Michael followed in their wake, listening with half an ear, otherwise looking about him. Not as Lucifer was doing, examining individual objects, not as he himself had done the last time he was here, but looking to learn what the house could tell him of Caro, what hints it might give him of what she needed, what she might covet that she didn’t already have. What was missing in this apparently wonderful house?
Children leapt to mind, but, as he looked and considered and compared, it wasn’t simply little people with grubby fingers thundering pell-mell down the corridors, sliding with whoops down the elegantly carved banister, that were missing.
This house was empty. Truly empty. Camden had created it for Caro—that Michael no longer doubted—yet it lay cold, without a heart, without the life, that indefinable pulse of family, that should have enlivened it and filled it with joy. It was presently an exquisitely beautiful shell, nothing more.
The one thing needed to bring the house to life was the one gift Camden had not given Caro. Either he’d neglected to do so, or it hadn’t been in him to give.
What was it that brought a house to life, that didn’t just create a family residence, but transformed it into a home?
Michael was standing in the upstairs corridor when Caro and Lucifer came out of the study.
Lucifer waved to the stairs. “Let’s go down.” He looked a touch grim.
In the hall, he faced them. “There’s a danger here that could account for the attacks on Caro. The collection as a whole is no temptation, but individual pieces are. Sutcliffe had an eye for the highest quality—many pieces here are beyond superb. More than enough to tempt a rabid collector, one of those who, having once seen, absolutely must have.”
&
nbsp; Lucifer looked at Caro. “Given Sutcliffe’s reason for assembling such a collection, I doubt he could have been induced to sell any piece once he acquired it. Is that right?”
Caro nodded. “He was approached on numerous occasions over different pieces, but as you say, once he had the perfect piece for a certain spot, he wasn’t interested in selling it. For him, there wasn’t any point.”
“Indeed. And that’s my point.” Lucifer glanced at Michael. “There are those among the rabid collectors who will, in pursuit of a particular piece, ignore all rules and laws. They grow obsessed, and simply must have that piece regardless of what they have to do to get it.”
Michael frowned. “Why not simply buy the piece from Caro?”
Lucifer looked at her. “Would you sell?”
She met his gaze. After a long moment, said, “No. This was Camden’s creation—I couldn’t pull bits out of it.”
Lucifer looked at Michael. “That’s why; they’d assume she wouldn’t sell, that she would be as obsessed with the item as they were.”
“Why not break in and steal it?” Michael gestured about them. “The locks may be sound, but a determined thief—”
“Would achieve little in terms of what rabid collectors want. They want the provenance, too, and that they can only legitimately claim via a sale.”
Caro stared at him. “They’re trying to kill me to force a sale?”
“Whoever inherits if you die—would they feel as you do about this place? Or, if they were quietly and honorably approached, would they, after a suitable period had elapsed, feel they might as well sell at least bits of the contents?”
She blinked, then looked at Michael.
He didn’t need to read her eyes. “Geoffrey, Augusta, and Angela would sell. Not immediately, but after a time.”
She nodded. “Yes. They would.”
“When I asked around, I was surprised how many people were aware of this place, of individual pieces in it.” Lucifer once again glanced around. “There’s definitely enough motive here for murder.”
Instead of narrowing, their net seemed to be widening, the reasons to murder Caro piling up rather than diminishing. After joining them in Upper Grosvenor Street for tea, Lucifer went off to further investigate, first the list of those who’d received bequests, and then more widely through his contacts in the antiquarian underworld for any whisper of one he termed a “rabid collector” with designs on any of the more obvious pieces in the Half Moon Street house.
Over dinner, they discussed the situation with Magnus and Evelyn; Magnus humphed, clearly chafing that he couldn’t do more to assist, that in this case his contacts, these days all political, were of no help. It was Evelyn who suggested Magnus and she should call on old Lady Claypoole.
“Her husband was the ambassador to Portugal before Camden—Lord Claypoole is long gone, but Ernestine might recall something useful. She’s in town at present, visiting her sister. No reason we can’t call and see what she has to say.”
They all agreed that was an excellent idea; leaving Magnus and Evelyn making plans, Michael and Caro left for their evening rounds—two small soirées, the first at the Belgian embassy, the other at Lady Castlereagh’s.
Entering the Belgian embassy drawing room, Caro glimpsed a dark head through the shoulders. On Michael’s arm, she leaned close. “Is that Ferdinand by the windows?”
Michael looked. His lips thinned. “Yes.” He glanced at her. “Shall we ask him what he’s doing in town?”