Chapter Fifty-two
The old housekeeper’s face crinkled into a web of lines as she considered Lord Southerby’s question.
“I do, milord. I remember them very well. But as to their whereabouts…” she paused, her voice lowering, “Old Mr Porter, God rest his soul, had them removed. Said no one should have to see such a reminder.”
“A reminder?” whispered Sylvie, and Southerby, without turning, gave her a quick, inconspicuous shake of his head.
“Understandable,” he said softly, his attention focused fully on the old lady in front of him, “and so he had them removed from the house?”
Pausing a moment, she looked back at Southerby as she sat up a little bit straighter. “No. Lady McDonald ordered that they be destroyed.”
Surreptitiously studying the old lady as she spoke, he murmured, “I see.” Yet, the slight, near imperceptible movement of her eyes as she’d unconsciously looked up to the right made him lean a little closer. “But…?” he prompted gently.
“But? Milord…?” she asked as she stared back at him for a moment before lowering her gaze.
“But… did he?”
Her head lifted sharply. Determination hardened the set of her mouth, yet what he saw in her eyes was a sharp intelligence, assessing him as keenly as he was assessing her.
Southerby answered with a disappointed smile. “The thing is, Mrs Manning, between you and me, those pistols might help us uncover what truly befell his lordship, Charles Westland. And I must confess, I have never believed he was a madman — suffering from a sickness of the brain.”
Mrs Manning glanced toward Sylvie, then back to Southerby.
“Mad?” she said abruptly, leaning forward with sudden fire.
“He was no madder than you or I. A good, honest man who treated everyone with respect. He knew every name in this house… chambermaid, scullery boy, coachman alike. No one was invisible to him.” She placed both hands flat on the table, her voice trembling with conviction.
“No, milord. His lordship was not mad, and I defy anyone to say such ugliness within my hearing.”
The force of her words lingered. Then, placing her hands flat on the table, she started to push herself to her feet.
The conversation clearly at an end, Sylvie darted forward to help her. “Mrs Manning, I’m so sorry. Thank you for speaking to us… and forgive us if we have upset you.”
“Upset me?” The old lady gave a soft, humourless laugh as she looked at Sylvie, then turned her eyes on Southerby.
Inclining his head, with a knowing smile, he slowly stood and extended his arm. “After you, Mrs Manning.”
“Pass me my stick, would you, dear?”
Flummoxed, Sylvie did as she was bid. “I… I don’t understand?”
“None of us did, milady,” she said as her stick struck the floor and quivered a moment before she took a purposeful step, and then another. “But it’s well past time we found out, is it not?” and started to make her way to the kitchen door.
Casting Southerby a questioning look, Sylvie opened her mouth to speak, but he instantly raised a finger to his lip. “Sshh,” he breathed, “I’ll explain all — later.”
* * *
The attics were cavernous; the air musty and thick with age. Light fractured through the grime-streaked windows in tired, slanting beams. Sylvie, pushing tentatively through the cobwebs, peered into a forgotten corner.
“Maybe in here?”
Southerby, half-hidden behind a barricade of trunks, was as dusty as the relics he disturbed. “A chest, you said?”
“A battered old sea chest, yes.” Mrs Manning’s voice wavered but her stick tapped with purpose into a dark corner.
“It will be tucked well away, hidden from sight. Old Mr Porter refused to have them destroyed. Said they were an important part of the family’s history, a dark part, but a part nonetheless.
Claimed they might prove useful one day, to generations yet to come. “
Bursting with renewed curiosity, Sylvie looked up from a dust-sheet she was lifting. “A dark… ah!” She squeaked, jumping back.
Southerby dashed towards her, beside her in an instant. “Have you found it?”
Stepping backwards, she bumped into him. “Ugh… I don’t know,” she shuddered. “A big spider ran over my hand.”
“Well,” he murmured, “at least you haven’t disturbed the bats.”
“Bats!” she squeaked, then caught the teasing glint in his eyes, and tutted. “Lord Southerby, really.”
“Valentine, please.”
“Very well, Valentine,” she said with a grin as Mrs Manning hobbled past, her stick tapping with renewed vigour.
“That’s it!” she declared, striking the floor beside a half-buried chest. “That’s the one, I’m sure of it.”
“Well done,” said Southerby, swiftly stepping around Sylvie. Catching up the dust-sheet, he gave a quick flick of his wrist, snapping the cover from the chest.
“Oh, no… we don’t have a key,” sighed Sylvie in disappointment, wafting her hand through the swirling motes.
Southerby half-turned and held out his hand. “A hairpin?”
“What?” she laughed, uncertain if he was serious.
“Yes, if you please,” he said with a quick, slightly impatient smile, his hand still outstretched, awaiting the requested object.
“Oh, right.” Baffled but obedient, she raised her hands to her hair. Feeling around with her fingers for a moment, she tugged a pin free and dropped it in his waiting fingers.
Without a word, he sank to his knees as the two women, quite agog, watched on in fascination.
As he carefully inserted the makeshift tool with deft precision, Sylvie’s eyes widened and the old lady next to her leaned closer.
It only took several quick movements before a quiet click, then a muffled clunk as the padlock sprang open.
“Well, my lord Valentine,” uttered Sylvie in astonishment, “you really are becoming quite the surprise.”
With a brief glance over his shoulder, he half-smiled, then, turning back to the chest, slowly lifted the lid.
Both women craned forward and eagerly peered in. “It’s empty,” cried Sylvie as she looked at Southerby.
“So it appears,” he murmured, running his hands along the interior. “Yet appearances can be deceiving.” His fingers pressed on the inner planks, searching. “Ah. There we are.”
“There we are, what?” whispered Sylvie, moving even closer to see what he was doing.
Adjusting his position slightly, he pushed down sharply, then, looking up at Sylvie with a knowing smile, he lifted his hand as a hollow click echoed through the attic.
Blinking, she shook her head. “How…” she gasped, clapping her hands.
“Well, I never,” whispered Mrs Manning as Southerby lifted the false bottom to reveal a narrow wooden box hidden beneath.
Still on his knees, he carefully lifted it out and placed it on the floor before him. Resting back on his heels, he studied the object for a moment, then with a deep breath, deftly flicked his thumb over the clasp and opened the lid.
“Mmm?” he mused, eyes narrowing over the pair of ornate silver pistols resting inside.
“Is it they? Did we find them?” asked Sylvie impatiently, brimming with excitement.
“Indeed,” he said, snapping the lid shut and rising to his feet. “Now, let us get you safely back down these stairs, Mrs Manning.”
“But… but what do they tell you?” quizzed Sylvie. “Is there something engraved? A message concealed within the box?”
“No message.”
“Then… then how do they prove my husband’s father wasn’t mad?”
“They don’t,” he replied calmly, steadying the old housekeeper as they made their way down the stairs.
Abruptly stopping, Sylvie half shook her head in consternation. “So… we didn’t need to find them?”
Pausing, three steps below, Southerby turned, eyes gleaming faintly in the dim light.
“We did. And now we need time, patience and trust.” At the look of utter confusion, he added patiently, “Time to study what we have found… patience to carefully consider what that means… and trust to follow what our instincts tell us. Now,” he said with a smile, “shall we?”
“Trust?” she muttered, staring at the back of his head as he continued his descent. “I trust you are not always this… this discombobulating, my lord Valentine.”
Raising one brow, he smiled. “One never knows. Are you always this impatient, Lady Sylvie?”
Embarrassed, she offered a contrite smile. “Um, I’m afraid it would seem that way.”
“Mm,” he said, “I was beginning to fear as much. So, to save time, why don’t you hurry along and ensure we are ready to leave, while I escort Mrs Manning back to the kitchens?”
“Oh, right, yes, shall I?”
“Yes, I shan’t be long.”
As Sylvie hurried out of earshot, Mrs Manning turned to Southerby and gave him a wry smile. “I think you and I both know I am quite capable of returning to the kitchens on my own.”
“Indeed, we do.”
“Yet for some reason, you think it prudent not to involve her ladyship in whatever it is you wish to discuss?”
“Mm,” Southerby’s tone was thoughtful. “Sometimes it is better to separate the wheat from the chaff before one shares the harvest.”
“Oh?”
“I simply do not wish to sow the wrong seed in such a fertile imagination. Until I understand exactly what fruits the pistols can yield, best not raise hopes.”
“I see,” murmured the old lady. “Then I would gladly help, but I’m afraid I have told you all I know.”
“You have told me all you think you know, yet sometimes the biggest clues are hidden in the smallest of details and often overlooked as inconsequential. If you have no objections…”
“None at all, milord. Ask away.”
Smiling down at her, he nodded. “Then, my dear lady, let us start first with the display cabinet… is it still in situ?”