He searched around the office for keys to the desk, but came up blank. Sir Hubert doubtless kept them on his keychain. He wondered how he could get at them.
Well, there was nothing more doing here, unless he proposed to force the drawers like a common thief. He checked as best he could that he had left no trace of his interference, and went to the door, where he listened for footfalls outside. There was only silence. He unlocked the study door, slipped out, peering over his shoulder as he did it, and walked straight into somebody.
“Jesus!” he yelped.
“I fear not,” said a silky voice, and Curtis realised that he had collided with da Silva. “Both Jewish, of course, but the resemblance ends there.”
Curtis stepped back, away from him, and bumped into the doorframe. Da Silva, making very little effort to hide his amusement, moved out of his way with a show of elaborate courtesy. “Doing a spot of work, were you?” he enquired, glancing into their host’s study.
“How’s your muse?” Curtis retorted and stalked off, face flaming.
God, how embarrassing, and what miserable bloody luck. At least he’d only been spotted by that blasted Levantine. For all he knew, da Silva would see nothing unusual in exploring one’s host’s private rooms.
That was an appealing thought, but unlikely; even the most ill-bred commoner would wonder what he was playing at. The question was whether the fellow would mention it to anyone. Curtis would have to think up some explanation, in case.
He went up to his room, cursing da Silva, unsure what to do next. He supposed a real spy might pry into the Armstrongs’ bedrooms, but the thought revolted him. He would have to look elsewhere.
After a few minutes to recover his composure, he went into the library, having first poked his head round the door to confirm it was empty. It was a spacious room, wood-panelled in the style of much older homes and rather dark. The upper bookshelves were lined with marshalled rows of leather-bound volumes with matching spines, the sets of reference works and unreadable academic studies that new money might buy to fill up the shelf space. The lower shelves, within reach, held complete sets of Dickens and Trollope, along with all the latest clever novels and a lot of sensational yellow-back fiction. There was only one painting here, a portrait of a boy aged about nine, holding a baby. Curtis supposed that would be Martin and James. If so, that was the first picture of James Curtis had seen; he wondered if the man hated sitting for portraits as much as he did himself.
As well as the bookshelves and some comfortable reading chairs, there were a couple of occasional tables topped with heavy-based electric lamps, and a desk. He checked its drawers and found nothing but blank stationery and writing materials.
He looked around, and noticed an unobtrusive door at the far end of the room, close-fitted into the panelling. It was in the middle of the wall, and a quick mental survey of the house’s layout made him think it was likely to be an anteroom, rather than a passage leading anywhere. Might it be a private study? He tried the door handle. It was locked.
“My, you are curious,” murmured a voice in his ear, and Curtis almost jumped out of his skin.
“Good God.” He turned to face da Silva, who stood right behind him. The man must move like a cat. “Do you mind not sneaking up on a chap?”
“Oh, is it me who’s sneaking? I had no idea.”
That was a shrewd blow. Curtis set his jaw. “It’s a fascinating house,” he said, and watched the amused twitch of da Silva’s mouth with impotent fury.
“That’s document storage.” Da Silva nodded helpfully at the door. “Sir Hubert keeps most of his private papers there, under lock and key.”
“Very sensible,” muttered Curtis, and heard the luncheon gong with relief.
Relief turned to dismay when he realised that da Silva would be eating with him. It appeared the fellow would be crawling round him all day at this rate.
“I hope your work went well,” he managed, attempting to maintain a veneer of civility as they sat opposite one another, across a lavish spread.
“Moderately successful, thank you.” Da Silva buttered a roll with great care. “How about yours?”
Curtis’s breath hitched at that little dig. “I’ve merely been wandering round. Having a look at the place. Remarkable house.”
“Isn’t it.” Da Silva was watching him as he spoke, his face impossible to read, and Curtis had to stop himself from shifting under his gaze.
He grabbed for the nearest serving dish and proffered it, in the hope of changing the subject. “Ham?”
“No, thank you.”
“It’s a jolly good one.”
Da Silva blinked, slowly, like a lizard. “I dare say, but I fear I haven’t converted since we last spoke.”
“Con— Oh. Oh, I beg your pardon. I quite forgot you were a Jew.”