put it in the pocket of his jacket.”
He let out an irritated breath. “And you’re just telling me this now.”
“You didn’t give me much of a chance before,” I retorted.
“And that’s why you decided to approach him,” he said, his voice having lost the conciliatory tone of a moment ago. “What? Did you suppose that if you talked with him for a while, took an interest in his poetry, that he would take the note out and show it to you?”
He really was an insufferable prig at times.
“No,” I replied, holding up the folded piece of paper that had been clutched in my left hand throughout all of this. “I thought I could take it from his pocket.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
The major stared at me for a moment, as though trying to decide how he should react to this newest proof of my criminal tendencies.
“A pickpocket, too?” he said at last. “Your talents are diverse.”
“It’s more of a parlor trick than a useful skill, but it proved useful enough tonight, didn’t it?”
He didn’t answer and, before I could protest, had reached out to take the paper from my fingers.
I wanted to snatch it back. After all, it was I who had retrieved it. We had, however, called enough attention to ourselves already tonight.
He glanced around the room. Most of the party had begun to move toward the ballroom, where Leslie Turner-Hill was to begin his lecture. We would have to go ourselves soon or be missed.
Turning his back to the room, the major opened the piece of paper, his eyes scanning it. I couldn’t tell from his expression what he thought, but when could I ever?
I leaned forward to examine it. It was written in black ink in a style that made the handwriting unexceptional. It was also complete gibberish.
“Is it the same code as the one in Harden’s book?” I asked.
“It appears so,” he said. He tucked it into his own pocket. “I’ll have someone look at it. In the meantime, we’ll keep a close eye on Mr. Winthrop.”
“Don’t you think he’s bound to miss the note eventually?” I asked.
“Probably, but he won’t know when or where he lost it.”
“Can we rule out the others then?”
“I don’t think we can rule anyone out. I’m still very much interested to have a look in Sir Nigel’s safe. Once the lecture has started, we’ll slip out and go to his study.”
I nodded.
He offered me his arm, and, after the briefest hesitation, I took it and we made our way toward the ballroom. It was the most impressive room yet, and that was saying something. It was a vast space with gold-papered walls, gilded moldings, a row of gleaming chandeliers, and a muraled ceiling with multiple scenes from mythology painted across its expanse.
I looked up at the mural above us. It depicted a woman crossing a dark river in a boat with a grim helmsman, her face a mixture of fear and determination.
“Persephone in the Underworld,” the major said in a low voice, following my gaze.
“No,” I replied. “Psyche’s final task.”
He glanced at me, but I said no more as we slipped into two seats near the back.
We were a bit late, as Leslie Turner-Hill was already speaking from a podium at the front of the room, the crowd intent on his lecture.
“As you all know, Blanc de Chine may vary in color,” he was saying. “The first piece I wish to show tonight is an exceptional example of Dehua porcelain.”
There was a table beside the podium, with several pieces exhibited upon it, and, as he spoke, he began to move along and talk about them. We were too far back, however, to have a good view.
My eyes began to blur a bit after that, almost like a qingbai glaze, one might say. I was interested enough in artifacts and antiquities, but the speech Mr. Turner-Hill was giving was geared more toward fanatics. I noticed that Sir Nigel and Jocelyn Abbot sat near the front of the audience, both smiling appreciatively at all the right points in the lecture.
I stole a glance at the major, waiting for some sort of cue that it was time to go to work. He appeared perfectly absorbed in the lecture, his posture relaxed. I shifted in my seat, my thigh brushing his before I moved it quickly away.
Mr. Turner-Hill moved on to the next piece of porcelain. He made some sort of obscure pottery pun, and the audience laughed.
The major turned his head ever so slightly in my