Grace and Disgrace Read Free Page A

climb.
    “Miss Conall,” Tuohay called, his voice rising up the stairs. They stopped for a moment to listen.
    Eldredge shook his head. “No response. Odd.” He cupped his hands around his mouth. “Miss Conall, are you up there?”
    Following Eldredge, Tuohay took his cane in hand and used the wall on his left to support his weight. Alighting onto the second level, the two looked upon a single hallway. It was crammed with offices, a framework of order constructed around the chaos of articles, files, and other odds and ends accumulated through lawyerly interests.
    Eldredge led the way to an adjacent staircase. “This one must lead up to the loft.”
    They ascended the stairs, at the crest of which a partial view of the gloom-ridden attic came into view. Open rafters hung threateningly low from the main joist, shadows hiding in the corners that the dying light could not reach. The fading breath of day entered through a broad window at the south of the room where an empty chair sat cockeyed from a neighboring desk. It was free of dust and appeared to be recently used. A scattering of papers littered the desk, a pair of wire rim glasses atop them. An open bottle of ginger beer stood stoically beside the papers.
    Tuohay walked over to the desk with an unhurried step and raised the bottle to his nose. “Fresh. Recently opened.” He set the bottle down and inhaled slowly through his nose. “Do you…?”
    “Smell the lingering scent of tobacco? Yes.”
    “Spice tobacco. Perique.”
    “A brand of pipe tobacco, yes,” Eldredge agreed.
    Tuohay turned back to the desk. One of the papers revealed a title in eloquent cursive: Essay for Admission. Adoration of the Magi in Religious Art: Restoration Practices of Oil on Canvas, Mural, and Stained Glass . Authored by Colin Allotrope of Great House, Trinitarians of Mary.
    Several of the pages beneath it had edit marks over the original writing. Tuohay made a mental note of the author’s name.
    “So, where is Miss Conall?” he inquired, his stare burning into room.
    Eldredge bit his lip. “I cannot say. Do we have the correct time?”
    As if in response to Eldredge’s question, the watery trickle of an out-of-key piano drifted from below.
    “What is through there?” Tuohay asked, striding over to the center of the attic where a small, nearly hidden door stood ajar. The piano reverberated with surprising clarity beyond it.
    “Storage, I believe,” Eldredge replied, stumbling after his tall companion. Despite his limp, Tuohay moved swiftly, his stiff leg orbiting from his hip fluidly for its condition. The thin tune grew louder as the door was pushed aside. Shadowed and strange shapes stood end upon end before the two men: old flower vases upon boxes upon desks without drawers, dusty cloth bags reduced to cheesecloth by hungry moths, old ice skates with rusty blades, faded portraits where only the artist’s signature could clearly be made out. All of this clutter Tuohay passed by until he came to a vent at the north end of the room. The ballad rose in volume and texture from the vent as if from the trumpet horn of a phonograph.
    “Strange,” Tuohay remarked, peering at the dark vent. He turned to Eldredge. “Back down, I suppose. Let us see who our mysterious player is.”
    Several minutes later the two men were on the first floor again, the melody pulling them along like a current. Tuohay led the march, his eyes riveted on the small doorway leading into an apparent drawing room. A plaque at the doorway displayed, “The Seymore M. Left Room” in brass lettering.
    Stepping through, Tuohay immediately focused on the musician in the corner of the room. “Miss Conall?” he said.
    The music died away as the young woman playing the piano turned on the stool to face the two men. “I did not think you were coming. It is a quarter past the hour.” Her voice was soft, the Celtic accent pronounced.
    “Yes. Well, we decided to do some exploring first,” Tuohay replied.
    She