gown, her yellow-white hair swept back from her brow, her face set in an expression of defiant martial beauty. One depicted her on the deck of a storm-lashed galleon, another standing in a forest, a host of savage beasts lying supine at her elaborately side-buttoned black shoes. The final painting appeared to show her in Hell, surrounded by winged fiends, horned, cloven-hooved demons and giant red scarabs.
Delphine remembered how Dr Lansley had mocked the obsequious portrait of the 1st Earl. Whoever had commissioned these paintings had wanted to present Lady Stokeham as a striking, almost mythical figure.
No wonder Lord Alderberen had chosen to hang them here, away from impressionable guests.
The door to Proppâs room stood between a pair of small black tapestries â on the left, an eight-pointed star, on the right, a rosy cross within a pentagram within a circle. Delphine glanced back over her shoulder. She listened for footsteps. The paintings looked like windows in a carriage. For an instant, she had the oddest sensation she was on a train.
She knocked on the door. Sturdy wood swallowed the sound. If anyone answered, she would say she was returning the key.
Delphine waited. She checked the corridor.
They were all taking lunch. It was barely past noon, and the Society loved long, chatty meals rounded off with drinks and cigars in the smoking room. The coast would be clear for almost an hour.
She slid the key into the keyhole. She was just checking it fitted, she told herself. Perhaps it did not belong to Propp at all.
The key turned smoothly. The bolt slid aside with a chuck .
Somewhere in the Hall a door slammed. Delphine froze, listening. Her chest felt tight. Was this a mistake? She had stumbled across two keys now. Could it really be an accident? She had seen the look in Proppâs eyes. What if he had dropped it on purpose?
What if this was a trap?
She looked back up the corridor a third time. One of the wall-mounted light fixtures dimmed then flared back to full brightness. She was alone.
Her collision with Propp had been pure chance. He could not have known she was coming. Had he really, in those few seconds, decided to lure her back to his study? How could he know that she would take the bait, that she would even recognise a dropped key as bait?
The security of the Empire might be at stake. The evidence she was hunting for might be feet away. She ran her fingertips down the grooved door and thought of trench periscopes, mortar blasts, Vickers guns strafing larch spinneys through fog. Her breath rose and fell.
She closed her fist around the cold green glass of the rose-cut door knob.
She stepped into the room.
In the centre of the table, rounds of boiled gammon steamed and glistened. There were devilled eggs on a silver platter and potato salad and steamed spinach in glass bowls, garnished with croutons. There was a dish of prunes stuffed with walnuts, and beside it clay pots of mayonnaise and mustard.
Gideon Venner did not feel hungry.
The car journey had been long, sticky and nauseating. Something had been wrong with the air. Twice he had asked Philip to stop so he could stand by the side of the road and breathe. For the last part of the trip he had stripped down to his vest, and if not for Philipâs constant critical glances in the rear-view mirror he would have taken that off too.
Now the maid had left him here alone. Where was everyone?
Coming to Alderberen Hall had been a mistake. He could feel its history pressing down on him, a wet heat. There were too many memories.
Too many ghosts.
âAh! Our new guest.â
A short, bald, thickset man had entered the banqueting hall.He looked Greek or Turkish or perhaps Arabic. Surely this couldnât . . .
Gideon used his napkin to wipe the sweat from his throat. He rose.
âGideon Venner.â He extended a damp hand. âIt is a true honour to meet you at last, Mr Propp.â
Mr Propp smiled. âWe do not
Delphine remembered how Dr Lansley had mocked the obsequious portrait of the 1st Earl. Whoever had commissioned these paintings had wanted to present Lady Stokeham as a striking, almost mythical figure.
No wonder Lord Alderberen had chosen to hang them here, away from impressionable guests.
The door to Proppâs room stood between a pair of small black tapestries â on the left, an eight-pointed star, on the right, a rosy cross within a pentagram within a circle. Delphine glanced back over her shoulder. She listened for footsteps. The paintings looked like windows in a carriage. For an instant, she had the oddest sensation she was on a train.
She knocked on the door. Sturdy wood swallowed the sound. If anyone answered, she would say she was returning the key.
Delphine waited. She checked the corridor.
They were all taking lunch. It was barely past noon, and the Society loved long, chatty meals rounded off with drinks and cigars in the smoking room. The coast would be clear for almost an hour.
She slid the key into the keyhole. She was just checking it fitted, she told herself. Perhaps it did not belong to Propp at all.
The key turned smoothly. The bolt slid aside with a chuck .
Somewhere in the Hall a door slammed. Delphine froze, listening. Her chest felt tight. Was this a mistake? She had stumbled across two keys now. Could it really be an accident? She had seen the look in Proppâs eyes. What if he had dropped it on purpose?
What if this was a trap?
She looked back up the corridor a third time. One of the wall-mounted light fixtures dimmed then flared back to full brightness. She was alone.
Her collision with Propp had been pure chance. He could not have known she was coming. Had he really, in those few seconds, decided to lure her back to his study? How could he know that she would take the bait, that she would even recognise a dropped key as bait?
The security of the Empire might be at stake. The evidence she was hunting for might be feet away. She ran her fingertips down the grooved door and thought of trench periscopes, mortar blasts, Vickers guns strafing larch spinneys through fog. Her breath rose and fell.
She closed her fist around the cold green glass of the rose-cut door knob.
She stepped into the room.
In the centre of the table, rounds of boiled gammon steamed and glistened. There were devilled eggs on a silver platter and potato salad and steamed spinach in glass bowls, garnished with croutons. There was a dish of prunes stuffed with walnuts, and beside it clay pots of mayonnaise and mustard.
Gideon Venner did not feel hungry.
The car journey had been long, sticky and nauseating. Something had been wrong with the air. Twice he had asked Philip to stop so he could stand by the side of the road and breathe. For the last part of the trip he had stripped down to his vest, and if not for Philipâs constant critical glances in the rear-view mirror he would have taken that off too.
Now the maid had left him here alone. Where was everyone?
Coming to Alderberen Hall had been a mistake. He could feel its history pressing down on him, a wet heat. There were too many memories.
Too many ghosts.
âAh! Our new guest.â
A short, bald, thickset man had entered the banqueting hall.He looked Greek or Turkish or perhaps Arabic. Surely this couldnât . . .
Gideon used his napkin to wipe the sweat from his throat. He rose.
âGideon Venner.â He extended a damp hand. âIt is a true honour to meet you at last, Mr Propp.â
Mr Propp smiled. âWe do not
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