The juliet code, p.22
The Juliet Code, page 22
She shook her head, her dark hair unraveling into ebony tendrils around her face. Something about her at that moment triggered a memory or … a slight sense of familiarity. But how? Dark hair? Dark eyes? A childlike face?
“We need to tell Jack.” Frederick turned to Grace. “I can’t believe he isn’t out here after such a commotion.” Frederick started toward the enclosed side of the ferry. “We can incorporate the police more fully now that we are on the mainland.”
But as they entered the enclosed portion of the ferry, they found the inspector on the ground at the opposite exit door. Frederick ran to him, searching for life. A consistent thrumming of a pulse brought a breath of relief.
Grace kneeled at his side. “Is he …?”
“No, he’s alive.” Frederick examined the man. Blood mingled with the inspector’s dark hair. “Someone must have attacked him.”
“That’s a mercy.” Grace stood, looking around the inside of the ferry. “Where is everyone?”
The inside of the ferry was completely empty except for Frederick, Miss Benetti, and Grace. No sign of Jack, Mr. and Mrs. Reynolds, or Mr. Finch anywhere.
No one.
Frederick pushed to a stand, scanning the inside of the ferry, and rushed out, racing to the railing and looking back the way they’d come.
The tiniest hint of a motorboat in the distance was the only clue of anyone leaving their area. Frederick stared down at the water, the waves moving in slow, gentle undulations, nothing like the present pace of his heart.
Where was Jack?
And why would he disappear?
His gaze flicked back to the way the motorboat disappeared.
And who had driven the boat to meet the ferry?
Someone other than the Reynoldses and Finch was involved in this mystery, but who?
Chapter 18
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?
