Putting a protective hand on Emma’s arm, Derek walked with her around the outside of the chapel garden to the rocky meadow where the cliff path began. The scent of gorse blossom was heavy and sweet and the air was clear. Emma could see the nests of gulls and black-faced oyster-catchers on the opposite cliffs and hear their constant cries echoing off the scarred rockface. Once they were on the path, Derek dropped his hand and they strolled side by side.
“According to Grayson,” Derek said, “the original lantern, the actual, tin-shuttered candle lamp used by the lady in the legend, is supposed to be kept on display in the chapel. Legend has it that the ruddy thing lights itself once every hundred years. When it does, the duke of Penford is required to throw a sort of elaborate bean-feast. Supposed to take place this year, in fact. It’s called the Fete, and it carries all sorts of historical weight with the villagers.”
Emma recalled both the duke’s request that she have the chapel garden ready by the first of August and the empty shelf below the lady window. “The Fête’s coming up in August,” she guessed, “but the lantern’s missing, and Grayson can’t hold one without the other.”
Derek looked impressed. “Exactly right. Keep it to yourself, though, won’t you? The staff know the lantern’s gone, but the villagers don’t and they’d be very upset.”
Emma agreed, though she didn’t really understand what all the fuss was about. “Why doesn’t Grayson have a copy made?”
“I can tell you Grayson’s reason. He spoke with such conviction that I can recall his words precisely.” Derek turned to look intently at Emma. “Grayson said, ‘I don’t think you understand, old son. I believe in the legend. When the day of the Fête arrives, I fully expect the lantern to shine.’ ”
Emma’s eyebrows rose.
“Quite,” said Derek. “He asked me here not only to restore a perfectly sound window, but, because of my expertise in rummaging around old buildings, to search Penford Hall for an antique, self-lighting lantern.”
As they approached the hall, Emma wondered how to pose her next question. Grayson appeared to be disturbingly willing to believe in anything related to the family legend—an ancient window that seemed untouched by time, a cloak that had mysteriously changed color, a lantern that lit of its own accord. Emma had heard of eccentric Englishmen before, but... “So, you’re worried about the duke’s ... um ... sanity?” she asked hesitantly.
“Worse than that, I’m afraid,” said Derek, but he would say nothing more until they’d made their way through a door in the east wing and down a series of deserted corridors to the dark-paneled library. It, too, was deserted, and Derek’s voice seemed startlingly loud as he crossed the room to take a large black morocco portfolio from a bookstand near the gallery stairs. “Grayson gave me a detailed set of house plans,” he explained, “so I could search the place from top to bottom.”
“Has anything turned up?” Emma asked.
Derek laid the portfolio flat on the long marquetry table behind the couch, then gestured to the portrait over the mantelpiece. “The dowager duchess’s emeralds,” he answered. “But Nell and Bertie stumbled over those.”
“Nell and Bertie found Grandmother’s wedding jewels?” Emma asked doubtfully.
“Stumbled over them. They were underneath a floorboard in the nursery. Must’ve thought it was the one place the old duke wouldn’t look.”
“Who must’ve thought?” Emma asked, thoroughly confused, but Derek’s long strides had already taken him into a shadowy recess in the comer, where he bent low to retrieve a second portfolio. Its faded black leather was crumbling, one corner was cracked and peeling, and the covers were held together by frayed ribbons.
“Misplaced two sheets from the plans Grayson gave me,” Derek said, laying the second portfolio beside the first. “Embarrassing gaffe, for a supposed expert in old houses. Came down to see if I could root out another set on my own. Found this.” He placed a hand on the second portfolio. “It’s the kind of survey that’s done when a chap’s thinking of putting his place on the market.”
Derek gently teased the ribbons apart and opened the second portfolio. Emma glanced at the date on the topmost sheet. These house plans had been made fifteen years ago, only ten years before the most recent set.
“Like you to compare the two,” said Derek. “They’re a bit technical, I’m afraid, but, well, do your best.”
Emma smiled tolerantly as she paged through the detailed drawings. She’d installed her share of mainframe computer systems over the years, laid cable in air-conditioning ducts, and rewired entire offices. She doubted that Derek could teach her much about reading house plans.
“You see ...” Derek’s fingers began to trace lightly across a page, then stopped as he cocked an ear toward the ceiling. Slowly, he raised his eyes to the gallery. “Nell,” he said, sounding mildly affronted, and Emma looked up to see a curly blond head and a fuzzy brown one peering through the gallery’s wooden railing.
“What are you doing up there?” Derek demanded. “Where’s Peter?”