Silhouette in Scarlet - Elizabeth Peters [51]
I wandered towards the end of the field where the men were working. Georg was puttering away in his own little section. He had removed the topsoil from an area about a metre square. It was an academically neat excavation, with sharp right-angle corners and a level surface; at that rate it would take him about ten years to cover the entire field.
Max’s haphazard digging was no more impressive. The areas of exposed subsoil looked pitifully small amid the rolling waves of stubble. It was a hopeless project; a whole crew working for three months might accomplish something. Might . . . Nobody knew how deep the treasure was buried, or how widely it was scattered – or even if it was there.
Max stood with his shoulders bowed as he watched the diggers. ‘Can I go back to the house?’ I asked meekly. ‘I’m bored.’
‘If you like.’ He didn’t look at me. I took that for a bad sign. As I turned away he added, ‘We will all be returning shortly.’ And that was an even worse sign.
The sun was high and surprisingly hot. I headed for the shower. The cool water streaming over my body improved my physical state, but mentally I was in a grim mood. Max and his men, who had been engaging in strenuous physical activity most of the day, would be even hotter and dirtier and more discouraged than I. If Max had had any archaeological experience he would have seen at first glance that he couldn’t hope to find what he was looking for in the space of a few days. Sitting in his city office, he had probably visualized the procedure with the mental eye of ignorant optimism – a stretch of dirt about twenty feet square, with bits of gold sticking up out of the soil. He might be ignorant, but he wasn’t stupid, nor was he the man to waste time on a hopeless project.
I cut my shower short. I wanted to search the house before they got back.
Max and his crew had taken over one wing, the one on the south, corresponding to the flanking wing in which my bedroom was located. All the doors along the corridor were locked. I figured there wasn’t any point in trying to pick the locks. Max was not the man to leave weapons, or any other useful item, lying around.
On the second floor were more bedrooms, none of them in use. The curtains were drawn, the furniture draped with white dustcloths. One chamber, larger than the rest, with an adjoining bath and dressing room, was fancy enough to have been the master’s quarters. Perhaps Gus had occupied it until his physical handicap made stairs difficult. I opened the door of one of the heavy oak wardrobes. It was filled with women’s dresses, swathed in linen to keep off the dust. A strong smell of mothballs wafted out – the odour of the past, of memories preserved and cherished . . . Feeling like an intruder, I tiptoed out.
A door under the stairs presumably led to the cellar. It was locked and looked heavy enough to withstand a battering ram. I pressed my ear against it and then ventured a soft ‘Gus? Are you there?’ If he was, he didn’t answer.
I had explored the whole house except for one area – the kitchen and service section. It lay behind the dining room, separated from the latter by a butler’s pantry whose shelves were filled with shining glassware.
When I walked into the kitchen my first thought was, ‘Poor Mrs Andersson.’ So far the mess wasn’t too bad – dusty footprints dulling the white stone floor, trays of dirty coffee cups and dishes put down everywhere on counters and tables. But it was bound to get worse before it got better, and I could see that this was the housekeeper’s favourite place – sitting room as well as workshop. One end of the big room had been furnished with woven rugs, rocking chairs, and a few tables. An enormous peasant-style pewter cupboard stood against the wall, its looming blue sides painted with bright pink roses and red hearts. In the cupboard section, under the open shelves, were some of Mrs Andersson’s personal belongings, including stacks of magazines and a knitting bag. The latter held balls of soft grey yarn and one sleeve of a man’s sweater, almost completed. If she was a confirmed knitter,