“Then I hope you’ll retain an impartial view of her performance today and going forward. Excuse me; I need to deal with this latest disaster.”
As Aadhya departed, Mariana supplied the necessary footnote. “There’s a problem with the electricity source in this wing. A real ace card, this place. Freezing cold, poorly lit, and ugly as sin.” She sipped her tea. “I wouldn’t dwell on Libby’s behavior. Unfortunately, there’s always going to be a rotten apple in the barrel. Have you seen the art gallery yet?”
It took a moment to register the sudden change in topic. “No. What—?”
“The Middlethorpe family have an extensive art collection in the third-floor gallery, and apparently the lady of the house has an especial interest in glass works. I know you also like pretty glass, although unless you can pour a bottle of wine into it, I don’t quite understand the appeal,” Mariana teased, before her face settled into softer lines. “Your aunt, nena—Mallory?” Her voice lifted into a tentative question. “You told me she was an artist, yes?” When Sylvie nodded silently, the older woman patted her arm. “Go have a look.”
It was very tempting, but—they were supposed to be working here.
Mariana correctly interpreted her second lip bite. “With the lighting gone kaput and Dominic stuck on the M4, we’re delayed at least half an hour. You might as well seize the opportunity for a quick peek.”
Libby chose that moment to cruise past Adam’s station and say something to him that made his sweet, thin face fall, his eyes darting toward Emma, back at her own counter. He looked down at himself and touched his crumpled tie. His shoulders folded inward. Even at that distance, crystal clear stance of someone who had just taken a hit to their self-esteem.
Sylvie decided to take up Mariana’s suggestion. Lest she pick up a dessert from the snack table and follow Nadine’s example with the tart.
If nothing else, this job and working side by side with Dominic was doing wonders for her usual aversion to confrontation.
Halfway up the grand stone staircase, her phone vibrated in her bag and she pulled it out with embarrassing haste.
Unknown number, which she almost ignored as a possible scammer.
However, as the lord of the manor was coming down the stairs and casting her a lascivious glance, it was advisable to close off every opportunity for conversation. After their brief introduction upon her arrival, even speaking to a faux bank or purveyor of penile enlargements seemed favorable.
“Sylvie Fairchild speaking,” she said into the receiver as Lord Middlethorpe continued on his way with a regretful backward glance. The man reeked of the old boys’ club. She bet he regularly sat over a whisky with his cronies and reflected on the good old days, when he could behave as atrociously as he liked with impunity. “To save time, I’m not giving you any financial details, I possess no appendages that need enlarging, and if you’re claiming to be a member of a royal family, I’m going to need multiple sources of evidence.”
There was barely a pause before the very cut-glass voice of Rosie’s secretary said, “I make no claim to royal birth, merely employment, madam. This is the Honorable Edward Lancier.”
Of course he used his full title even on the phone. She bet he entered it in the address field when he was doing his online shopping, hitting up Marks & Spencer for his Honorable hankies and jammies.
Sylvie exchanged a companionable grimace with one of the gargoyles on the landing wall. “Sorry,” she said, clearing her throat. “Yes, Mr. Lancier.”
“With respect to the previously discussed commission, one requests a short meeting at your earliest convenience. Would tomorrow afternoon be suitable?”
She agreed without hesitation to a meeting with one, drawing out her notebook to jot down the directive. Not a meeting at St. Giles Palace this time, but an office on a street she’d never heard of. Apparently, every step of this commission was going to be laced with intrigue.
Still a lingering chance of that recruitment into a band of misfit do-gooders.
When she reached the third floor, it was eerily quiet after the pandemonium downstairs. The walls in the Grange must be a good twelve inches thick, and where it fell down in central heating, it provided in spades for soundproofing.
If that particularly malevolent-looking gargoyle were actually moving and had grand plans to reach out and strangle her as she went past, her demise would likely pass unnoticed until they needed her for the opening shots.
Dominic was possibly correct that her attraction to all things fantastical had grown to epic proportions since she’d taken this job.
Nevertheless, she was fascinated when she found the gallery and discovered an art collection with all the eclectic disorganization of a junkyard, nestled in a dramatically spooky setting—and contents that wouldn’t be out of place in a national museum.
The silence was even more cavernous here, and she jumped at the distant squeak of a footstep.
She had the passing neck prickle that usually heralded watching eyes, but her attention had caught on a large oil canvas. They hadn’t seriously just tossed a Caroline Beckwith onto the wall, with no obvious security? If she wanted to whip out her keys right this second and scrape that £50,000 painting into shreds, there was literally nothing to stop her. And given the abrasive personality of its owner, she wouldn’t be surprised if half the neighborhood would quite happily wreck the family valuables.
Living truism that you couldn’t buy common sense.
Several glass works were arranged on podiums. She was immediately drawn to a beautiful little sculpture of clear glass shot through with shimmering silver, as if it had caught a forever sheen of moonlight. Lovers, their heads lowered together in a perfect curve, limbs entwined in a sinuous twist, two bodies forming one continuous shape. One figure was cradling the head of the other, hand cupped in a protective shield. She’d been raised by a curator; she knew better than to touch an exhibit without permission, but her fingers almost went out and traced the gentle lines of that revealing gesture.
She pulled out her phone and bent to snap a few close-up photos.
A strange skittering sound brought her head around sharply. There was nobody behind her, but one of the long wooden panels in the wall appeared to open a few centimeters. It closed again just as quietly. The dizzying effect of the black-and-white floor tiles was messing with her eyes, not helped by the leering gargoyles sprouting from every corner, but she was quite certain that was a door.
Cautiously, Sylvie rose and approached the panel. When she tugged on a protruding beam, it slid back easily, revealing a narrow corridor. Her vision slipped into darkness beyond a short distance, and she couldn’t see where it ultimately led.
This was now entirely too Famous Five for first thing on a Monday. She ought to have sandwiches and lemonade in a rucksack, an intelligent dog at her leg, and a gang of smugglers to foil.
As it was, she had a roll of breath mints in her handbag, Middlethorpe Grange was miles from the coast, and if any lost smugglers had walked these fields, they would now be very old bones.
From somewhere in the creepy abyss, a board creaked, and a murmuring susurration drifted on a gust of cold air. At least she knew there was a window somewhere.
“Hello?” she called, purposefully raising her voice and injecting a note of cheerful normality.