1 October 1817
Milan
At our lodgings in the Via Santa Sofia
MY FEET ARE WARM again. It seems days since I could say as much. Not coincidentally, we’ve been in Milan for an afternoon and a night and a morning, and it was only a moment ago that I realized my feet were actually warm and dry. I thought I would record this novelty, so that someday when I am sweltering in the heat of summer, I can think back on this day and indulge in a pleasurable shiver. I admit it seems a remote possibility just at the moment.
It is raining. That is why we are all of us still indoors this morning. When I use the word raining, it is because it is the word everyone else uses. I confess it seems a pale, insubstantial word compared with the deluge that has been falling since last night. This side of the mountains is much greener than the barren slopes on the French side, and I suppose these quantities of rain explain the difference in prospect.
Lady Sylvia has sent one of her knitted missives to say that things are much as we left them in Paris. It took all four of us to decipher it. Cecy is almost always the quickest to guess the significance of the objects incorporated into the stitches. She was first to realize Lady Sylvia represents Thomas with a bit of peacock feather. But it was Thomas who solved the question of what the fishhook meant. (The Duke of Wellington, as it is a reference to his soldierly nickname, Old Hooky.)
2 October 1817
Milan
At our lodgings in the Via Santa Sofia
Thomas has arranged for us to go to the opera tonight. We are to see La Cenerentola, which I understand to be as near to Cinderella as makes no difference. Lord knows, I have seen Thomas looking extremely pleased with himself upon occasion, but when I thanked him for his thoughtfulness, he surpassed all previous efforts.
3 October 1817
Milan
At our lodgings in the Via Santa Sofia
Last night was simply splendid. We attended the opera, the four of us, in our full Parisian finery. It was, if anything, more enjoyable than last time, because I was not in the least worried about my own appearance. I couldn’t be bothered to care who was looking greenly at us. There was the music. More than that, I was far from the only one there who had come to listen.
As Paris is to pastry, La Scala is to opera. I cannot imagine that one could better La Scala and its audience. To behold those gilded boxes and the enormous stage fills me with joy, but alone they would make an empty paradise. It is the audience that makes it Heaven, all those people who know and care about the music. The throngs filling the seats are not invariably refined, and they are (I am told) almost never entirely respectful. Yet they know what they are hearing, and they appreciate it. Their criticisms can be unmistakable. I have been told sometimes they throw things to express their indignation at a poorly executed aria. What a world it would be if this level of critical appreciation were more widespread. If the chef sends up a badly cooked dinner, one could hurl a cabbage at his head by way of reply.
No, on the whole, far better not to let such exacting standards escape the confines of the opera house.
4 October 1817
Milan
At our lodgings in the Via Santa Sofia
I knew that there would be sociability in Paris. I never expected that we would find sociability in Milan, at least, not so readily. It seems that the British Consul had been alerted to our arrival so there were invitations waiting for us by the time we arrived. At the Consul’s residence, we were introduced to some of the prominent residents of the city, and more invitations followed in short order.
Mail was waiting for us, too. It has been a pleasure to take paper and pen and ink pot to write a simple letter home. Much less arduous than the work I have been putting into my knitted replies to Lady Sylvia. I refuse to try to knit an account of going to the opera.
N.B. Where is my good left glove? I can’t have lost it. I do seem to have lost the last of Aunt Charlotte’s handkerchiefs. Luckily, I bought more in Paris.
5 October 1817
Milan
At our lodgings in the Via Santa Sofia
We now have been to La Cenerentola twice. There was also a work by Gritti, Caterina Sforza, but one performance of that was enough to convince Thomas that we did not need to see or hear or even think of it ever again. The La Scala audience was even more exacting than Thomas, and the Gritti production has closed, as preparations begin to replace it with an opera by Pacini.
My time at the opera was golden. Even the hours before and after seemed filled with music. Once the rain stopped, the weather warmed delightfully, so we could have the windows open in our rooms. Each morning bells and birdsong wake us. Every street vendor seems to make a song of his wares, and everyone who sings can carry a tune. Thomas does not seem as enchanted by this phenomenon as I am, but despite the occasional complaint, he never gets up to close the windows.
7 October 1817
Milan
At our lodgings in the Via Santa Sofia
Upon our arrival, Thomas and James did their utmost to locate Mr. Strangle through persistent inquiry. I am sure that they would have succeeded in time. They didn’t have a fair chance to demonstrate the excellence of their methods, as pure luck forestalled them.
Fortunately, among the invitations we received after enjoying the hospitality of the British Consul was one from the Conte and Contessa di Monti to a garden party to be held in the grounds of a fine estate near the city. It was a fête to salute the generosity of the Conte di Capodoro, who had just announced the donation of his collection of Roman and Etruscan antiquities to the city of Milan for the enjoyment of her people. The Conte and his Contessa were honored guests, and we joined the local notables in congratulating them on their philanthropy.
It was a fine day, unseasonably warm, so there was no excuse to linger indoors. I was disappointed by this, as I’d hoped for more chance to admire the villa itself. Instead, we were escorted to the fine gardens, where we were greeted by our host, the Conte di Monti, who does something important for the Hapsburgs, and his Contessa, our hostess. They introduced us in turn to their guests, the Conte and Contessa di Capodoro among them. The Conte and Contessa di Monti were like a pair of Persian cats, both with flowing white hair and pleased expressions.
The man of the hour, the Conte di Capodoro, was no taller than Thomas, a very thin and bony man with a fine prow of a nose and hooded amber-brown eyes that reminded me of a falcon. His wife was even more distinguished in appearance and demeanor. She wore pure white silk in the most Grecian style imaginable, complete with a delicate gold fillet threaded through her dark curls. She had the small, remote smile of a classical statue of Venus. There was an air of stillness about her, and it seemed to me that her smile served to conceal her shyness, for she spoke scarcely a word. I wondered if the Conte di Capodoro had collected her because she resembled one of his antique beauties, or if she had adopted the classical style to please him.
The formalities began when we were conducted to little chairs ranked in rows before a lectern. Once we were seated and gazing attentively, our host welcomed us officially. He then described the excellence of the Conte di Capodoro’s character, the width and depth of his erudition, and the excellence of his taste. He thanked the Conte on behalf of the citizens of Milan for the gift of his collection of classical antiquities. He congratulated the Conte on his immense generosity, and he foretold the gratitude of all civilized people would ensure his name lived down the centuries, renowned and respected.
After the Conte di Monti’s address, the Conte di Capodoro rose and made a few gracious remarks expressing his gratitude. It was an excellent speech, short enough to leave us hoping for more, yet sufficiently grateful that all our host’s courtesies were amply returned. We were then invited to make free with the refreshments and to stroll through the gardens.
Thomas spoke quietly with the British Consul. James, Cecy, and I chatted with our hostess and one or two others as we drifted through the garden. To be strictly honest, James and Cecy chatted with the Contessa di Monti, and I concentrated on keeping my skirts from catching on the rosebushes as we walked.
We came to a spot where the rosebushes met an avenue of topiary with a reflecting pool at the far end. It was as I bent to free myself from a particularly awkward thorn that my attention was drawn to a man and a woman standing by the reflecting pool. They were well out of earshot but close enough for me to see facial expressions.
The man was very tall and extremely thin, and there was something horridly familiar about the set of his head and shoulders. He was speaking intently, from what I could see, with scarcely a pause to permit his companion an opportunity for a response. The woman smiled shyly up at him. This surprised me considerably, for the woman was the Contessa di Capodoro and the man (I will not sully the word gentleman) was Mr. Strangle.
As I freed myself from the rosebush, I took an involuntary step back the way we’d come. I don’t think I made any sound whatsoever, yet my awkwardness caught Cecy’s attention. She could tell something out of the ordinary had happened. “Kate, what’s wrong?” Everyone else turned to stare at me, mild-eyed and curious as a herd of dairy cattle.
“Nothing. Nothing at all,” I said hastily. I smoothed my skirts and moved to rejoin the group. “Merely my usual clumsiness.”
After a few moments, chat resumed and our party drifted on aimlessly. My reply had deceived Cecy not at all. She and James closed in, one on either side of me. Under her breath, Cecy asked again, “What’s wrong?”
“Mr. Strangle is here,” I murmured back.
With the greatest effort of will, the three of us maintained our lackadaisical progress. “Where?” James asked.
“Right there.” I nodded toward the reflecting pool. The Contessa di Capodoro had retired, but Mr. Strangle still stood there, staring into the water like a heron waiting for its next fish.
Cecy was decisive. “Kate, go find Thomas. James and I will follow Mr. Strangle at a distance. We will keep an eye on him without letting him know we’re interested.”
James looked grim. “We’ll follow him to kingdom come, if necessary.”
“It will be such good practice for you.” Cecy looked from James to me. “Do hurry, Kate.”
I hurried.
Thomas was right where I’d left him, part of the circle listening to the British Consul. He took one look at me and extricated himself from the circle with almost as much courtesy as efficiency. “What’s happened?”
I looked back the way I’d come. “Mr. Strangle is here. Cecy and James are keeping him in view without letting him know it. There is a most convenient topiary nearby, but if he walks far in any direction, I don’t know how they will contrive to stay out of his sight.”
Thomas took only a moment to register that. I knew he’d grasped the situation completely when he said briskly, “Then we must hurry.”
He accompanied me through the gardens as quickly as we dared. It really would not have been wise to bustle noticeably. We did not wish to attract any unnecessary attention.
Mr. Strangle was still beside the pool when we rejoined Cecy and James. I wondered why. Was he admiring his reflection in the water? Or was he waiting for someone? No one seemed to be taking the least notice of him. More unusually, he seemed to be taking very little notice of his own surroundings, not even leering at the fashionably dressed ladies who drifted past.
“What’s he doing here?” Thomas demanded under his breath. “He can’t be an invited guest. Surely the Conte di Monti has better taste than that.”
“Perhaps he accompanied Theodore Daventer,” Cecy suggested. “Theodore mentioned an uncle they were to meet. Perhaps that is what Harry Strangle is doing here, bear-leading the young man until he can turn him over to his uncle.”
“What is he doing now?” I asked.
Mr. Strangle had reached into the pocket of his coat and produced something that looked remarkably like the end of a loaf of bread. It must have been quite stale, for he seemed to have trouble breaking off the small bits he sprinkled into the pool.
James said, “It looks very much as though he’s feeding the fish.”
“The blackguard. Let’s have a word with him.” Thomas took a careful look around to be sure that our host and hostess were nowhere in view, then marched across with James. The two of them flanked Mr. Strangle so neatly that he dropped the whole bread crust into the water in his surprise. Cecy and I joined them, keeping a safe distance.
“I beg your pardon,” Mr. Strangle exclaimed. He tried to retreat, but James and Thomas held his arms firmly. “What is the meaning of this?”
“You disappointed me in Paris, leaving so abruptly,” said Thomas. “I wanted a word with you but you ran away from me.”
“Can you wonder at it?” Mr. Strangle demanded. “You attacked me.”
Thomas was grim. “I never touched you.”
“I am uncommonly fleet of foot.” Mr. Strangle looked as pleased with himself as usual. “That is the only reason you didn’t.”
If anything, Thomas’s grimness increased. “Now that we’re all here together, you won’t mind answering a few questions, will you? For a start, why did you murder Sir Hilary Bedrick?”
I gazed at Thomas in surprise. This was quite a feat of illogic, even for Thomas. The effect it had on Mr. Strangle, however, was galvanic. He all but leapt into the air, and only the greatest effort from James and Thomas kept him securely in their grasp.
“Who said that?” Mr. Strangle’s terror seemed to contain a great deal of anger. “He’s lying! I never saw him—not since last summer. I never saw him at all after he lost his magic.”
“He didn’t lose his magic,” said Cecy. “He had it taken from him by the Royal College of Wizards.”
James added, “And richly he deserved the punishment.”
“Someone thought he richly deserved to die. Were you the one who killed him?” Thomas put more pressure into his grip on Strangle’s arm. “You knew he was dead. You know what happened to him.”
“Of course I heard he was murdered.” Strangle swallowed hard. “That kind of word travels fast. But I had nothing to do with it. I didn’t even know he was in France. I had my own affairs to worry about.”
Cecy looked severe. “That’s something else we should discuss with you. But first things first.”
“What was Bedrick up to?” Thomas demanded.
Mr. Strangle didn’t answer the question. He eyed Thomas defiantly. “You will have to use force, won’t you? Hardly the done thing at a garden party. You will have to use fisticuffs, as you did in London. You won’t object to beating a helpless man, I know. But the civilized guests here deserve to know what they’re confronted with, once you reveal your true colors.”
“If anyone asks, it will be my pleasure to explain to them precisely what kind of fellow you are, you malignant swine.” Thomas glanced over at James. “Can you hold him for me?”
James nodded and took a firm grip on both Strangle’s arms, but he looked distinctly uneasy about it.
“Fine.” Thomas stepped back and made a series of swift gestures, touching just a fingertip to Strangle’s forehead, his chest, and finally his mouth. “Dicemi veritatem.” I felt a soft throb from the ring on my left hand, which seemed to grow warm as he spoke. “What was Bedrick up to?”
Mr. Strangle’s voice came out as a soft whine. “He wanted revenge on you. More than that, I don’t know. I had barely arrived in France myself.”
“Who killed Bedrick?” Thomas demanded.
“I don’t know.” The whine trailed off uncertainly.
Thomas considered a moment, then changed his tack. “Why did you come to France?”
“I was engaged as a tutor for Theodore Daventer. The post became available unexpectedly. Thanks to you, I had no prospects in England, so I crossed the Channel and began my duties immediately.”
“Who engaged you?” Thomas asked.
“The boy’s uncle, William Mountjoy.”
We all looked surprised. Cecy exclaimed, “Mountjoy is Theodore’s uncle? What a small place the world is after all.”
“Where did you cross the Channel?” Thomas asked. “And when?”
“I crossed from Dover to Calais. Everyone does. I took up my duties there, after I was introduced to young Theodore and given a final interview with Lord Mountjoy.”
From a short distance away, the distinctive tones of the British Consul hailed us. “Schofield? What’s the meaning of this? What are you doing?”
With a sound of pure exasperation, Thomas snapped his fingers. The sensation of warmth faded from my wedding ring.
“Let him go,” Thomas told James.
James relaxed his hold on Mr. Strangle, who turned to the British Consul as a drowning man welcomes his rescuer. “Thank you a thousand times for deliverance from this ruffian!”
The Consul gazed confusedly from Thomas to Mr. Strangle and back. “I beg your pardon?”
“This man attacked me. Not for the first time, either. He and his friend physically restrained me and then cast a spell of compulsion upon me. In front of ladies!” Mr. Strangle brushed imaginary dust off the lapels of his coat and squared his shoulders as if to reassure himself that he was truly free. “I demand retribution. I demand justice.”
“Er. Yes.” The British Consul thought this over. “What did this spell compel you to do?”
“I wanted the truth from him,” Thomas said. “I’ve grown tired of his lies and evasions.” Thomas gave the Consul an abridged account of Mr. Strangle’s misdeeds. “I wanted answers to some questions. Honest answers.”
The British Consul was unmoved. “Understandable, I suppose, Schofield. But you must know it is hardly polite to go around employing spells of compulsion at a social event. Damned bad form.”
Thomas looked contrite. “I’m sorry, Sir.”
The British Consul turned to Mr. Strangle. “I was fortunate enough to be consulted by the Conte and Contessa di Monti when this event was proposed. I count myself tolerably familiar with the names on the guest list. I must confess that your name, Sir, was not among them.”
Mr. Strangle took an involuntary step backward. “Your memory is at fault then. For I am an invited guest.”
“Are you? I’m so sorry to imply anything else. The matter will be a simple one to clear up. Let’s go ask our hostess, shall we?”
“That’s really not necessary—” Strangle took another step back and encountered a rosebush. “Ouch. Ow! Damn!” He turned and tore himself away from the thorns of the rose, then sprinted—there is no other word for it—down the lane of topiary and away.
“What an extraordinary fellow,” said the British Consul. He turned a disapproving eye on Thomas. “You’re not to do it again, do you understand? Whatever it was you did.”
Thomas looked entirely chastened. “No, Sir. Under no circumstances. I’m sorry.”
“Good. Apology accepted. Now I really must go smooth things over with the Contessa di Monti. She won’t be pleased, either by your activities or by her uninvited guest.” He took his leave of us all and marched back up the way he’d come.
We watched him go in silence.
“What a pity we didn’t just follow Strangle home and accost him there.” Cecy sighed a little. “Still, it shouldn’t be hard to find Theodore Daventer in a city this size.”
James looked more cheerful. “At any rate, it spares us the ordeal of slinking along in Strangle’s wake.”
“You were doing very well before Thomas joined us,” Cecy assured him. “All you need is a bit more practice.”
I continued to find Mr. Strangle’s unexpected appearance at the garden party extremely puzzling. The Conte and Contessa di Monti were persons of considerable importance in Milan, and while it had become clear to me that Continental manners were a good deal more easy than those in England, it still seemed very odd for Mr. Strangle to sneak uninvited into their party. (No more than Thomas could I bring myself to believe that he had received an invitation.) There seemed no reason for him to have done so. For a time I considered the possibility that the castle grounds contained some ancient temple or monument that he wished to get into, but I could find no reference to such a thing in any of the books Lady Sylvia had so thoughtfully provided, so I was forced to abandon the idea.
Considering ancient temples, however, led me to think of other antiquities. A few of the most impressive pieces from the Conte di Capodoro’s collection had been on display at the party, but amid the excitement attendant on Mr. Strangle’s appearance, none of us had seen them. I determined to remedy this, on the triple grounds that something in the collection might have been Mr. Strangle’s objective; that even if the articles had nothing to do with Mr. Strangle, my Papa would be greatly interested in hearing a report of them; and that, in any case, visiting the collection would be something to do besides listening to yet another opera.
Following the party, Mr. Strangle had vanished as thoroughly as ever. James and Thomas returned to their manhunt, and so could not join the expedition to see the collection the Conte had donated. Thomas therefore told Piers to accompany Kate on any outings that he, Thomas, could not join, pointing out that a bodyguard did little good if he was on the other side of town from the person he was supposed to be guarding. I was inclined to agree with James’s assessment that Thomas had a bee in his brain, as there seemed no particular reason to think that Mr. Strangle would approach Kate, but Kate acquiesced with little objection. So we were five on the day we drove down to the building that now housed the antiquities: myself, Kate, our maids, and Piers.
The doorman examined our tickets with care before letting us join the crowd already inside. The building had evidently been hastily refurbished to suit its new function, for the rooms smelled of fresh whitewash and strong soap. The pieces of the collection had been laid out haphazardly on tables in a series of rather small rooms off a central hallway. Iron belt buckles and chipped pottery mixed indiscriminately with stones and small lead tablets bearing nearly illegible inscriptions. Very little had been labeled, none of it in English.
The curator, a rather harried-looking gentleman in a green-and-gold uniform, roamed from room to room, attempting to explain the fine points of the exhibits to the visitors. Unfortunately, his English was not good. After two unsuccessful attempts to enlighten us, he gave up and left us to our own devices.
We passed through the first few rooms with almost unseemly speed. “It is a pity your Papa isn’t here,” Kate said. She frowned doubtfully at a small bronze object that looked rather like a tiny bowl stuck to the side of a small gravy boat. “He could at least tell us what things are.”
“I believe that particular piece is an oil lamp, my lady,” Kate’s maid, Reardon, said diffidently. “From the era of the Republic, if I am not mistaken.”
“It certainly resembles the illustrations in Papa’s manuscripts,” I said. “Though it is far more battered. Have you seen such things before, then?”
“A few, though I am more familiar with Egyptian antiquities than those of Rome,” Reardon said with some reluctance. “My father was in service to Monsieur Champollion, the Egyptologist, for many years, and one cannot help but absorb some information when one is raised in such an environment.”
“Just so,” I said, thinking of Papa. “What is your opinion of this?” I pointed at a triangular piece of clay, one side of which was covered in small tiles that made a picture of a head with two faces. “I thought it might be intended as the two-faced Roman god, Janus, but there is something odd about the style of the headdress.”
Reardon allowed herself to be drawn into a discussion, and her comments made the exhibits far more intriguing. Our progress slowed to a more leisurely pace, and other visitors began passing us by.
“Perhaps we should move faster,” Kate said as a recent arrival walked past with a disapproving look. “Not that it isn’t all very interesting.”
“I suppose we might as well,” I said. “Papa will be quite happy to hear about what we’ve seen so far, and I can’t imagine that old coins and fragments of mosaics would have any attraction for Mr. Strangle—Oh, my!”
The next-to-last room, which we had just entered, was quite different from the others. A waist-high shelf had been built along one wall, and lined up along it were dozens of little statues and one or two pieces of bas-relief showing robed figures. The rest of the room was empty but for a table draped in green that had been pushed up against a window in the far wall. The air had just the barest hint of old magic in it, like the faint scent of roses that lingers in a room for a while after the flowers themselves have been taken away.
“Household gods,” Reardon said. She frowned and added disapprovingly, “Some of them are Egyptian.”
“Didn’t the Romans conquer Egypt?” Kate said. “Perhaps those are some of the spoils they brought back with them.”
I walked to the table at the far end. The feel of magic was stronger, though still very faint. The table contained several small lamps made of reddish pottery, two statuettes of a woman holding a torch, a gold ornament shaped like the branch of a tree, and a sword made of corroded bronze. The sword’s blade was flat and almost rounded at the end, though I could not tell whether that was its original design or whether the point had corroded away. There was a small card in the corner of the table bearing a phrase in Italian.
“Reardon, do you know what these are?” I asked. “They don’t look like anything I’ve heard of.”
The others came over to join me. “I think the statues are of a goddess,” Reardon said. “Possibly offerings of some sort. This”—she gestured at the gold ornament—“seems to be a cloak pin.”
“But which goddess?” I asked. “Vesta was the Roman goddess associated with fire, but I don’t think the Romans ever made statues of her, and I can’t think of anyone else it could be.”
“I am afraid I don’t know either, Madam,” Reardon said.
Behind me, Piers cleared his throat. “The card says, ‘From the King of the Wood at Nemus Dianae.’ ”
“Piers!” Kate said. “Why didn’t you tell us you spoke Italian?”
“Er,” said Piers. “I, um, didn’t want to distract you, my lady.”
“You’re sure it says the King of the Wood?” I said. Piers nodded. “That can’t mean the statues, then.” I glared at the card. “You would think that a label would say something more useful.”
“It’s an odd set of objects for a king to have,” Kate commented. “That is, I suppose the sword is ordinary, but why the statues? And you’d expect a king to have a crown, certainly.”
“Yes,” I said thoughtfully. “You’d certainly expect that. I suppose they might not have found the crown with these other things, but if they did—”
“Then it’s gone missing, like those other things the Duke of Wellington mentioned,” Kate finished. We looked at each other.
“Thomas and James might be able to find out whether the Conte’s collection used to include a crown,” Kate said after a minute.
“And I expect Papa will know something about this goddess,” I said. “I’ll write him this afternoon. And one of us should send to Lady Sylvia.”
“I’ll do that, if you check my knitting,” Kate said as we started toward the door. “It’s so difficult, knowing that dropping a stitch may change the whole meaning of a message.”
“I’ll be glad to,” I said. “Piers, what are you doing?”
Piers had come to a dead halt in the middle of the hallway, forcing the rest of us to pause likewise. “A moment, if you please, Madam,” he said, his head cocked in an attitude of listening.
I was about to say something scathing, when I remembered that Piers was, after all, a professional bodyguard. So instead of distracting him, I listened for whatever had attracted his attention. At first all I heard was a murmur of Italian echoing down the hallway from the first display room, but after a moment, the voices began to rise. Unfortunately, they were still in Italian, but one was clearly a man’s voice and the other a woman’s. The argument seemed to reach a climax, then the man snapped something. I caught the names “Tarleton” and “Schofield,” and then Piers came to life.
“In here, quickly,” he said, and we all piled through the nearest doorway onto the landing of the back stairs.
“What is going on?” I whispered.
“I do not think we should be seen by the lady who was arguing with the gentleman at the end of the hall,” Piers said. “And as they will be coming this way in another moment—”
“You are nearly as closemouthed as your employer,” I said. “Move over.”
Piers looked confused.
“Move over,” I repeated. “I want a good look at this lady who is so cross about Tarleton and Schofield, and I think that if we open the door a crack, we can get one.”
“I don’t think your husband would approve of that, Madam,” Piers said.
“He probably won’t,” I said. “What has that to do with anything? Move.”
Reluctantly, he stepped aside, and I opened the door two finger-widths. The others crowded around the crack as well. A moment later the curator went past, still expostulating in Italian, into the room full of statues we had just quitted. Following him was a young woman in a neat cream morning dress, quite simple, in the Italian style. Her hair was a rich, dark brown, and her figure resembled that of some of the ancient statues Papa is so fond of—the sort of statues that Aunt Elizabeth considers most improper. Piers stiffened and Walker gasped.
I shut the door as hastily as I could without making a noise, though I did not think the woman had heard. “What is it?” I asked Walker softly.
“But that woman is the one I spoke of, the one who visited the Strangle in Paris!” Walker said. “I knew she was not respectable. How is it that she is here?”
“That is an exceedingly good question,” I said. “Piers, you must follow her when she leaves, and find out where she is going.”
“I fear I cannot oblige you, Madam,” Piers said uncomfortably. “Er, my employer engaged me to act as bodyguard, and one cannot guard someone if one is elsewhere.”
“If I promise to go straight back to our rooms with Cecy?” Kate said. “I don’t see how anything could happen to us with both our maids along, in broad daylight, in such a short distance.”
“I am sorry, my lady,” Piers said, even more uncomfortably than before. “I cannot see my way to it.”
I could tell that he was going to be stubborn, and I did not know how much time we had. “Walker! Can you follow her without being seen? And then come back and tell us whatever you find out, of course. I’d go myself, but Mr. Strangle has probably given her descriptions of all of us, if they’re working together, and she might realize it was me.”
Walker blinked at me in startlement. Then her eyes began to sparkle. “Oui, Madame!” she said. “She will never know I am there.”
Piers looked appalled. “Madam—”
“Go, then,” I said to Walker, and slipped her out the door. I frowned at Piers. “It would have been much better if you had gone, because you speak Italian and you could have told us what she said,” I told him.
“I could not, Madam,” Piers said miserably. “She would have recognized me at once.”
“Recognized you?” I said. “Have you been flirting with Italian housemaids, now? I thought you learned your lesson in Calais. Though she doesn’t look much like a housemaid, now I think on it.”
“She didn’t in Calais, either,” Piers said. “That was Eve-Marie.”
“What?” Kate and I said together. We looked at each other, and then Kate continued, “That was the Young Person who tied you up and locked you in the scullery the night someone tried to enter Lady Sylvia’s rooms?”
Piers nodded.
Kate and I looked at each other again. “What a good thing we sent Walker,” I said after a moment.
“You sent Walker,” Kate pointed out. “I wish you’d told her to be careful.”
“There wasn’t time,” I said. “Besides, she’ll have to be careful if she’s not to be seen. Have they gone?”
“Reardon, you’re the only one of us she might not recognize,” Kate said. “Would you look?”
Reardon opened the door and stepped calmly into the corridor. After what seemed an extremely long time, she returned. “I believe they have departed, my lady,” she said. “And the curator has removed that last exhibit you were looking at. The one ‘From the King of the Wood.’”
“That’s curious,” I said as we moved down the hallway toward the door.
“Was that what they were arguing about, Piers?” Kate asked. “Was she trying to make sure we wouldn’t see it?”
“I believe that was the main part of their disagreement, my lady,” Piers said.
“We had better get back,” I said. “James and Thomas will want to know about this, and we ought to write down as much as we can about that exhibit before we forget any of it. If they didn’t want us to see it, something about it must be important.”
“But what?” Kate said.
None of us had a good answer, though we discussed the matter all the way back to the inn.