did he not leave it for Mr. Elliot to discover?” I exclaimed. “For surely this miniature can have nothing to do with Lord Kinsfell! Indeed, its existence might divert suspicion from his head!”
“I cannot offer an explanation.” Lord Harold’s voice was heavy. “But I surmise that Kinsfell has not told us
all.
No more intelligence of the portrait or its meaning could I wring from his lips, than the plea that it be prevented from falling into the magistrate’s hands—and from this, I must assume he would shield another, to whom the portrait points. He consented to place it in my keeping solely out of fear of its discovery while he remains in gaol.”
“And does he expect you to shield that person also? Or are you at liberty to solicit the magistrate, where Lord Kinsfell would not?”
“Having failed to entrust the eye to Mr. Elliot
then
, we cannot with impunity reveal it now,” Lord Harold said thoughtfully. “Mr. Elliot would be forgiven for believing it a foolish fabrication, and accord it no more significance than the anteroom’s open window. No, Miss Austen—if we are to fathom the portrait’s significance, we must do so ourselves.”
“Only consider, my lord, the wonder that its disappearance must have caused,” I murmured. “Our murderer expected the portrait to be revealed—to point, perhaps, to the incrimination of another. But not a sign of the bauble has the magistrate seen!”
“Then we may hope the villain’s anxiety will force his hand,” Lord Harold replied with quiet satisfaction.
I turned the portrait again before the candle-flame,and felt the movement of the eye’s gaze as though it were alive. “It
is
a lovely thing, and must be dearly bought. I should think it far beyond the means of most.”
“The setting is very fine, the pearls are good; and the portrait itself is excellent. I have known Mr. George Engleheart to charge upwards of twenty-five guineas for a similar likeness—and that would never encompass the jeweller’s bill. Such a bauble would indeed be well beyond the reach of the common run. It is to Engleheart in London I must go, Miss Austen—for I believe he keeps a log-book of his commissions; and if this pendant fell from his brush, he will have recorded the identity of its subject. Such knowledge should be as gold, in revealing the meaning of Portal’s death.”
“Stay!” I cried, and sprang to my feet. “Of what use is London, when the foremost painter of such miniatures is already come to Bath?”
Lord Harold surveyed me narrowly. “Of whom would you speak?”
“Mr. Richard Cosway! I made his acquaintance this very morning, while promenading in the Pump Room. He intends a visit of some duration—three months, I believe. I have only to enquire of my sister Eliza, and his direction is known!”
“Capital. We shall call upon him tomorrow—let us say, at two o’clock. Have you leisure enough to pay the call?”
“My time is at your disposal, my lord.”
“That is very well, Miss Austen, for I would beg another favour of you. There is an additional visit I feel compelled to make.”
Lord Harold sat down beside me and reached for my hand. The intimacy of the gesture quite took my breath, and I fear my fingers trembled in his grip. He said, “We must go to the Theatre Royal, as soon as ever may be. I expect the magistrate to search Mr. Portal’s lodgings, butI do not think he will soon consider the manager’s offices at the theatre itself. A perusal of Portal’s private papers might tell us much.”
“His papers?” I said with a frown. “Surely there can be no occasion for such an abuse of privacy.”
“I have known a good deal of blackmail, my dear Miss Austen,” Lord Harold said drily, “and I cannot help but observe the marks of its effect throughout this unfortunate history.”
“Blackmail!” I cried, freeing my fingers from his grasp.
“I sense it everywhere in Richard Portal’s sad end. Lord Swithin’s anxiety regarding
“I cannot offer an explanation.” Lord Harold’s voice was heavy. “But I surmise that Kinsfell has not told us
all.
No more intelligence of the portrait or its meaning could I wring from his lips, than the plea that it be prevented from falling into the magistrate’s hands—and from this, I must assume he would shield another, to whom the portrait points. He consented to place it in my keeping solely out of fear of its discovery while he remains in gaol.”
“And does he expect you to shield that person also? Or are you at liberty to solicit the magistrate, where Lord Kinsfell would not?”
“Having failed to entrust the eye to Mr. Elliot
then
, we cannot with impunity reveal it now,” Lord Harold said thoughtfully. “Mr. Elliot would be forgiven for believing it a foolish fabrication, and accord it no more significance than the anteroom’s open window. No, Miss Austen—if we are to fathom the portrait’s significance, we must do so ourselves.”
“Only consider, my lord, the wonder that its disappearance must have caused,” I murmured. “Our murderer expected the portrait to be revealed—to point, perhaps, to the incrimination of another. But not a sign of the bauble has the magistrate seen!”
“Then we may hope the villain’s anxiety will force his hand,” Lord Harold replied with quiet satisfaction.
I turned the portrait again before the candle-flame,and felt the movement of the eye’s gaze as though it were alive. “It
is
a lovely thing, and must be dearly bought. I should think it far beyond the means of most.”
“The setting is very fine, the pearls are good; and the portrait itself is excellent. I have known Mr. George Engleheart to charge upwards of twenty-five guineas for a similar likeness—and that would never encompass the jeweller’s bill. Such a bauble would indeed be well beyond the reach of the common run. It is to Engleheart in London I must go, Miss Austen—for I believe he keeps a log-book of his commissions; and if this pendant fell from his brush, he will have recorded the identity of its subject. Such knowledge should be as gold, in revealing the meaning of Portal’s death.”
“Stay!” I cried, and sprang to my feet. “Of what use is London, when the foremost painter of such miniatures is already come to Bath?”
Lord Harold surveyed me narrowly. “Of whom would you speak?”
“Mr. Richard Cosway! I made his acquaintance this very morning, while promenading in the Pump Room. He intends a visit of some duration—three months, I believe. I have only to enquire of my sister Eliza, and his direction is known!”
“Capital. We shall call upon him tomorrow—let us say, at two o’clock. Have you leisure enough to pay the call?”
“My time is at your disposal, my lord.”
“That is very well, Miss Austen, for I would beg another favour of you. There is an additional visit I feel compelled to make.”
Lord Harold sat down beside me and reached for my hand. The intimacy of the gesture quite took my breath, and I fear my fingers trembled in his grip. He said, “We must go to the Theatre Royal, as soon as ever may be. I expect the magistrate to search Mr. Portal’s lodgings, butI do not think he will soon consider the manager’s offices at the theatre itself. A perusal of Portal’s private papers might tell us much.”
“His papers?” I said with a frown. “Surely there can be no occasion for such an abuse of privacy.”
“I have known a good deal of blackmail, my dear Miss Austen,” Lord Harold said drily, “and I cannot help but observe the marks of its effect throughout this unfortunate history.”
“Blackmail!” I cried, freeing my fingers from his grasp.
“I sense it everywhere in Richard Portal’s sad end. Lord Swithin’s anxiety regarding
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