A Curse of the Heart

Gabriel rode through the rain as though Lucifer was chasing his tail. Higson said nothing about being woken from his bed or about the nature of their business. Bu

t Gabriel saw him slip his homemade cudgel into his coat pocket: the lead filled goat’s horn, heavy enough to render a man unconscious.

After tethering the horses to the railings outside Rebecca’s house, Gabriel tried the front door to find it open.

“We’ll move through the house together,” he whispered casting a dubious eye over Higson’s stocky frame as the man equipped his weapon. “Do try to be quiet.”

Once inside, Gabriel listened out for the sound of voices, for footsteps and creaking floorboards, but heard nothing. And so, by way of numerous hand gestures, he conveyed the order in which they would check the downstairs rooms.

With regimental precision, they moved through the house and once they had established it was empty, Gabriel sent Higson to search the lower floors for signs of theft or damage while he examined the third floor.

He knew why he had chosen to check that particular floor, why he found himself drawn down the dark corridor to Rebecca’s bedchamber. After all, she was currently lying naked in his bathtub, and the thought had him in a state of semi-arousal.

As he ran his fingers over her counterpane and trailed them down the hangings on her bed, he wondered if she was doing a similar thing. The image of her eager hands running over his private things caused another surge of excitement, and he felt a sudden need to hurry home, forcing him to expedite his task with more speed and efficiency.

He found no physical signs of disturbance, not until he reached the parlour, and the sight forced him to stand and stare in frozen silence.

The painting of Rebecca’s mother stood upright on the chair opposite the door; the gilt edges now framing a canvas of diagonal slashes slicing right through the image, severing the angelic face.

Gabriel’s heart sank to the pit of his stomach. The vision of Rebecca’s tortured expression haunted his thoughts. He imagined her dropping to her knees while he struggled to find the right words of comfort.

“There’s no damage downstairs,” Higson said trudging into the room, taking care not to step on the rug with his dirty boots. “But the door leading to the basement’s been forced.” He came to stand at Gabriel’s side and jerked his head towards the painting. “Looks like what’s happened here is personal.”

It was an insightful comment. Higson had no idea the portrait was of Rebecca’s mother, his assessment based purely on the obvious way the culprit had chosen to display it. Gabriel’s immediate thought was to blame George Wellford, but then he dismissed the idea. Although George’s methods were underhanded and thoughtless, he would never intentionally hurt Rebecca, not like this.

“Do not speak a word of this to anyone, not until I have told Miss Linwood.”

“Is it valuable?”

“Its value is purely sentimental,” Gabriel said as he drew his hand down his face and sighed.

“Then I can’t say as I envy you the task.”

Gabriel cursed loudly, the words filled with anger, fear and frustration. “What the hell am I supposed to say?”

“I’ve always found the truth works well enough.”

“Even when you know the truth will hurt?”

Higson shrugged. “Aye, even then.”

Gabriel strode over, picked up the painting and put it behind the chair, out of view. “I do not want her to see it displayed like a blasted trophy,” he said, feeling the need to explain his actions. He turned back to Higson. “Is the basement door secure?”

Higson scratched his head. “For the time being. But you’ll need to get someone to look at it tomorrow.”

Gabriel nodded. “I’ll check the museum again before we leave, but it may be too difficult to make a proper assessment of the antiquities until daylight.”

They wandered around the Egyptian displays, peering into the cabinets, searching for anything untoward.

“There should be four stone tablets on the plinth,” Gabriel said, shouting commands through the darkness.

“They’re all here, but I noticed an empty plinth in the hallway.”

Gabriel recalled Rebecca mentioning an accident, a bust falling onto the stairs. “I know. There was some sort of incident with a bust of Nefertiti. Everything else seems to be in order,” he said, his mind preoccupied, wondering why the culprit deliberately chose to target the painting of Rebecca’s mother. “We should head back.”

During the ride back to Hanover Square, Gabriel’s mind was plagued by uncertainty and doubt. His head urged him to go back and remove the damaged portrait, to tell Rebecca it had been stolen. His heart reminded him he was not capable of such deceit.

Of course, he also had another problem — Rebecca Linwood would be sleeping in his house.