Page 25 of The Missing Page
“Thanks, Jamie,” Leo said with a conciliatory smile.
James, his face red, opened his mouth to speak but nothing came out.
“Should I not call you that?” Leo asked. “I just heard your cousin—”
“It’s fine,” James said quickly. “I like it.”
“Good.”
“Well, in the interest of getting this done with as soon as possible, instead of going to the library, I ought to go back to Blackthorn and see what I can turn up by way of photographs.”
Leo had one item of business to dispatch before getting a taxi to the library, so he said goodbye to James and lingered in his seat in the corner of the tea shop. He waited for Madame Fournier and her friend to settle their bill and leave, then got to his feet and headed for the door, bending once as if to pick something off the ground.
“I beg your pardon,” he told a waitress. “But the woman in the mouse-colored felt hat dropped this glove.” The glove, in fact, belonged to Wendy, who left stray gloves all over the village. The last time Leo had worn this cardigan, he had found the glove on the edge of the pigsty and rescued it, then forgot all about it. “I don’t suppose you know who she is in order to see that it’s returned to her?”
“Mrs. Mudge isn’t usually so scattered,” said the waitress. “And it’s a cold day out. She’ll be wanting that glove.”
“If you tell me where I can find Mrs. Mudge, I can return the glove to her myself and spare you the bother of keeping track of it. Besides,” he added, leaning in, “I’m in need of a good deed to do today.”
“I’ll bet you are,” she said with a wink. “Mr. Mudge is the grocer, and Mrs. Mudge will be headed over there now in order to help at the till.”
Leo thought about going directly to the grocer, but judged that he’d rather speak with Mrs. Mudge after reviewing the newspaper. He shoved his hands into his pockets and went outside to find a taxi.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Upon returning to Blackthorn, James set about scouring the place for photographs. So far, James’s search had only turned up a couple of framed portraits of Camilla and Aunt Charlotte in the drawing room, so clearly he had to delve deeper if he wanted useful photographs. He recoiled at the idea of snooping, and felt vaguely anarchic when he dared to carry his search out of the public areas of the house and into his late uncle’s bedroom. He hesitated on the threshold, his hand on the doorknob.
He turned the knob and pushed the door open. If anybody didn’t like it, they could try to stop him. What was the worst that could happen? They never invited him back? Well, that had already happened and he’d lived to tell the tale.
James had never been in this room before, and his first thought was that whatever restraint and frugality had been shown in decorating the rest of the house were cast aside when it came to furnishing this bedroom. The windows were covered in burgundy velvet, drawn closed to block out all but the most stubborn rays of sunlight. The bed was an enormous four poster, hung with draperies that matched the window curtains. The walls were covered in photographs and prints; knickknacks and paperweights and God only knew what other horrors were strewn on every available surface. Garishly patterned carpets covered the wood floors. In short, the bedroom of the late Rupert Bellamy contained every Victorian excess James had ever seen and then some.
It was also far and away the most comfortable room in the house. The chair near the bed looked soft and inviting. The acres of velvet, while casting the room into darkness, also kept away any drafts. The art and other objects made the room look like it belonged to someone. This room was somebody’s home.
The bedroom looked as if his uncle had merely stepped out. The man had been dead for less than two weeks; it was hardly any wonder that Martha hadn’t yet cleared the room out. But he didn’t envy her the task—not only because of the sheer volume of work it would involve, but because it would amount to dismantling a life.
Something struck James as off, though. Something was missing or slightly askew, as so much in this house was. He surveyed the room for another long minute before giving up, and turned his attention to the pictures on the wall, which seemed as good a place as any to continue his search.
He immediately found what looked like a professional photograph of Rose and Camilla in pale, gauzy evening gowns with flowers pinned to their bodices and tucked into their hair. They stood before a grand staircase in a house that was not Blackthorn. Based on their ages—they both looked to be in their late teens—he guessed that it was Camilla’s debut. He remembered them at this age. He even remembered Camilla wearing gowns of a similar style.
But it was Rose that drew James’s eye. This was Rose as he remembered her—she looked as if she were only barely managing not to laugh. There was something about her expression that made James fancy that she would take off the pretty gown at the first opportunity and proceed to muck about in old clothes she had raided from her father’s closet. He doubted those instances had been documented with photographs, though.
He turned his attention to the younger sister. At a distance of over twenty years, Camilla was only barely recognizable. There was the dark hair, the strong jaw, the high cheekbones. She was, James realized, not much older than Lilah was presently, but James had to squint to see even a faint family likeness.
He took the photograph, frame and all, off the wall and tucked it under his arm. He passed over what looked like the wedding portrait of Uncle Rupert and Aunt Charlotte and landed on a photograph of a trio of girls at a picnic. He immediately recognized Rose and Camilla, dressed in pinafores and each carrying a doll. James’s gaze slid past the third girl before snapping back. The third girl, a few years older than the sisters, had to be Martha. She was thin and pale then, as she was now, but in youth those qualities had created a delicate sort of loveliness; now they made James want to make sure she had an extra shawl and a cup of beef tea.
He took that photograph too, and then one of Camilla’s wedding, feeling all the while like he was committing a bank robbery.
On a low table near the window, half obscured by a vase of dried flowers and a surfeit of lace doilies, James found three photograph albums stacked on top of one another. He sat in the nearest chair and opened one of the albums in his lap. The photographs dated from about the 1890s—there was a young Rupert, eerily familiar, posed stiffly alongside a younger man James was startled to recognize as his father. Later came a blank spot, where James supposed the portrait that was bequeathed to him had once been affixed. As he turned the pages, the photographs became less posed and the clothing, too, became looser.
Stacking the books beneath the picture frames, he prepared to rise when he saw a teacup on the table beside him. In it was tea—not dried out, but nearly halfway full. When he reached out to touch it, he found that the cup still held some warmth.
Then he realized that the odd quality he had noticed in the room was simply the absence of stuffiness. The room had none of the musty closed-up quality that he associated with rooms that had been unoccupied for even a week. He crossed the room and knelt before the hearth. The ashes were still warm.
He was still on his knees when he heard footsteps in the hall. He swore under his breath and idiotically looked around for a place to hide, before remembering that he wasn’t doing anything wrong. He was only trying to solve the mystery that he and everybody else in this house had been asked to solve. Still, that thought did nothing to stop him from feeling like a burglar.
Let it be Lilah, he hoped. Lilah would think it was funny. She’d probably join him.
It was Camilla, yawning and wearing a dressing gown despite it being the middle of the afternoon. She also wore a pair of thick spectacles, and he had a sudden memory of young Camilla surreptitiously pulling spectacles out of her pocket when she needed them, and then just as quickly hiding them away.
