I thought of the information the attendant at the courier office had given me, that there had been no deliveries for quite a while.
“It is the address I was given,” I told the driver and asked him to continue on.
We reached the next street and he turned the rig then stopped.
“Number 4, Princes Gate, miss,” he called down.
Number 4 was an enormous Georgian manor, surrounded by cut-stone walls with a double wrought-iron gate overgrown with vines under overhanging tree limbs.
The exterior of the manor was of brick and stone, a once elegant residence that was in disrepair, with rusted frames around sash windows at the first- and second-story rooms, the glass smeared and caked with seasons of neglect.
“Don’t look like there’s anyone about,” the driver commented.
In the fading light of day, I had to agree. Had I been sent on a fool’s errand?
There was only one way to find out. I stepped down from the cab.
“Please wait,” I told the driver and paid him an extra amount for the additional time. Knightsbridge was a good distance from the Strand and even farther from Mayfair. If no one answered the door, then I had a good walk before I might find another driver if he were to leave.
I crossed Princes Gate to that wrought-iron entrance. The gate creaked loudly as I pushed it open then continued on that stone walkway to the main entrance.
A bell cord hung beside a door carved with animals but now faded, the wood splintered with neglect.
I pulled the cord.
There was a distant sound from somewhere inside. When there was no answer, I pulled on the bell pull a second time.
There was still no answer. I then knocked on the door. To my surprise, it slowly opened.
I hesitated. There was no one at the entrance. Had someone departed and not latched the door securely? Or was it that the latch was simply badly worn?
I had not come all this way to turn around and leave. I thought of the revolver in my bag, then decided against it as it could be frightening for others. I stepped inside the entrance hall.
It was long and narrow, with a faded tapestry on one wall and an overstuffed head of a bear with bared teeth that loomed up out of the shadows at the opposite wall, and led to a room on the right with a set of double doors that stood open.
In the fading light that spilled into the hall from glass panels at that front entrance it appeared to be a drawing room with furnishings draped with cloths, and a large fireplace with a wood mantel decorated with carvings of dogs.
I called out as I returned to the hall and had almost decided that the response in the newspaper had been nothing more than some deception by whoever placed the ad when I heard the sound of movement behind me.
“Hello?” I called again as I turned.
The blow was sudden, painful, and I felt myself going down …
I wakened slowly and winced at the pain in the back of my head as the room gradually settled into place and I slowly sat up. However, I was not in the room with those dogs on the elaborately carved mantel.
It appeared to be a bedroom, with faded, heavy satin drapes on the windows, the settee on which I sat, and a scarred but once impressive mahogany washstand with a porcelain basin.
I heard nothing, saw no one. All I could think was that very likely Charlotte Davies and Gwen Tavers might very well have been lured here the same way and then experienced the same greeting.
Then the question, where were they? Along with whoever had given me that bump on the head and then brought me to that room?
And what did they have planned next?
I searched for my travel bag but it was gone, no doubt taken by the person who delivered that blow.
I sat up on the settee, the fabric faded and torn in the light from a single candle, and crossed the room to the door. It was locked, not unexpected I supposed, all things considered.
Several thoughts raced through my head. The manor obviously was not completely abandoned. Someone had taken it upon himself to welcome me in a most unwelcome manner.
From experience it was not lost on me that the ‘welcome,’ as I called it, could well have been far more than a bump on the head.
It was safe to assume that whoever had attacked me did not intend to seriously harm me, or some other fate that often befell a woman out and about on her own in parts of London.
I thought fleetingly of the hound. The situation might have been far different if I had allowed him to accompany me. However …
I went to the windows. Equally smudged and neglected, they faced out to the street below where I had left my driver.
I had no way of knowing how long I had been out, however the street beyond was quite dark, my driver nowhere in sight. It did appear that I was on my own.
I reached down and removed the slender pick from the inside of my boot then returned to the door.
Given the approximate age of the house, the lock was equally old and not easily persuaded.
However, with patience and with what Brodie had taught me, I slowly turned the pick and listened for the distinctive sound of metal on the iron lever.
A second attempt was necessary as I eased the pick under the lever inside once more and slowly eased it up. The lock opened.
I listened for any sound beyond the door.
There was none and I eased it open and discovered an empty hallway.
I have been in old buildings before, but those were more often tenements or rundown flats where our inquiry cases had taken us.
The manor was at least two hundred years old, and although in much neglect, it had a series of rooms behind other closed doors on the second floor that I had viewed from the street.
The walls in the hallway were covered with murals, paintings, and several stuffed deer heads that looked down on me as I carefully made my way down the length of the hall.
I passed an ornate Ormolu clock covered with several layers of dust, and a marble bust that appeared to be a young Duke of Wellington with a sword.
With my bag confiscated, I picked up the sword.
In spite of the dust, obvious neglect, and the decay of the manor, it was obvious that someone lived here by the nasty bump on the back of my head.
But who? And where were they?
I tried one door and discovered it was also locked. There was no sound from within the room, nor from the locked room across the hall.
I reached the center of that hallway, dimly lit by gas lights on the walls that cast an eerie shadow over everything.
There were windows at the near end of the second floor of the manor, and I discovered a wide stairway with ornate carved wood bannisters, once quite beautiful, now dull and darkened over time.
I pressed myself against the wall at a sound from the floor below. It came again, along with the faint light that flickered from a candle or possibly an oil lantern.
I refused to go back to that room, and glanced to the stairs that obviously led to the third floor. As that light grew nearer, I quickly made my decision and climbed the stairs.
They widened at that upper floor, the landing leading to a set of double doors.
A ballroom, or great hall? It made no sense that it was on the third floor where guests would have to pass through the other two floors of sitting rooms and bedrooms below.
Possibly a trophy room, considering those stuffed animal heads I had seen? Or an enormous game room?
I went to those doors and listened. When no sound came from within, I tried the lever. The doors were not locked. I pushed one door open and stepped inside.
It was neither a ballroom or great hall. Nor a trophy room. Unless what I glimpsed in the flickering light of candles were the trophies …
There were at least a half dozen portraits in that same provocative style I had seen at the Grosvenor Gallery. Yet, it was more than that.
Two of the portraits seemed very near complete, and I recognized the young woman in each one—Gwen Tavers with Lizzie Smith! The resemblance was unmistakable.
The third portrait? It too had recently been started, but was far from complete. Still the resemblance was near enough to her younger sister that I knew for certain it had to be Charlotte Davies!
And a fourth one, barely more than sketches that the artist had begun to fill in. It was of a young woman barely dressed in a deep red gown, as if she had been discovered as she undressed, the length of her back naked as she turned and looked over her shoulder.
The artist had just begun to fill out her features—the arch of dark brows, the deep red hair that spilled over her shoulder and down her back, and that dark crimson gown.
I stared in horror as I recognized myself!
“ I am always making sketches …”
“I hadn’t anticipated it, of course. But now that you are here … Magnificent!”
A voice behind me, one that I had heard before—articulate, yet soft-spoken, with that faint accent giving compliments when we met. I slowly turned.
Simon La Geness, whose portraits at the Grosvenor had drawn curiosity, comments, acclaim, and no small amount of criticism for their provocative, barely clothed subjects.
“What is this?” I asked, in an effort to understand what I was looking at. And the other portraits …
“Lady Forsythe, and I must admit unexpected. But now that you are here …”
That faint smile.
“So much more than I could have hoped for. Yet, I should have known. Most particularly when I learned of your reputation with your inquiry cases.” He slowly walked toward me, though it seemed with some difficulty, that smile disappearing with the effort.
“I will admit, the fascination was there. You are quite beautiful with a strength and something else that needed very much to be put on canvas—something almost secretive. Who would have thought that you would provide the opportunity?”
What was he talking about?
“Of course, you will be the centerpiece of the collection,” he announced.
He must be mad. It was the only word to describe what I was hearing. What of Lizzie Smith? Her portrait was there along with the others.
“Why?” But I knew even as I asked the question. That advertisement —Seeking female companion for travel and adventure.
There was no travel in it, and the only adventure appeared to be …
My head ached as it all slowly came together.
“You cannot hope to keep this secret,” I told him. “Where are the others? What about Lizzie Smith?”
“Most unfortunate about the girl,” he replied with a noticeable quaver at his voice. Regret? Remorse?
“She chose to leave. Although the others are here,” he assured me, yet in a voice that was quite odd and chilling.
Chose to leave? His way of describing that he had her killed?
And the other young women? Had they met the same fate as Lizzie Smith?
“Where are they?” I demanded.
“All in due time … if you cooperate,” he replied as he slowly came closer.
I raised the sword.
“ Maitenant tu fais quoi . What will you do now?” he repeated in English. “If you kill me, you kill them as well.”
Kill them as well? What was he talking about? Were they in danger even as we spoke?
I hesitated. In that moment, I wanted very much to run him through for that smile, the arrogance, the insanity in what he was telling me. Or in the very least to wound him and then find the other women.
He must be insane. It was the only possible answer.
Yet, the threat was real. One young woman, Lizzie Smith, was already dead.
Hadn't I seen it before, that search for my sister, the madness that gleamed in the eyes of another where no amount of reason or persuasion might reach them.
Brodie had spoken of it from his own experience as he explained that moment, that look in another person's eyes where nothing that was said could persuade them against what they had set out to do.
I couldn't risk endangering the others, and slowly lowered the saber …