Page 21 of The Art of Theft
“And the dining room is where the connecting door is.”
“Correct.”
The maharani glanced around the parlor. “But still, there were people here.”
“Not for the entire day. After you left, someone informed your staff that there might be a gas leak—not at this esteemed establishment, naturally, but next door. Nevertheless, it was prudent for the guests to clear out for a while so that everything could be checked. Would everyone care to pile into this hackney that has already been engaged to take them to the British Museum, where the entrance is free of charge? And here’s even some money for the return trip.”
The maharani’s lips thinned.
“I hope you will not blame your staff,” Miss Charlotte went on. “After all, what reason did they have not to believe what they were told? Not to mention that they made sure the door was properly locked on their way out. But we, of course, had access to the connecting door that had been unbarred from both sides. And since the suites are laid out in an identical manner, we already knew where the safe was to be found.”
“And the safe was that easy to open?” The maharani’s gaze strayed to the small painting that concealed the wall safe.
Miss Charlotte’s gaze, on the other hand, was affixed to the Victoria sandwich on the tea table. “Easy? I wouldn’t say so. But neither was it especially difficult. It was locked with a key and not a combination, which made my task much less tedious.”
The maharani raised a brow. “Yourtask?”
“This past summer we needed the services of a lock picker. Time was short so we used someone we knew. But afterward I decided to acquire those skills myself—if we needed a lock picker once, who was to say we wouldn’t need one again?
“So you are right, Your Highness, in that I have very littleexperience retrieving anything that has been highly secured,” said Miss Charlotte without any trace of smugness to her voice. “But when retrieving things that have been barely secured, I seem to do all right. Now is there anything, however secured, that Mrs. Watson and I may retrieve for you?”
?The maharani fell silent again.
Miss Charlotte was often and spectacularly silent. But her silence was that of the woods and hills, a natural absence of speech. The maharani’s, on the other hand, made Mrs. Watson think of the walled forts of Jaipur, a silence that watched and hid.
She had not used to be like this. The woman Mrs. Watson had loved had been keen to share her thoughts. And Mrs. Watson had marveled at the range of topics she’d read and studied about, and at the depth and accuracy of her knowledge.
Then again, she’d been a young widow who had just come into power of her own as the regent, and the world had been her oyster, her admirer, and her willing sycophant. Today she was a middle-aged woman who’d had to relinquish power—and seek help from an English stranger.
How much of her reluctance was an unwillingness to accept that help? How much because she didn’t want to let Mrs. Watson see any more of her reduced circumstances?
“Very well,” she said at last. “At this point, it can’t hurt to have Sherlock Holmes look into the matter.”
“Thank you for trusting us,” said Mrs. Watson quickly. Perhaps too quickly.
“There are some letters of mine that I do not wish to come before unfriendly eyes. Earlier I was assured they were kept safe and out of the way, but recently I was informed that due to a certain unforeseen turn of events, they have arrived as part of a shipment of artwork at Château Vaudrieu.”
Now that she had decided on a course of action, her tonebecame brisk, uninflected. But Mrs. Watson’s fingertips dug into the padded arms of her chair: The woman who could have been her lifelong companion was being blackmailed.
“Have you ever heard of the place?” asked the maharani.
Mrs. Watson made an effort to exhale. “I seem to have some faint recollection that it plays host to an extravagant annual affair.”
“A yuletide masquerade ball to which the flower of French society flocks, where champagne flows like a river, caviar is strewn like bread crumbs, and fifty million francs’ worth of jewelry dangle from the most beautiful women of Paris,” said Miss Charlotte. “I read about it a few years ago in a magazine.”
“You have a good memory, young lady,” said the maharani, though the look she flicked Miss Charlotte’s way contained not so much admiration as wariness. “Château Vaudrieu is tightly built and well secured. But for the ball, the gates are thrown open, and the opulence of the occasion is said to be legendary.
“That opulence, however, has a purpose. The ball is, in fact, also the night of a significant private art sale. So it is not just a gathering of Parisian Society, but also that of art connoisseurs from around the world, as well as agents for English manufacturers, American millionaires, and Persian princes—anyone looking to add to their social cachet by amassing a collection of pedigreed art.
“Everything sells—or at least that has been the case for years. I expect my secrets will remain safe until the night of the ball. But after that... I’m told that my letters are in the back of a Van Dyck painting. A new owner might very well want a new frame. And the moment the canvas leaves the old frame, my secrets will be exposed to the world.”
Mrs. Watson wondered about the contents of the letters—and the identity of the maharani’s correspondent. She and Mrs. Watson hadn’t written many letters to each other. They’d spent almost the entirety of their affair in physical proximity, for one thing. For another, the maharani had wished the true nature of their relationshiptightly concealed from her courtiers and servants and considered passionate love notes too risky to be kept.
Had she become less careful in the intervening years?
Miss Charlotte reached for the sugar tongs—and pulled her hand back, no doubt recalling that she had lately given up milk and sugar in her tea. “The person who acquires the painting may have no interest at all in some old letters,” she pointed out.
“Except the one most interested in purchasing the piece is rumored to be Sir William Pershing. He served under the Viceroy of India and knows exactly who I am.”
