“Lucky charm?” she said.
“Something like that. It’s a chunk of glass from the fire of 1876. Found in the ashes, probably from a melted vase or ornament.”
“Yes, you told me that last night! Not sure how lucky it’s proving today. It’s so creepy, knowing what might have been happening while we were merrily tripping.”
“We’re still here, aren’t we?” He tossed and caught it again. “It helps me think. Some of my earliest memories are of sitting on the rug in my grandfather’s study, holding it in a ray of sunlight and watching the path the light took through it.”
He dropped it into his coat pocket and led Amelia into the antechamber that separated the grand entrance hall from the servants’ corridor. He inhaled as they passed through—a habit since childhood. It had never lost the tobacco-and-dog smell from his grandfather’s coats, though they’d long since gone to the village charity shop. He opened and closed the doors extra gently—the entire ground floor was a wind tunnel, even on a still day. Open a door too quickly, and another would slam. If you propped all the doors open in a light summer easterly, you could funnel a jasmine-scented breeze from the kitchen garden all the way to the library. He frowned. Not next summer.
As they crossed the grand entrance to the staircase, a deep groan murmured across the ceiling, far above their heads, and the chandelier’s crystal pendants tinkled. Amelia met his gaze, with a question. “Miss Havisham,” he confirmed. “Keeping an eye on things.”
He was keeping an intense eye on their surroundings too, but he had the distinct feeling there was nothing in the house that didn’t belong. It was a big estate, and as far as their pursuers knew, they were still outside.
At the first-floor landing, Amelia halted and took in the old tapestry. “I stared at this for ages last night, convinced there was something incredibly significant about it.”
“Not sure a three-hundred-year-old tapestry will provide the answers we’re seeking.”
She tipped her head to one side. “It was probably an epiphany about the style of weave. Or perhaps I imagined I found a hidden door.”
“Northanger Abbey,” he said, picking up on the Austen reference. “Like the sergeant said, if this ever got to court, we would be the worst witnesses ever.”
They crossed the landing and silently walked through the rooms that led to the ballroom. As they entered the mezzanine, Amelia pressed her back against a wall, inhaling deeply.
“Amelia?”
She closed her eyes tightly for a second. “I can’t shake the feeling we’re being watched.”
He took a spot on the wall beside her. A single ray of sunlight cut through the windows, spotlighting dust billowing in competing draughts. “I’ve been keeping an eye out, and I’m pretty sure we’re not. The fact we’re not being shot at right now is a good sign.”
“I guess.”
“Come on,” he said, pushing off. “One more room and then we make our escape.”
As they entered the study, Tom’s eye was drawn to a desk drawer that was yawning open. Probably Connor, yesterday morning—or the upcycler. It was the drawer his grandfather had kept stationery in, a habit his father never bothered to change. The bookcase that spanned one wall was jammed full, as it had been for Tom’s entire life. He scanned it for the family book, but it wasn’t there.
“This isn’t the same rug as in the photo,” Amelia said, bending to lift a corner. “A cheap imitation Persian. Look, it’s backed with polypropylene.”
“Well, it didn’t get replaced overnight,” Tom said, quietly opening and closing drawers, trying to remember where he’d seen the spare car key. “That rug has been here for years. Look at the dust in the corners that the robot vacs can’t get to.”
“Is this you?” she said, walking to the sideboard and picking up a gilt frame. It was a photo taken at Sandhurst: his graduation as second lieutenant.
“It is. With my father and grandfather.”
“They look very proud.”
“They needn’t have been. Military service is a family tradition, but I wasn’t a great soldier. I mean, I could shoot straight, but I don’t like taking orders, and I just wanted to go to university and design houses. I served my time and got out as soon as I could. Eddie would have been better suited, but…” He yanked open one of the middle drawers and pulled out a set of keys on a miniature Eiffel Tower keyring. “Keys to your carriage, my lady.”
“You have a carriage?”
“The remains of one, yes. But I’m speaking metaphorically. The Land Rover?”
She rolled her eyes at her own guilelessness.
As Tom pocketed them, he looked at the rug, screwing up his face. “Remember I told you I played with the paperweight in here, as a kid? I remember looking at the colors through the glass—a vivid blue, with a sunburst pattern.”
“The Axminster. So it was here then. Could it have been moved into another room at some point, and that’s our murder scene? I don’t remember seeing it when we were wandering around yesterday, but we didn’t go into all the rooms.”
Tom crossed to the old gun cabinet. “My mother used to move things around from time to time, though my grandfather would usually insist they were put back the way they were. There are rolled-up rugs in some of the rooms, but I’ve never looked closely. I guess the valuers would have.”
