the images moving among eerie suggestions of sounds. Maybe this was how Elspeth had felt, looking down from her gilded cage at scenes irrevocably beyond her reach.
Rebecca walked sedately down to her room and looked at Elspeth’s painted face with new interest. What tragic eyes, contrasting curiously with such a sharply honed chin!
Comb and lipstick— there, Rebecca thought, she was as presentable as she would ever be. In the edge of the mirror she saw the door of her wardrobe standing open. The smell of lavender had ebbed overnight, and she had left the door shut. Surely she had left it shut. A couple of blouses lay draped over the rim of the opening. Frowning, she replaced them, vowing to have a word or two with Dorothy about going through her things.
Voices came faintly from below, Dorothy’s high-pitched yammer, a deep bassoon drawl that must be Phil, and the impeccable baritone, even richer now than it had been over the telephone. Michael’s lilt was clipped of its diphthong extravagances like a sheep shorn of its fleece.
Rebecca passed Phil Pruitt on the stairs, shrinking to the side to avoid being scooped up by his box of tools like a cow caught by a locomotive’s cowcatcher. Dorothy’s voice clung to his heels, “Children have no self-respect anymore, they just can’t be bothered to dress properly.”
“Aw,” Phil shouted back over his shoulder, “leave the boy alone, he’s just playacting with those friends of his. They all look like that. Don’t hurt nothing.” He turned, saw Rebecca, and didn’t startle in the least. “Afternoon,” he said, with a laconic nod, and climbed on by. His back pocket was distended by a can of snuff and a grotesque Grimm Brothers key the twin of the one Michael had used to lock the front door.
Michael was seated at the table in the Hall, his notebook open before him, a porcelain teapot upside down in his hand. Narrowly he inspected its maker’s mark, set it down, made a notation in his book. Eric Adler stood beside him, just slipping his sunglasses into his jacket pocket. “Sevres china? That’s quite valuable. You’ll have to pack it very carefully to get it back to Scotland without breaking it.”
“There’s an allowance for professional packin’,” replied Michael, never raising his eyes from the page.
Eric looked over Michael’s shoulder at the book. “You’re choosing all the best things, I see.”
“That,” said Michael, “is what they hired me to do. No sense in payin’ a fortune to have a bloody jumble sale shipped back to the Auld Country.” His brows tightened over his eyes like the proscenium arch of a theater.
“Yes, of course.” Eric raised his hands as if calming a rabid dog. He saw Rebecca standing in the doorway and his wary expression broke into a smile. His teeth were crowded together awkwardly, an engaging flaw in an otherwise strong, square, classically handsome face. “Ms. Reid? Rebecca, isn’t it?”
Oh my, she thought. She stepped forward, hand extended. “Eric. Nice to meet you.”
He shook her hand. His clasp lingered perhaps a moment too long, but his smile was openly, honestly appreciative. Maybe, Rebecca thought, he’d been expecting the stereotypical dried-up academic with wire-rimmed glasses, just as she’d been expecting someone along the lines of Marcus Welby.
Michael inspected a pewter candlestick and made another note in his book. Dorothy dusted the chess set, every line of her back alert to the conversation taking place behind her. Rebecca was surprised her ears didn’t swivel like a cat’s.
“There are the inventories.” Eric indicated several rusty black notebooks stacked next to his open briefcase. “James typed these up in the forties, and I’m afraid the ink has faded over the years. I’m sorry I wasn’t able to get them here any sooner than this.” He glanced across the table.
“No problem,” muttered Michael to the candlestick.
“We appreciate your bringing them now.” Rebecca
Rebecca walked sedately down to her room and looked at Elspeth’s painted face with new interest. What tragic eyes, contrasting curiously with such a sharply honed chin!
Comb and lipstick— there, Rebecca thought, she was as presentable as she would ever be. In the edge of the mirror she saw the door of her wardrobe standing open. The smell of lavender had ebbed overnight, and she had left the door shut. Surely she had left it shut. A couple of blouses lay draped over the rim of the opening. Frowning, she replaced them, vowing to have a word or two with Dorothy about going through her things.
Voices came faintly from below, Dorothy’s high-pitched yammer, a deep bassoon drawl that must be Phil, and the impeccable baritone, even richer now than it had been over the telephone. Michael’s lilt was clipped of its diphthong extravagances like a sheep shorn of its fleece.
Rebecca passed Phil Pruitt on the stairs, shrinking to the side to avoid being scooped up by his box of tools like a cow caught by a locomotive’s cowcatcher. Dorothy’s voice clung to his heels, “Children have no self-respect anymore, they just can’t be bothered to dress properly.”
“Aw,” Phil shouted back over his shoulder, “leave the boy alone, he’s just playacting with those friends of his. They all look like that. Don’t hurt nothing.” He turned, saw Rebecca, and didn’t startle in the least. “Afternoon,” he said, with a laconic nod, and climbed on by. His back pocket was distended by a can of snuff and a grotesque Grimm Brothers key the twin of the one Michael had used to lock the front door.
Michael was seated at the table in the Hall, his notebook open before him, a porcelain teapot upside down in his hand. Narrowly he inspected its maker’s mark, set it down, made a notation in his book. Eric Adler stood beside him, just slipping his sunglasses into his jacket pocket. “Sevres china? That’s quite valuable. You’ll have to pack it very carefully to get it back to Scotland without breaking it.”
“There’s an allowance for professional packin’,” replied Michael, never raising his eyes from the page.
Eric looked over Michael’s shoulder at the book. “You’re choosing all the best things, I see.”
“That,” said Michael, “is what they hired me to do. No sense in payin’ a fortune to have a bloody jumble sale shipped back to the Auld Country.” His brows tightened over his eyes like the proscenium arch of a theater.
“Yes, of course.” Eric raised his hands as if calming a rabid dog. He saw Rebecca standing in the doorway and his wary expression broke into a smile. His teeth were crowded together awkwardly, an engaging flaw in an otherwise strong, square, classically handsome face. “Ms. Reid? Rebecca, isn’t it?”
Oh my, she thought. She stepped forward, hand extended. “Eric. Nice to meet you.”
He shook her hand. His clasp lingered perhaps a moment too long, but his smile was openly, honestly appreciative. Maybe, Rebecca thought, he’d been expecting the stereotypical dried-up academic with wire-rimmed glasses, just as she’d been expecting someone along the lines of Marcus Welby.
Michael inspected a pewter candlestick and made another note in his book. Dorothy dusted the chess set, every line of her back alert to the conversation taking place behind her. Rebecca was surprised her ears didn’t swivel like a cat’s.
“There are the inventories.” Eric indicated several rusty black notebooks stacked next to his open briefcase. “James typed these up in the forties, and I’m afraid the ink has faded over the years. I’m sorry I wasn’t able to get them here any sooner than this.” He glanced across the table.
“No problem,” muttered Michael to the candlestick.
“We appreciate your bringing them now.” Rebecca
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