Gregor shook his head. “If they were going to leave one portrait without candlesticks, they’d have chosen one of the ones at the end of the hall. Look at them. The most important ones are at this end. By the time you get down to Emma Hannaford’s room, you’re looking at minor members of the family. But they wouldn’t have left a set out in any case. They’d have bought a pair to complete the effect.”
“What about cleaning?”
“In a house like this, silver wouldn’t be taken someplace else to be cleaned. If you have a butler, he’s in charge of the sterling. Once a week, once a month if the house is understaffed, he’ll come up here with an assistant or two and polish the candlesticks where they stand. He’ll do the same with the table silver downstairs. Just take it out of his drawers, put it on the nearest countertop, and wipe it down.”
Jackman rubbed his face. “Are you telling me the damn things have been stolen? Are they worth anything? Who would take them? If you’re implying that some servant—”
“No, no,” Gregor said. “Look at the hall, John. The minor portraits are down there, and so are the minor candlesticks. There’s a picture of a pretty, vacuous woman next to Bennis Hannaford’s door, and what’s under it is a pair of perfectly good but not very interesting Tiffany candlesticks, close to brand new. Now look at the candlesticks as you get closer to this door. Each set is more and more ornate, more and more individual, heavier and heavier. And older.”
“So?”
“So the candlesticks that belong under Robert Hannaford II must be very ornate, very heavy and very old. We’re probably talking a pair of antique Georgian sticks. John, a pair of antique Georgian candlesticks went at auction at Sotheby’s two years ago for over twelve thousand dollars.”
“A pair of candlesticks?” Jackman said.
Gregor smiled. “You don’t have to worry about the servants, either. If a servant was going to steal a pair, it would be one of the ones at the other end. Georgian silver was made to order, almost always in a design created especially for the lady of the house. It was as good as a signature. Better.”
“If they were heavy enough, they could have been sold to someone to melt down—”
“Would you want to turn something worth twelve thousand into something worth fifteen hundred?”
“Maybe nobody involved knew it was worth twelve thousand.”
“A professional fence would have guessed,” Gregor said. “He wouldn’t touch it. It would be asking to land in jail.”
Jackman sighed. “Gregor, this is the crack age. The world is different now. People do the damnedest things these days. You wouldn’t believe it—”
“I wouldn’t believe a servant on crack lasting half an hour around Anne Marie Hannaford,” Gregor said. “And Anne Marie Hannaford, from what you’ve told me, is the person who runs this house.”
“True,” Jackman said.
“If somebody took these candlesticks, and somebody must have, that somebody was one of the family. Only a member of the family had a hope in hell of taking them and not getting prosecuted for it. And that brings up a number of very interesting possibilities.”
Jackman nodded. “One of them could be very strapped for money,” he said. “From what the Hannafords told me the other night, the estate goes to Cordelia Day on Robert Hannaford’s death, but Cordelia has to be a much softer touch than old Robert ever was.”
“There’s also the possibility that this isn’t the first theft,” Gregor said, “and that Robert Hannaford knew about the others. Or even about this one. We should talk to that man, Marshall, and find out when he last saw the candlesticks here. But there has to be some explanation of Robert Hannaford’s inviting me to dinner in that strange way. Maybe this is it.”
“You think this was worth a hundred thousand in cash to Robert Hannaford?”
“No,” Gregor said, “but then, that may have been a hoax. You never did find the briefcase. Anything is possible if the man was eccentric enough. And the way they talk about him, he sounds eccentric enough for anything. Then there’s the third—”
Gregor never got to the third. There was a thudding on the stairs, then a clatter and an echoing panting on the landing. Gregor and Jackman turned together toward the hall door. A uniformed patrolman was standing there, looking flushed, sweaty, and out of breath.
“Excuse me,” he said. “There’s a man downstairs. A Mr. Evers. He’s pacing around the study and insisting on seeing you, and I think he’s about to lose control.”