The Art of Betrayal

are cut to maximum depth. You insert the key, then gently bump it with a mallet or screwdriver, forcing the lock pins to the shear line as the key turns and the door opens.”
“How do you know they used a bump key?”
“We don’t. That’s the problem. To prove it, we’d have to catch them in the act or capture them with bumping tools in their possession.”
“But what about the security system? Even if they gained entrance, the alarm would have gone off.”
“Not necessarily. All wireless alarm systems rely on radio frequency signals sent from the door and window sensors to the control pad, which triggers the alarm—in Ivor’s case, a silent alert to the monitoring company. With specialized equipment, the signal can be jammed—almost like preventing someone from hearing by yelling in his ear. The alarm industry has countered with 128-bit encrypted sensors that use frequency hopping—changing the broadcast frequency often and randomly. This makes jamming less of an issue.”
I could see where he was going. “And Ivor didn’t have the new technology.”
“He will now—or should.”
“So we’re dealing with professionals.”
Tom smiled. “I like the sound of that word.”
“Professionals?”
“No—we.”
He slowed down. “And we have arrived.”
On our right, a gray stone wall, pocked with lichens and greenish algae, stretched ahead of us. Some of the stones lay scattered on the ground, loosened by the leafy vines that grew everywhere. Long tufts of grass had filled in the gaps between the foundation stones. A hundred yards or so farther on, we came to a pair of gray stone columns. A sign said “Hapthorn Lodge. Private. No entrance.” Rusty black iron gates stood open.”
“This is creepy,” I said.
“Wait ’til you see the house.”
Beech trees lined the drive, their high branches interlacing to form a canopy. More vines were tangled, like Absalom’s hair, in the branches. The drive was long and narrow, ending in a round gravel courtyard with a three-tiered fountain in the center, clogged with damp leaves.
Hapthorn Lodge looked like something out of a Gothic costume drama. Early Edwardian, two stories with attic dormers. Light gray stone, nearly smothered in ivy. The house, with its painted bay windows, reminded me of The Willows, except here the ivy had been allowed to run riot. Mist rose eerily from the ground.
Tom pulled into a space near the entrance and turned off the engine. “Ready?”
“Let’s go,” I said, trying to sound plucky.
This house held secrets. And I had a feeling they weren’t nice ones.

Chapter Twelve
As we got out of the car, the sound of rushing water met us. “What’s that?”
“The Stour,” Tom said. “I knew we were close.”
We couldn’t see through the mist and the dense, leafy undergrowth, but the river had to be within a few hundred feet of the house. Having grown up around lakes, I’d often fallen asleep to the gentle rhythm of lapping water, but this swift, unseen current felt menacing.
We picked our way toward the house, following flat slates set into the mossy soil. Leaded-glass panels in the Art Nouveau style, darkened with grime, surrounded the entrance door. Tom punched a code into the keyless lock box, pushed open the door, and we stepped inside.
Hapthorn Lodge was a perfect example of an early-Edwardian country house, built in the first decade of the twentieth century for a prosperous middle-class family with servants. The pale colors and simplicity of design were meant to be a welcome change from the dark, heavy Victorian architecture, but the effect here was spoiled by a lack of light, an air of general disuse, and the unmistakable smell of mildew.
The large, nearly square entrance hall had pale gray wainscoting. A dusty oriental carpet covered the center of the parquet floor. A Dutch still-life I’d seen in the magazine hung on the wall beside a pair of spaniel paintings in gilded frames. No one had loved this house for a long time—or cleaned it. The newel post and bannisters on either side of the wide staircase were thick with dust.
“When Mrs. Wright said ‘light housekeeping,’ she wasn’t kidding.” I ran my finger over the surface of a narrow cabinet, leaving a trail in the dust. “She didn’t do windows. Or much of anything else from the looks of it.”
“To be fair, she told Cliffe she wasn’t allowed to do more than tidy up the kitchen, stock the pantry and refrigerator, and do an occasional spot of dusting and hoovering in the rooms being used. Most of the house had been closed up for years. Mrs. Wright came and went through the side entrance. She may never have entered the formal rooms.”
Wide pocket doors to the right and left of the entrance hall were shut. Tom rapped his knuckles on the doors to the right. “Dining room through there. Drawing room across the hall. Library at the rear.”
“I may as well get started,” I said.
“First I’d like you to see upstairs. Let’s go the back way.”
Instead of climbing the wide staircase in the entrance hall, Tom led me down a hallway, past a butler’s pantry, to a large kitchen with a scullery and a back staircase, a typical feature of period houses, enabling servants to lay fires, change linens, and keep things generally clean and tidy without disturbing the family.
The kitchen looked like it had been updated sometime in the 1990s with light oak cabinetry and newer appliances. A wide, windowed bay facing the rear garden had been turned into a breakfast alcove with banquettes upholstered in a dated yellow floral pattern.
“Where does that lead?” I indicated a heavy door to the left of the narrow wooden staircase leading to the upper floors.
Tom opened it, releasing the dank smell of mildew. “There’s a partial cellar under the rear portion of the house. Bad drainage. With the floods last December, they probably had standing water for weeks.”
“What’s down there?”
“The old coal-fired boiler, I’m told. Empty wine rack. A few boxes, which you’ll probably have to check—sorry.”
We climbed the stairs, making the tight half turn partway up. At the top, Tom