The juliet code, p.18
The Juliet Code, page 18
“So Accardi must have had a fascination with the ill-fated heroine.” Grace reached into her pocket and withdrew a magnifying glass.
He pinched his eyes closed for a moment. Why was he surprised? Of course she brought a magnifying glass.
Miss Whitby and Laraby didn’t recover from their surprise quite as quickly as Frederick.
“Oh, and here is the death scene.” Grace pressed a fist to her chest as she leaned closer, magnifying glass raised. “I imagine it’s terribly gripping in real life. Look at Juliet’s grief as she presses the knife to her heart to stop the pain of her lost love forever.”
Miss Whitby tilted her head and examined Grace, a hint of amusement twinkling to life in her expression.
“But I’ve never really liked this story.” Grace straightened, surveying the room as if nothing were amiss. “The two were children, and they’d only known each other two weeks. It seems like both of them were a bit high on spirit and low on logic, don’t you think?”
Miss Whitby snickered behind her hand. Laraby stared, his brow crinkled in confusion. Frederick’s grin took a subtle turn as he looked to Laraby. If nothing else, his wife disarmed people’s pretense … usually unintentionally, which proved an excellent “sleuthing skill,” as she would say.
“What have previous professionals uncovered about the paintings, Mr. Laraby?”
Laraby pulled his gaze from Grace back to Frederick. “Nothing to help solve the puzzle. They’ve studied how light was portrayed to see if there was some sort of pattern. Carefully reviewed the stones in the walls of each house, and even taken a detailed look at the seams in the characters’ garments to no avail.”
“Any hints at all?” His darling wife’s brow puckered, and he wondered if she felt this puzzle may be beyond either one of them. “From any of the experts?”
“Or perhaps the history?”
“I can’t think of anything,” Laraby answered. “No more than what I’ve already told you.”
Frederick scanned over the photos as Grace moved from one to the next with her magnifying glass at the ready, completely oblivious to the entertainment she offered for Miss Whitby. It sounded as if the woman could do with a bit of lightheartedness.
“How did you come to meet Mr. and Mrs. Reynolds, Mr. Laraby?”
“Not in any spectacular way.” Laraby shrugged a shoulder, leaning back against the desk. “Jasmine had met the couple as they toured the gallery, and when they mentioned their interest to Jasmine, well, she shared it with me and thought I’d get some fun out of it.”
“And some financial remuneration,” Miss Whitby added.
“Nothing wrong with a little fun and funds, is there?” He laughed. “But Mrs. Reynolds has offered to pay me a handsome sum to allow her to use the villa as inspiration for her new novel while her husband tours the art galleries in Venice, so I didn’t see a loss in it all. Her brother’s profession as a film producer just made the situation even better, especially if we catch his eye as a place to turn Mrs. Reynolds’ book into an actual film.”
“It all sounds very exciting.” Grace looked up, one eye enlarged from the magnifying glass.
And remarkably convenient. Miss Benetti “meeting” Mr. and Mrs. Reynolds at the gallery, and it turning into all of this?
“Indeed.” Laraby smiled and moved toward the door. “I have a grand dinner planned for tonight, so there’s a great deal to do in preparation. I mean to keep our guests happy so they’ll stay as long as possible.” He waved toward the table. “Those photos are copies for you and Detective Miracle. You’re free to take them with you.”
Without another word, he exited the room. Lydia Whitby stayed, assisting Grace in collecting the photos.
“How long have Laraby’s finances been in trouble, Miss Whitby?”
Her gaze shot to Frederick and her face paled. “I … I don’t what you mean, Lord Astley.”
“We’re here to help him,” Grace said, gently taking the photos from Miss Whitby’s hands. “Any information you have that might assist us will only be for his good in the long run.”
Miss Whitby searched Grace’s face and then Frederick’s and opened her mouth to reply when the study door burst open to reveal Jack.
“I need to speak with the two of you at once.” His attention fell on Miss Whitby, and he came to an immediate halt. “Excuse me, Miss Whitby. I need a private conversation with the Astleys, if you will.”
Her gaze flickered back to Frederick and Grace before returning to Jack. “Of course, Detective.”
What would she have told them if Jack’s entrance had been delayed a few moments? What did she know?
Jack nodded toward Miss Whitby as she left the room, and he turned to Frederick and Grace, the intensity in his eyes somehow clenching Frederick’s stomach. “I’m sorry to cause you alarm.” Jack stepped forward, lowering his voice as he did. “But I’m afraid our enigma just got a great deal murkier.”
“What is it?” Grace asked. “Is someone else hurt?”
“Dead, actually.”
“What?” Frederick straightened. “What do you mean? Who?”
“Dolores Reynolds.”
“Oh no, Jack!”
“That’s not the worst of it.” Jack drew in a deep breath and leveled Frederick with a look before turning to Grace. “According to my contacts, mystery author Dolores Reynolds has been dead for over a year.”
Grace gasped.
“And she had in her possession one of The Juliets.”
Chapter 15
“What?” Frederick stepped forward with Grace on his heels.
Had she heard Jack correctly? The mystery author Mrs. Reynolds who had just joined her in a little sleuthing adventure last night was in fact dead? Grace gave her head a shake. That meant, of course, the Mrs. Reynolds from last night wasn’t dead. She blinked back to Jack, trying to understand.
“According to my sources, mystery writer Mrs. Dolores Reynolds died almost a year ago as the result of a robbery.”
“A robbery?” Frederick repeated.
“Stabbed the woman in her sleep, just like in one of her novels.”
“Oh, how horrible.” Grace sat down in a nearby chair.
“Since she was more of an English writer, her name and works haven’t become known in Italy.” Jack shook his head. “So her identity wouldn’t be as familiar.”
“Which means our false Mrs. Reynolds could assume her identity without any real trouble.”
“Then Mr. Reynolds and Finch are involved in the business too.” Frederick shook his head. “It’s much too convenient for her to find a man with the last name of Reynolds who would go along with the author ploy if he didn’t have some inkling as to what was going on.”
“He did mention he was an actor last night, if you remember.” Jack tapped his chin.
“Well, that would make sense about not sharing a room, wouldn’t it?” Grace murmured, a little relieved at the thought.
“They’d fit the previous profiles, wouldn’t they, Jack?” Frederick stepped forward, his head tilted, his gaze intense, and his profile every bit the view of a dashing and young detective.
A little thrill shot through Grace at the idea and nearly distracted her from her continued review of the photographs. She excelled at ciphers, likely because she’d been practicing both solving and creating them since she was about ten years old.
Maybe younger, if she included the time she notched sticks to create a code to her treehouse. She frowned. And then forgot the code.
“According to accounts of the previous thefts and murders, there is at least one man who played the part of a manservant and one woman who played the part of a female servant. Mr. and Mrs. Reynolds could fit the mark,” Frederick continued.
“But how would they have gained access to the gallery and exacted that particular theft with such ingenuity?”
“Could Miss Benetti be a part of it too?” Grace offered.
“Possibly.” Jack shoved his hands in his pockets and leaned back on the desk as Laraby had done. “And how much is Laraby involved, if at all?”
“Should we confront Mrs. Reynolds before anything else happens?”
Jack looked from the photos in Grace’s hand back to Frederick. “I’m afraid if we do, we may lose out on finding all the culprits and the paintings. There’s no assurance that Mrs. Reynolds, or whoever she is, is the mastermind behind it all.” He began to pace, rubbing his chin. “No, I think the best course of action is to spend the next day attempting to locate additional clues now that we know a little more clearly what we’re up against.”
To think Mrs. Fake Reynolds was pretending all along and likely even pretending to find Grace’s sleuthing skills impressive. The idea created a pinch in Grace’s chest. What a nasty sort of thing to do! She probably didn’t think there was any merit in Grace being a detective. Laughing at her behind her back.
How rude!
“Another thing I’ve learned from my contacts is that none of The Juliets have reappeared for sale.”
“So it’s less likely someone is looking for remuneration.” Frederick relaxed in a chair and folded his hands in front of him in a very detective sort of way. “Art dealers are notorious for finding the perfect buyers for special selections like The Juliets and equally known for spreading the news when they have purchased one.”
“Precisely, which means our thieves mean to keep the paintings close.”
Close? Grace placed her magnifying glass on the table. “Then it’s possible the paintings are in Venice?”
“Or in this very house.”
Grace looked at Frederick, who only raised a brow.
“Which gives me a plan.” Jack crossed the room to stand near them. “Any idea where all our characters are at the moment?”
The sudden change in topic paused Grace’s response.
“When we came toward the study, Miss Benetti and Paul were swimming in the pool,” Frederick offered. “Grace and I saw them out the window as we walked down the hall.”
“Mr. and Mrs. Reynolds”—Grace sighed—“or whoever they really are, were in the garden with Mr. Finch. And Laraby had just left the meeting with us to prepare for some surprise at dinner.”
Jack groaned. “If he is unveiling his final Juliet, I may string the man up myself.”
“It appears to be his most prized painting, so I’m not certain he’d risk it.” The sarcasm lacing Frederick’s words inspired Grace’s smile.
“Don’t hang your hat on that one, old bean.” Jack shook his head. “Pride and arrogance lead to all sorts of feats of incompetence.”
“Speaking of Laraby and possible incompetence …” Frederick stood and approached Jack, his voice lowering. “Grace and I overheard a conversation between Miss Whitby and Laraby earlier today.” Frederick relayed the basics of the conversation, ending by saying, “It sounds as if our millionaire isn’t as rich as he wants the world to believe.”
“Desperate and arrogant. An atrocious combination.” Jack reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a thick envelope. “But my contacts confirmed as much, I’m afraid. Before leaving England, I’d left a few specific requests with my housekeeper.” Jack grinned. “She’s incredibly efficient, and I feel if she weren’t hovering around the ripe old age of sixty, she’d make an excellent sleuth in her own right.” He opened the envelope. “At any rate, I left her with a few things to research for me, and her letter arrived today.”
Without further comment, he opened one of the sheets from the envelope and handed it to them. Grace peered at the paper Frederick took. An old news clipping. A photo of two children took up the front page with the heading in Italian. Grace looked up at Frederick.
“‘Where are the lost Accardi children?’” he read.
Grace examined the photo. “Those are the children I saw in the photo. I’m sure of it.”
“I’m not surprised at all. And I don’t believe our thieves are random art collectors.” He dipped his chin. “I’m afraid we’re dealing with people closely associated with the true story behind these paintings, and either they’re in it for the treasure or for family retribution.” His brow darkened. “Or both.”
“Which could lead to desperation,” Frederick said.
“Or self-righteousness and revenge, a combination that rivals arrogance and desperation, I’m afraid. Especially if they have any wits about them.” Jack ran a palm over his chin. “We must be on guard.” He gestured toward the photos. “Any help from those?”
“We’ve not had much time to look.” Grace placed her magnifying glass back in her bag. “I do wish I had the originals to study. The photocopy is only in black and white and so tiny.”
Yes,” Jack murmured to himself, his brows close together. “I wonder …”
“What are you thinking?”
His gaze rose to Frederick. “Those old rooms. I wonder if there may be more to discover in them than just countesses trapped in trunks.”
Grace shot a look at Frederick and back to Jack. “Like more photos or history about the family?”
“Anything that would help us understand these children better may be of use to us. I have an idea.” Jack stood and rested his hands on his waist. “I’m going to take a quick inventory of all our players and perhaps get a bit of breakfast. What do you say to reconvening in about an hour? That will give you both some time to review the photos and the papers I brought.” His pale gaze moved between them. “And then I’m going to take the Reynoldses and Mr. Finch on an extended walk in the gardens to help me look for clues.” His lips tipped ever so slightly. “I plan to keep them occupied out of the house for a good hour or so.”
Frederick seemed to share Jack’s thoughts, because his lips tipped in the same crooked way. Grace replayed Jack’s words and then gasped. “Oh, do you mean you want us to investigate the rooms where I was attacked?”
“If the grandchildren of Accardi or anyone else associated with Accardi’s story is behind any of this, then I think those rooms may be the perfect place for a more thorough investigation.”
“If only the prints were a little larger,” Grace muttered, leaning as close to the photos as she could get, her magnifying glass the only thing creating distance between her face and the photos.
Frederick shifted between the photos and the information Jack had brought. In addition to reviewing the news clipping about the Accardi grandchildren, he read an article announcing the mysterious death of author Dolores Reynolds and a rather detailed accounting of her small estate in the hamlet of Ashover.
News articles following the consecutive robberies and mysterious deaths were included, a connection unseen before, now growing clearer. The thieves had been ingenious, creating a patchwork of crimes no one thought to connect to one single set of paintings from Venice.
“Do you realize there are bookshelves in two of the paintings?” Grace stood, holding a photo to the light. “No, wait, in three of them. The balcony scene has one in the background too. I’ve been trying to read the spines but can’t make out any letters in such small photos.”
“Perhaps they’re not meant to have readable spines.” Frederick skimmed over an article with a series of photos of the author’s estate, staff, and some interviews.
“Why put them there, then?” She looked over at him. “It seems a terrible tease for a reader to see a bookshelf full of books and not be able to identify a single one.”
“For as avid a reader as you are, darling, I’m certain it feels anticlimactic.”
She looked up at him, one eye enlarged by the magnifying glass. “You never know when the tiniest detail of letters leads to a clue.” She pulled the glass away. “There are quite a few novels where messages were hidden in plain sight through letters and words, you know.”
“You are right. I remember reading about such a set of messages too.”
“Archie Sutherland’s book The Red Letter Rhyme?” She looked skyward in thought. “Or Cryptic March.” Her eyes grew wide. “In that one, the message was left in obituaries. Marvelously devious, if you ask me.”
He raised his gaze to her, attempting to sort out how and why someone would leave clues in obituaries. Clever, but also disturbing. He happily ignored the delight in Grace’s voice about the idea, for his peace of mind, if nothing else. “I’ve not read the latter of those.”
“Well, it was very good.” She nodded. “But you are also right. It may only be my hopeful imaginings. And perhaps painters think very differently than readers.” She returned to the photos. “If I were going to hide a secret message, I’d certainly choose something with words or books or both.”
His grin tipped as he returned to the paper, attention catching on one of the photos. Or rather, someone in the photo. He leaned closer, examining the man’s face. “Grace, would you bring your magnifying glass here a moment?”
Grace rounded the table where The Juliet photos lay strewn for her perusal and gave Frederick her glass, scanning the print before him as she did. “What is it?”
He placed the magnifying glass to his eye and peered closer, the faces in the crowd clearer. His attention stopped on one man, half-hidden behind a woman, but looking directly at the camera. His skin went cold.
“Who does this look like to you?” He handed the glass back to Grace, and she took his place over the paper.
“Oh!” she gasped. “Frederick, is that Mr. Finch?”
“I thought the same.”
“So it’s true. Mr. Finch must be a part of it all.” She sat down next to him. “He was at the real Dolores Reynolds’ home near the time of her murder.”
“And standing with other household staff.” Frederick scanned the faces in the crowd, but none of them looked familiar, though the woman near Finch had her back to the camera. Curls? Miss Whitby, Mrs. Reynolds, and Miss Benetti all had curls.
“That’s terribly convenient.” Grace raised a brow, her intelligent eyes alight. “I’d wager his name is not Mr. Finch either.” She sighed. “This whole case has been a series of things or people not being what or who they’re supposed to be. Mr. Laraby isn’t Mr. Laraby. Mrs. Reynolds isn’t Mrs. Reynolds. And who is to say who Mr. Finch is?”
