Splendors and Glooms (29 page)

If the music room had been almost empty, this room was overstocked. It was a cabinet of curiosities, crammed with antlers, stuffed birds, and animal bones. There was a spiral horn that could only have come from a unicorn and a tiger skin on the wall behind it. The pelt was the first thing Lizzie Rose had seen that could serve as a cloak or a shawl. She unpinned it from the wall and draped it around her shoulders, grateful for the extra warmth. She swept her eyes over the cases on the opposite wall.

There were a great many of them. It seemed to Lizzie Rose that there was nothing that Madama did not desire, did not collect. She gazed on seashells and fish skeletons and corals that looked like tree branches. There were glass trays full of butterflies, and a magnifying glass; Lizzie Rose took up the glass and examined the designs on the dead wings. They were as intricately lovely as bits of stained glass, but sad: how could anyone be so cruel as to kill a butterfly? Lizzie Rose set down the magnifying glass and picked up a conch shell to listen for the roar of the sea.

The last cabinet in the room was filled with miniature portraits, painted on ivory and framed in gold. The colors were so fresh and delicate that it was some time before Lizzie Rose noticed that all of the subjects were gentlemen. Below each frame was a lock of hair tied with a narrow ribbon. Every shade of hair was represented: browns ranging from wheat to stained walnut, auburn and black and blond and gray.

Lizzie Rose’s mouth opened in a silent
O.
A lock of hair was a keepsake, a token of true love. . . . Why, this was a catalog of Madama’s admirers! Lizzie Rose looked over her shoulder to make sure she was alone. Then she counted, smudging the glass with her fingertip. Forty-eight miniatures; forty-eight locks of hair. She murmured, “It isn’t even respectable,” and caught herself on the brink of a laugh. It seemed incredible that somewhere in this world there were, or had been, forty-eight men who had fallen in love with the vulgar, unbeautiful, and odious Mrs. Sagredo.

Her smiled faded as she turned away. She was a little ashamed that she had laughed. It struck her that for Cassandra Sagredo, the men in the miniatures were no different from the butterflies in the glass trays. They were specimens, not people. The old woman couldn’t have loved any of them, or she wouldn’t have lumped them together in a single display. What she had cared for was the number, the variety — and the fact that all forty-eight men had surrendered a lock of hair. Grimacing, Lizzie Rose left the room, heading into the library.

She found more collections there: old cameos, antique coins, and a case full of daggers with sharp blades and jade handles. There were two wooden globes, one of the heavens and one of the earth, each so large that Parsefall could have sat cross-legged inside of them. The bookcases were crammed with leather-bound volumes. One of the spines caught Lizzie Rose’s eye. Her face lit up. Within five minutes, she had chosen two books. As she started to leave the library, her eyes fell on a small portrait in an ivory frame.

It did not seem to belong with the other pictures in the room. They were handsome but grim: dark seascapes and somber still-lifes of silver goblets and half-peeled lemons. This picture was not only frivolous but friendly. A young girl leaned toward the viewer with a puppy in her arms. Her hair fell in loose curls to her shoulders, and her lips, childishly red, were parted in a smile.

Lizzie Rose found herself smiling back. She stood on tiptoe and lifted the frame off the wall. She dusted it with her sleeve and read the inscription on the back:
From Marguerite. In remembrance.

Parsefall eased shut the doors of Madama’s room. He knew that Lizzie Rose was occupied downstairs, and the servants were having their midday meal. He had spent the morning collecting valuables from Madama’s house and stuffing them in a pillowcase. Now he stood just inside the closed doors, with his pillowcase in one hand and a lump of red wax in the other.

He had discovered a supply of red candles in the Tower Room. He had lit one and molded the melted wax, shaping it into a ball while it was still warm. His plan was to open Madama’s locket, remove the jewel, and replace it with the wax. Seen through the wires of the gold filigree, the wax might resemble the red stone. He didn’t think the old woman would be fooled for very long, but the sham stone might buy him time enough to get away from Strachan’s Ghyll. He cast a speculative eye over his victim. The old lady lay fast asleep, with her mouth ajar and spittle leaking onto the pillow. Her sleeping body appeared huge and sow-like. He told himself he wasn’t afraid, but it wasn’t true. He had a queer feeling about stealing the fire opal. The act seemed both perilous and strangely familiar, as if he had dreamed about it.

He lowered his pillowcase to the floor, taking care so that the objects inside wouldn’t clink and wake the sleeping woman. He crept close to her bed. Opening his mouth, he stowed the ball of wax between his lips. He would need both hands to open the locket.

A rush of adrenaline swept over him. He welcomed it, knowing that it would steady his hands and quicken his wits. He shook his hands to loosen his fingers and reviewed his plan for the last time. Open the locket; take out the fire opal. Replace it with the wax. Shut the locket; tiptoe out of the room; pelt down the road to Grisini. Seeing Grisini again would be the worst part, but after that, things got easier. He’d have to tell Lizzie Rose that he’d stolen again. She wouldn’t like it, but she’d know what to do next. She’d work out the trains, and they’d light out from Strachan’s Ghyll as quick as ever they could.

He squatted down, eye level with the top of the mattress. The gold locket rested on the coverlet, close to the old woman’s armpit. He could see the gemstone through the gold filigree. It was as red as strawberry juice. The colors in it frothed like beads of boiling syrup. His fingers twitched. He wanted to touch it, even if it burned him. He wanted to roll it between his fingers and watch the colors flash and spark —

The old rhyme sang in his head. He braced his fingers against the gold filigree. His thumbnail found the tiny clasp. It slid to one side as if it had been oiled —

Cassandra Sagredo awoke. She thrashed, and he leaped back, dodging her flailing hands. He coughed out the ball of wax and saw it roll under the bed. The old woman hissed at him, not like a serpent but like some enormous cat. Her mouth was red and dark, and the breath that issued from her stank as though she were already dead. She screamed at him: “What do you want? Why are you here? Get away! Get out!”

C
assandra couldn’t see straight. Someone was shouting and it was several seconds before she recognized that it was she. Her throat felt raw from screaming. The room tilted, and she thought she might faint. She curled both hands around the fire opal, ready to defend it with her life.

There was a boy in the room. He was the one she’d been screaming at. Small and ashen faced, with faded clothes and uncombed hair, he could not have looked more harmless. His eyes darted toward the double doors, and she saw him brace himself to make a run for them. She skewered him with a glance. “Why are you in my room? What do you want?”

He said, “Nuffink.”

Her jaw dropped. All at once, she grasped what he was doing in her room and why she’d been screaming. He had come to steal the fire opal.

And she had stopped him.

She could have thrown back her head and howled with frustration. She wanted to spew curses, to claw the air and pound the bedclothes with her fists. She choked back her rage, desperate to believe that the opportunity had not been lost. The boy had been prepared to steal from her. Perhaps he would try again.

“I’ve frightened you.” She tried to soften her harsh voice, to impersonate a frail old lady. “I was having a nightmare. I’m so sorry.”

The boy didn’t believe a word of it. She opened her mouth to call him by name but couldn’t remember what it was. That sort of thing happened to her more and more often, and it drove her mad. She fancied that his name began with a
P.
An unusual name, too grand for this rat of a boy. Peverel? Phineas? She gave it up. “What’s your name? I’ve forgotten it.”

“Parsefall.”

“I’m sorry I frightened you, Parsefall. I was startled.” She tried to gather her wits. She wondered if she could convince him that she was unaware that he’d been on the verge of robbing her. It would be best if he thought of her as a pathetic old lady, too simple to suspect him and too weak to defend herself. She quavered, “Did you come to my room to find a Christmas present?”

His eyes narrowed. She had provided him with an explanation for his presence in her room. He was willing to adopt her lie, but it was clear that he didn’t trust her. “You said we could take things from anywhere in the ’ouse.”

“Indeed I did,” Cassandra said warmly, “and I laid out a number of things in this room. Did you come for one of them?”

The boy screwed up his mouth, refusing to commit himself. Cassandra lost her temper. She was frustrated and ill, and she was already weary of pretending to be a kindly old lady. “I’m cold,” she snapped, “and the blankets are on the floor, where I can’t reach them. Get me a glass of wine. There’s a bottle and glass by the washstand. Fetch it!”

The sharpness in her voice spurred him to action. He fished up the fallen bedclothes and lobbed them at her. She watched impatiently as he found the wine and poured her a glass. She drank it all in one draft and held out the glass to him. To her surprise, he took it. She saw that roughness suited him better than her simulated kindness. She supposed he was used to being scolded and ordered about.

“I want another glass. You have one, too.” She indicated a silver goblet on the table. “Take that one. We’ll drink together.”

He looked surprised but went back to the decanter of wine and poured two glasses. He took a gulp and licked his lips. It was evident that he’d never tasted port before.

“So. You came here for a Christmas gift.”

The boy dropped his head and slurped the wine as if it were soup. The action hid his face.

“I told you: you may take what you like. I only want to know what it is. It was something on the table, wasn’t it? Something you saw last night?”

Parsefall glanced over his shoulder. “The pistol.”

Cassandra smiled. “I thought that might appeal to you. If you want it, it’s yours. Go and get it.”

He looked a little taken aback, but he crossed the room to claim the prize. “Is it loaded?”

“I don’t know,” Cassandra answered truthfully. “Pull the trigger and see.”

He gaped at her, turned the pistol toward the window, and fingered the trigger. Cassandra shook her head. “Not like that. You have to cock it. Here, bring it to me.” She held out her hand, and he approached, carrying the pistol muzzle down. “Stand back.” She cocked the pistol, aimed it at one of the mirrors, and pulled the trigger.

Nothing happened.

“No gunpowder,” Cassandra said morosely. She dropped the weapon on the counterpane. “I’m not sure if we have any gunpowder in the house. Perhaps we could order some from the village.”

Parsefall’s face was a study. All at once, it broke out in an incredulous grin. It had been a long time since anyone smiled at Cassandra like that, and she was absurdly pleased. Her cheeks felt warm, and she wondered if she’d drunk too much. Then her smile faded. She could not afford to be sentimental about the boy. Whether she liked him or not, she meant to use him. If she succeeded, she would be his doom.

Her eyes lit on the pillowcase halfway across the room. “What’s that?”

Parsefall tensed. “It’s me Christmas presents. You said I could ’ave wot I like.”

“I said it and I meant it. Bring it here and show me. What did you take?”

The boy heaved the pillowcase onto the bed and opened it. “Candlesticks, mostly,” he said. “There woz a lot of ’em. I took the silver ones. I left you the chiny ones, because they ain’t worf much.” He peered into the bag, unaware of Cassandra’s amusement. “There woz a clock wiv a metal lion on it. I took that. And an inkwell — it’s tarnished, but I fink it’s silver. And a fan.” He spread the fan open. “Them sticks is muvver-of-pearl an’ gold leaf. Then I opened the drawers in all the bedrooms an’ found wipes.” He brought up a fistful of handkerchiefs. “They’re silk, an’ some of ’em ’ave lace at the edge. I can sell ’em down the pawnshop when I gets back t’London.” He looped a rosary over his fingers, eyeing it appraisingly. “An’ Jesus. I took ’im, too.”

Cassandra was impressed. The boy had a good instinct for what was valuable. He had done a creditable job of plundering the house.

“Ma’am?” Parsefall was watching her warily. “Did yer mean it — what you said before? Will I keep ’em? You ain’t going to call the coppers?”

Cassandra saw her opportunity. “When you say
coppers,
do you mean policemen?”

He nodded.

“I hate coppers,” Cassandra said promptly. “They’re vulgar and tedious, and I won’t have them in the house.” She saw his brow clear, and she decided to elaborate on the lie. “Last year, when a thief broke in and stole the silver, Mrs. Fettle wanted to call in the coppers, but I forbade it.”