To his surprise, the door opened a minute later to reveal an elderly woman in a housekeeper’s uniform. Her face was wrinkled like an apple left in the sun, her grey hair bound in a knot.
“May I help you, sir?” she said.
“Good morning,” Rhys said. “This may sound strange, but I am the nephew of Horatio—”
“Oh, Mr. Rhys, is it?” Her eyes lit up. “You’ve arrived at last. Come in, come in.”
She ushered them into a small antechamber. The townhouse was as modest inside as out. A plain stairwell led upstairs and a narrow hallway to the back of the house, with two closed doors along it.
Ascertaining that the housekeeper was one Mrs. Ingle, Rhys introduced Maggie and the others.
“Uncle Horatio said that I would be coming?” he asked.
Mrs. Ingle nodded, her expression sad. “The master’s last instruction to me was to keep an eye out for your arrival.Look for a handsome lad dressed like a pink of fashion,he said.His facial hair is more manicured than a hedge.No offense, sir—those were the master’s words, not mine.”
“None taken,” Rhys said wryly.
“Mr. Jones also said that when you arrived, I should take you directly to his study.”
Mrs. Ingle led them to the second door along the hallway, opening it. The study was a cramped, condensed version of the one at Journey’s End, with dark paneled walls and cabinets crammed with curiosities. A large desk carved with an oriental motif sat beneath a painting of a peacock identical to the one they’d found at the Sailor’s Arms.
“I haven’t touched anything in here since the master’s death,” the housekeeper said.
“Out of curiosity, Mrs. Ingle,” Newton said, “how did Mr. Jones arrange for your wages to be paid after his death? Was it through a solicitor…or a bank, perhaps?”
Rhys caught onto Newton’s thinking. Knowing what financial institutions Horatio had patronized could prove useful. As whimsical as the notion of a treasure hunt was, Horatio was no fool: he would have stored the jewels somewhere safe—like a bank.
“The master didn’t trust solicitors or banks,” Mrs. Ingle said stoutly. “He set up an account for me with Mr. Gruenwald, the goldsmith on Fleet Street.”
“Ah. Thank you,” Newton said.
“If there’s nothing else, I’ll leave you to your business. Ring if you need anything.”
When the door closed behind Mrs. Ingle, Rhys said, “Good thinking, Newton. Now we know where Uncle Horatio secured at least some of his funds. Perhaps the jewels are there as well.”
“A goldsmith would be a secure place to store a treasure,” Newton agreed. “After so many private banks have failed of late, taking the fortunes of investors with them, many have returned to old-fashioned methods of safeguarding their wealth.”
Already at the desk, Maggie called, “There’s a letter for you here, Rhys.”
Going over, he took the letter she handed to him, which bore his name and his uncle’s seal. Exhaling, he broke the wax.
Dear Rhys,
Congratulations for making it this far! I did not doubt for a moment that you would. The love of adventure burns brightly in our bloodline: no matter how your papa, my brother, endeavored to dim that flame, the fire lives inside you. Even if you try to hide it behind those fine feathers of yours (pardon an old man’s sense of humor!).
All jests aside, don’t be afraid of your fire. Be guided by it. Life’s greatest rewards go to those who stray from the beaten path and carve their own.
Now you have one final clue to conquer—one last hurdle between you and the jewels.
Sometimes to get to the future, we must face the demons of the past. The treasure awaits you in London, and you’ll find the key here:??
Good luck and God speed, my boy.
Your loving uncle,
Horatio
Rhys fought the surging pressure in his veins. He had his demons in check; he didn’t need his uncle stirring them up.
