“I’m sure she threw herself into your arms,” Viv said acidly.
“Miss Nixon said she enjoyed her current arrangement, and hoped very much that Mr. Olivebury had no intentions of throwing her over. She didn’t seem to have any notion the portrait had been stolen.”
“What did she say when you told her it was gone?”
“That maybe the wife took it. Miss Nixon is of the opinion that no household keeps secrets from its servants for long. Perhaps the Oliveburys’ housekeeper is ally to her mistress.”
“Or a servant who accidentally found it, took it?” Viv mused. “Or perhaps Miss Nixon is trying to throw us off her trail. What could be better advertising to new clientele than having no less than the leader of the House of Commons at her feet?”
Jacob shook his head. “She could have divulged that connectionat any time but has kept silent all these years instead. She seems to truly care for him. And she would very much like the portrait to be found.”
“What about the portrait artist? Now, there’s a chap in a fine position to blackmail.”
“The artist is the mistress’s sister,” Jacob answered dryly. “One who apparently also figures prominently in the stolen portrait, along with…” He pulled out a notebook, hesitated, then shoved it back into his pocket unopened. “Perhaps some details are best left to the imagination.”
No pronouncement could make Viv salivate more. She possessed a prodigiously overactive imagination. It was now her life’s mission to see that painting with her own eyes.
“We can reinterview the Nixon women later if necessary,” he said. “But regardless of political leanings, the portrait artist is unlikely to harm a beloved sister.”
“You can’t be certain,” Viv insisted. “You only have her word.”
Jacob sighed. “You’re right. Happy now? Fine, perhaps the sisters had a row. Or maybe the housekeeper found the portrait and told the butler who told a chambermaid who told the cook who told a stableboy, and now we have eighty-nine additional suspects. All of whom could have inadvertently spread the gossip to the wrong person. Maybe the butcher’s mother’s cobbler’s sister-in-law is the blackmailer and we’llneversolve the case.”
“It would be a good twist,” Viv muttered.
He was right to be vexed with her. Jacob wanted to solve this case as much as she did, even if their motives were different. Viv wanted Quentin home, and Jacob’s overwhelmed family wanted at least one fewer mystery taking up precious seconds.
“All right,” she said. “I’ll grant you the point. Literally anythingmighthave happened, but our time and resources are finite, so itwould be prudent to concentrate on the likeliest solutions.”
“These days, Wynchester resources are worse than finite. They’re nonexistent.”
“I hope that’s not true. Once in a while, you ought to take at least a short break for yourself.” She gestured toward Jacob’s pocket. “Is that your casebook or your poetry journal?”
He narrowed his eyes. “Either way, it’s private.”
At least here, she could offer solid advice!
“Your poetry need not be private,” she told him. “You could do something with your poems. At least try to sell them.”
“I have tried,” he said tightly. “More than you know.”
“Have you considered—”
“Yes. Exhaustively. The only chance my words have of being published is if I were to do so anonymously.”
She scoffed. “Only cowards hide behind anonymity. It is nobler to fail as oneself than to win as someone else.”
He was unmoved. “What do you know about my personal situation?”
“Do you think I’ve never received a rejection before? That’s all I’ve ever been sent, if I receive a response at all. But I won’t let them keep me down. I shall keep popping up, again and again, until someone, somewhere, is forced to behold me.”
“Congratulations,” he drawled. “You’re a perennial weed in want of a scythe.”
“Oh, be honest. Don’t you want to look in the mirror with pride? To feel proud of how far you’ve come?”
He crossed his muscular arms. “I do and I am, every day.”
“Then why do you look so haunted, any time someone asks you to share your talent with the world?”
