A Finer End

Jack had lowered the drop-down staircase at the end of the corridor. The creak of the springs as Kincaid climbed it brought back memories of childhood visits to the cavernous attic. As he emerged into the open space, he saw that Jack had rigged a work lamp on a flex cord, illuminating the space between the gray-filmed windows at either end.

Jack, on his knees in jeans and a very dirty sweatshirt, dug through a tin trunk. He looked up at Kincaid, wiping a hand across his forehead and leaving a large grimy smear. “This is a bloody nightmare. I can’t pass up anything, because I’ve no idea what might be important.”

Kincaid squatted and peered into the trunk. “Probably not Great-Aunt Sophie’s petticoats.”

“Did we have a Great-Aunt Sophie?”

“Undoubtedly.”

Jack grinned as he shook out the last bit of old-fashioned ladies’ underclothing. “Have you come to make yourself useful?”

“For an hour. Then I’ve promised to pick Faith up at the café.”

“Why don’t you start over there, then?” Jack directed him to the eastern end of the attic, just out of range of the pool of lamplight.

Somewhat daunted, Kincaid said, “Do we have some sort of system for separating the things that have been searched?”

“There.” Jack pointed to a section of boxes and oddments off to one side.

“Right.” Kincaid made his way gingerly along a pathway Jack had cleared across the attic floor, then whistled in dismay as he got a better look at the daunting task awaiting him. “I think a bulldozer might be more appropriate,” he muttered, but bent to it.

First he transferred the large items—a wooden child’s cradle; an ancient, rusted tricycle; a picnic hamper complete with dishes and accoutrements; a croquet set—to Jack’s segregated area. “All this stuff looks Victorian—it’s probably worth a fortune.”

“I’ll have to go on Antiques Roadshow,” Jack joked, without looking up from the pile he was sorting.

Kincaid moved a stack of framed pictures to one side and started on the boxes. To his delight, they held books. The volumes were dusty and musty, some with water stains or damaged covers, but nonetheless it was a treasure trove. After half an hour, he had come up with a handful of real finds.

“I’m no expert, but I think you’d do well to let my dad have a look at these.” He handed Jack copies of The Moonstone, The War of the Worlds, Mrs. Dalloway, and The Murder of Roger Ackroyd. All were in good condition and, as far as he could tell, first editions.

Jack accepted the books with a discouraged sigh. “And I’ve found three hideous lamps, a recipe collection from the twenties, some moth-eaten flower arrangements, and a box of ladies’ hats.”

The first dozen of the framed pictures were obviously junk: cardboard reproductions of famous paintings in cheap frames. But there were three small landscape oils that Kincaid suspected might be valuable, as well as a nice watercolor of the Abbey ruins, and a larger oil portrait of a hunting spaniel that he thought Gemma might like, remembering her interest in Andrew Catesby’s dog.

“Take it,” Jack said of the spaniel portrait, when Kincaid presented his latest haul. “Give it to Gemma with my compliments.” He sat back on his heels and groaned. “The light’s going. We’ll have to give it up for the day. I didn’t expect the thing to jump out and bite me, but this really is like looking for the proverbial needle in the haystack.”

“What about Edmund?” Kincaid asked, rubbing his dusty hands against his jeans.

“No help there. I’ve tried.”

“Then I suggest sherry in the drawing room, when I’ve collected Faith. Maybe among us we’ll come up with something.”

Faith stood watching for him outside the café, hands deep in the pockets of her cardigan. She waited until they had almost reached Jack’s before she asked Kincaid, “Any luck?”

“Some interesting things, but not what we’re looking for.”

“No. I meant Nick. Did you find him?”

“I tried the caravan, and the cafés you suggested. No joy, but the woman at the Assembly Rooms says he’d been in earlier. If he doesn’t show up this evening, I’ll run out to the—” The sight of the car in Jack’s drive instantly derailed his train of thought. A slightly battered white Vauxhall, unmarked. DCI Greely’s.

“Ah … perhaps we’d better see what’s up before we make plans. It looks as though Inspector Greely’s come to call.”

“They won’t put me in jail, will they?”

“Not if I can help it.”

Greely stood in front of the cold fireplace, hands behind his back as if warming them. Nodding, he said, “Superintendent. Miss Wills.”

Winnie was still ensconced on the sofa, with Jack standing protectively by her.

“Inspector Greely,” Kincaid replied pleasantly, but it occurred to him that he was getting a good taste of being on the receiving end of things. “What can we do for you today?”

“I just wanted to clarify a few things with Mr. Montfort here.” Greely’s smile was not reassuring.

Kincaid raised an eyebrow. “Such as?”