Page 54 of An Artful Dodge
“Well, I’m just wondering if there’s a reason the marquess is having it cleaned now.”
I should have wondered that myself. “You think his wife will wear it to a special event? I could steal it there instead?”
It would likely be easier to steal the necklace from the Marchioness Hargrave’s neck than from the shop. But it was curious that Maggie hadn’t considered this. She, who used to take necklaces from women’s necks. Perhaps she doubted I could do it.
James shrugged. “We could find out.”
“How?” I asked.
He rose from his chair. “You stay here, make us some tea, and I’ll be back.”
“Where are you going?”
“I’ve a friend who keeps newspapers.”
James put on his coat and left, and I poured water from the jug into the kettle, stoked the fire, rummaged in the cupboard for a pot, cups, and a tin of tea. I opened it and sniffed. Bergamot.
But a kettle takes time to boil, and my eyes wandered around his room. There wasn’t much to it—a bed, made, covered with a beautifully quilted counterpane that I guessed was Emma’s handiwork; a large table with wide wooden planks and four chairs; a smaller table for a lamp; some books; a wardrobe for clothes. I wanted to play fair; he’d left me here, trusting me not to snoop, but by my reckoning, that gave me license to look at anything out in the open. I approached his shelves and examined his books. There were only eight, and three were in French. I opened one to find a signature—his mother’s—Adelaide.
His step sounded on the stairs. I replaced the book in its space and returned to the stove, where the water was close to boiling. He entered bearing a sheaf of papers under his arm, the cold dampness of the night entering with him.
“Why does your friend keep papers?” I asked.
He dropped them on the table and rehung his coat on a nail by the door. “My guess is he keeps them for the obituaries, but I don’t ask.”
My mind darted to possible occupations for his friend: a solicitor, an art gallery owner, an estate auctioneer, a thief, a funeral parlor owner, a resurrectionist, or a medical student. Any of them might want to know when someone died. Death was an opportunity for the vultures.
“I bought copies of today’s papers, too.” James tossed them onto the table.
scotland yard flailing!trumpeted theTimes.
murders thwart the detectivesannounced theStandard.
“The police are taking a beating,” James said. “I assume you’d have said, but have Billy and Tommy come back?”
“Not that I’ve seen,” I said.
James split the pile of newspapers in half, setting the stacks on either side of the table.
“What should we look for?” I spooned tea leaves into the pot and poured hot water from the kettle.
“Something fancy. An opera or a theater opening.” James grinned. “I don’t know the schedule offhand.”
I snorted.
“A party would be best,” he said. “People drinking spirits or champagne, and they’re talking or dancing.”
My mind leapt to the day I’d taken the necklace from Mary while she talked.
“Another possibility would be to take it from the marquess’s house,” he said. “Do you know where they live?”
“Somewhere in the West End, I assume.”
“Hm.” He poured out hot tea for us into two mismatched cups, clinked the kettle back on the stove, and brought two more lamps over, lighting them with deft hands.
He paused, and I looked up. He’d caught me staring.
Feeling warmth creeping along my neck, I picked up my cup and bent my head over the first page of the newspaper.
