Free Death in the Age of Steam by Mel Bradshaw

after another. The birds seemed to be sketched from a taxidermy shop. The houses might have been of great use to a builder. Then there were parts of a cat that, even in sleep, moved around too much ever to have its portrait completed.
    It was high time Harris made an appreciative remark. “You know, Elsie, I like these bits. They leave something to your imagination.”
    Then he turned the page and saw a cloud of cat, a sketch so furious and unconsidered it might all have been done in five seconds. It wasn’t what Harris thought of as artistic. The pencilled swirls better suited a storm at sea than a dozing pet.He wondered if Elsie, frustrated by her own caution, had swung to the opposite extreme.
    â€œThat’s not mine,” she said.
    â€œWhose is it then?”
    â€œMrs. Crane’s . . .”
    Elsie had Harris’s full attention. Here was a connection he had not guessed at.
    â€œShe said that unless I was illustrating an anatomy textbook, I should not worry so much about the details. I do like her. Do you think she will be found?”
    A quick, false yes would not do. If Elsie’s parents had trusted her with news of the disappearance, rather than pretending Theresa was out of town on some cosy visit, then Harris didn’t want to spew easy reassurance either. At the same time, he honestly could not imagine living the rest of his life with this mystery unresolved.
    â€œI think she will,” he said slowly. “Did you ever sketch her?”
    â€œI surely did.” The girl’s long face brightened. “Don’t skip now. You’ll come to it.”
    â€œCome on back, Mr. Harris,” some one called from the piano. “It seems we can’t do without you.”
    â€œIn a moment,” he answered.
    Elsie’s drawings, still highly detailed, did become looser and livelier. Theresa’s portrait was easily the best thing in the book. Affection for the sitter must have helped, on top of which Theresa had given Elsie a pose it would have been hard to make static. Her head was turning as if her attention had just been caught by the glimpse of a person long absent, and her lips were parting as if she were about to speak. The drawing was dated the first of the current month.
    â€œWhat do you think? Am I improving?” Elsie wanted to know.
    â€œYou are indeed. Could I borrow this and make a tracing?”
    â€œI should want it back. Do you really think it’s good?”
    Harris’s musical services were again being called for.
    â€œI do, but remember I’m not an art critic, Elsie, just a banker.”
    â€œAnd a dazzling pianist,” she reminded him merrily.
    â€œPlug your ears,” he warned her on his way back to the keyboard.
    After a sufficiency of Mendelssohn and Schubert, the music party broke up for refreshments. Harris watched his chance to get a word with Elsie’s mother, who but for darker eyes and a stronger chin greatly resembled her contemporary the Queen. Kate MacFarlane was for some time occupied ordering staff and guests about in a quick, sharp voice. Her folded fan pointed directions. Harris had never seen her wear anything but tartan—a general fad since the completion of the royal residence at Balmoral. Her timber-baron husband—an older man, very tall and substantial—left to her the duties of general hospitality, while he remained towering in the background in conversation with the comeliest of the young sopranos.
    Harris had only recently been introduced to the family, which explained his not knowing of their acquaintance with Theresa. And yet he felt quickly at ease. Mrs. MacFarlane’s brusqueness had a way of breaking down reserve.
    Speak to her? Certainly. Making sure he had a plate of cakes, she drew him out through French doors onto a vaulted loggia overlooking the garden. Gothic arches added to the picturesque appeal of this villa scaled like a castle. Theresa Crane, said the