Part 2

In the foyer, the two climbed the staircase. The steps creaked. Sun shone through the single stained-glass window on the first floor. The large crystal chandelier at the centre of the foyer caught the colourful light and its reflections danced on the walls. A large grandfather clock stood next to the window and faced the staircase on the first floor.

“The place has seen better times,” said Bellamy.

“It has,” Mr. Fletcher stopped and looked toward the ceiling, taking in the full impression of wear the foyer made – the grimy window, the worn carpeting, and the dusty chandelier. “It’s been hard on her Ladyship. She’s kept this place together for forty years without much income. And she is as smart as she is strong. She will find a way to bring the lustre back.”

“You believe that?”

“Certainly. It may be old-fashioned, and we may be just some dusty relics to some people, but there is something to be said about this way of life. You can’t say that aeroplanes, punk music, and cheap Japanese cars are finer than the royal wedding we just had. Lady Diana is such a jewel.” He exhaled.

Bellamy considered the sentiment and nodded. “I think I understand.”

When they reached the top of the stairs, Bellamy realized the true size of the grandfather clock. It was more a mahogany-and-brass armoire than a clock. The clock ticked away. A large, ornate, golden letter P was embossed into the mother-of-pearl clock face. In the bowl of the letter gaped the windup keyhole.

“How come this piece is so well kept?”

“Her Ladyship’s late husband had it built in Switzerland as their wedding gift. The piece is probably worth more than the whole estate now. It’s the last remnant of the good days when his Lordship was still alive.” Mr. Fletcher looked around. “Not to mention it can’t be moved.”

“How do you mean?”

“We had painters here a few years back. They needed to move it, but four men couldn’t lift it. And there isn’t enough space around it to accommodate more men. Its’ driving me bonkers knowing the wall behind it is not painted.”

“It’s more like a turret than a clock, isn’t it?” said Bellamy.

“Well put, sir.”

Bellamy looked up at the clock and placed his palm on the panel. He could feel the wood vibrate as the mechanism moved forward with the stroke of each second. Then he noticed a small, shiny, black pebble on the carpet. He picked it up, inspected it, and put it in his pocket next to his notebook and pen.

“This is a strange place for such a large clock, isn’t it?”

“How do you mean?” asked Mr. Fletcher.

“I mean this is a clock that belongs to a main floor. Not a staircase. Doesn’t it?”

“I suppose you are right,” answered Mr. Fletcher.

***

The brass key opened the attic. The space was dusty and only a sliver of sunlight entered through the small, shuttered window. Mr. Fletcher remained by the door while Bellamy inspected the attic, stepping over the immense roof timbers. Woodworm bore dust covered the floor. Apart from a few dusty pieces of furniture, there were no signs of activity. He followed the footprints the exterminator left in the dust. At the centre of the attic, he found a small hole beneath his feet.

“That’s the maintenance keyhole,” said Mr. Fletcher. “It provides access to the chandelier for installation and repairs.”

Bellamy squatted and looked through the keyhole. He saw most of the foyer below, the edge of the staircase, the grandfather clock, and a mahogany door on the first floor.

“On the way, we passed a mahogany door on the first floor. Who lives there?”

“That’s her Ladyship’s boudoir, but she doesn’t sleep there. As she is getting on in years and is having trouble with the stairs. She sleeps on the ground floor now.”

“And who has the keys to her bedroom?”

“Only her Ladyship and the maid.”

“That’s one great system this master key business, Mr. Fletcher.”

Bellamy stood up. He looked toward the hole and rubbed his jaw.

“So, she can more or less hear any movement in the house in the foyer.”

“I suppose so.”

“What about the husband?”

“I’ve never met his Lordship. He died in South America when sourcing rubber for the war effort.”

Bellamy turned.

“The war effort? That’s forty years, man.”

“Yes.”

“And her Ladyship never remarried?”

“No. Curiously, the post delivered his last letter only a few weeks ago.”

“How do you mean?”

“A lost mailbag was found in Brazil. They delivered the letter a few weeks ago along with a letter of apology from the Royal Mail. It was the last letter he sent from a riverboat hospital.”

“Oh, yes. I recall reading the story of the mailbag in the paper. What did the letter say?”

“I didn’t pry. It was just one page. The rest of the pages were lost.”

“Lost?”

“Yes.”

“Did the letter come with the original envelope?”

“Yes, it came with the envelope,” answered Mr. Fletcher with a puzzled look.

“Huh.” Bellamy exhaled and made a note.

“Excuse me, sir,” said Mr. Fletcher, “but do you think her Ladyship – how do I put this – do you think she’s getting on with age? I mean, could she be the only one hearing these scrapes?”

“Well, we’ll need to find out, my good man. Now, here is the plan. I’ll leave the estate now. I’ll use the front door, but I’ll return later in the evening, and you’ll open the back door for me. I will hide out here and wait to see whether someone turns up. Can you let me in without anyone knowing?”

“Certainly, sir. Only the master key opens the attic, so I’ll leave it unlocked, but otherwise I can let you in after nine. Here is my key. It opened most doors.”

“Sounds good. I’ll wait by the back door,” replied Bellamy and collected the key.