Twenty-two
Mertons paced his small room, furious. He’d been banging and shouting for half an hour, but the room was in the lowest floor of the house, and if anyone heard they remained unmoved.
The cunning fox was probably plying Peter with her wares now. If Peter were not smart enough to see a trap when it was laid for him, surely he wouldn’t divulge an iota of information on Van Dyck, not when the sole purpose of their trip here had been to save that idiot’s reputation.
The lock turned and Mertons started. It was an apprentice from Stephen’s troop of apes, though this time, one smaller than a barn, which gave him hope.
“Master wants to see you. Says it’s urgent.”
“I should think so.”
Mertons took the stairs two at a time and pelted down the hall. He listened for the signs that the woman had been subdued but heard nothing. The thought of a gag brought a small smile to his face.
The office was empty, and Mertons was just about to try the studio when the side door banged open and Peter, wearing a rumpled shirt and a stormy, unrested face, flung a canvas so hard into a scrap box that he knocked the container several feet across the room.
“What on earth…?”
Peter silenced him with a molten glare, collapsed into his seat, and dropped his head in his hands.
“The deed is done. Take me back.”