The juliet code, p.15
The Juliet Code, page 15
He shook his head to the dimming skyline. Well, he was in the thick of it now, and there was no going back. So for good or ill, he’d embrace the experience like the reluctant sleuth Grace, and evidently Jack, believed he was.
“I’m almost full up of Mr. Laraby,” Jack murmured as they kept in step together. “Reckless, arrogant.”
Frederick glanced back to find Laraby following far enough to have not heard Jack’s remarks.
“I can’t blame you.” Frederick kept his voice low. “I can’t make out whether Laraby is truly a victim or part of the problem.”
Jack slowed his pace as they moved through a tiered garden near the back corner of the villa. As the sunset gold hit the white facade, it nearly made the house glow into the darkening evening.
“And how many of these characters are in it with him?” Jack shook his head, carefully slipping around a long hedgerow.
Several men followed behind them, including Laraby, Mr. Reynolds, and two servants. Zappa and Finch had taken some other men around the other side of the house to a second access point to the Grand Canal.
They’d walked a good half hour along the front of the house all the way down to the dock, and then around the side of the house without one hint of any mischief, unless one considered excessive complaining and swearing a mischief. At which point, Mr. Reynolds could certainly be arrested and convicted on both charges.
“There must be more than one person in it all. To get into the gallery and then take the painting in such a short amount of time? That alone required at least two people.”
“Yes,” Jack agreed, moving around another hedge. “And this ghost business tonight certainly took more than one. Someone had to man the specter as another took the painting.” Jack drew in a breath as if reaching his limit of the situation. “I’ve secured a meeting with Laraby in the morning after breakfast so we can view all the photos of the paintings. We need an idea of what they look like so we will have a better idea of what we’re searching for.”
“And if someone is stealing them to puzzle out whatever code there is to the treasure, perhaps we can locate the thieves by locating the treasure.”
“If there even is a treasure. Lore and murders have no end of mysteries to compound them, leaving a great many people wasting time and resources to come up with nothing.” Jack took another turn and slid to a sudden stop. His arm flew out to brace against Frederick’s chest. “Careful, old bean. Looks as though the setting is as dramatic as the actors.”
Without warning or barrier, the ground gave way to a sharp cliff. The edge curved around the back of the house, where a veranda jutted out over the perilous drop. It was as remarkable a sight as it was startling. And the veranda must have been created in order to take advantage of both the breathtaking sea view and the staggering experience.
But those taking an evening stroll need watch their step.
“What are you thinking, man?” Jack’s voice burst through the sound of the ocean waves hundreds of feet below as Laraby caught up to them. “Don’t you need a barrier or warning to this drop for your own safety, let alone the safety of your guests?”
Laraby peered over the edge and grimaced. “I hadn’t noticed this one.” He gave a shrug. “I’ve only had the house a few months. You can’t expect me to have renovated my living quarters, hosted tremendous parties, and searched out all the dangers within that time, now can you?”
Jack’s expression told much more than he spoke.
“I’d say you need to hire better servants, Laraby.” This from Reynolds, who stood poised on the edge of the cliff staring back at the house. “It looks as though someone has left one of your doors wide open to allow the evening chill inside. Irresponsible, that.”
Everyone followed Reynolds’ gaze. A set of double doors was situated near the center of the veranda, and one of the doors gaped open into the shadows of the house.
“How odd.”
“It’s not a common occurrence?” Something in Jack’s voice drew Frederick’s attention back to the detective.
“I don’t use those rooms.” Laraby turned up the collar of his suit jacket, the evening breeze blowing cool. “They’re the former families’ rooms, untouched since the whole murder happened.” Laraby’s lips tilted into a grin. “The last owners would charge a fee to tour the rooms, and I had plans to do the same, now that most of my renovations on other parts of the house are complete.”
“The visitation of a ghost would likely assist in your costs?” Frederick asked.
Frederick thought he caught a slight hesitation, a brief widening of Laraby’s eyes, before the man responded. “That may have been the plan before I had a ghost make off with my property tonight.”
“Well, I assure you, Dolores found the entire event captivating. She’s a lover of all things dramatic.” Mr. Reynolds patted his waistcoat. “It’s why she married me, after all. Theater and all that.”
“Theater?” Frederick stared at the man. “I thought you were an art collector?”
Mr. Reynolds wrestled with his expression, finally landing on a laugh. “As you know, there’s no money in theater, so I took up my second love, and here we are.” He chuckled again and moved his attention to Laraby. “I feel certain she’ll put the whole experience in one of her books.”
“One would think you’re as interested in the drama of disappearing paintings as Mrs. Reynolds, Laraby.” Jack shot Laraby a severe look.
“I didn’t hire you to make me a suspect.” Laraby gestured toward the house. “I hired you to find my paintings.”
“Then perhaps next time you should heed my warnings.” Jack released a long sigh and gave another glance to the surroundings. “Is there any other way off the veranda?”
“Other than rappelling?” Mr. Reynolds laughed.
Laraby shook his head. “No, anyone must go back inside to find an outlet.”
Jack’s gaze flashed to Frederick’s.
Which meant, if the thieves used that door to attempt escape, they would have had to return inside … with the ladies.
“We need to return to the house,” Jack said, starting at a brisk pace.
Frederick attempted to temper his pulse. No use in raising alarm where there may not be any. Best-case scenario was the thieves blended back into their occupations in the house as either guests or servants or escaped via another door. Worst case … Frederick quickened his pace. He didn’t want to consider worst case, especially with the unwelcome possibilities blinking through his head, mostly involving Grace and her knife and a very evil man.
“Laraby, I would suggest you encourage all your guests to lock their bedroom doors tonight, just to ensure their safety.” Jack tossed the words back to Laraby.
“Surely you can’t be serious, Miracle.” The man’s shoulders tightened. “Clearly the ghost is a hoax, and the thieves already have gotten what they wanted.”
“There’s another painting yet to be found, isn’t there?” This from Mr. Reynolds, who worked hard to keep his rather significant self caught up with the rest of them.
“No one will find that one without me.” Laraby raised a brow, his smile proving much too self-assured for their situation. “It’s in a very secret spot, and I mean to keep it there, especially with thieves inside my own house.”
Could Laraby truly have no idea of the thieves? Frederick examined the man. Or was this all as much a facade as Laraby’s name?
Martina, the young maid, met them as they entered, her gaze scanning the group as if looking for someone. “Mr. Laraby?”
“Yes, Martina.”
“The doctor is on his way.” She dipped her head. “I phoned because Miss Benetti was not up to the task.”
“Is she all right?” Laraby bypassed the young woman and entered the foyer, Martina trailing behind.
“She’s in the sitting room, sir, with Mrs. Reynolds. She was quite distraught after you left the house. I feel certain your presence will calm her.”
“Of course.” Laraby dashed off.
“Sir, should I have tea brought in?” she called after him.
Laraby paused only a moment. “I think we all may need something a bit stronger than tea.” He disappeared down the hallway.
A sudden weight pressed in on Frederick’s chest. “Are the other ladies in the sitting room as well?”
“No, sir, but as I understand it, Miss Whitby replaced me at Mr. Hopewell’s side.” Her eyes brightened. “He has recovered consciousness, and Mr. Hopewell believes his injuries are not severe.”
“That’s excellent news.” Frederick’s throat tightened for some reason he couldn’t quite define.
“I have not seen Lady Astley, sir.”
Frederick exchanged a look with Jack, and they both made their way to the sitting room. Mrs. Reynolds and Miss Benetti sat on the couch together in quiet conversation, the elder apparently comforting the younger.
“Oh, it is good you’ve returned, Mr. Laraby.” Mrs. Reynolds stood and allowed Laraby to replace her at Miss Benetti’s side. “Were you able to find anything?”
“Nothing.” Laraby sighed, taking Miss Benetti into his arms. “There, there, dear girl. It’s all right. Just a little game is all.”
“A game?” She sniffled against him. “You saw the ghost and poor Paul.” Her voice broke, and she buried her face in Laraby’s shoulder. “È orribile.”
“Now, none of that,” Laraby cooed. “Our chaps here are going to prove the ghost a fake, and I can assure you Paul will be right as rain. Especially with Lydia at the helm.”
“Lydia.” The woman’s voice darkened. “She does not like me. Maybe she is the one who wishes to frighten me away from you.”
Jack rolled his gaze to the ceiling.
“Oh, she’s just protective, that’s all.” Laraby patted Jasmine’s shoulder and offered his audience an apologetic grin. “As I told you, Lydia has a way of managing everything, you see? Except, well, she didn’t have a hand in this romance of yours and mine, so I’m afraid she’s a bit unwelcoming.”
As if called by Laraby’s words, Lydia stumbled into the room, her hand pressed against her head. She braced herself against the doorframe, but even that didn’t seem enough, and she started to crumble. Jack, the nearest, rushed forward and caught her before she hit the ground.
“What on earth?” Laraby shot up from his seat, nearly sending Miss Benetti to the floor.
Lydia looked up at Jack, removing her hand from her head to take hold of his arm. A thin trail of blood smeared over her skin. Frederick moved to assist in steadying her.
“What happened to you?” Jack asked, searching her face, his voice bereft of his ever-present sarcasm.
“I … I was walking down the hallway to take a glass of wine to Paul, and I heard someone running at me from behind.” Her face grew paler as she spoke. “When I turned to note the person, the lights in the hallway were switched off.”
“Mamma mia,” Miss Benetti gasped. “Daniel, we cannot stay here. It is not safe.”
“Who was it, Miss Whitby?” Jack guided her to a nearby couch.
“I couldn’t see in the dark.” She locked eyes with Jack. “I feel certain it was a man, from the size and shape of his silhouette. He crashed into me, the force knocking me forward, and left me behind.”
Jack lowered himself to the couch and took a seat beside her, tugging his handkerchief from his jacket.
“I’ll go see to it, Jack.” Laraby started for the hall and sent a glance to Zappa as the butler walked through the door. “Come with me, Zappa. We must investigate.”
Zappa’s usual impassive expression quivered with a hint of confusion, but without question, he followed Laraby from the room.
Mr. Finch entered, dusting off his jacket before taking in the room. “What’s going on here?”
“I … I really am all right,” she whispered to Jack, taking the proffered handkerchief and pressing it to her head. “And would have been fine had my head not hit one of the wall sconces when the man pushed by.”
“Regardless, that is two people who have been injured in one night.” Jack removed his arm from around her and rested her back against the couch, his tones uncharacteristically soft. “We not only have a thief among us, but someone who will harm others to get to the paintings. I’m afraid that makes the game a bit more serious, doesn’t it?”
Lydia stared back at him, something unreadable passing over her expression. Concern? Fear? She looked away, and Jack stood from his place, wiping his palm against the side of his jacket as he rose. “I advise all of us to turn in for the evening and reconvene in the morning to discuss how to proceed. We can do nothing more this evening, and I strongly suggest we lock our bedroom doors.”
“Have any of you seen Lady Astley?” Frederick voiced the gnawing concern he’d felt since walking in the villa and hearing from Martina that she hadn’t seen Grace. Failing to find her in the sitting room and then having Grace not appear after the commotion about Miss Whitby didn’t bode well.
“She’s not here?” Lydia looked toward Mrs. Reynolds. “She went searching for clues along with Mrs. Reynolds over a half hour ago.”
Frederick turned toward Mrs. Reynolds. “Where?”
“Oh dear, I’d quite forgotten about her since finding Miss Benetti so distraught here in the drawing room.” Mrs. Reynolds stood, her fist to her chest. “Surely she’s come back by now.”
“Where did she go?” Frederick didn’t curb the edge in his voice.
The woman’s eyes grew wide. “The back hallway. To the left. She … she found an open door and thought the painting might have—”
Frederick turned and nearly ran in the direction Mrs. Reynolds gestured, a prayer on his lips and Jack on his heels.
Grace pressed her palms against the sides of her prison, the darkness closing in on her like the sand in the trap in Egypt. Her throat squeezed with sudden panic, her breath growing shallow. She could almost feel the weight of the sand promising to steal her air as it had in the sand trap. Her pulse thrummed in quick succession. Doom. Death. Darkness.
She gripped at the neck of her blouse, pulling it loose, as if that would help. She couldn’t catch her breath.
“Oh, God, help me,” she whispered.
Just the sound of her prayer in the dark shook her spinning thoughts. She grabbed at the logic. What had her grandfather told her? When anxieties arise, check your thoughts against God’s list. She focused on her breathing. In and out. She searched her memory. What was the list? From one of the little books in the Bible. Short. The sort she could read without getting lost.
A phrase filtered through the panic.
Whatever is true?
She drew in another breath. True.
What was true about right here and now?
She was not in the sand trap. She was in a trunk. And the trunk had air coming through the little keyhole, so for the time being, she was not suffocating.
So basically she was physically well, just trapped.
What was another one?
Whatever is lovely.
Right. Yes, lovely.
Frederick came to mind. His smile. His tenderness. His strength. Then she thought of God’s goodness to her and His love. Even if she ended up dying inside this trunk, which seemed highly unlikely, she’d be with Him.
She frowned. Were dying thoughts still considered lovely?
Whatever is admirable or excellent.
Well, it would be excellent to get out of here. She nodded, her breaths coming more regularly. Her pulse slowing.
She smiled. Yes. She might very well be able to get out. After all, she’d learned a thing or two about picking locks since the last time she’d been trapped inside a trunk.
Her hair had already loosened enough to make finding two hairpins an easy feat. Armed with her pins and a newfound focus, she turned her body in a rather uncomfortable direction so that she had better access to the keyhole. True, she’d not experienced picking a great many locks. Once the gardener had shown her a few tricks, assisted by Elliott, she’d succeeded in unlocking six out of seven doors at their English estate of Havensbrooke. Thankfully, dear Brandon, the faithful and generous-hearted butler, had heard her knocking from the other side of a locked closet and rescued her from the seventh door. He proceeded to bolster her wavering confidence by informing her that the closet’s lock had been broken for over a decade.
But she’d not practiced on a great many trunks. She’d have to remedy that when they returned to England.
Wardrobes would prove somewhat similar, she supposed. And she’d practiced on plenty of those.
She’d just gotten the pins into a promising position when the sound of footsteps clipped against the floor nearby. Maybe in the room next door? She paused her movement, listening. Was her assailant coming back to finish the job?
“Grace?”
Her fingers paused. Oh, she knew that voice.
“Frederick?”
The footsteps stopped. Could he hear her? She reluctantly removed her pins from the lock and placed her lips to the keyhole. “I’m in the trunk.”
A few seconds later, the footsteps stopped near her. “Grace?”
“Before you ask, I did not get myself trapped in this trunk by myself.” The top flew open to reveal her darling husband and Detective Jack, who was holding a lantern. “I was thrown in.”
Without a word, Frederick pulled her up into his arms. “Good heavens, woman, what were you doing in these unused rooms?”
Though his words sounded frustrated, his tone took more of a desperate turn, and she rested her head against his chest to offer him a moment to compose himself. After all, she’d had the privacy of a trunk to compose herself, and he had an audience of two.
“What do you mean by thrown in, my lady?”
She raised her face from one of the most comfortable positions in the world and peered over Frederick’s shoulder to Jack. “Well, when I noticed the opened door to the veranda, I thought the thieves may have returned into the house and thought to store the painting somewhere while they made plans for another means of escape.” She pulled back from Frederick and looked around the room. Even in lantern light, the dolls looked creepy. Maybe even more so. She looked at Frederick.
