Page 17

They hurried inside and up the stairwell, their rapid footfalls echoing loud. As she followed Ollie, Evelyn thought she heard another set of footfalls running after them, but when she looked back over her shoulder, nothing was there. The echo must have been skewing the sound of their own movements.

Moments later, they were in the conservation studio.

The familiar smell of paint and wood and canvas invited her in and comforted her.

She hurried over to Mr. Burlington’s desk and threw down the letter she had written earlier.

It was a short apology and vague explanation for what had happened.

But she still couldn’t bring herself to say she would never be back.

It seemed Evelyn was bad at two things: breaking and entering, and finalizing decisions.

“In my letter, I asked Mr. Burlington to oversee the rest of your brother’s art restoration,” Evelyn said while walking over to her corner of the studio.

“He’ll complain but will do it and do it well.

” She lifted one of Mr. Dantes McNab’s smaller paintings and laid it out atop her desk.

It was one of the saucier paintings Ollie’s brother owned.

Evelyn wasn’t bothered by the nudity, but this painting, of a woman bathing herself, had more sensuality to it than most nude paintings.

Ollie shifted and cleared his throat.

“Does this make you uncomfortable?” Evelyn looked up to Ollie, slightly amused a known scoundrel could be made bashful about this artwork.

“A bit,” Ollie replied, unsure. “It’s a little saucy, though, don’t you think?”

Before she could share she’d had the same exact thought, Evelyn sensed movement out of the corner of her eye.

She spun in the direction of it and stared into the darkness, unblinking. But there was no noise, and no further movement. Perhaps she was seeing things.

“What’s the matter?” Now whispering, Ollie stepped closer to her. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“I saw someone. Or something,” she whispered back. “Who’s there?” she called out louder.

But nothing responded.

“Let’s go,” Evelyn said, the small hairs all over her body standing on end. “I don’t much like being here at night.”

“Nor I.” Ollie followed her out.

One last glance into the dark corner sent chills up her spine and she hurried out into the hallway, pausing at the stairwell they had used earlier.

“When we came up these stairs did you hear footfalls following us?”

“No, I didn’t, but I wasn’t paying attention, either.” He paused. “Why? You think we’re being followed?”

“I don’t know.” She looked around to ensure they were still alone and lowered her voice.

“Instead of going back to the door we came in through, I’m going to go through the museum itself to meet our letter-sender out front of the main entrance.

If we’re being followed, it’s probably a police officer or maybe our one security guard.

But if it is the police, I guarantee another officer is waiting outside the door we came through. ”

“Good idea.”

Evelyn hurried until they reached the room of French paintings. Frothy pastels of the eighteenth century whirled by.

Evelyn swore she heard footfalls again. “Ollie!”

“I heard that, too. Let’s go. Quickly.” He held his hand out to her, and she hesitated but took it. Someone was definitely coming after them and they needed to stick together and escape.

They next found themselves in the Spanish paintings room.

Everything around them was dark, dramatic, full of movement and severity.

Eyes following her, Cardinal Carlo Cerri judged her from his chair.

The flapping ravens in Guercino’s Elijah fed by Ravens seemed ready to leave the painting and dive at her.

Without realizing it, Evelyn squeezed Ollie’s hand. And he squeezed back.

On they ran, through different rooms. Down the stairs. Past the Dutch and Flemish room. The footfalls were louder, getting closer and closer.

But then Evelyn remembered—they had to go out the door they’d come in in order to meet the letter-sender at the main entrance. She had no way of unlocking the other doors and didn’t have time to pick them. She quietly told Ollie this and began leading the way.

Finally, their exit was ahead. They ran through it and out into the cool, misty night. The door shut behind them. No police officers lay in wait, and Trafalgar Square was in sight. Evelyn heaved a breath of relief.

But the door opened again.

Evelyn spun around, fearful.

Ollie did too and swore at the sight before them. He pushed Evelyn behind him.

For before them stood a terrifying man, face fully concealed by a midnight-blue Venetian Volto mask with gold stars, a black tricorn hat, and a black cape that obscured everything else.

His only visible feature were his eyes in the eye holes—dark-brown eyes, Evelyn noted.

Was this the letter-sender? Or had they roused a ghost?

The man didn’t say anything. He simply stood there watching them, his shoulders relaxed. But Evelyn noted something curious: The man’s full attention was on Ollie. Evelyn did not seem to exist.

Then his eyes squinted in a way that, underneath the full mask, said he was smiling .

“Who are you? What do you want?” Evelyn was trying her best to sound unperturbed.

The man ripped his attention off of Ollie and pierced it into her. “Why are you breaking into the museum, wee lass? Don’t have a key?” His voice held a thick, Irish accent. Another observation filed away for later. “Naughty business, that.”

“What is it to you?” The words squeaked out.

The man’s eyes squinted with a smile again. “I thought you two would be waiting outside shaking like little mousies, and I was prepared to convince you to let me inside.”

Evelyn kept her mouth clamped shut. He’d wanted them to let him in the museum? Ridiculous. How would he think he could convince her, unless it had been under threat?

Blast it all—of course it would have been under threat. Immediately, her mind went to Jack the Ripper. This couldn’t be the famed terrifying killer, though, or at least she hoped it wasn’t. She swallowed. What was he hiding under his cape?

“Imagine my surprise to find you breaking in,” the terrifying man continued. “I suppose I don’t much care why you were. Thank you for answering my note, though. You made my job far easier than I ever expected.”

He moved as if he were going to walk past them and, honestly, Evelyn was more than happy to let him.

But Ollie apparently had other ideas in mind.

He stepped into the masked man’s path and put a hand on his chest, preventing him from passing.

The man was much shorter than Ollie, but even with a full disguise exuded an air of cocky confidence.

Evelyn was sure he would fight back easily if it came to throwing fists. Or worse.

The masked man chuckled. “You think you can stop me, boyo?”

“You’re the one who sent the letter.” Ollie said this as if he had just figured it out. Maybe he had. “What do you want from us?” His voice was hard and dangerous. And when the man didn’t respond, Ollie added, “Answer the blasted question.”

“Me? Want something from you? Why, I was only out for a stroll when I saw you two break into the museum. ‘Fancy that,’ I said to myself and followed you in. See, I am very interested in the arts myself and wanted to ensure you two weren’t up to any shenanigans.”

Evelyn jumped in. “Nice try, but you said you were going to convince us to break you in, which would never happen, by the way. But you did sneak about in the shadows until we came back outside. You waited for us instead of leaving. Why?”

The masked man merely laughed, irritating Evelyn.

“Now, if you will excuse me,” he said, and the masked man had somehow got past Ollie like a slippery eel.

He lifted his tricorn hat in a salute, revealing thick, black hair beneath.

“I have a saucy painting to hang up in my sitting room.” And with flair, he spun around quickly, kicking up his cape.

Evelyn thought she saw something gold flash, but before she could see what it was, the man’s back was to her and, somehow, he melted into the velvet darkness of night.

“What an absolute clown.” Ollie huffed.

Evelyn rushed forward and looked all around Trafalgar Square, but the man had somehow disappeared completely.

Her mind whirred at his comment about the saucy painting.

Closing her eyes to concentrate further, she tried to focus on what that flash of gold under his cape had been.

The man’s arm had been holding something against his side.

All she could see was a gold corner of something.

She spun around, horrified. “Do you realize what he did?”

“What he did? He’s gone and that’s all I care about. What a buffoon.”

She shook her head hard and took a few steps toward Ollie. “No. Ollie. The part about the saucy painting. Don’t you realize what he was telling us by saying that?”

She didn’t wait for him to respond. Now fully panicked, Evelyn raced back into the museum, up the stairs, and into the studio. She ran across the room to her desk, worry mounting. But her worst fear was realized, and she cried out with distress.

“What’s the matter?” Ollie asked between labored breaths as he arrived at her side.

“Look.” She pointed at her now-empty desk.

Ollie swore and rubbed his hands over his face.

The Gustave Courbet painting, of the woman bathing herself, had been taken. In its place was a signature in the magnificently flourished handwriting from the mysterious letter. And in that flourished hand the Signature Swindler’s signature was revealed:

Bollocks.