useless a task as he could imagine. He liked solid results to show for his efforts, not something that would just have to be done all over again in a week or so.
***
Charlotte’s household fell into a pleasant routine. The more she saw of them, the more she liked her staff. Particularly Mrs. Trask, who somehow limited Callie’s depredations to one lamb chop and a scrap of sausage. On her first visit, Lizzy was amazed. “So you secretly expected her to demolish my house?” teased Charlotte.
“Of course not!” Callie overflowed Lizzy’s lap like a fur rug. Her purr was audible. “I knew she would love it here—and you.” The warm look that came with this pronouncement made Charlotte’s throat tighten. “I wish I could live here, too!”
“You wouldn’t want to leave your sister and bro…”
“They leave me, all the time!” Lizzy pouted. “You wouldn’t do that if I came to stay with you.”
A world of complications buzzed in Charlotte’s brain. “Well, I would have to, because of… ah… household duties and… um… errands.”
“You don’t want me?” Lizzy’s blue eyes threatened tears.
Even putting aside all the other objections, she would be mad with boredom in a day in this small house, Charlotte thought. This was a recipe for disaster. She tried a reason that she was certain Lizzy would never have considered. “Sadly, I can’t really afford visitors.”
As expected, the girl looked blank.
“My household budget is so very limited, Lizzy. I’m sorry.”
“You have no money?”
“You will come to see me—and Callie—very often.”
Lizzy’s thoughtful frown was unsettling. She made no more mention of moving households, but as she headed home, Charlotte was all too aware of the need for a plan to forestall whatever schemes were brewing in that pretty little head.
At two, Sir Alexander arrived with an expert from the British Museum. Charlotte wondered if he’d told the man—Gerald Mortensen—that Henry’s collection went to the museum if the will was violated in any particular. No, she decided.
Mortensen was a thin, laconic ferret of a man. “The keys?” he said as they stood before the display cases in the front parlor.
“Oh.” Charlotte hadn’t thought of this. She thought as little as possible about the whole wretched collection. “Henry always kept them with him. He had a special ring of keys with just those on it. Separate from the house keys. They… they must have been stolen along with his purse.” She looked at Sir Alexander.
“Wycliffe was given his effects. There was no mention of keys.” He turned to Mortensen. “Can’t you make some judgment just by looking?”
“I must handle objects to authenticate them,” was the adamant reply.
“Ah.” Sir Alexander gazed at the rows of cases. “I don’t like to break the locks.”
“One of my colleagues at the museum could very likely open them,” said Mortensen.
“Pick the locks, you mean?” Charlotte asked, intrigued.
The man drew himself up in outrage. “His specialty is the history of locking mechanisms. He has of necessity learned to open various types of locks, as specimens don’t always come with their keys. However, here…” He gestured at the room. “These are standard cases, such as we use ourselves. It is astonishing how often the keys are lost.”
Never to display cases that he was in charge of, Charlotte concluded from the distaste in his tone.
“He has a master key that works in most units. Shall I write a note summoning him?” Mortensen added.
“If you would. My coachman can take it.”
This was accordingly done. Mortensen then left them. He wandered through the rooms on the first floor, examining objects not in cases. He made no response when Charlotte asked if he would like tea or any other refreshment. “He is very focused on his work,” she commented when he had gone out of earshot.
“Indeed, I can verify that he has no other topics of conversation whatsoever. The carriage ride from the museum was a trifle… silent.”
Fortunately, his colleague arrived within half an hour and had no difficulty in opening the display cases. His skeleton key made by the manufacturer would also allow them to be relocked. She would not be able to get at the objects, Charlotte realized, but then she had no wish to.
“Any locks in the collection?” the newcomer asked Mortensen as he handed it over. Told there were not, he departed without further conversation. “This will take time,” said Mortensen, clearly wishing them elsewhere.
“And so we are dismissed,” Sir Alexander said to Charlotte. He looked amused.
“Definitively. Would you like tea or… I think there is some Madeira.”