“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.”