Chapter 7
Chapter Seven
Several days went by. Barnaby struggled to concentrate on his work. His beloved Joy kept appearing in his mind’s eye, as real and invisible as the supposed wings at his back. Strange how much he had grown used to them.
The manuscript lay wrapped and untouched to one side.
Barnaby resisted the temptation to open it and look for more clues.
With the new tidbits of knowledge from Old Magda, he might notice something that he had missed before.
Perhaps a detail in one of the illustrations.
But he could not risk angering his employer.
His spotless reputation earned him excellent commissions.
He needed steady work, especially if he was going to ask Joy to…
“Mr. Ash. A moment of your time, please.” Lord Brathwaite’s tone was less commanding than usual, even a little uncertain. Barnaby hoped that he had not had bad news regarding his wife. His lordship doted on her. Now that his own feelings had awoken, Barnaby understood this better than ever.
He rose at his employer’s approach, but Brathwaite waved him back into his chair. “Sit. Sit. I want you to look at this.” The earl placed a rather grimy—Was that mud on the back?—sheet of paper on the desk in front of Barnaby.
Despite the grass smears, grains of soil, and countless deep creases, the page was instantly recognizable as one of Alwin’s.
It was written in the same faded hand. Familiar bold colors were displayed brightly in the illustrations.
And, yes, Barnaby could read it, though there weren’t many words.
The bulk of the entry depicted a landscape with a spring bubbling up.
A single building appeared in the scene, but Barnby did not remember one in the village like it.
Quite possibly it did not exist anymore.
“Is it from the manuscript?” his lordship wanted to know.
Barnaby nodded. “Definitely. One can even see by the edge where it was torn from its leather binding.”
“And you can read it? It is from the same narration you mentioned?”
“Oh, yes, most certainly. If you will but give me a moment…”
“I owe you an apology, Mr. Ash.”
Barnaby pulled his attention away from the precious find in front of him.
The earl was clearly struggling with the rare need to apologize.
His back was straight, his shoulders squared.
He was lord of this house. Yet he looked across the room into the distance as if it were easier to admit what he had to say to the window drapery than to Barnaby.
“I told you no one in my household would damage such a valuable book,” he told the heavy folds of cloth, “especially since it did not belong to them.” His gaze fell to the floor. “I was obviously wrong.”
Barnaby cared nothing for blame. If one page could be salvaged, perhaps the rest of them were not lost forever. “Where did you find this?” he asked. “Are there more?”
Lord Brathwaite’s chin lifted, his gaze swinging back to Barnaby. “I assure you, I will be looking into it at once.”
Barnaby considered the damaged vellum again. “It appears as if someone has tried to bury it.”
The earl cleared his throat. “Yes. Ahem. It is, in fact, the opposite. My son found it outside. He thought it was some kind of map for buried treasure. Do you see that raised area here, in the distance? A sort of swirl?” He pointed at what Barnaby assumed must have been the fairy mound.
“It looks a bit like the herb wheel in our garden. Lucas was digging it up to find the chest of gold.”
His lordship’s expression dipped briefly into an embarrassed flush before returning to a show of grim displeasure.
“Our groundskeeper is not happy, I can tell you. And Nanny Richmond is in tears because I have threatened to let her go. She certainly has much to answer for. I would very much like to know why she was not watching what my son was up to, for a start. Furthermore, she insists she has no idea where this so-called map came from.”
The earl locked his hands behind his lower back. “I shall be calling the staff together. Someone knows the truth, and they’d better have out with it. I won’t have underhanded dealings in my home.”
Lord Brathwaite cleared his throat. “Anyway, Mr. Ash, you were right, and I was wrong. This matter will now have my full attention. It is a pity this page is damaged, but it would be good if the rest of them could be found. I imagine the manuscript would be worth much more if it were complete.”
“Certainly, it would,” Barnaby agreed, but his thoughts were not on monetary value. There was a mystery to be solved, and he was now one step closer to doing so.
It did not take Lord Brathwaite long to assemble all the staff.
The butler and housekeeper must have sensed that something was afoot because they made quick work of fetching them all before their master.
Barnaby watched as they formed a small crowd in the kitchen, a room many only frequented for meals or to fetch her ladyship some tea.
Everyone—from stable boy to valet, cook to scullery maid—stood awaiting what must surely be bad news.
Barnaby, who hovered beside the earl’s proud frame, imagined they must be fearing the worst. Was someone to be let go? Was her ladyship worsening?
Instead, his lordship held up the closed manuscript. “Someone among you,” he began, “has tampered with this book. Pages have been torn out.”
A collective gasp snatched at the nervous silence. Barnaby watched the faces closely. Who did not look surprised? But there were too many servants, and the guilty party had time to recover their expression before Barnaby’s eyes fell upon them so that he had no idea who they might be.
Lord Brathwaite now lifted the muddied vellum in his other hand.
“A page has been recovered by my son. I assume that means the rest may be hidden somewhere. Or the thief dropped this sheet before destroying the rest. I cannot begin to imagine what would possess one of you to damage something so valuable. You cannot possibly hope to sell what you have stolen. And to keep my property for yourselves is a betrayal I will not stand for.”
The earl pinned each person with a stern glare.
“If the guilty party does not step forward, we will be searching your belongings. Someone here knows something. You might well have seen a seemingly innocent act which you now realize should be called into question. I expect the truth from each and every one of you. What have you seen, heard, discovered? I will be in my study. You may approach me in confidence.”
His eyes darkened. “However, let me warn you, this is your only chance to come forward. Your actions, or lack thereof, are grounds for dismissal. I must have staff I trust to be loyal. “
Barnaby did not need a threat to motivate him or a study in which to interrogate suspects.
He had spotted what he needed to see. Among the staff, who had turned to each other in dismay, their love for their master causing them to share in his disappointment, one maid had cast her eyes about nervously.
Another servant exclaimed at the shocking situation in her direction, and she nodded absently.
Barnaby chose to keep what he had seen to himself. Let her come forward if she would. He had no proof other than a firm suspicion.
An hour went by, and no one crossed the threshold of the master’s study. A search was called of every room, every nook and cranny where the pages might be hidden. The gardener’s tool shed, even the privy, were not overlooked. All to no avail.
Barnaby, meanwhile, had conducted a quiet investigation of his own.
His suspect, he discovered, was named Moira—a lower housemaid whose duties included all the least desirable tasks a servant girl could be asked to do.
Young Moira had access to most of the house without anyone questioning her presence there.
And she would most likely have helped unpack the crates of books that Barnaby had encountered when he first arrived at Hill House.
Yes, Moira definitely warranted further scrutiny.
To Barnaby’s surprise, the servant girl went about her duties with her usual diligence, seemingly unbothered by the intensive search that continued around her.
If she was the guilty party, did this mean she had destroyed the evidence?
Why else would she now be calm when earlier she had worn such a look of guilt?
Barnaby wished he could confide his suspicions to Joy. She would have a plan. Her sharp mind would latch onto a brilliant idea at once. All Barnaby had was the tenacity to keep an eye on Moira. Fortunately, with the household at sixes and sevens, no one noticed whether he was cataloguing or not.
Declining dinner that evening, Barnaby remained at his post. He hovered near the back stairs, the only route from the attic quarters to the grounds outside.
Since Moira had sensed no danger during the search of Hill House, her hiding place—if there was one—must be beyond the house and obscure enough to avoid consideration.
It was after eleven when the last of the servants finally dragged their tired limbs to their quarters.
Barnaby was quite ready to do the same. In fact, his head had lolled forward as he dropped off into a momentary snooze.
The creaking of a foot upon the narrow step caused his head to snap up, sleep driven from him like mist before the sun.
Someone was moving about. Someone who had waited until the house was stilled of activity. Someone who did not want to be seen.
The figure continued down the stairs toward the kitchen. Barnaby waited. He did not want the creaking boards to betray him too.