Chapter Text
‘I’m sorry, but I do believe you’ve come to the wrong house.’
‘And I am certain I have not,’ Lexa replies, tone even.
The stare she fixes him with has made many a lesser man tremble, and his visible discomfort borders on the squirmy. Nonetheless, she can tell by the subtle hardening of his jaw that he is still adamant not to let her in.
‘Thank you, Hughes, I’ll take it from here.’
The voice is young, breezy even, but with a casual authority. The speaker is evidently used to being obeyed.
‘But sir…’
‘That’ll be all, Hughes,’ he replies merrily.
Lexa watches with no small satisfaction as the butler huffs, muttering discontentedly under his breath as he exits through the hall.
‘My apologies, detective. He can be a little over-protective. It was good of you to come on such short notice.’
Lexa takes the proffered hand. The grip is firm, but not overbearing. Confident without anything to prove. She meets it.
‘But of course, Lord Jaha, your account of the events was most interesting.’
‘Wells, please. Lord Jaha is my father.’
Lexa nods in acquiescence but does not offer her first name in return.
‘And where is the Earl of Arcaster?’
The man’s swarthy skin turns a shade darker. Ah.
‘Hopefully far too busy in his study to take any interest in our little project,’ he admits.
Lexa nods again. So the master of the house likely does not approve of her taking an interest. Not ideal. Not new either.
‘Shall we, then?’
The boy nods and springs into action. Well, not quite a boy, not that much younger than Lexa herself. And by all the looks of it well on the way to becoming a fine man, as much as such a thing is not oxymoronic in Lexa’s view. But he’s not quite there yet, with his naïve eagerness and open trust. The world will show him otherwise.
‘This is where it’s usually kept,’ he explains, leading her into a room that seems reserved for the display of art pieces.
The paintings are tasteful, hung expertly with the odd sculpture even if their display borders on pretentious. The Earl of Arcaster is well-known for his little demonstrations of wealth. She notices there is no gap evidencing where the missing painting hung.
‘Used to be?’ she inquires distractedly, eyes flicking around the room, mapping doors, windows, and imaginary escape routes.
‘It was removed the morning of the robbery to be cleaned and wrapped. It was meant to be Clarke’s Christmas gift.’
‘Clarke?’
‘Lady Griffin, that is. The Marchioness’s daughter.’
Lexa nods, scribbles the name onto her writing pad. There was no need to specify which Marchioness. There is only one of any note in these parts.
‘Where was it moved to?’
‘A small room we use for temporary storage. I’ll show you.’
Lexa follows him down the hall; ostentatious, even in what she can imagine is a little-used wing of the estate.
The room however, is simple in contrast. A wooden desk and worn chair in the center, surrounded by haphazardly placed paintings in various states of unwrapping.
‘Old Maxie had brought it here, given the frame a bit of a polish, and then locked the room up for the night.’
‘And the painting was definitely removed that night?’
‘It wasn’t here when he returned, at around 8 yesterday morning.’
‘You trust this Maxie?’
‘Absolutely. He’s been with us for decades.’
Lexa scribbles the information on her pad.
‘Are there any other keys?’ Lexa asks, examining the lock. ‘The lock does not appear to have been tampered with.’
‘Well, I suppose my father has one somewhere in his study. And Hughes the butler. But other than that, I don’t think so. It’s not used by many people.’
More scribbling. Lexa notes that the window is sealed shut, and likely too small for anyone but a child to enter.
She proceeds to the desk, where the painting would’ve been left to dry. Looking for marks or clues. Once she retrieves a fiber which she wraps in a handkerchief and pockets. She even bends to sniff the table, much to Wells’s amusement.
‘What, may I ask, is going on here?’
Wells spins on the spot and Lexa notices the immediate shift in the boy’s manner. Shoulder blades pulled back, spine stiff. He’s tense, on edge, ready for an attack.
‘Father, this is the detective I spoke to you about, Alexandra Woods. I’ve asked to come help find the missing painting.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous, boy, that’s a woman, not a detective. I told you yesterday to leave the matter to the constable.’
Behind the tall man, Lexa can see the butler looking exceptionally smug. So that’s what happened.
She sees a muscle tick in the boy’s jaw. He’s preparing to fight back, by all signs a rare occurrence that requires a great deal of strength. She uses the distraction to appraise the earl.
‘With all respect, sir, the constables showed no sign of looking into the matter before Christmas. You know what that painting means to Clarke. I need it back before Christmas.’
‘That girl needs to put her grief aside and focus on the future,’ the disdain drips from his words. ‘And your feeding of this ridiculous prolonged mourning is absurd. It’s one thing for women to be unstable, they can hardly escape their basic genetic makeup, but you.’
Lexa can see the heat in the boy’s face, has to bite her own tongue to keep from answering. She has long learned to ignore such views, losing one’s temper is rarely profitable. But the angry thudding of her heart tells her her body does not always agree with her mind.
‘Lord Jaha, is there any chance someone might’ve taken the spare key from your study?’ Her words are abrupt, slicing through the tension with forced neutrality.
‘The nerve,’ he replies, turning to her. ‘You come into my house uninvited and accuse me of being unable to keep track of my possessions?’
Lexa doesn’t bother to point out that neither is she uninvited, nor is he the all-knowing protector of his belongings he would have them believe. Her gaze meets his; fixed, undaunted.
‘What about your key?’ she asks, looking past the earl the butler standing behind him.
‘I…’
‘That is enough, you have no authority to questions my staff. Hughes, see her out now.’
Lexa lowers her gaze and begins leisurely writing something for the sole purpose of keeping the earl on edge.
‘I haven’t got time for loitering, Miss Woods,’ he snaps icily.
Lexa nods, replaces her hat. She tips it cordially to Wells, ignoring his father as he moves to make way for her in the hall.
Hughes is stiff on the walk down. Overly-defensive, hatches battened firmly down. Perhaps too much so for an innocent man. Lexa makes a point of looking at him sharply out of the corner of her eye every now and then, watches his neck flush and his hand begin a little nervous jingle. Not the behavior of a man with nothing to hide.
He’s afraid she’ll asks him again. She decides to surprise him by keeping silent.
They reach the front door. He opens it with an ill-suppressed flourish. Force of habit, no doubt.
‘Well, Mr. Bingham, your hospitality has been much appreciated.’
The man startles a little at the use of a name he didn’t provide. Lexa uses the moment to sweep into her carriage. Once settled, she lifts her walking stick to tap the roof, but is interrupted by knuckles rapping on the carriage door.
The younger Jaha’s face pants into view.
‘Please, detective. I hope my father hasn’t put you off the case. He was born ornery and can’t be helped,’ he adds with a sad smile. ‘I can still pay your fee. My mother’s left me money…’
‘Not to worry, Wells. This case has intrigued me. I shall contact you when I have something to report. In the meantime, would you ascertain where the other two keys are and whether they might have been taken by someone else on the night in question.’
‘I’ll do my best, ma’am.’
‘Well then, I expect we shall speak again very soon.’
And she taps the roof, allowing herself a small chuckle at the use of ‘ma’am’ from someone practically her age.
-------
‘Well, where’ve you been. I’m famished and there’s no one to cook.’
Lexa waves a haphazard salute, not bothering to look up from the list of staff currently employed by the Earl of Arcaster.
‘Did you not hear me, Miss Scribbler? I require sustenance,’ Anya insists.
‘Judy can fix you something,’ Lexa replies, still not turning to her friend.
‘Judy?’ she scoffs, ‘Judy’s not here. You gave her three weeks’ leave so she could visit her family in Wales.’
‘So I did,’ Lexa agrees after a moment’s thought.
‘When was the last time you ate?’
‘When did Judy leave?’
‘Two days ago.’
‘That sounds about right.’
Anya rolls her eyes dramatically.
‘These little projects of yours are all very well and good, but if you’re going to die of starvation because some nobleman lost his favorite pillow, I hope your testament provides for the cleaning of your death stench from our quarters.’
‘Mmh,’ Lexa agrees, absorbed in her musings.
‘Lexa, on your parents’ graves I will feed you!’
Lexa scowls at that.
‘Just give me a minute and we’ll go to the pub.’
Anya drapes her elegant frame across the armchair and picks a book off the nearest pile, settling in for what’s sure to be more than a minute.
A quarter of an hour later, Lexa emerges from what Anya has come to call her ‘thinking trance’ (‘Thinking’s so hard for that one, she literally can’t do anything else while she tries it.’) and looks up.
‘Supper then?’
‘And breakfast, while we’re at it. By the looks of you, you’ll be knocked over by snowflakes on the way.’
Lexa rolls her eyes. The blond may be taller, but they’ve proven to be equally matched in a fight. Repeatedly. And Anya has proven to be just the friend to have along when facing off shady characters in alleys.
-------
‘So, what’s this new case then?’ Anya asks around a mouthful of food.
‘A stolen painting from the Earl of Arcaster’s estate.’
‘The Earl of Arcaster? That old dodger would never hire you.’
Lexa scowls.
‘I don’t mean…Look, for reasons unknown to myself the stream of hopeless, desperate individuals battering down our door at all hours would suggest you are…fairly competent.’
‘The best in London.’
‘But that does not explain the earl’s change of heart.’
‘His son hired me,’ Lexa admits. ‘By his account, the painting is of some sentimental value to the Marchioness’s daughter and he was distraught at the thought of not being able to give it to her for Christmas.’
‘Marchioness de Cleavarge?’
‘Who else?’
‘Isn’t she the one who had her jewels go missing this week?’
‘What’s that?’
‘Ah, just something I heard. A rumor, no more. You know my currency is information.’
‘Seems it will be worth paying the marchioness a visit.’
Anya sighs. ‘It all sounds rather dull. I don’t suppose there’s any talking you out of it? You know these nobles have paintings and jewels to spare.’
‘Better not tell them that or I’ll be out of a job.’
‘True. And you are insufferable when you have nothing to set that greedy little mind too. But if it involves chemistry laboratories in the parlor to extract hazy clues from dubious fibers, you’ll have to find new rooms.’
‘That clue led to the capture of the notorious pigmy bandit.’
‘So you claim. All I know is the burn mark is still visible on my ceiling and the smell had me staying at Indra’s for weeks. You have been warned, Woods.’
‘Duly noted.’
And with that, Lexa’s mind turned to what she might learn at the marchioness’s estate in the morning.