Page 54 of The Art of Theft
“Oh look, there’s Grandmaman’s darling,” said Charlotte. “Shall we approach?”
Now that he was barehanded, the bulges they’d seen earlier under his left glove proved indeed to be large rings. He was otherwise dressed without undue flare, but those rings... Each would have been enough to mark the owner’s wealth and importance; four together formed a picture of almost comical pomposity.
“We meet again, Monsieur du Vernay,” said Lieutenant Atwood warmly. “Where is your majestic grandmaman?”
“Monsieur du Vernay” made a face. “Away from youth and vitality, obviously.”
Grandmaman, from across the gallery, stared at him with a mixture of distaste, anxiety, and yet, also hope.
Charlotte, as Mr. Hurst, nodded sagely. “I find myself admiring, dear sir, your collection of magnificent rings. Are some of them signet rings?”
The young man raised his hand and turned it so that light from the chandeliers—electric chandeliers, so bright as to be harsh—caught and reflected in the rings. “Only one is—this one, which once belonged to Grandmaman’s grandfather. Lost his head to the National Razor, alas.”
“And the others?”
“This one was the episcopal ring of a cousin of the beheaded. This one, with the amethyst, a favorite of my grandfather’s. And this one, with the carnelian cabochon, ismyfavorite, a gift from the Sun King to an even more remote ancestor.”
“Marvelous. Absolutely marvelous,” enthused Charlotte. “I envy you such connections to the past—and such illustrious forebears! A hundred years ago mine were mere yeoman farmers, without any entrée to the halls of power. But if I may be so blunt, is it not a little inconvenient to wear such large rings side by side all on one hand?”
“Oh certainly, a little. But what’s a little inconvenience when such a display could be had?”
Again, he rotated his hand so that everything sparkled.
“I cannot disagree with that at all.” Charlotte raised her glass. “To an unmistakable display of pedigree.”
The young man grinned. They clinked their champagne glasses and drank.
“You mentioned, Monsieur,” said Lieutenant Atwood, “that your grandmother was interested in three paintings here. Do you happen to know which ones?”
Grandmaman had glared at him earlier not because he might betray her interest, but because by speaking too much, those with sharp ears might hear his wharfs-of-Marseille origins. But now Grandmaman was forty feet away, seated on a tufted chaise, her hands gripped rigidly around the head of her cane.
“Oh, this one, of course,” the young man pointed at the sentimental Bouguereau tableau before which he stood. “And the Fragonard. And the Watteau.”
They circulated away soon afterward but Charlotte kept both the young man and his “grandmother” in sight and noticed that neither paid much attention to the three pictures he’d named, but kept studying a portrait by Jacques-Louis David.
David had been an ardent supporter of Robespierre and sent many to the guillotine. Why would the grande dame want anything to do with the work of the man who might very well have signed her grandfather’s death warrant?
?There was no rain this time, a very great mercy.
Lord Ingram leaped over the fence and walked quietly but quickly toward the chapel, its dark silhouette haloed by light from the château. He couldn’t hear the sounds from the reception, but the air seemed to hum subtly, the difference between being in the vicinity of a nearly empty manor and a fully populated one.
He made his way to the front door of the chapel, which was notvisible from the château. He’d brought a pocket lantern. Now he risked opening a panel slightly, letting out a tiny stream of light.
But even without the light, he could smell the new paint on the door frame. He took off one glove. A quick touch showed that the paint still hadn’t dried fully. The hasp and the mounting plate both felt smooth, as did the padlock itself, scarcely exposed to the elements. In fact, both the door and the door frame might be new. The painted surfaces did not seem to have ever been subjected to enough violence to unmoor bolts and lock plates.
If Holmes was correct, then the person escaping the château emerged in the chapel, rushed to the door, found it locked from the outside, and with a mighty kick or three, forced it open.
But although the fugitive had come close to freedom, Holmes believed that his attempt had failed. That he’d been caught at the fence and brought back into the chapel. Otherwise Lord Ingram and Mr. Marbleton, under the bridge, should have seen or heard something of the pursuit beyond the fence.
The pocket lantern held between his teeth, Lord Ingram picked the lock. The estate was quiet, the chapel quiet, the goings-on inside the château a barely perceptible vibration. He wondered what Holmes and Leighton Atwood had found out by now.
The padlock clicked, opening. He entered the chapel, closing the door behind himself. Light escaping the château and the grounds brightened the south-facing stained-glass panels slightly, but failed to penetrate beyond. The interior of the chapel was as dark as a nightmare.
There was no carpet in the pews. The floor underfoot was stone, and sounded solid when he tapped it with the heel of his boot. With the pocket lantern back inside his pocket, he groped his way to the front. The place was too small for a separate vestry, so he turned his attention to the altar, a rather sizable one for this space. It had an antependium of drapery. And behind the drapery, only an empty space.
He crawled under the space, set all the drapes back in place, struck a match, and lit the lantern. He was sitting on a thin rug. And when he’d rolled up the rug, there it was: a trapdoor.
The trapdoor didn’t budge when he tried to lift it. But he’d come prepared: not to force it, but to remove its hinges from the other end. Once he had done so, he was able to raise the trapdoor enough to slide a hook into the space underneath and undo the slide bolt.
