“We will find a park after we have spoken to Beckett,” Mouse said.
“Good,” he sighed. His eyes went glassy again, and they did not speak until they were at Beckett’s office. It was a thin building, pressed between a long line of similar houses on either side. Its austere facade blended perfectly with all the other houses on the street. The wall of brick dominating the street might have been intimidating, if it was not so dull. Mouse knew from her previous visits that Beckett lived on the second floor, and that he rented the flat above to a revolving stream of tenants.
Lord Dewhurst often jabbed that one could tell Beckett was unmarried, due to the lack of homely touches about the place. Mouse thought it was more likely that he did not have the time to waste on the fashionable knickknacks Lord Dewhurst would expect from a middle-class man.
Thornwood leaned against the stair rail leading up to the door, his eyes pressed closed, as Mouse rang the bell. Hurried, shuffling steps approached.
A bedraggled Beckett wrenched open the door. He was in his shirtsleeves, with his tweed vest gaping open, held secure by just the top button. His glasses crowned his head, and a long ink stain stretched down his chin. Mouse could make out a line of reversed letters pressed into his cheek.
“What is it?” he barked before the door was open. He squinted down his stubby nose at Mouse.
“Mr.Beckett,” she said.
His eyebrows shot up in concert with his voice. “Lady Dewhurst!” His hand flew to his vest, which he began buttoning. The other clutched at his neck, then searched his pockets. “Forgive me. I did not recognize you.”
“No need to apologize,” she said, suppressing a smile. “If you are looking for your glasses, they are on your head.”
He pulled them down over his scarlet face. “How can I help you, my lady?”
“We came to ask you about something.” Mouse stepped into the office hallway. It was a tight, sterile space.
“We?”
When Mouse turned to look, Thornwood was gone. She knew that his presence would raise questions, but she felt exposed without him. At least she had the persuasion spell to lean on.
“We, meaning my brother and I.”
Beckett did not question her as he caught his reflection in the mirror. He scrubbed his sleeve against his cheek. It came away black. He grimaced and rolled his sleeves up to the elbows.
Mouse followed the hallway to a small room decorated with dark red wallpaper, Beckett at her heels. Papers covered nearly every surface of his study, and huge gaps between books dotted the bookshelves. The missing titles lay open on the floor, chairs, and across Beckett’s desk. Thinking of how tidy he had kept Lord Dewhurst’s desk, Mouse deduced that he must be in the middle of something important.
Beckett cleared a place for Mouse to sit without a word, then took his seat across from her. She saw the smudged letter with an imprint of his cheek pressed into the ink. He rang a bell on his desk, and a tall woman in green bustled into the room. When she saw Mouse, she tilted her head slightly in question, her eyes darting to Beckett.
“Some tea, perhaps,” he said. “And coffee for myself.” The woman nodded and left, pulling the door closed behind her.
“How can I help you, Lady Dewhurst?” he asked. He was visibly more in control, despite the towers of paperwork around them. “It is not often that I get a surprise visit from a client.”
“I would have thought the aristocracy reveled in that sort of thing,” Mouse said before she could stop herself.
“Some do,” he said coolly. “It must be a family trait.”
Mouse schooled her features into a neutral mask. “I am sorry to drop in on you without warning. It is just that I ran across a locked door that requires two keys at Thistlemarsh.”
“How peculiar,” he said.
“Very. Now, I have one of the keys in my possession. It was a gift from my mother before she died. I know my cousin had the other one with him at the Front.”
“Fascinating. How do you know Master Bertie had it?”
“My uncle told me that he did. It was one of the few of Bertie’s belongings returned from France.” The words flowed freely, despite the lie. It was not Lord Dewhurst that told her Bertie had the key, but John, in one of the letters he’d sent her while she was at Le Temple des Fées.
Beckett gulped. “I see.”
“I am sure that it opens this odd door; my key fits the lock perfectly, and I know that Bertie’s key was a near twin to mine.”
“You have come to me to confirm its existence?”
“No, I have come to you to claim it. The key is not at Thistlemarsh Hall, so it must be here.”