C. Harris - What Darkness Brings

“Good morning,” Sebastian said cheerfully. “I’m-”

“I know who you are.” She sniffed. “Campbell’s off to market this morning-thanks be to God. Ever since you come here the other day, he’s done nothing but crow about how he ‘helped’ the great Lord Devlin with one of his ‘investigations.’ Humph .”

Sebastian and Hero exchanged glances.

Hero said, “We’re here to look at the house again,” and brushed past the housekeeper without giving her a chance to object. Just inside the entrance, Hero drew up in undisguised astonishment. “Good heavens.”

“Sure, then, the place ain’t as clean and tidy as it could be,” bleated Mrs. Campbell, her manner changing instantly from challenging to wheedling. “But then, Mr. Eisler was ever so particular about his things, preferring to see them disappear beneath dust and cobwebs rather than have me lay a hand on them.”

“And did he take the same attitude toward the floor?” asked Hero, her gaze focused on the ancient flagstones half-buried beneath decades’ accumulation of dried leaves, dirt, and debris.

“It’s only me now, you know. And I’m not as young as-”

Sebastian said, “Thank you, Mrs. Campbell. That will be all for now.”

The housekeeper sniffed and disappeared toward the kitchen, muttering beneath her breath.

Hero turned in a slow circle, her eyes widening as she took in the jumble of exquisite, dust-shrouded furniture, the row after row of grand old masters, their heavy gilded frames mildewed and flyspecked.

“The entire house looks like this,” said Sebastian.

“And you think the proportions of the rooms are off? How can you even see the proportions through this mess?”

Sebastian led the way through the stone-cased archway to the corridor. “First, look at the size of the chamber Eisler used as his office.”

She peered through the door at the chaos wrought by Samuel Perlman’s determined search for his uncle’s account books.

Sebastian said, “Now come back through here”-he strode to the long parlor and pushed aside the curtain that covered the second door-“and look at where this room ends.”

Frowning, she went back and forth between the two rooms several times, then came to stare thoughtfully at the parlor’s back wall. “I see what you mean. It’s as if there should be another small room between the two chambers. Part of the space is obviously occupied by the chimney for this massive old fireplace. But it’s offcenter, and there isn’t a hearth on the other side, as you would expect.” She glanced over at him. “What are you suggesting?”

Sebastian moved to the fancifully carved mantelpiece and began methodically pushing, pulling, and twisting the various intricately depicted beasts and fruit-laden garlands. “My brother Richard noticed something similar in our house in Cornwall. We eventually realized there was an old priest’s hole everyone had long ago forgotten.”

Hero came to help, focusing her attention on the muntins, styles, and rails of the paneled wall to the left of the hearth. But after a moment, she paused and sniffed.

“What is it?” he asked, watching her.

“Don’t you smell it?”

He shook his head. “Mold? Dry rot? Dead men’s bones? What?”

“And here I thought all your senses were unnaturally acute.”

“Not my sense of smell. It’s actually rather poor.”

She turned to look at him. “Really? I can think of any number of situations in which that would be a definite advantage.”

“This obviously isn’t one of them. What do you smell?”

“Urine. It’s very strong-and the smell is coming from behind this section here.” She tapped on it experimentally. “Does that sound hollow to you?”

“Yes.” He stood back, his gaze assessing the joints of the age-darkened paneling. Now that he knew where to look, the subtle outline of one section was vaguely discernable. He reached for the dagger in his boot.

“Your knife?” she said, watching him. “You’re going to use your knife ? For what?”

He eased the tip of his blade into the joint nearest the hearth. “If I can find the catch-” He paused as he felt the edge of the dagger hit metal. He worked slowly and carefully, manipulating the catch in first one direction, then the other. Shifting the blade to beneath the latch, he pressed upward and heard a faint snick .

The panel slid to one side.

“I suspect that’s cheating, but it’s still impressive,” said Hero.

“Thank you.”

Thrusting his dagger back into its sheath, he pushed the panel open wider.

The space beyond was perhaps six by eight feet, dusty and empty except for two ironbound wooden trunks, a basket of small glass containers stoppered with cork, and a faint damp stain still visible on the paving stones just inside the opening. In the stale air of the ancient enclosed space, the odor of urine was pungent.

Hero wrinkled her nose. “Do you think someone was shut up in here so long they couldn’t hold it?”

A crumpled cloth lying to one side of the entrance caught Sebastian’s attention. Reaching down, he found himself holding a cheap configuration of yellowed muslin reinforced by whalebone, its tapes badly frayed with wear.

“Good heavens,” said Hero. “It’s a woman’s stays.”

Sebastian passed it to her.

“They’re so tiny.” She looked up to meet his gaze. “You think these stays belonged to the owner of the blue satin slippers?”

Sebastian swung around to look back at the long, old-fashioned parlor. Anyone shut up in the priest’s hole would have had an excellent view of whatever transpired in the room. . if there was a peephole.

It took him only a moment to find it, cleverly worked into the pattern of the wainscoting.

He said, “I suspect Eisler shoved his bit o’ muslin-and most of her clothes-in here when they were interrupted by someone coming to the front door. She was probably watching through the keyhole when the visitor shot Eisler and was so frightened she wet herself. Yates said he burst into the house as soon as he heard the shot fired, followed almost immediately by Perlman.”

“So where was the killer?”

“He could have bolted immediately for the rear entrance. Or he might have hidden behind a curtain until both Yates and Perlman were gone, and then run.”

“Followed by your Blue Satin Cinderella, who dropped her stays and didn’t dare stop long enough to retrieve her slippers. She must have been very frightened.”

“Well, she would be, wouldn’t she?”

Hero nodded. She folded the small, tattered garment as carefully as if it were something fine and precious. “So she knows who the murderer is.”

“She may not know who he is, but she could probably identify him.”

Hero looked up, her face solemn. “The question is, Does he know about her ?”

“I hope not.”

The largest of the two trunks opened to reveal stacks of worn leather-bound ledgers.

“The missing account books?” asked Hero, peering over Sebastian’s shoulder as he leafed through the top volume.

He nodded. “Telling, isn’t it? He leaves everything from priceless fifteenth-century Italian canvases to exquisite Greek marbles lying about the house gathering dust, yet he hides these away.”

He moved on to the next, smaller chest. This one contained a curious assortment of objects, each carefully wrapped in squares of white or black silk and bound up with cord. He unwrapped a snuffbox, a vinaigrette, a gold chain with a locket such as a man might present to his bride as a wedding gift. Only, in this instance, the enameled pattern on the face of the locket was worked into the golden crown and three white feathers of the Prince of Wales.