That question revolved in Vane's brain as, leaving Mrs. Henderson's parlor, he wandered into the front hall. In his estimation, Patience, Minnie, and Timms-'-and Gerrard-had always been beyond suspicion. There was an element of openness, of candor, in both Patience and Gerrard that reminded Vane of Minnie herself; he knew, soul-deep, that neither they, nor Timms, were involved.
That left a host of others-others he felt far less sure of.
His first stop was the library. The door opened noiselessly, revealing a long room, paneled with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves down its entire length. Long windows punctuated the bookcases along one side, giving access to the terrace; one window was presently ajar, letting a light breeze, warmed by autumn sunshine, waft in.
Two desks faced each other down the length of the room. The larger, more imposing example, closer to the door, was weighed down with tomes, the remaining surface blanketed by papers covered in a cramped fist. The well-padded chair behind the desk was empty. In contrast, the desk at the far end of the room was almost bare. It played host to one book only, a heavy leather-covered volume with gilt-edged pages, presently open and supported by Edgar, who sat behind the desk. His head bent, his brow furrowed, he gave no indication he had heard Vane enter.
Vane advanced down the carpeted floor. He was abreast of the wing chair flanking the hearth, its back to the door, before he realized it was occupied. He halted.
Happily ensconced in the deep chair, Edith Swithins busily tatted. Her gaze fixed on the threads she was twining, she, too, gave no sign of noticing him. Vane suspected she was partially deaf, but hid it by reading people's lips.
Stepping more heavily, he approached her. She sensed his presence only when he was close. Starting, she glanced up.
Vane summoned a reassuring smile. "I apologize for interrupting. Do you often spend your mornings here?"
Recognizing him, Edith smiled easily. "I'm here most mornings-I come down immediately after my breakfast and take my seat before the gentlemen get in. It's quiet and"-with her head she indicated the fire-"warm."
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Edgar lifted his head at the sound of voices; after one myopic glance, he retreated to his reading. Vane smiled at Edith. "Do you know where Colby is?"
Edith blinked. "Whitticombe?" She peered around the edge of the wing chair. "Good heavens-fancy that! I thought he was there all the time." She smiled confidingly at Vane. "I sit here so I don't have to look at him. He's a very…"-she pursed her lips-"cold sort of man, don't you think?" She shook her head, then shook out her tatting. "Not at all the sort of gentleman one needs dwell on."
Vane's fleering smile was genuine. Edith returned to her tatting. He resumed his progress down the room.
Edgar looked up as he neared and smiled ingenuously. "I don't know where Whitticombe is either."
There was nothing wrong with Edgar's hearing. Vane halted by the desk.
Removing his pince-nez, Edgar polished them, staring up the long room at his archrival's desk. "I must confess I don't pay all that much attention to Whitticombe at the best of times. Like Edith, I thought he was there-behind his desk." Replacing the pince-nez, Edgar looked up at Vane through the thick lenses. "But then, I can't see that far, not with these on."
Vane raised his brows. "You and Edith have worked out how to keep Whitticombe neatly at a distance."
Edgar grinned. "Were you after something from the library? I'm sure I could help."
"No, no." Vane deployed his rakish smile-the one designed to allay all suspicions. "I was just aimlessly wandering. I'll let you get back to your work."
So saying, he retraced his steps. From the door of the library, he looked back. Edgar had retreated to his tome. Edith Swithins was not visible at all. Peace reigned in the library. Letting himself out, Vane frowned.
Without, he was the first to admit, any logical basis, he had an instinctive feeling the thief was female. Edith Swithins's capacious tatting bag, which went everywhere with her, exerted an almost overpowering fascination. But to separate it from her long enough to search it was, he suspected, beyond his present powers. Besides, if she'd been in the library since before Whitticombe had left the breakfast parlor, it seemed unlikely she could have rifled Minnie's room during the short time it had been empty.
Unlikely-but not impossible.
As he headed for the side door, Vane wrestled with another, even more complicating possiblity. Minnie's thief-the one who'd stolen the pearls-may not be the same person who'd perpetrated the earlier thefts. Someone might have seen the opportunity to use the "magpie" thief as scapegoat for a more serious crime.
Nearing the side door, Vane grimaced-and hoped that scenario, while not beyond him, was at least beyond the majority of the occupants of Bellamy Hall. Minnie's household affairs were tangled enough as it was.
He'd intended to stroll to the ruins, to see if he could locate Edmond, Gerrard, Henry, and the General-according to Masters, they were all still outside. The voices emanating from the back parlor halted him.
"I can't see why we can't drive into Northampton again." Angela's whine was pronounced. "There's nothing to do here."
"My dear, you really should cultivate some thankfulness." Mrs. Chadwick sounded weary. "Minnie's been more than kind in taking us in."
"Oh, of course, I'm grateful." Angela's tone made it sound like a disease. "But it's just so boring, being stuck out here with nothing to look at but old stones."
Holding silent in the corridor, Vane could easily envisage Angela's pout.
"Mind you," she went on, "I did think that when Mr. Cynster came it would be different. You said he was a rake, after all."