One—the room smelled musty after being shut up for eight weeks. It begged for the heavy drapes to be pulled back, the window opened.
Two—the floor was empty where the rug had lain.
Three—blood must have soaked through it, for the wood by the massive desk was stained.
Arthur turned on his heel and put his back to that particular fact. Better to face the man who was peeking behind picture frames. “How may I assist you, Mr. Gates?”
Gates didn’t so much as glance over his shoulder. “Anywhere you think a strongbox might be hidden, Sir Arthur, look. I cannot believe I forgot so long that my brother-in-law had one fabricated.”
The younger man cleared his throat and cast his gaze around the room. The chair was no longer overturned and glass fragments were no longer scattered about the floor, but the chamber still felt the way it had when he stepped into it two months prior. The same way he felt now to be poking about it. Wrong.
“Are you certain this is necessary?”
Gates lowered a frame back into place and sent him a patronizing look. “I suppose we could shrug our shoulders and admit Gwyneth has been lost to us.”
A year ago, when this feeling came upon him, his hand would have settled of its own will upon the hilt of his sword. Now, his belt empty of both blade and pistol, he had to merely clench his hand and wait for the pulse of insult to fade.
Once it had, Arthur headed toward the opposite side of the room. The desk and the bookcase behind it. Though he refused to look down, his feet nonetheless took the liberty of avoiding that telltale stain.
Blood had become a common sight in war, one they had all learned to ignore. On the battlefield it was expected. Accepted. But in a man’s own study? What was the purpose of fighting if not to ensure that one could come home and live without fear?
He crouched beside the desk and ran his hands down the sides, comparing the dimensions from the outside with the space available in the drawers. No unexpected compartments, so far as he could tell. He leaned into the space underneath and checked the floorboards. Tight and varnished.
Giving up on that idea, he faced the shelves and began moving the books out a few inches to look behind them. Pull three out, check, push them back. Pull three out, check, push them back.
On the bottom shelf, he found a piece of paper crumpled behind a volume of Montesquieu. There was nothing upon it but a few notes on the text. On the second shelf, a letter from some chap from the Colonies was tucked within the pages of Lavoisier’s Méthode de Nomenclature Chimique. He found nothing else until he moved over to the next bookcase. On the third shelf down, in a collection of French poetry, rested another letter. The scent of rose water still clung to it, the elegant script on the outside matching the fragrance.
Mon amour.
French? He glanced over his shoulder to be sure Gates was still occupied with his own shelves, and then he unfolded the paper. General Fairchild certainly wouldn’t be the first army officer to find a paramour from among the French while on campaign, but he had to admit that the thought shocked him. Though he hadn’t served directly under him, Arthur knew Fairchild’s reputation.
But if he had secrets like this, it could be tied to his murder. Arthur studied out the French text.
My dearest Isaac, how I yearn for you. How much longer until you return to me? This dreadful weakness is seeping more and more through my limbs. I fear, my love. I fear I will not live to see your homecoming. I fear leaving Gwyneth alone.
Gwyneth. Arthur’s gaze went to the end of the letter, where Julienne was written. Mrs. Fairchild, not some secret mistress. He had forgotten she was half French. This would not help him determine who could have killed the man or why. It could not lead him to Gwyneth. He set the letter on top of the row of books.
“Ah!”
Gates’s exclamation brought Arthur around. The older man knelt by the window seat, the lower paneling of which had been removed. He maneuvered a strongbox from within the hidden cubbyhole.
Though a skitter of unease swept up his spine, as Arthur hurried to his companion he told himself that if it would save Gwyneth it was not prying. “How will we open it?”
From within a pocket Gates produced a large metal key. “I procured it from the Bow Street runners. ’Twas in the general’s boot.” He set it at the lock but then paused to shoot Arthur one of his serious looks. “Do be aware, sir, that you are not to poke into any military-related articles that may be within.”
Again his hand flexed, craving the surety that came with his trusted sidearms. “Mr. Gates, I was a military man for a decade, sent home because of injury and for no other reason. You need not lecture me on such things.”
This time Gates offered no apology. He turned back to the box, inserted the key, and gave it a hard quarter turn.
Clank.
Another quarter turn.
Clank.
Once more.
Clank.