Crimson Shore

Rising again, she let the beam of her flashlight roam much more slowly over the room, looking for any faults of construction, any symptoms of weathering or age, that McCool might have employed to his advantage.

In the middle of the floor, she noticed an unusually large gap between two of the boards. She knelt once again, removing the antique Italian Maniago stiletto she had recently begun keeping on her person. A press of the trigger set into the mother-of-pearl handle released the small, slim blade.

A brief interval of probing at the gap made it clear the boards were securely fastened.

The bed had a skirt that fell almost to the floor. But its lower trim was dusty and obviously undisturbed; nothing had been stored beneath.

Now Constance rose once more and went over to the rolltop desk. It had four small drawers in its top, two on each side, and four larger drawers beneath. One after the other, she pulled out the small upper drawers — full of faded Exmouth postcards and writing paper adorned with sketches of the Inn — and looked behind them. Nothing but sawdust and the traceries of spiderwebs. Next she began pulling out the larger drawers beneath the desktop, placing them on the floor one at a time, examining their contents with the flashlight, then probing the resulting cavities with her flashlight and feeling along the upper edges.

As she pulled out the lower-right drawer, a quiet thud sounded from the recesses behind. Quickly, she shone her light inside. Two items — the thin leather notebook and a periodical of some kind — had been hidden there, placed on end behind the closed drawer. She removed them, replaced the drawer, then took a seat on the bed to examine her find.

What she thought had been a periodical was, in fact, an auction catalog from Christie’s of London. It dated to August of two years before, and was titled Magnificent Jewels from a Noble Estate. While a few entries had been indicated by bookmarks, there were no notes or jottings of any kind.

Constance frowned a moment, glancing at the cover of the catalog, thinking. Then she put it to one side, opened the worn leather journal, and began leafing through the pages of crabbed, tiny handwriting. At one page she stopped and began reading intently.

28

March 5

I spent the morning and much of the afternoon in Warwickshire, visiting Hurwell Ossory. What a time I had of it! The Hurwells are a type of ancient English family that, I’m afraid, is becoming all too common: much reduced, living like paupers in their stately home, the line weakened by inbreeding, a useless carbuncle on society. One thing they have retained, however, is their pride: they are almost fanatical in their devotion to the memory of Lady Elizabeth Hurwell and her good works. This, in fact, was initially a stumbling block, due to the way the family jealously guards their reputation (God only knows what kind of reputation they believe they have). When I told them I was planning a biography of Lady Hurwell, they were immediately suspicious. Curiosity, no doubt, compelled them to agree to my request for a visit — but when I stated my intentions in more detail they became closed-mouthed and uncooperative. This gradually changed, however, when I explained in what a good light I viewed Lady Hurwell and how glowing a picture I planned to paint of her. I also swore them to secrecy, which (if I may offer a note of self-congratulation) was a masterstroke; it gave them the impression that there was a great deal more interest in the history of their family than, alas, there actually is.