CHAPTER SIX
Sheltered in the shade of a large oak tree growing close to the residence, she studied the house for another point of entry.
Her folio needed rescuing but a list of addresses for the servants might lie inside.
Perhaps she’d also learn something by observing where the jewelry theft took place.
For certain Leona couldn’t make herself return to Cranberry Street empty-handed.
Was the window on the second floor open enough for her to scramble through?
The tree’s limbs reached toward the dwelling, and she speculated on her ability to climb in long skirts.
She’d already established the house’s vacancy.
Still, she hesitated until fear of the consequences if she didn’t enter the house spurred her onward.
Leona didn’t want to climb. She moved from window to window on the ground floor, hoping she had no witnesses to her peculiar behavior.
Returning to the back door, she recalled the locking mechanism required patient coaxing to fasten.
She gave the handle a rattle, twist, and push. Much to her surprise, the door opened.
Leona slipped in and shut it tight behind her. She headed for Audrey’s room on the second floor, her pulse rising, calling out.
“It’s me, Leona Gladney! Anyone home?”
No answer. She continued up the stairs, the polished balustrade cool against her fingers, until she reached Audrey’s room.
She shut the curtains in the single window, though it made the interior dim.
The room held a smallish wardrobe and a bed dressed in white chenille.
The flowery scent of her soap hung in the air.
A chipped basin and ewer sat on an iron stand in one corner.
Conscious of the deep silence about the house, she searched for any hint of where Audrey might have gone.
Leona pulled out a drawer, wincing at the sharp squeak. Empty. Audrey Larkin didn’t plan to return here. Turning to the bed, she pulled loose the coverlet, wool blanket, and sheets. She lifted the mattress and peered beneath it.
Below, the front door slammed, as startling as gunfire in a church. She snapped her head around. A mutter of male voices reached her. Heart hammering, she lowered the mattress, tucked in the bedding, and smoothed out the wrinkles.
The voices grew louder—they were climbing the stairs.
Had someone decided to burgle the empty house? Or had the thief returned?
Worse, might it be Benedict Van Wyn?
The spartan room left no place to hide. By the scuff of their footsteps on the carpet, more than one man had arrived.
Once on the second floor, they opened doors up and down the hallway.
She slipped under the bed, now hidden by the chenille bedspread.
She adjusted her bustle until it folded beneath her and pulled the skirts in, tucking them under her.
The heavy tread of booted feet came closer.
She gritted her teeth and welcomed the surge of excitement and fear singing through her veins.
With a horrified thrill, she realized she missed this familiar rush from her army days.
It swept every other feeling away as it descended, filling her limbs with strength and purpose.
The door banged open.
“Damn,” Benedict Van Wyn said.
A hand closed around her ankle and yanked. Leona gripped the underside of the bed frame with her fingers. She struggled to jerk her foot out of his gripping hand and with limited space to move in, she only banged her knees.
“Come out from under there,” he bellowed.
She kicked his hand off and before he reached down to grab her again, she slid out from under the bed. Standing, she blushed with guilt and fear. “It’s just me, Mr. Van Wyn, Leona Gladney.”
“Mrs. Gladney!” He sputtered; his fair complexion flushed beet red. Outrage boiled in his pale gray eyes. “What is the meaning of this trespass?”
“I’m glad it’s only you.” Leona brushed her skirts. Something of the voluminous material had apparently given her away, peeking out from beneath the chenille. She coughed. “There is quite a bit of dust under there. Might I have a glass of water?”
Mr. Van Wyn folded his arms across his chest, jutting out his pointed chin. “Not until you explain your presence here.” He narrowed his eyes. “Who did you think we were?”
“The thief returning for more, of course,” she said, relieved he hadn’t come alone.
“I should have you arrested for trespassing immediately.” He turned to the dark-haired man standing beside him with expectation in his eyes.
Her thoughts flashed forward to Gilbert arriving at the King’s County Jail, white-lipped with anger, his wallet out to pay her bail.
She smothered a moan of despair. Mr. Van Wyn and everyone else would assume she’d returned to the house to rob it again.
Hadn’t Charlotte said he believed Leona to be one of the thieves?
“If you let me explain—”
The dark-haired man eyed her up and down. “Who is this, then? One of the staff?”
“No, this is—Detective Gideon Day, this is Mrs. Leona Gladney. She is—was—a friend of my grandmother’s.” He frowned at Leona. “And Mr. Day works for the Met.”
“What are you looking for under the bed?” The detective was tall, rawboned, and cut a neat silhouette in a frock coat of dark gray tweed and matching trousers, his bowler under one arm.
Clean white shirt, dangling watch chain tucked into the vest pocket, his straight-backed bearing said he’d served in the army.
His hard blue eyes felt like sharp pebbles on her skin.
The two men stared at her, waiting for her answer. “I wasn’t looking under the bed for anything. I told you—I thought the thief had come back for more, so I hid there.”
Day nodded. “Why are you here, then?”
“I’m looking for my folio of papers, which I left behind for Daphne to read.
Just this morning I remembered where it was.
” She turned to Mr. Van Wyn, if only to get out from under the eagle eye of Detective Day for a moment.
“Have you seen it? A cardboard folio with a blue ribbon holding it together?”
“I haven’t been through her papers yet,” Van Wyn replied with a sniff. “I don’t quite believe you, Mrs. Gladney. I think you came back for more.”
She bristled at the accusation laid bare to her face. “I’m aware you believe I might have stolen your grandmother’s jewelry, as Charlotte Montgomery has told me. But that’s not why I’m here.”
“Hiding under the bed,” Van Wyn sneered. “You are guilty as sin, Mrs. Gladney.”
She drew a deep, angry breath. “Mr. Van Wyn, you suspect someone from your grandmother’s household of stealing her jewelry. I know I am on your list alongside everyone else. But I assure you, I am not a thief. Having me arrested for trespassing won’t solve your problem.”
Day made to speak, but Van Wyn cut him off. “You are blunt, Mrs. Gladney. But it doesn’t matter since we’ve caught you red-handed. You cannot deny it.”
The detective gave Van Wyn a quelling look, blue eyes narrowed. “Let her speak. You are in a pickle, ma’am. You better talk quick.”
Leona turned to him, determined to hold her temper in check, though her heart raced.
She hoped it wouldn’t lead to one of her battlefield spells, because the feeling was there, just under her skin.
“I’m only here to fetch a folio containing writing of mine.
The folio is in the Lavender Room or her bedroom, I hope.
I knocked at the front and the back, but no one answered.
I know this door doesn’t lock properly—” She brought her attention back to Daphne’s grandson.
“Which you were supposed to have fixed, Mr. Van Wyn. Timothy informed me he told you about it two weeks ago. Look how easy it was for both myself and the thief to gain entry.”
As the color rose again under Van Wyn’s collar, she let the implication lie.
“So, of course, I hid under the bed when I heard you coming up the stairs. I was frightened the thief had come back, or someone else intent on robbery, and here I was alone in the entire house. Where has everyone gone, Mr. Van Wyn? Someone should be watching the house.”
“Mrs. Gladney, you go too far!”
Desperation clenched her stomach. “I did not steal Daphne’s jewelry, and her death breaks my heart.
I once lived here for two years, before my marriage, which only makes me guilty of too much familiarity, not trespassing or theft.
But I will protect my husband and myself from your lies and gossip.
If we must hire our own lawyer, we will.
” The words tumbled out before she could stop them.
She was about to make a deal with the devil.
“But I’d rather help you find the thief. ”
Van Wynn and Day exchanged glances; irritating, as it excluded her. Leona moved toward the door, but Van Wyn grabbed her arm.
“Let go of me,” she said in her hardest voice. He hastily backed away. Good, he’d learned that lesson at least. “I’m going to the Lavender Room first. The last place I saw my folio.”
They followed her down the stairs, whispering. In the Lavender Room, Daphne’s reading glasses lay folded on the table, but there was no folio. If she’d been alone, Leona would have sat in the chair to absorb something of her friend. She held the glasses in her hand but set them down again.
Van Wyn poured a sherry with a stunned look on his face as he glanced around, apparently seeing and not seeing his grandmother there, just as Leona did. Was it real grief or guilt she saw? Day accompanied her to Daphne’s bedroom and watched from the doorway while she searched for the folio.