He used his boot to nudge the cat out of his way. “Just be quiet, will you?”
The next door opened to reveal a chamber only slightly less cluttered than the dining room, although this space was obviously used for more than storage, for there was a clear path from the door to a beautiful ebony desk inlaid with ivory and piled high with papers. From the looks of things, someone had been going through them—no doubt Eisler’s heirs or their solicitors. Beyond the desk stood a massive safe, its heavy iron door hanging open, its shelves empty. Whatever gems, stacks of currency, and other secrets it might once have contained were now gone.
He moved on.
As he had suspected, the next door proved to be a second entrance to the long parlor where Eisler had been shot. This, obviously, was how the murderer had managed to flee the house without being seen by Yates . . . if Yates was telling the truth about what had happened that night.
It bothered Sebastian that he was not as convinced of that as he would like to have been.
There remained only one more door on this floor, not far from where the set of narrow steps led down to the basement kitchen. Crossing back across the corridor, he pressed down on the door latch.
It was locked.
At his feet, the black cat settled on its haunches and let out a soft mew.
“Yes, it is puzzling, isn’t it?” Sebastian said to the cat. “But I wish you would—”
He broke off as a muffled thump sounded from below.
Sebastian drew back from the top of the stairs, his spine pressed against the wall, the dagger from his boot in his hand. A faint glow, as if from a lantern, illuminated the stairwell leading up from the basement and threw the long shadows of two men across the far wall. A heavy footstep sounded on the stairs, then another.
“Meow,” went the cat.
The footsteps stopped.
“Meow.” Stretching to its feet, the cat arched its back and went to stand at the top of the stairs, its enormous fluffy tail lashing back and forth, green eyes glinting in the darkness.
“What in the name of all that’s ’oly is that?” demanded one of the men in a frightened whisper.
The second man answered, his voice older, harsher. “It’s a cat, you damn fool.” Sebastian heard a whacking sound, as if the older man had walloped his companion with his hat.
“Ow. What was that for?”
“Jist shut up and keep goin’.”
The footsteps resumed their cautious ascent.
Sebastian eased sideways deeper into the shadows cast by the open stair door and a massive bureau piled high with everything from a marble bust and Grecian urn to a jumble of elegant walking sticks. But there was no place to hide, and he couldn’t cross in front of the stairs or even slide back toward the dining room without moving into the men’s line of vision.
“Where do we look first?” whispered the younger man, his voice cracking with nerves.
“The parlor, I should think,” answered his companion.
“And if we don’t find it there?”
“Then we go through every bleedin’ room in the house till we do find it. What do ye think? Ye want to be the one to tell the gov’nor we failed?”
“No. But . . .” The footsteps halted again. “Morgan?”
“What? Now what are ye stoppin’ for?”
“Why’s the back door standin’ open?”
Sebastian could see the first housebreaker now. A tall, skinny lad dressed in a brown corduroy coat and baggy trousers, he held a shuttered horn lantern in one clenched fist, the muted light glowing golden on the smooth, unlined features of a youth probably no more than sixteen or eighteen. His gaze riveted on the open back door, he swallowed heavily, the movement visibly bobbing his Adam’s apple up and down. The lantern light quivered as his hand shook.
“What the ’ell?” said the older man, pausing on the step behind him.
“Ye think maybe the wind blew it open?”
“How the ’ell would I know? Go look.”
“Give me the pistol.”
“Why? Ye think Rawhead and Bloodybones are gonna git ye?”
“Stop laughin’ at me and jist give me the pistol.”
The older man grumbled but handed over a heavy horse pistol that looked like a relic of the Thirty Years’ War.
Sebastian held himself utterly still as the young housebreaker passed in front of him, the light from the lantern playing over the walls and jumbled treasures of the corridor. If the man had simply glanced around, he would have seen Sebastian quite easily. But the lad’s attention was fixed on the open door and the windswept terrace beyond. He was so nervous, Sebastian could see the barrel of his gun shaking; the lantern light danced and quivered.
“Well?” demanded the older man, reaching the top step. He was slightly shorter than his companion but considerably bulkier, with a thick neck, a powerful chest, and heavily muscled arms and legs. His features were blunt, his nose large and crooked, his beetle-browed gaze fixed, like the younger man’s, on the door to the terrace.
Then he turned his head and saw Sebastian standing no more than five feet away from him.
Chapter 20