and Lydia’s mother was reportedly French, which is where the lost children were last seen with their governess, according to one of the articles.
Grace’s attention fell on the news article with Mr. Finch. It was much too convenient for Mr. Finch to be one of the “staff” and appear in Italy where the final paintings were, not to mention his connection to Jack. So Mr. Finch must be involved somehow, but he was too old to be one of the lost children. Had he been one of the staff for Accardi fifteen years ago? That would allow him to have intimate knowledge of the house. That moved him directly into “ability” on the MAP method.
With the secret room and the murder histories, someone would have to either have been in or known about service in order to take jobs as maids and footmen in the houses where the murders took place. Who of their suspects had ever been in service? Besides current servants, such as Martina and Mr. Zappa, Grace didn’t know, and since most people were pretending to be people they weren’t, she really had no idea.
Her attention fell on one of the news headlines, one in English from Jack’s resources: “Where Are the Accardi Children?”
She leaned closer and skimmed over the information. Ten and eight years old. The only remaining family of painter Luca Accardi. Last seen with their governess. Suspected to be in France.
She paused. Last seen with their governess?
Grace reread the last few sentences. French-Italian governess Beatrice Russo remained with the children through the devastating loss of their mother and grandmother. Only a few days after the double funeral, Accardi disappeared in pursuit of his son-in-law, leaving the two children at the villa. When Accardi and his son-in-law both turned up dead a month after the murders, presumably from a murder-suicide at the son-in-law’s hands, police secured the villa and all of Accardi’s assets.
But the governess and children had disappeared.
As Grace rifled through page after page, her gaze finally landed on a small photo of the villa and staff soon after the double murder. The children stood in the distance on the front steps of the villa next to what seemed to be Accardi to one side and a woman on the other, the black-and-white photo showing unclear faces.
Those children! The young girl’s face, even though blurred, kept drawing Grace’s attention back. What was it about her that seemed familiar? Large, dark eyes. Pale, innocent face.
Jasmine? Grace shook her head. No, not quite.
Grace pulled out her magnifying glass and peered close. How scared the children must have been! To lose everyone.
Except their governess.
Grace moved the magnifying glass to the woman. Grace had experienced her fair share of governesses. At one point, she thought to stop counting. And governesses held varied positions in fiction. From Jane Eyre’s diligence to the devious Lucy Graham in Lady Audley’s Secret to Emma’s loving Miss Taylor or—Grace shivered—Henry James’ unnamed governess in Turning of the Screw. Grace wasn’t certain what sort of governess the Accardi children had from the undefined looks of the woman, but she didn’t appear very old.
And her facial features reminded her of someone.
Grace squinted into the magnifying glass. Darker hair, from the looks of it. Not terribly tall. The shadow of the magnifying glass fell over the governess’ head as Grace moved the glass around, and the shadow gave the woman’s hair a larger look.
Grace blinked. If her hair had been curly …
Her fingers tightened on the magnifying glass handle. Perhaps add some unnatural eye shadow?
A lump started growing in Grace’s throat as a chill started from her shoulders and skittered up her neck.
The Accardi governess would look a whole lot like the fake Mrs. Dolores Reynolds.
Pain throbbed through Jack’s head, and he attempted to sift through thick thoughts to rise to consciousness.
Having experienced similar moments in his history as a detective, one thing he knew from the start. Don’t open your eyes too quickly unless the sound of gunfire is nearby. Otherwise, it was best to pretend unconsciousness as one gathers one’s wits and makes an assessment of his surroundings.
He pushed beyond the pain, grasping for clarity.
What was his last memory? Thoughts swirled through blackness.
He’d been on the ferry back to the mainland. Who had he been speaking to? Inspector Verga? Yes, they were discussing what had been found at the villa, including the paintings and Jack’s own thoughts about who might be behind the robberies and murders. Someone struck Inspector Verga from behind, and before Jack could turn to defend himself, all went black.
He stifled a groan. How could he have committed such an amateurish blunder? He’d let his guard down while in an enclosed space with people who were likely part of this entire Juliet heist. His brain sifted through possibilities. Frederick and Grace had been outside, as he’d instructed them, in order to keep watch for anyone who may try to board or leave their ferry. Had they been hurt too?
His stomach swirled with a mixture of nausea and concern. Hopefully, they escaped a similar or worse fate.
He delved back into his murky memory. Who had been on the ferry with him? Had Mr. Finch been inside? He’d seemed to move in and out rather suspiciously. And Mr. and Mrs. Reynolds—they’d looked to be in a very intimate conversation in the back corner of the ferry.
An argument, perhaps? He had high doubts they were really married, even if they were arguing.
A movement at his back had him holding his breath, and he took inventory of his senses. He was sitting in what felt like a chair and not a sturdy one at that. His arms were bound behind him, and despite the hard chair back, his shoulders also abutted something else. Softer. The scent of sea and … lavender wavered in and out of his recognition.
Where on earth was he?
Without moving any other muscles, he slowly opened his eyes.
Faint light glowed from a lantern to his left, barely filling the vast space. Was he inside some sort of tower? Or cellar?
The room looked solid and cylindrical, without a window in sight. He breathed in a deep breath. Sea? Earth? Was he underground?
“Oh good. You’re finally awake.”
The female voice came from behind him, and the soft material at his back moved as she spoke. When he turned his head, a wealth of golden hair greeted him. Lavender and golden hair? His stomach tightened. Lydia Whitby?
“What … what is going on?” Was that his voice? He’d moved beyond his youthful voice well over a decade ago. Why had it suddenly returned?
“You’re the detective. Haven’t you worked it out?” came her quick reply. “We’ve been kidnapped.”
He attempted to turn to take a better look at her, but his bonds wouldn’t allow it, and the throbbing in his head didn’t help. “Are you hurt?”
Quiet greeted his question before she answered. “They used chloroform on me, which means I have a nasty headache and have almost expelled my breakfast three times.”
He winced.
“But otherwise, I am fine.” She drew in a breath. “I wasn’t conscious when they brought you in, but when I awoke, two people were in the room, talking. I’m sure they thought I was still unconscious.”
Ah, smart woman. She already knew some solid sleuthing techniques. Did she have a history of kidnapping? Awaking from being knocked unconscious? And how was she so familiar with chloroform?
“I overheard them speaking about you and a ransom, so I put two and two together and assumed you were the person with whom I am temporarily shackled.” The chair shook behind him, and her fingers hit his.
Ransom? And shackled together? His clearing head started digesting the information and the situation. Back-to-back in rickety chairs. He looked down. Tied by rope.
The questions about Miss Whitby’s curious past would have to wait.
“Do you mean to tell me, as an illusionist, you couldn’t slip out of these ropes?”
A burst of air left her. Was it a laugh? Exasperation? “Special ropes and special knots are used, my dear detective, so I’m afraid you’ll have to wait for another opportunity for me to be your rescuer.”
He grinned and was particularly glad she couldn’t see it. Verbal sparring with a woman didn’t happen often for him, and the fun sort proved even rarer. A pleasant warmth branched through his chest, and his smile fell.
Attraction? He gave his head a shake. He didn’t need to think of anyone in a romantic way with his sordid history, especially some American illusionist and possible thief. Heaven knew, his last romantic relationship had ended in shambles, with his heart more scarred than he imagined it could ever be.
A wife was supposed to be faithful. Remain. Yet, as soon as Jack’s father lost his title, his wife left him for a titled man, filed for a divorce, and disappeared from his life in every way except memory.
“Why would whoever took us think they could hold you for ransom? A detective?” Her voice edged with humor. “Is business that good?”
“I don’t know that it’s ever been that good.” Despite himself, his grin flared again. “Let’s just say I have family I haven’t offended beyond rescue.”
This time she clearly chuckled, and the ache in his chest lessened just a little.
“And why are you shackled with me, Miss Whitby? A ransom also? Perhaps from Laraby?”
“With what money?” she scoffed. “No, I’m not quite certain why I’m here, but based on what I’ve learned today, I think it’s because I’m the only other person besides John who knows where the final Juliet is. Well, except you and the Astleys, but our assailants didn’t know that little detail.”
“Could you make out anything from their voices?”
“If I was to hazard a few guesses, I’d say one was the infamous Mrs. Reynolds, though her accent became decidedly more French than she’d displayed for us. I think my English accent is better than hers.”
“Is it?”
“I will not prove it, especially at the current moment, though I feel the acoustics in this place would make for excellent reverberation.” She shifted again, sending another whiff of her hair in his direction. “Two others in the conversation were men. One may have been Mr. Finch, but the other? I’m not certain. Italian, though.”
Italian? Did they have someone helping them who had remained behind the scenes? A native?
“So whoever has taken us needs you alive in case Laraby doesn’t give them the information they want?”
“It’s my only deduction, Detective. That happens to be your expertise over mine.” Her hands jerked against his, shaking both their chairs. “But I’d rather not wait around to find out if Laraby told them or not, because the ending for me, in particular, won’t be very happy. I don’t have any rich relatives to buy my rescue.”
Who would have known about his status? Or his relatives? What had Frederick and Grace just told them before they boarded the ferry? Mr. Finch had been in some photos at Mrs. Chambers’ house after her death?
If that was the case, then Mr. Finch would have known of Jack’s connections. And was likely the one who recommended Laraby call on Jack for the investigation.
A back-up plan in case the treasure fell through?
How clever.
He looked around the room again, the surroundings almost like a cellar. Tall stone walls on every side.
“Miss Whitby, I—”
“Lydia, won’t you? I think since we’re nearly holding hands as it is, Detective, we should be on a first-name basis.”
Blast. There went his smile again.
Oh, he liked her. Too much. From the first time he took her in his arms after someone pushed past her in the hallway. Those eyes? The intelligence in her eyes?
He frowned. Hearts proved helpful in pumping blood through the body but not in staving a man’s desire for love.
And what a relief that Miss … Lydia didn’t break out into hysterics about their current situation. She kept her wits too. The world could do with a few more women like her.
He cleared his throat. “Our captors must have been in a hurry or else they would have checked my pockets. As it is, we are rather fortunate. My pocket knife is still safely housed in the right pocket of my trousers.”
“Ah, so we can either deduce that our captors were in a hurry or not so clever. I prefer the latter for our sakes, don’t you?” She shifted again, her hair tickling the back of his neck. “But I don’t see how you can reach the knife and become the hero of the moment, Detective.”
“You’ll not call me Jack?”
She hesitated. “For some reason, Detective suits you better, but I’ll think about it some more. In the meantime, while we wait for the inevitable, what about this daring rescue you’re planning?”
“I believe, my dear Miss Whitby, you are going to have to prove the rescuer. Not me.”
More silence. “How hard did they hit your head? I worked in the circus, not in performing miracles, though at the moment, I could usher up enough faith to try.”
“I think we are a bit more likely to experience a practical miracle, if I may.” He curbed his laugh. “Since my hands are tied behind my back, I have no way of reaching my knife, but perhaps you can.”
“Me? Your knife?” She moved, almost as if she straightened. “You think?”
“I’m not certain, but you have a better chance than I do. And since they didn’t tie our feet, I can raise my knees to see if it will help slide the knife closer to the entrance of the pocket.” It was a very good thing she couldn’t see him at the moment, because attempting to get his knees up while his hands were tied proved rather ridiculous.
Clever woman that she was, however, she took his cue.
Her left hand began moving at his back, then to his hip. Every fiber of his body became suddenly aware of her touch, so he pinched his eyes closed and focused on shifting his right hip closer toward her.
“Well, I certainly think you should call me Lydia now.”
His body stiffened against a laugh. “Keep to the task at hand, my dear Miss Whitby.”
“Ah, Miss Whitby, is it?” Her fingers pressed at the opening of his pocket.
“Under the circumstances, it seemed a proper boundary.”
“How very gentlemanly of you, my dear detective.” Her body shook with what he supposed was a laugh. “I can almost reach it.” She ground out the words, her body likely tensed to the painful point and possibly as contorted as his own.
Her fingers slid deeper into his pocket, tickling the juncture of his hip and leg. He pinched his lips as tight as his eyes to keep from laughing or shifting away from her.
“I got it, Jack.” The pressure on his hip disappeared. “Now, let me see if I can open it.”
His muscles relaxed. “I believe I can help with that part.” With their two pairs of hands moving over the knife, teamwork resulted in an open blade.
“You do realize that neither of us can see where I’m cutting, so I could possibly slice right through your hands.” Her fingers prodded over his.
“I’ll just have to take that chance, Miss Whitby.”
“Hmm.” She paused. “If you’ll let out a yelp, that may be a good clue.”
“I don’t yelp, Miss Whitby.” His grin spread wide. “Not even for you.”
“No special favors for your fellow captive, huh?” Her movements stopped and restarted. “At least now I have an additional goal to rescuing us.”
Jack thanked God once again that Miss Whitby couldn’t see his expression.
In only a few minutes, she shifted. “Got it,” she announced, and the ropes started shaking at his wrists until they loosened. Jack pushed the rope off his chest and turned to find Lydia standing, her pale blue dress stained and torn in various places and her hair completely undone about her shoulders.
He looked away and dusted at his jacket. “Excellent rescue.”
“I call that mutual rescuing.” She offered his knife back to him, her green eyes glittering.
He pulled his gaze from hers and immediately noticed a scrape across her forehead. “You were hurt.” He gestured, and she raised a palm to her head.
“What do the heroes in books say, Detective?” Her grin crooked, and his chest tightened. “It’s a mere flesh wound?”
His gaze lingered on her for a second longer, and he gave the room another look just to get his eyes off her face. She had a small nose to match her small chin, and sandwiched in the middle were a pair of perfect lips. He silenced a groan. Where on earth did that thought come from?
“Are we in a cellar?”
“I’m not sure, but I’d prove much more helpful if I could locate my glasses.”
He turned back to her. “You dropped them?”
“I woke up without them.” She frowned, scanning the shadowy floor.
The light glittered off something in the corner, and Jack reached down to retrieve them. From the dim view, he made out a few scratches.
“I’m afraid they’re not as pristine as they once were.” He offered them to her.
She raised them up toward the light and frowned. “Better than nothing, I suppose. At least they’ll be more helpful than my natural eyes.”
She placed them back on her little nose, their frames drawing his attention back to her eyes. A mesmerizing sort of green. She studied the space. “The cellar in the villa looks nothing like this. All white stone?”
“But there is the scent of sea and earth, suggesting we are somewhere underground near the coast.” How did a woman manage to make even tangled hair attractive? Very unhelpful of her. Especially for his peace of mind.
Oblivious to his perusal, she stepped toward a column on the far side of the small room and disappeared around the other side of the pillar. “Well, well, what do we have here, Detective?”
Jack joined her on the other side of the pillar. A stone spiral staircase led down into darkness. “Down isn’t my preference, but out is.” He stepped back into their confined room, taking inventory of any other options. “I believe this is our only alternative, so perhaps we should take advantage of it?” He took the lantern off the hook on the wall. “What do you say, Miss Whitby?”
“As opposed to waiting around for our rather unwelcome hosts?” She offered a smile and started down the stairs. He followed close, holding the lantern aloft to shine before her.
“I just wanted you to know that I didn’t have anything to do with the stolen paintings.”
Her confession echoed up through the stairwell.
“I didn’t want you supposing that since I am responsible for our ghost, I had some other, what would you English say, dodgy plans?”
“Dodgy? Yes.” His smile spread again, and his gaze, despite himself, fell on the way her loose hair spilled down her back. He cleared his tightening throat again. “Though I don’t suppose creating ghosts is of vital importance to managing Mr. Laraby’s finances.”
She paused on the step and looked up at him, the lantern light haloing her face. “I’ve always been good with planning and numbers.” She continued the walk, the stairs ending in a narrow corridor. “But when the late Mr. Walker took me in hand to teach me about his business, he seemed to recognize my gift for managing things. Overcoming problems.” She chuckled. “I suppose it’s a little like solving mysteries and crimes, except less … life-threatening.”
The sentence lodged in his mind somewhere, and he wasn’t certain why. “Except for now, of course.”
“I think this situation is unique for most secretaries, don’t you?”
“Perhaps, but I know very few secretaries who were former circus performers, so you may prove a breed apart, Miss Whitby.”
“Of that, Detective, I am certain.”
He adjusted his hold on the lantern, keeping his other palm against the earthen wall. “I hate to disappoint you, but I only suspected you for a short period of the investigation.”
“How very disappointing.” The smile in her response inspired his own. “Dressing up as a footman and then creating a ghost wasn’t proof enough of my villainy?”
A small glint of daylight shone in front of them, ushering forward the sound of—the sea?
“I am not in doubt of your ability to be villainous, Miss Whitby, but I do doubt your heart to be villainous.”
Lydia turned back toward him, studying him before resuming her descent. “Or I am a very good actress who is leading you to your doom, which would be very villainous of me.”
“If you are this good of an actress, Miss Whitby, and did not slice my wrists when you had the chance, then my doom is deserved.”
Her footsteps faltered for a second before she continued. “I was incredibly tempted to hear your yelp, Detective.”
The path turned again, and the light before them suddenly opened up to reveal a spectacular site. They stepped out onto a rocky outcropping with waves rushing up to crash against their perch. Mists from the water salted the air around them, but the most spectacular view surrounded them. They’d stepped out into a massive cavern with towering cave openings on three sides. The fourth side revealed open water.
The mouth of one cave resembled a massive oak. The next had the faint look of a heart. And the third was a double cave with a large rock jutting out between the two openings like the head of a bird. Each cave entrance nearly touched the water’s edge, and a boat poised right outside the double cave.
“Where are we?”
Before he could answer, someone called out not far from them. Jack pulled Lydia back against him and into the tunnel they’d just left. She pressed close for the briefest moment, sheltered by him, her body fitted quite perfectly against his chest. It had been so long since he’d held a woman this close, and something about the woman in question being Miss Whitby rattled his nicely controlled emotions.
He liked her. More than he ought.
“Who was that?”
He looked down at her face, pushing through his brain to find an answer. “I believe, Miss Whitby, those would be the people looking for Accardi’s treasure.”