“This is the last time I’m waiting around!” a shrill female voice echoed from the second floor. “Either you pay for the room, or I’m calling a cop, mark my words! I’m giving you three days, you hear me? And I don’t want to hear a single complaint about smoking—my furniture’s gonna reek of tobacco!”
Heavy footsteps followed, and a stout woman descended the stairs with surprising speed for her age. At the first step, she forced the new tenant to step aside, still burning with anger as she shot a furious glare her way.
“Oh, it’s you, Miss Smith! How was your walk? I’d trade places with you in a heartbeat—I’ve never had so many headaches in one morning! Terrible day, just terrible!”
No response was needed. As usual in such situations, the landlady hurried off to the kitchen, where her tried-and-true remedy for frayed nerves awaited. Even during their first meeting, the potent aroma of cooking sherry had nearly knocked Miss Smith off her feet, but overall, Mrs. Bow turned out to be a kind and accommodating woman. On top of that, the rent was reasonable, and the house was conveniently located, so Miss Smith didn’t hesitate to become one of her tenants.
She made her way upstairs, mulling over what had happened at the boutique. Something didn’t add up in this story. If the mysterious restorer had really managed to sneak into ‘Lily,’ hide, and scrawl that chilling message, he’d have to be a regular Houdini. Someone like that was worth checking out, especially since there wasn’t much else in the way of entertainment in Cornhill. There was still time for a walk—lunch was served at two—but before Miss Smith could even slide her key into the lock, the door next to hers creaked open.
Their eyes met. A man with disheveled hair, wearing a rumpled shirt, stood in stark contrast to the impeccably dressed young woman with flawless manners.
“Sorry to appear before you like this, but do you happen to have any matches?”
It seemed the neighbor had been roused by Mrs. Bow’s shouting and hadn’t quite recovered from the sudden commotion.
“I should have some,” she replied without so much as a raised eyebrow. “Unless that warning about smoking was meant for you.”
“No, I’ve been luckier than that. Mrs. Bow and I get along just fine. And I pay for my room on time!”
“Good for you! Give me a minute.”
Sure, people in small towns were a different breed, but the way everyone here unloaded their lives on you with such openness took some getting used to. Miss Smith grabbed a box of matches from the mantelpiece and returned to the hallway.
“You’ve saved me!” he said, extending a hand with long, violinist-like fingers to tuck the matches into his vest pocket. “I’m guessing I haven’t made the best first impression… How about I fix that and we grab lunch together? You haven’t tried the white soup yet—the cook here does a decent job.”
“I don’t mean to be rude, but I had other plans. I’m heading out to see the church restoration.”
“Really?” His eyebrows shot up. “Is that actually interesting? Never thought about it. I figured the only entertainment around here was the pub or the underground card club. You’ve inspired me, Miss…”
“Smith.”
“Nice to meet you. Vincent Pratt!” The neighbor shook her hand. “So, when are you heading out for this walk? I’d like to join you. I’m sure a dose of high art wouldn’t hurt me.”
She paused, considering her response. Constant chit-chat with refined types—or worse, dull suitors—could be exhausting, but this time, she found herself next to an intriguingly charming rogue.
“If you can be ready in half an hour, I’ll wait for you in the lobby.”
It might not have been the best idea, but her gut told her that with a companion like this, it’d be easier to get the restorer talking. As for potential gossip—nobody knew Miss Smith here, and she hoped to wrap up her business soon and head back home. For now, life had thrown her a puzzle too intriguing to ignore.
The next half hour was spent flipping through newspapers over a cup of tea. Nothing particularly noteworthy caught her eye, except for a curious coincidence: the announcement of Jim Cooper’s engagement to Olivia Finch was printed on the same day as news about the start of the church restoration. So, the mysterious Mr. West likely knew about the couple’s plans. What wasn’t clear was why he’d interfere—or which seamstress had put him up to staging that horror show. The clock on the mantel struck half past twelve, and Miss Smith set the paper aside. The weather was lovely, and a walk seemed appealing, even with her neighbor tagging along.
She tucked a pencil and notepad into her purse, locked her door, and headed downstairs, prepared to wait. But today was apparently full of surprises. Mr. Pratt was already by the entrance, dressed in a sharp black three-piece suit, a crisp white shirt with a starched collar, and a hat that made him look like a banker.
“I didn’t keep you waiting, did I?”
“Not a minute. I figured you’d be punctual and got here early,” he said, offering his elbow. His new acquaintance placed her hand on it. A faint whiff of spicy cologne teased her senses, making Mr. Pratt’s presence even more pleasant. Meanwhile, he continued with a sigh. “Though, Mrs. Bow’s maid seems to have vanished, and I had to iron my own shirt. Hell of a chore!”
Miss Smith barely suppressed a smile.
“So, I’ve got my work cut out for me, huh? Disorganized staff, dinner that’s always ten minutes late… I’m curious, how’d you guess I’m so punctual?”
“You were given the best room with a working fireplace. To earn that kind of privilege, you must’ve gained our landlady’s deep trust. If you managed that, there’s no doubt in my mind.”
They continued their walk, exchanging questions and impressions. It turned out Mr. Pratt had been living here for three months and, by his own account, hadn’t made an inch of progress on an inheritance matter. The local judge wouldn’t lift a finger to review the will! So, he was stuck sharing his daily life with a student who forgot to pay rent, traveling salesmen, and a brother and sister who’d come to town for the quiet and good climate. After spilling his story, Mr. Pratt turned to his companion.
“Your turn! People don’t just show up in a backwater like this for no reason. What brought you here?”
“I’m looking for someone,” Miss Smith replied evasively.
“Family business?” She nodded, but Mr. Pratt felt the need to clarify. “Sorry for being so direct, but it’s a necessary precaution. What if it’s about a fiancé? I’d hate to end up in a duel tonight.”
Miss Smith turned her head and looked into her new friend’s eyes.
“Are you always this upfront with women?”
“No, but I see a kindred spirit in you. Please, save me from boredom. I’m willing to help with any search—I’ve drunk more wine out of sheer tedium this past month than in my entire life!”
“And can you be trusted with secrets?” She stopped, weighing her next move.
“Any secret, even my own name, though I must look like a total cad right now. Since we’re already tied to the same cause, I think I’ve earned that trust. What if I need to write you a note?”
“Molly.”
“I’m impressed. I’ve never seen a name suit someone so well!” A few more compliments danced on the tip of his tongue, but he figured it was best not to push his luck. “So, how can I help you, Molly?”
“With your interest in high art. Since we’re headed to the church, and you’ve never seen a building restoration before, ask the restorer all about it. Make him forget I’m even there… for a little while.”
Miss Smith rewarded her new friend with a gentle smile and saw a spark light up in his eyes.
“Is there treasure hidden in the church? This search just keeps getting more interesting.”
“How’d you guess?”
“Just by the fact that you haven’t once mentioned money in our conversation. That only happens when someone’s got endless resources.”
Finally, he’d managed to make her smile. This small victory boosted his mood even more.
“Alright, I’ll keep quiet as a fish. You want me to grill the restorer? You can count on me.”
Now all that was left was to get to the church and hope for a bit of luck. They walked down the cobblestone path, passed the orphanage, and soon arrived at their destination. Molly wasn’t entirely sure what to do next, so she decided to trust her instincts and peeked through the slightly open church doors first.
Scaffolding stood against one of the walls. Icons that had been removed from their places were stacked in a far corner, covered with cloth to protect them from dust and dirt. Slanted rays of sunlight streamed through the windows, dust motes dancing in the light, but the restorer himself was nowhere to be seen.
“Maybe he’s working outside?” Mr. Pratt suggested, glancing around.
“Or he stepped out… If our suspect is really out there, do me a small favor!”
“Talk his ear off?” Mr. Pratt looked more delighted than Miss Smith had ever seen him.
He didn’t need a reply. His tall figure soon disappeared through the door. Now she had to act fast. Right across from the window, on the scaffolding, sat a suitcase full of paints. To reach it, she had to channel her childhood tree-climbing skills. The frescoes, cleaned of grime, had already been partially restored, with some areas brought back to life. One depicted a biblical scene with the burning bush—flames licked at the shrub, scattering red sparks. Carefully, so as not to damage the artwork, she chipped off a tiny piece of plaster and wrapped it in her handkerchief. The fabric still bore traces of the “blood” from the mirror in Mrs. Yuzich’s changing room. The shade matched perfectly, leaving no room for doubt. Now, only one question remained—did West do this himself, or did someone sneak into the church and steal the paint to frame him? An important question, and one without an answer just yet.
Her thoughts were interrupted by approaching voices. Jumping down to the dusty floor, Molly pretended to be intently studying the frescoes as the church doors swung open. A man in an apron with wheat-colored hair and a small beard entered first. His hands were smeared with paint and chalk, but judging by the conversation, the restorer had taken the bait.
“Of course, it’s no Vrubel, but the Byzantine style is unmistakable!” he continued a discussion that Mr. Pratt had undoubtedly started, until he noticed the guest.
“Miss Smith, allow me to introduce Mr. West!” Pratt said, approaching his companion. “A man who’s saving history! You won’t believe it, but I found him practically on the dome, no safety gear at all. Incredible bravery and such talent!”
Pratt’s dark eyes gleamed with amusement. He was clearly enjoying the game, and from the look on his companion’s face, he could tell she’d found exactly what she was after. So, Mr. “Houdini,” climbing to a second floor is no trouble for you. They’d unraveled a piece of the mystery. Now, all that was left was to find the seamstress who’d egged him on. Mrs. Yuzich sold the best gloves in town—she deserved a little help.