“How do you do?” intoned the old man. His throat was like an old drainpipe, hollowing his words.
“We are well,” Luke ventured.
The man stared.
Luke added, “How are you?”
Silence.
The man was either squatting on the property or trespassing, because the house was meant to be unoccupied.
“You are the new owner, I presume?” the old man finally asked.
“I am, in fact. And you are...?”
“You may refer to me asAbbott,” the man intoned. “I’ve been the caretaker of this property for these last five years. I was told to expect you.”
“So you were,” said Luke. “The agent failed to mention a caretaker, but he was out of the office when I called. I was given these keys by a clerk.”
“Very good, sir,” said Abbott.
Confused, Luke pressed on. “I’m happy to hear the property was not entirely devoid of care. And we’ve no intention of disrupting your work. Our only goal today is to have a look round.”
“You should do,” lectured Abbott. “If you’ll step to the side, I’ll remove the plug from the lock.”
“The lock has a plug,” Luke realized, scooting Miss Allard out of the way. The caretaker didn’t look dangerous so much as halfway dead. He was hatless, with long, wiry gray hair and matching beard. His boots appeared more mud than leather. Luke kept Miss Allard tucked safely behind him, an open palm against her hip.
“But do you live inside the house, Abbott?” asked Luke, watching the man slide a dagger from his belt and jam the tip into the lock.
“Nay,” said Abbott. “There is a dower house in the corner of the rear garden.”
“Oh, a dower house,” enthused Miss Allard, peeking around.
“Attached to that dower house is a carriage shed,” said Abbott.
“A shed can be very snug,” she ventured.
“Above that carriage shed is an attic,” said Abbott.
“Oh.”
“And I reside,” said Mr. Abbott, “in that attic.”
“So you do,” Luke said. “Very good. I am happy to know it. Thank you for your help with the lock. Have you advice for exploring the house to its best advantage?”
Luke didn’t necessarily want this man trailing behind them as they walked the property, but he had no wish to offend him. The closer Abbott remained, the more quickly Luke could determine if he was friend or foe.
“I have no advice,” Abbott said.
“We’ll find our own way, then,” said Luke. “My thanks to you.”
The door was open now, and they were hit with cool, stale air. The entrance was dim, but he could make out soaring ceilings and an acre of dusty marble. This house was larger than Fern Vale, the house in which his mother and her family lived; and the Vale was one of the finest estates in Cornwall. How, Luke marveled, had he acquired a house grander than his mother’s? And he’d not even known it—yet another failure of research. He’d not looked up the slightest detail about Eastwell Park. He’d viewed Prince George’s gift like an unrequested tax burden and nightmare of upkeep. His only plan had been to contain his new wife inside it before their journey to France.
“You’ll want this,” Abbott was saying, shoving the swinging lantern at Luke. “Any candles left behind will be little more than nubs.”
“Thank you,” said Luke, accepting the flickering light. The flame had been indistinct in the sunlight, but the glow was more pronounced in the dim entryway.
The old man turned to plod down the steps, and Luke whispered to Miss Allard, “You reckon he’ll return to sink his knife into our backs?”
