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and her long-deceased father was not there to support her. Perhaps become the muse of a bohemian artist was the best way she could think of to distinguish herself. “Hever Castle,” Rayley mused. “That was the family home of Anne Boleyn, was it not? One of Henry VIII’s beheaded wives?” “Yes,” said Emma, who read incessantly and was thus the natural scholar of the group. “But the Boleyns lost the family estate when Anne fell from favor…and then the property reverted back to the Crown. It is considered a minor castle, and the Crown has so many. I doubt anyone pays it much mind.” Tess nodded vigorously. “According to LaRusse, who talked as much as he painted, it is an abandoned place which has been overtaken by artists of every sort. They are aiming to establish some sort of utopian society there. You can imagine it, somewhat like one of those farms managed by the transcendentalists in America where everyone shares everything and all is…free.” Her voice faltered a bit on the last word, no doubt thinking that while communal property and social equality were radical enough notions, what really made these colonies notorious was their reputation for “free love.” The rumor was that they were sexual playgrounds, where the bohemians swapped partners as casually as respectable people might change their clothes. Trevor was afraid that the idea might set off a spasm of fresh weeping, but Tess regained her composure and looked directly at him, saying “So will you please go there? At least ensure that Anne is safe and well? And if you could possibly find a way to persuade her to come back…” Trevor raised an eyebrow as Tess’s voice trailed off. “You said she would resist your interference, including any emissary you might send.” Emma broke in. “So it would seem that Anne must not know who you are. Not friends of Geraldine’s, and thus there at her mother’s behest, and certainly not detectives from Scotland Yard.” Geraldine clapped her hands. “Quite right.” “You are suggesting that we travel incognito?” Rayley asked, a slight smile playing around his thin lips. “Posing as artists yourself, perhaps” Emma said. “Or writers or musicians or whatever you please.” “A marvelous idea,” Tess said, with another vigorous nod. “According to LaRusse, creative people of all types come to Hever and simply take up there, staying for as long as they please and living off the property. It is surrounded by farmlands and I take it that they simply…glean.” Her fingers ran nervously over her empty sherry glass. “You are all probably thinking that I have been a proper fool in this matter. And I did indeed hear rumors about LaRusse before I commissioned the portrait, but I dismissed them as mere gossip. London society is so quick to condemn anyone who dares to be unique.” “That is true enough,” said Geraldine, rising herself to refill Tess’s glass for Emma was staring pensively into the fire, almost as if she had gone into a trance, and Gage had disappeared into the dining room, where he was clanging plates and cutlery with pointed vigor, reminding them all that the
dinner hour had approached and he hated to serve his food late. “But it is one thing for a man to have radical notions, and quite another for him to steal a young girl from her home.” “He is so much older than Anne,” Tess said hollowly. “I believe he might even be married, although heaven knows where or who his wife might be. I simply never foresaw any of this.” Ah, but I can easily imagine his whole pattern, Trevor thought. He has undoubtedly gone from girl to girl for years, declaring each one to be his muse. Muse. That’s a proper load of rubbish. They’re more likely meant for his amusement, I should think. He seduces and then abandons them and the girls either disappear from society entirely or their parents go to great lengths to hide their disgrace. Thus his victims collude to conceal his true nature, and that’s how the wretch has continued to get commissions to paint the daughters of London’s better families. When Trevor pulled away from his thoughts, Tess was looking hopefully at the settee where he and Rayley were sitting. “You shall help me? It shouldn’t be more than two or three days of inconvenience. Just long enough to ensure my daughter is well.” “I like the idea,” Rayley said. “I don’t,” Trevor said, with a snort. “You wish us to put on painter’s smocks and cavort around the snowy countryside stealing food like a bunch of gypsies?” “Don’t be silly, Trevor,” Geraldine said. “It hasn’t snowed all season.” “And we must do something,” Emma said, her own tone as sharp as Geraldine’s was mild. “Men who prey on women cannot be allowed…” Her voice trailed off and she jerked her small pale chin, using both hands to push her hair from her face. Everyone in the room knew what Emma was thinking about – her sister Mary, who had been the last victim of Jack the Ripper. While LaRusse was no Ripper, Trevor silently conceded that Emma had a point. Threats to young women lurked everywhere and, having failed to capture Jack, Trevor supposed that he and his team were doomed to chase his shadow for the rest of their careers. “Think of it as one of our experiments, Welles,” Rayley said. “You and I were bemoaning just last week, were we not, that neither of us has ever had the slightest experience in working undercover or assuming a false identity? This is our perfect chance.” “What I recall about last week’s discussion of the matter,” Trevor said drily, “is that we mocked those officers who were so eager to play charades. That we compared them to children at a masquerade party.” It was true. He and Rayley had laughed uproariously at a photograph of the celebrated Murder Squad of Scotland Yard, all of whom had embraced the mania for investigative disguise with a passion. In the photograph, the eight detectives had sat proudly posed in the costumes they had created for their undercover work: Cat whiskers and eyepatches and uneven boots designed to give them a ludicrously exaggerated limp. These so-called disguises, Rayley and Trevor had concluded, had the primary effect of making sure everyone you passed in the street stopped and stared. Thus they were abject failures when it came to the true goal of undercover work, which was to blend in, to do nothing to draw the eye.
Page 2 and 3: The Angel of Hever Castle A City of
Page 4 and 5: and Tom had decamped to his family
Page 8 and 9: “I agree with you that costumes a
Page 10 and 11: Chapter Two The countryside of Kent
Page 12 and 13: “Some women are like that,” Ray
Page 14 and 15: Chapter Three The porridge was wret
Page 16 and 17: joke. “But I take care to mix bes
Page 18 and 19: against the stone wall and swallowe
Page 20 and 21: place a jar of red-orange huge on t
Page 22 and 23: had added a woman to her scene, a w
Page 24 and 25: “And do you think Anne was right
Page 26 and 27: Chapter Five LaRusse Franklin Chapm
Page 28 and 29: that Hever is full of secret activi
Page 30 and 31: half-naked girl, just as expected f
Page 32 and 33: Chapter Six Even before she got Tre
Page 34 and 35: the telegram had said. It sounded l
Page 36 and 37: had at last firmly closed, leaving
Page 38 and 39: Melly lifted her chin. “He says h
Page 40 and 41: you have come like all the others -
Page 42 and 43: and she never has.” “I can see
Page 44 and 45: Chapter Nine “So let us suppose t
Page 46 and 47: At the name “Mary,” Emma’s he
Page 48 and 49: in danger. A woman you showed inter
Page 50 and 51: Chapter Ten Despite Rayley’s trep
Page 52 and 53: devised to lift water….I recogniz
Page 54 and 55: Chapter Eleven “Let me make sure
Page 56 and 57:
“It would appear my leisure is to
Page 58:
course I did. Was there ever any do
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