February 8, 1889 Morning
The Royal Crescent was a curved set of connected buildings with Palladian columns and grand windows that overlooked a large green space with sheep grazing upon it.
The Sherards had taken up residence in number eighteen for the duration of their stay in Bath.
Mira’s stomach turned itself into knots as her carriage followed the curve of the road in front of the Crescent and came to a stop.
A footman strode out of the house, opening the carriage door before she had even reached for the handle.
She took his offered hand, stepping out onto the pavement, her breath clouding the air.
The footman gave half a glance to the interior of the carriage, closed the door, and paid the driver before Mira could take out her purse.
“Is it only you today, Miss?” the man asked.
“Yes. Did I misunderstand the invitation?” She tried to keep her words even as her anxiety spiked. Could she do nothing right?
“It’s not my place to say. The Sherards are waiting for you in the parlor. If you’ll come this way.”
She gave a short nod and followed the footman into the house. He announced her arrival and left her at the mercy of Byron’s family.
The first things she noticed about this particular parlor were the chairs.
It appeared as if the Sherards kept with the accepted style of armchairs for gentlemen and chairs with deeper seats and no armrests for the ladies.
Miss Penistone, Mira’s etiquette teacher at finishing school, had never elaborated on the “whys” so Mira wasn’t exactly certain what the point of it was.
Perhaps it was a ploy for better posture.
In yet another social blunder, Mira’s family preferred armchairs as a general rule. Mira in particular enjoyed reading a book near the fire with her legs over one arm and her back resting against the other.
Castel occupied one of the two armchairs in the room, albeit with a much more appropriate posture, but he stood when she entered.
Byron was standing by the mantle. His mother and sister had arranged themselves on the only two wide, armless chairs with their skirts splayed out like china dolls.
A tea tray sat on a low, Japanese-style table in the center of the room.
“You came alone?” Mrs. Sherard said, the statement bearing only the slightest resemblance to a question.
“I did, ma’am. The invitation did not indicate whether my brother or the Renaldis would be welcome.”
A crease appeared on the older woman’s forehead. “I see.”
Byron stepped forward. “Won’t you have a seat?”
Mira nodded. At least she was aware of the rules in this circumstance.
She avoided the unoccupied armchair and took a seat on the only sofa in the room.
Mary wrinkled her nose, but Mira couldn’t decide if she had made the wrong decision or if that was Mary’s way of acknowledging her presence.
Once she was seated, Byron poured her a cup of tea and took up residence in the other armchair.
“I trust, from what Ambrose has told me, that you too had a pleasant trip from London?” Mrs. Sherard asked.
“Yes. It was enjoyable enough.” She glanced at Byron. What was she supposed to say? What were they even supposed to talk about? She fell back on the safe, albeit boring, topic. “I’m glad the weather has kept.”
“The weather is almost always amiable in Bath,” Mary said. “Why, it hasn’t snowed all winter and the rain has been fairly warm for the season.”
“That is fortunate,” Mira said. “When did you come down?”
“Just after Christmas,” Mrs. Sherard said, then changed the subject entirely. “I have come to understand that you have been in my son’s employ since September. Is that correct?”
“As his secretary, yes.”
“And this is why you have a key to his rooms?”
“Yes.” Mira tried to ignore the way her cheeks heated. She took a sip of tea. “Initially, it was so I could more easily help him with his memory loss.”
“Yes, well,” Mrs. Sherard lifted her chin, “I understand that his memory has improved in recent months. Although, not well enough for him to remember to inform me of it himself.”
Byron shook his head. “As I told you before, I was on a case. Several cases, actually.”
“With how much you rely on writing things down, I would think you would be more familiar with paper and pen,” Mrs. Sherard said. A small smile came to her face as she raised her teacup to her lips. “Or is it the envelope that eludes you?”
Mira inhaled some of her tea, looking up at Byron’s mother, trying not to choke. Had that been . . . a joke?
Mrs. Sherard turned her full attention back to Mira abruptly, and it was as if the smile had never existed. “Now then. I am told that your uncle is a merchant, is that correct?”
The conversation carried on in similar fashion until they were called to the dining room.
Mira took solace in the fact that she was seated next to Byron, but then the onslaught of questions continued.
Who were her parents? How long had she been in the care of her uncle?
Where did her brother go to school? Where did she go to school?
She had been expecting questions about her family, but she was surprised by the sheer number and rapid pace.
Towards the end of the meal, Mary said, “It is curious to me why a woman in your position would take up a secretarial job. Surely your uncle was against it.”
“He was. It was more of an accident that led me to the job. I had come to By—Ambrose for help to solve a mystery of my own. And my uncle, well,” she looked at Byron and couldn’t help the smile that suffused to her face, “he couldn’t have made his position clearer.”
Byron’s eyes crinkled at the corners. “I still remember how shocked he was when he realized I wasn’t a charlatan after all.”
The two of them fell into a bout of laughter, silenced the moment Mira realized that none of his family were joining them. Mrs. Sherard had an expression on her face that Mira couldn’t decipher.
Mira dabbed at her mouth with a napkin, deciding to take the conversation in an entirely new direction. “I hear that you have a mystery that needs solving. Thefts?”
“It will be sorted soon enough,” Mary said, but it was abundantly clear what she meant to say was, We don’t want you involved. Surprisingly, Mrs. Sherard offered more information.
“It happened last week on the twenty-eighth. We were hosting a dinner party that lasted about four hours. The guest list included the Risewells, Admiral Hoddle and Miss Harris. After we bid them goodnight, I came to my room and found my jewelry box open. The police determined that the window lock had been picked but haven’t been helpful in any other regard. ”
Mira turned to Byron. “Have you started your investigation?”
“I wanted to wait for you.”
Warmth blossomed in her chest and she turned back to Mrs. Sherard. “Might we see your room after brunch?”
“Certainly.”
***
The spacious room had blue-green wallpaper in the style of William Morris and an oriental rug covering a dark wooden floor. Mira and Byron started their investigation at the vanity which stood against a wall adjacent to the bed.
“I don’t keep much of my jewelry on hand. Most of it is in the safe in Gurrington House or in the bank,” Mrs. Sherard said.
Byron picked up the box, examined the lock, and removed a strand of pearls. “I gather you were wearing these during the dinner party?”
“Yes. They took everything else.”
“And left the box. That’s curious. One would expect them to take the box and pick the lock at a safer location.” Byron set the box back down. Mira looked out the window. Behind the Royal Crescent was a row of walled off courtyards and gardens and then a procession of houses on the opposite side.
“The police think they came through the window?” she asked.
“Where else would they have come from?” Mary asked from where she stood at the threshold of the room. “Surely we would have heard them if they had come through the house.”
“It was merely a question, Mary.” Byron came to Mira’s side. “The window was locked the evening in question?” he asked.
“Of course,” Mrs. Sherard said. “It is not my habit to leave things unlocked that needn’t be. The inspector had the audacity to suggest I had left it unlocked in a moment of ‘feebleness.’ As if my age is the only indicator of my state of mind.” She grimaced at the notion.
“He is ill informed in regards to our familial faculties, in that case,” Byron said, testing the lock himself and opening the window. He stuck his head out for a brief moment and came in again. “I think we’d better see how they got up.”
The party was soon in the courtyard looking up at Mrs. Sherard’s bedroom. There was no ivy or trellises that would allow for an easy climb. Byron moved to the garden bed beneath the window.
“Have you had your windows cleaned recently?” he asked.
“Heavens no,” Mrs. Sherard said. “We’re in the wet season.”
“These indentations suggest the use of a ladder. I doubt the thief brought it with him. Do you have one?”
“The gardener might,” Mary said. “In the shed.”
“Is it kept locked?”
“How am I supposed to know?”
Byron rubbed his temples. “Show me.”
Mary sighed and picked up her skirts, walking towards the back of the garden. Byron and Castel followed after.
Mira turned back to the window and the ladder indentations.
The lock had been on the inside of the window, so how could a thief have picked it from the outside?
She searched along the ground for any sign of a tool being dropped.
Instead, she found two circular holes on either side of the doorway to the kitchen, about a halfpenny in size.
Ignoring Mrs. Sherard’s sharp gaze, she removed one of her gloves and measured the depth with her finger. She didn’t touch the bottom of it.
“Perhaps this would be of some use.” Mrs. Sherard offered her cane, which was about the same width as the hole.
Mira nodded and used the cane to measure the depth—about six inches. The other hole measured the same.