Page 92 of The Art of Theft
Lord Ingram came back then with her coffee. She smiled at him, truly grateful, drank half the cup, and set to work.
About half of the plates portrayed sexual acts. Nothing too outlandish in terms of the acts themselves, so the illicitness would be in the individuals involved in the trysts: There were all sorts of pairings, and groups of up to five people.
Under different circumstances, Charlotte might have spent a little more time working out what all five of the partners were up to. But tonight, since they had nothing to do with the maharani or her son’s letters, she set those plates aside after the three seconds she allotted for the study of each image.
The rest of the plates were, on first glance, much less scandalous. Those that did feature people had them fully clothed and not engaged in anything remotely carnal. And some shots had no humans in the frame, only land and buildings.
Charlotte found herself much more intrigued by what she could infer from these photographs. Was this group of men, none of whom she could recognize, but whose countries of origin she could easily deduce, not supposed to be meeting at all? The drays, soextraordinarily heavy, outside what looked to be a nondescript factory—what were they carrying?
Still, she set aside each after three seconds.
Until she came to one with a face she recognized; not one of the central figures meant to be captured, but someone on the periphery, very nearly lost in the crowd.
That one she stared at for an entire ten seconds.
She returned to the study to report that there was nothing related to the maharani in the images, only to see the men both wearing pained expressions, as if the papers before them had turned into a table full of swaying cobras, ready to strike.
“What’s the matter?”
Lieutenant Atwood gestured at the documents. “These are state secrets Moriarty has collected.”
“Of which states?”
“Britain, Germany, France, Russia, the Austro-Hungarians, the Ottoman Empire, and that’s just the top of the stack.”
“You are both agents of the British Crown, aren’t you?”
Lieutenant Atwood shrugged. “Neither of us ranks high enough for this—and I, frankly, never want to.”
“Give them to your superiors then.”
“My previous superiorsoldstate secrets,” said Lord Ingram. “You exposed him, Holmes, if memory serves.”
“Not to mention,” said Lieutenant Atwood, “if we gave these to anyone, we would be considered privy to the information, even if we didn’t glance past a few pages. Not necessarily a good thing for either of us.”
“Then buy a safe at Banque de Paris, deposit everything, and deal with it later.”
“I don’t want to deal with it later either,” said Lieutenant Atwood, rubbing the back of his neck. “It’s all games that empires play with one another.”
Lord Ingram sighed. “I’m beginning to come around to that view.”
“Hasn’t it always been like this?” asked Charlotte. “Haven’t they always been games that empires play with one another?”
“Maybe,” answered Lord Ingram. “But it can take a queen-and-country sort like me a while to work that out.”
At the resignation in his tone, she felt a pang in her chest. She almost wished he had a few still-intact illusions.
“Is there a safe in this house where we can stow everything for now?”
Lord Ingram nodded.
“Then let’s put these away and go to sleep. This night has been long enough.”
When they had done that, Lieutenant Atwood bid them good night and slipped away. Lord Ingram walked her to her room. Before the door, he pulled out a handkerchief bundle from his pocket.
“I don’t think you had anything to eat, did you?”
She thought back. They’d had a small supper before starting for Château Vaudrieu. And since then, nothing. And suddenly she was very hungry.
