“You must call me Genevieve,” Genevieve insisted. “You’ve known me since I was born, Mrs. Dolan.”
The housekeeper offered a watery smile. “You and your brothers were a handful. But the Cotswolds appreciated your high jinks; they believed children should be lively. Oh, there I go again.” She patted at her wet eyes, then gestured for Genevieve to sit. “I’ll have Letty bring in some tea. Or would you prefer coffee?”
“Tea is fine,” Genevieve reassured her. The drawing room looked much the same as it had for the past two decades, with oversized paintings in heavy gilded frames dominating the walls and thick carpets blanketing the floors. But her comfort in the familiar surroundings was overshadowed by her concern for what the policeman had revealed on the townhouse’s front steps. She leaned toward the woman she had known since childhood, who had often cared for her and her brothers while the adults dined and chatted the night away, recalling that Mrs. Dolan might have known another child.
“Mrs. Dolan, did you hear that Daniel McCaffrey is back in town?” she began, settling herself on an armchair that was surprisingly comfortable for so much gilding. “Do I remember correctly that Mr. Cotswold was friends with Jacob Van Joost?”
“He was indeed. And yes, Mr. McCaffrey came to visit me a few weeks ago.”
This was news.
“You are that well acquainted?” She’d thought perhaps the housekeeper would have a distant memory of the man as a boy, not a recent one.
“Oh yes. I’ve known Mr. McCaffrey since he was a lad. He didn’t accompany Mr. Van Joost here often, mind, perhaps about once a year. He spent so much time abroad at school when he was young, you know. Once Mr. Van Joost died and left his fortune to young Daniel, and the newspapers began to insinuate all kinds of terrible things—no offense to your current employers, dear—well, Mr. Cotswold brought Daniel around more, when he was home from university and the like. To encourage him, you know. The poor lad needed a guiding hand.”
Genevieve had to fight to keep her mouth from dropping open in astonishment. All this time, society had wondered at Daniel McCaffrey’s origins and whereabouts during his youth, and at least some of the answers had been right here all along, in the Cotswold drawing room.
“But … I never heard of any affiliation between Reginald and Mr. McCaffrey,” she began.
“Oh no, you wouldn’t have. Mr. Cotswold did like to keep things private, and he wanted Daniel to be able to make his own name. Which he has, hasn’t he? Done quite well, I’d say.” Mrs. Dolan sighed, looking around the room in a distracted manner.
Genevieve filed the information away in her brain to pick apart later. It was astonishing news, but she also wanted to know why officers had been at the home. “I saw some police officers leaving the house just now—” she began, but the housekeeper interrupted her.
“Those pups.” Genevieve’s surprise at Mrs. Dolan’s uncharacteristic impertinence must have shown on her face, as the older woman drew herself taller in her armchair. “Yes, I said it. They are determined not to hear me. With your being out in the working world, my dear, I can tell you what I might not say to another young lady: I firmly believe Mr. Cotswold’s life was taken from him.” And with that, the housekeeper buried her face behind the pink handkerchief for some minutes.
Genevieve was patting Mrs. Dolan’s back soothingly when Letty arrived with the tea. The young maid looked with alarm at her employer before setting the service down gingerly. Mrs. Dolan recovered herself enough to shoo the maid away and pour as Genevieve resumed her seat.
“Mrs. Dolan, why would you make such a claim? Mr. Cotswold was ninety-one,” she said, parroting her editor. She knew what the ill-mannered officer had claimed but wanted to hear the tale from the housekeeper herself.
“A most valuable Russian jeweled box is missing,” Mrs. Dolan confided with a sniff. “It was a gift from Emperor Alexander the Second himself, decorated with rubies, prized as much for its sentiment as for price. It went missing the very night Reginald passed.” The pink swath of fabric came to her eyes again, but briefly this time.
“And why do you think the potential theft of the box has any relationship with Mr. Cotswold’s passing?” Genevieve asked gently. “Could it not have been coincidence? Or perhaps it was simply misplaced? It’s only been two days.” The Cotswolds had been profligate art collectors, amassing objects from their frequent and extensive travels all over the world. One thing the officer had said on the steps was true: the vast house was crammed with an enormous number of paintings, sculptures, and all manner of bric-a-brac, ranging from the shockingly expensive to trinkets purchased from street vendors. It was altogether imaginable that one jeweled box had become lost in the mix.
Mrs. Dolan pursed her lips and shot Genevieve a scolding look. “You know me better than that, dear. I know where every object in this house belongs and make sure the staff does as well.”
Genevieve ducked her head in acknowledgment and some shame, as she did in fact know this. She, Gavin, and Charles used to delight in the multitude of treasures to be found in the house, carefully palming and exclaiming over those they were allowed to handle, and no matter where they had found each object, Mrs. Dolan knew exactly what it was and exactly where it belonged.
“But I still don’t understand why you assume the missing box is connected to Mr. Cotswold’s death,” she pressed, stirring a touch more sugar into her tea.
“Well, it has to be that Robin Hood character,” Mrs. Dolan said definitively. She took a quavering breath but managed to keep
