Think of England (4 page)

“
Quiet
.” The beam of light flickered off the keys, around the room and over the desk. “Don’t shout, and please don’t start a fight. Neither of us wants to be caught.”

Enragingly, that was true. “What are you doing in here?” demanded Curtis, trying to keep his voice as low as da Silva’s murmur.

“I was going to break into Sir Hubert’s storage room. And, given the skeleton keys and dark lantern, I think you had the same idea.”

Curtis opened and shut his mouth in the darkness. He managed, “Are you a thief?”

“No more than you. I suspect we may have shared interests, unlikely as that may seem.”

“It seems damned unlikely to me!”

“And this
is
likely?” Da Silva beamed his light at the dark lantern. “Archibald Curtis, late of His Majesty’s service, a
Boy’s Own Paper
reader if ever I saw one—a burglar? I don’t think so. I certainly hope not. You’re dreadful at it.”

Curtis seethed. “Whereas you’re a natural, I suppose.”

“Keep your voice down.” Da Silva’s voice was only just audible, entirely controlled.

“Give me one reason I shouldn’t raise the house,” Curtis said through his teeth.

“If you were going to, you’d have done it already. Two choices, Mr. Curtis. Do the decent thing, shout for help, and watch me spoil your plans while you spoil mine. Or…”

“Or what?”

He could hear the purr in da Silva’s voice. “Or I could open that door.”

Curtis didn’t reply, because he could think of nothing to say. Da Silva went on. “If we have common interests, we’ll find out when we’re in there. If we don’t, well, I shan’t stand in your way and I trust you won’t stand in mine. If neither of us finds what we seek, we’ll apologise to our host in thought, and pretend this never happened. But all of that depends on getting through that door. What do you say?”

It was outrageous. He ought to tell him to go to the devil. It was unthinkable that he should ally himself to this bounder.

What he said was, “Can you open it?”

“Probably. May I?” Da Silva moved to the dark lantern and flicked the slide to shed light on the door lock. He handed the flashlight to Curtis as though they were regular partners. “Take this and listen out.”

Da Silva dropped to his knees by the door, silhouetted in the light from the dark lantern. Curtis bent closer and saw he was manipulating long, slender pieces of metal.

“Are you picking that lock?” he demanded.

“Is that worse than using skeleton keys?”

“You
are
a thief!”

“On the contrary.” Da Silva sounded unruffled. “My father’s a locksmith. I learned his trade in my cradle. Some day I shall give you his views on the uselessness of skeleton keys. I trust you didn’t pay too much for them.”

Curtis bit back an angry response, knowing it would be bluster. Da Silva’s slim fingers moved, steady, skilful and unhurried.

The house was silent, only his own breathing audible. Feeling useless, Curtis flicked on the flashlight, admiring the strength of its beam. The newfangled things tended to be weak and unreliable, but this was an impressive piece of kit; he should like to examine it when he had a chance. He played the light over the door, checking for other locks or bolts in lieu of anything better to do, and his eyes widened as the light caught something that he hadn’t noticed before.

“Da Silva,” he hissed.

“Busy.”

“
Da Silva
.” Curtis grabbed his shoulder, digging his fingers in. The dark head swung round, black eyes unfriendly.

“What?”

“That.” Curtis circled the light on his discovery.

“
What?
”

Da Silva was still on the floor, holding his picks in the lock, looking up at the unobtrusive metal plate on the door with no sign of understanding. Curtis knelt to bring their heads level, and felt a stab of pain and weakness in his kneecap as his leg bent. He grabbed for da Silva’s shoulder to steady himself, leaning on the kneeling man, and heard him give a very slight grunt of effort as he took Curtis’s weight.

Curtis lowered himself to the floor, hand still gripping the slender shoulder that seemed stiff with effort or tension, and whispered into da Silva’s ear, feeling the warmth of his own breath bounce off the skin so close to his mouth. “Wire running to the door. Metal plate on the frame and the door. It’s an electrical contact. If you open the door, you’ll break the circuit.”

“Meaning?”

“I think it might be an alarm.”

Da Silva’s body went rigid under Curtis’s hand. “Well,” he breathed. “How thrillingly modern. Doesn’t want us to get in there, does he?”

Curtis would have voiced a strong objection to “us”, but that was drowned in the rush of sensation along his nerves. If Sir Hubert was really hiding something… If Lafayette had been right…

If that was the case, no matter that the man was his host, and elderly. He would break his damned neck.

“Electricity is beyond my ken,” da Silva murmured. “Do you know how to deal with that?”

Curtis inspected the metal plates. He would need to ensure the circuit didn’t break when the door was opened, so…

“Yes. I’ll need some kit.”

“Can you get it?”

“Not now.”

Da Silva let out an audible exhalation. “When?”

“Tomorrow night. But we talk first. I want to know what you’re up to.”

“We established that. The same as you.”

“We talk first,” Curtis repeated, pressing his advantage. “Or I’ll go to Sir Hubert, and the devil with the consequences.”

Da Silva opened his mouth, clearly decided not to argue, and gave him a malevolent look. “Fine. Tomorrow.”

“Can you lock it again?”

Da Silva shot him an irritated glance in lieu of answer. He was busy for a few more seconds then withdrew the picks. “Very well, that was a waste of a night. Let’s go. You first, and don’t forget your things.”

Curtis crept up the stairs, dark lantern in hand, keys in pocket. He was in his room, undressing as quietly as possible, when he heard the click of a door in the corridor. He felt a pulse of alarm and then realised that it must be da Silva going to his own room.

Of course the man would be his neighbour. Naturally. It would be nice, he thought with justified irritation, if Fate could stop throwing that limp-wristed thieving bloody dago in his way.

Chapter Three

The next morning, there was no sign of da Silva while Curtis breakfasted. Holt was there, full of morning exuberance. He gave Curtis a cheerful greeting that lifted his spirits somewhat; at least there was one person at Peakholme he could enjoy spending time with.

They chatted inconsequentially for a few moments, moving back to sporting talk. Holt enquired, “I say, can you spar any more? I wondered if you might like to go a few rounds.”

It hurt to shake his head to that. “Not really. Maybe in a few years. I still have the knuckles, but it’s a little painful. And the knee slows me down.”

“That’s a damned thing. You had a wonderful right.”

Boxing was the smallest part of what Curtis had lost at Jacobsdal. “There’s men worse off.” He managed a smile. “Otherwise I should have given you a run for your money.”

“I’m jolly sure of that. What do you say to a spot of billiards instead? If you can play, that is.” Holt flushed. “I didn’t think—I beg your pardon. Stupid of me.”

“Not at all. I manage fairly well, actually, and I’ll be pleased to prove it to you.” Curtis was a natural left-hander. He’d had the tendency beaten out of him at school, of course, but it meant that Jacobsdal had not entirely deprived him of skill. “I might take a turn in the grounds first, though, I’d like some fresh air.”

“I’ll beg your escort then, Mr. Curtis,” said Fenella Carruth from across the table. “I shan’t hurry you, don’t worry. Pat likes to march but I’d far rather stroll.”

“I shall march ahead and meet you at the folly,” Miss Merton told her.

Curtis gave a polite smile, trying not to show his tension. He needed to speak to da Silva, not to socialise, and apparently the fellow was recouping his energies from last night by lounging in bed. The unspeakable creature.

He strolled with Miss Carruth through the emergent woods and gardens round Peakholme. The planting had begun early in the project, so that the trees were well established, and the paths were laid out with care and thought.

“This is a wonderful place,” said Miss Carruth. “So full of interest, and the grounds will be marvellous when everything’s bedded in.”

“In a hundred years’ time?”

“Quite.” She gave her gurgling laugh. “Have you been to the folly yet?”

Curtis felt as though everything to do with Peakholme was a folly, but he suffered Miss Carruth to lead him through the grounds, a good few minutes’ walk into young woodland, crunching through autumn leaf fall until they came out into a clearing that sloped up to the top of a ridge. Looking up, Curtis saw a round grey stone tower at the crest of the slope, dominating the view. The style of building suggested it was about eight centuries older than Peakholme. It seemed to be a defensive outpost of some sort, but Curtis assessed the ground with a soldier’s eye, and couldn’t see anything worth defending in the rocky slopes around them.

As they approached the folly, he saw Miss Merton, standing with her shoulders set and arms folded. He thought for a second that the man with her, silhouetted against the bright grey sky, might be Holt, but the languid stance was nothing like Holt’s solid, foursquare way of holding himself, and he realised it was da Silva, his slim form muffled under a bulky overcoat.

“Uh-oh, that looks like trouble brewing. Hello, Pat,” Miss Carruth called, striding up the slope a little faster. “Am I late?”

“Miss Merton and I have been having the most delightful intimacy,” purred da Silva. Curtis took one glance at Miss Merton’s rigid expression, and turned swiftly to contemplate the view.

“Let’s take a proper walk, Fen,” Miss Merton said. “I need some fresh air.”

Curtis seized his opportunity. “Then I’ll leave you ladies to it. I’m afraid my knee won’t bear much more, and I’d like a look at the folly.”

“Alas, I had hoped to commune in solitude with my muse,” da Silva murmured mournfully. “I might as well have gone to Piccadilly Circus.”

Curtis caught Miss Merton’s eye in brief, heartfelt agreement on Mr. da Silva and his muse. “Well, I dare say I won’t bother you long. See you later, Miss Merton, Miss Carruth.”

As the two women departed, da Silva went to open the oak door of the folly. He made an inviting gesture. Curtis, already stepping forward, was struck with a sudden hesitation, glancing round.

The ladies wouldn’t think this was some sort of…assignation, would they? Curtis slipping off to a remote place with a fellow like da Silva…

He shook himself at the absurdity. Nobody would think such a thing of him, even if it would be the obvious conclusion to reach about da Silva, and even if they did,
he
knew he was about no such business.

He strode through the doorway, glancing at the heavy door that da Silva held open. Its style suggested great age, but it showed no more sign of weathering or dilapidation than the stone blocks around it.

“Did Sir Hubert put this thing in?” Curtis wondered aloud as da Silva shut the door, enclosing them in the stone space. It was bare but for a couple of heavy wooden chests against the walls. The mullioned glass of the windows was secure and, he was sure, wrong for the building’s appearance. There were some steps up the side of the wall to a mezzanine floor, laid in new oak.

“Of course he did.” Da Silva led the way up the stairs. “He commissioned it as a brand new piece of antiquity. Shockingly vulgar.”

That from a man wearing an absurdly foppish velvet jacket and those appallingly tight trousers. Curtis wondered why a fellow would want to draw attention to himself so. “Well, you should know,” he retorted.

“Oooh. Harsh.” Da Silva sounded unruffled. “Restore your offended sensibilities with the view.” He indicated the astonishing vista over the Pennine slopes. “The single advantage of this ridiculous building. It helps that while one is
in
the folly, one can’t actually
see
it.”

That was quite enough of architecture, Curtis felt. “Let’s get to brass tacks. I want to know what’s going on.”

“I’m not inclined to tell you that yet.”

Curtis drew a breath. “Listen—”

Da Silva swung to face him, dark eyes intent. “Who are you working for?”

“What?”

“I said, who are you working for? It’s not a difficult question.”

“I’m not working for anyone.”

Da Silva exhaled dramatically. “Let us not beat about the bush. You’re a gentleman, not a player. You’re not a habitual thief. And you are the nephew of Sir Maurice Vaizey, chief of the Foreign Office Private Bureau. Did he send you here?”

“What? No, he did not. How the devil do you know he’s my uncle?”

Da Silva’s perfect eyebrows contracted into a frown. “We’ve limited time, don’t play the fool. Just tell me, are you here on Vaizey’s behalf? About the blackmail, or anything else?”