“Your knife?” she said, watching him. “You’re going to use your knife? For what?”
He eased the tip of his blade into the joint nearest the hearth. “If I can find the catch—” He paused as he felt the edge of the dagger hit metal. He worked slowly and carefully, manipulating the catch in first one direction, then the other. Shifting the blade to beneath the latch, he pressed upward and heard a faint snick.
The panel slid to one side.
“I suspect that’s cheating, but it’s still impressive,” said Hero.
“Thank you.”
Thrusting his dagger back into its sheath, he pushed the panel open wider.
The space beyond was perhaps six by eight feet, dusty and empty except for two ironbound wooden trunks, a basket of small glass containers stoppered with cork, and a faint damp stain still visible on the paving stones just inside the opening. In the stale air of the ancient enclosed space, the odor of urine was pungent.
Hero wrinkled her nose. “Do you think someone was shut up in here so long they couldn’t hold it?”
A crumpled cloth lying to one side of the entrance caught Sebastian’s attention. Reaching down, he found himself holding a cheap configuration of yellowed muslin reinforced by whalebone, its tapes badly frayed with wear.
“Good heavens,” said Hero. “It’s a woman’s stays.”
Sebastian passed it to her.
“They’re so tiny.” She looked up to meet his gaze. “You think these stays belonged to the owner of the blue satin slippers?”
Sebastian swung around to look back at the long, old-fashioned parlor. Anyone shut up in the priest’s hole would have had an excellent view of whatever transpired in the room . . . if there was a peephole.
It took him only a moment to find it, cleverly worked into the pattern of the wainscoting.
He said, “I suspect Eisler shoved his bit o’ muslin—and most of her clothes—in here when they were interrupted by someone coming to the front door. She was probably watching through the keyhole when the visitor shot Eisler and was so frightened she wet herself. Yates said he burst into the house as soon as he heard the shot fired, followed almost immediately by Perlman.”
“So where was the killer?”
“He could have bolted immediately for the rear entrance. Or he might have hidden behind a curtain until both Yates and Perlman were gone, and then run.”
“Followed by your Blue Satin Cinderella, who dropped her stays and didn’t dare stop long enough to retrieve her slippers. She must have been very frightened.”
“Well, she would be, wouldn’t she?”
Hero nodded. She folded the small, tattered garment as carefully as if it were something fine and precious. “So she knows who the murderer is.”
“She may not know who he is, but she could probably identify him.”
Hero looked up, her face solemn. “The question is, Does he know about her?”
“I hope not.”
Chapter 54
T
he largest of the two trunks opened to reveal stacks of worn leather-bound ledgers.
“The missing account books?” asked Hero, peering over Sebastian’s shoulder as he leafed through the top volume.
He nodded. “Telling, isn’t it? He leaves everything from priceless fifteenth-century Italian canvases to exquisite Greek marbles lying about the house gathering dust, yet he hides these away.”
He moved on to the next, smaller chest. This one contained a curious assortment of objects, each carefully wrapped in squares of white or black silk and bound up with cord. He unwrapped a snuffbox, a vinaigrette, a gold chain with a locket such as a man might present to his bride as a wedding gift. Only, in this instance, the enameled pattern on the face of the locket was worked into the golden crown and three white feathers of the Prince of Wales.
He held it up. “Look at this.”
“Prinny?” said Hero reaching to open the locket. Inside lay a curled lock of golden-red hair.
“I think we now know what Eisler wanted from Princess Caroline.”
“A locket with the Prince Regent’s hair? But . . . why? It can’t be worth much.”
“It is to someone interested in magic ‘operations’ aimed at increasing their wealth and attracting the favor of princes.”
Hero peered into the chest. “Is that what all these items are? The personal possessions of powerful people he wished to influence by casting spells over them?”
“Influence or destroy.”
Hero went to hunker down beside the basket.
“What are they?” he asked, watching her lift one of the small glass containers.
“They look like vials filled with . . .” She eased open the cork and sniffed. “Dirt.” She turned it toward the light. “How very curious. Each is labeled with a name. This one says, ‘Alfred Dauncey.’”
“I knew Dauncey. He blew out his brains last year. They say he was deeply in debt—all rolled up.”
She picked up another vial. “This says, ‘Stanley Benson.’ Isn’t he the baronet’s son who slit his own throat last winter?”