Chapter Thirteen #3
An assassin did not need to have stayed at the Duke’s Arms or any other hostelry. Channing was not so far from London. He could have followed Percy, killed him, and been returned to Town the same day. More questions for more inns on the London road.
Having finished with Percy’s desk, Constance moved on to the bed.
It had clearly been changed since Percy’s departure for London, so she didn’t expect to find anything under his pillows.
Instead, she pushed her hand under the mattress as far as it would go and swept it around.
After repeating the action several times from different angles, she gave up and looked under the bed.
This was better. Two trunks lurked there. She drew them out. Whether from use or diligent housekeeping, there was very little dust on them.
“Solomon, do you have those keys?”
He brought them over to her, giving her one, while he crouched and tried the other. It didn’t fit the lock. Neither did Constance’s. They swapped keys and tried again, with the same result.
“This one isn’t locked,” Solomon said, opening the lid to reveal empty space. He felt inside anyway, searching for any false bottoms or secret compartments.
“Mine is locked,” Constance said, hefting it up.
Something moved inside. She grinned at Solomon and reached inside her dress pocket for the set of old lockpicks she kept there. It was not a difficult lock and didn’t take long. They raised the lid together.
“My,” Constance murmured.
Inside were books, postcard-size pictures, some larger, more artistic prints, and even a couple of photographs. The pictures all portrayed naked or semi-naked humans, mostly in intimate acts of abandon.
Solomon reached in and picked up one of the prints, frowning. He turned it. “I don’t think that’s even possible.”
“But it might be fun trying.” She picked up one of the books, leather bound and discreet. When she opened it, she smiled. “We have a copy of this at the establishment. It’s old and rare and cost a great deal of money.”
“Something else Percy spent his allowance on.” He reached inside the trunk again, gathering everything together. “No pistol here, either. I couldn’t find one in any of his cupboards.”
“Nor in his desk. So the chances are the murderer has it.”
“Or it’s in his rooms in London. He seems to have left in a hurry, whether in pursuit of Adelaide or for some other reason.
And he was traveling in daylight on safe roads.
” Solomon sat back on his heels, meeting her gaze.
“Should we go back to London? I feel we left our inquiries there half finished. We can look into this Henry Hope, who followed David and me the other night, for one thing.”
Constance thought about it. She didn’t relish another grueling coach ride, but nor did she want to part from Solomon. Besides, there was more to learn here. “Or we could send Janey a list and trust her and Lenny.”
He nodded slowly. “You’re right. That would be best. I’ll speak to Harvey and you can write to Janey. In the meantime, why was Mrs. H. getting rid of those keys?”
“They do look as if they’re for trunks or valises…and that one is so rusted it might not even fit anymore.”
Solomon stood up. “Where does one keep old trunks and bags? If one doesn’t throw them out?”
Constance smiled. “The attic.”
She relocked the trunk and shoved them both back under the bed.
She felt rather like a naughty child as they hurried along the passage in search of an attic staircase.
They found it behind the door at the far end, and crept up somewhat warily, for not only did they have no permission to be there, but they could be walking into servants’ quarters.
Some of them, at least, must sleep up there.
Fortunately, they found themselves in the kind of large storage area that they sought, full of old furniture and clothes and toys.
But it did appear to be in some kind of order, and only some of it was covered.
Light filtered down from skylights, and a few candle stubs had been left with a box of matches at the top of the stairs.
Solomon lit two of the candles and passed one to Constance. They walked in opposite directions until she came across him again, beside a faded, upholstered chair.
“Can’t see any baggage,” she reported.
“This,” Solomon said, “is the only upholstered chair uncovered. And it isn’t dusty.”
“Meaning someone only recently removed its cover and put it…where?” Beside the chair was a heap of old boxes, bags, valises, and trunks.
Solomon began lifting them off, shaking each to see which were empty, until he came to a battered trunk with one broken handle.
“There’s something in this one, though it’s not heavy…”
Constance produced the keys. Solomon picked the rusty one from her palm and inserted it into the lock. It ground a little on old grime and its own rust, but it turned. He lifted the lid.
Inside was a valise-shaped parcel, wrapped in the dusty fabric of an old Holland cover—presumably the one from the chair. Solomon unwrapped it to reveal a good leather valise, and Constance passed him the other key. It too fitted and turned easily. Inside was a carpetbag.
“I’ve seen sets of Russian dolls like this,” Solomon murmured, opening the bag.
He brought out a bundle of fabric, which he passed to Constance. She began to unroll it—a gown with huge, wide skirts—until she could feel the shape beneath. Her breath caught.
Very gingerly, she reached beneath the final layer to touch cold metal. The gown slipped to the floor, and she held a small black pistol by the barrel.
“What are you doing?” cried a voice behind them.