Karen Odden

London, March 1878

From the day I entered the uniformed police division in Lambeth, a few years ago, I heard stories about Inspector Michael Corravan that verged on myth. Never mind that he’d already departed for Scotland Yard. It was as if his Herculean ghost hung about the place. Every so often, I’d be regaled with yet another tale of his doggedness, by which he solved cases at twice the usual rate; his prowess in wielding a truncheon or his fists; and his skills gleaned from a youth spent in seedy Whitechapel rather than from books, which most men counted as an asset. (Indeed, I quickly learned to keep my education through sixth form at the Royal Grammar School in Guildford tucked under my shiny new Metropolitan Police hat.) When I was granted a transfer to the Yard this past autumn, one constable said to me, “Ah, Mr. Stiles! You’ll be meeting our Mr. Corravan, then.” Another followed this with a dour warning to avoid him until I gathered more experience, for I’d only annoy him to no end. Still another urged me to leap at any opportunity to learn from him. I refrained from stating the absurdly obvious: as a newcomer, I’d hardly be given a choice in the matter.

The autumn of 1877 was a difficult time for the Yard. Shortly after my arrival in August, three senior inspectors—Meikeljohn, Druscovich and Palmer—were convicted of accepting hefty bribes to steer investigations away from two ruthless con men. The newspapers printed headlines such as “Close the Corrupt Yard!” and “Plain-Clothes Men are Plain Thieves!” in the oversized type usually reserved for railway disasters and assassination attempts on the queen. Every morning, we Yard men had to walk the gauntlet of jeering, cursing crowds gathered around our door. More than once, I entered the division with rotten egg on my new overcoat. It was, as you can imagine, mortifying in the extreme. To make matters worse, the Parliamentary Review Commission was still deliberating whether to close the Yard, so every solved case mattered.

To my secret gratification, I was occasionally asked to do small tasks for Mr. Corravan—the only senior inspector not in jail by Christmas. One morning in March, as the remnants of the previous night’s thunderstorm pecked at the windows, Mr. Corravan and I were both called to the office of the new director, Mr. C.E. Howard Vincent, the second son of a baronet and a former Daily Telegraph newspaperman, who had been assigned to sweep the Yard clean in the aftermath of the bribery scandal. He had never spent a day in uniform, and upon his appointment, there had been a good deal of muttering about him being someone’s favorite nephew. Privately, I felt reassured by his deliberate manner, and upon our short acquaintance, I found him to be astute and reasonable.

Mr. Vincent stood behind a desk with three tidy piles of paper and two pens lying perfectly parallel beside the bronzed inkwell. No one was ever asked to sit in his office because he kept meetings brief. I’d never sat in Corravan’s office either, but only because his chairs were piled with papers and files. To be fair, my desk in the shared main room wasn’t much better. We were all working furiously on at least two dozen cases in the hope that positive results might regain some of the public’s trust.

Mr. Vincent handed a piece of paper across the desk to Corravan. “Someone murdered a jeweler and robbed his store last night.”

“In Hatton Garden, sir?” I asked. It was the area of Holborn populated by dozens of jewelers, watchmakers, and clockmakers.

“Yes. Atherton Jewelers, in St. Cross Street. Do you know it?”

I shook my head, and Mr. Vincent turned back to Corravan. “The constable walking the beat found a broken window. The jeweler was shot dead, but his wife is alive in hospital. Uniformed men from Holborn division are at the shop now, and they’ve sent for someone from the morgue.” He cleared his throat. “Given the potential value of what was stolen, I think we should attend as well.”

Corravan’s mouth pursed at the specious “we,” as of course Vincent had no intention of accompanying us, but he nodded and tucked the paper into his pocketbook, a haphazard affair with one of its cardboard covers missing. I sensed Mr. Vincent’s dismay at the disorder, just as I knew Corravan took some wry pleasure at provoking it. I hid my smile. They were the same age, both clever, observant, and determined to reestablish the standing of the Yard, but if I had to guess, they’d have said they had nothing in common.

“Well, Stiles, do you have a history lesson for me today?” Corravan asked as we raised our umbrellas and started east on the Strand.

Chagrined, I cast a sideways glance. Last week I’d mentioned the intriguing fact that Moorgate is the only one of seven gates in the London wall that was medieval rather than Roman, which had caused Corravan to give a bark of laughter and mutter about the useless scraps of historical knowledge I kept in my brain.

“Go on,” Corravan prodded me, as we sidestepped a pile of rotten vegetables half-immersed in a puddle. “I’m in the humor for one.Tell me what you know of Hatton Garden. We have time.”

I gathered the particulars to mind and obliged. “Back in the 1570s, when Sir Christopher Hatton was Lord Chancellor to Queen Elizabeth, she bequeathed him the Garden as a reward for his service, and his family built enormous houses on it. Over the years, they sold off parts to wealthy merchants, and by the beginning of this century, it became known as the jewelry quarter. Most cities have them, of course. In Florence, it’s the stalls on the Ponte Vecchio, the old bridge over the River Arno.” We hurried to get out of the way of a hansom cab, and as we reached the safety of the pavement, I continued, “It’s interesting how that came about. At first those stalls were occupied by the butchers, but during the Renaissance, one of the Medicis replaced them with jewelers because the secret passageway from his house to his business offices ran along the top of it, and he didn’t like the smell.” I sensed Corravan’s impatience at my digression, and I returned hastily to the main point. “At any rate, when diamonds were discovered recently in Africa, on a Boer farm owned by a pair of Dutchmen, an Englishman named Rhodes purchased the interest and has been importing the diamonds ever since. As a result, Hatton Garden has become more prosperous.”

“Ah,” said Corravan. “Watch that pile.”

Heeding his warning in the nick of time, I jumped the horse droppings. We crossed onto Fleet Street, and despite the rain and the sopping detritus on the pavement, I took pleasure at the bustle around me. To me it always felt as though the city’s heart, with both justice and mercy, was here, between the four Inns of Court, home of the city’s barristers, and St. Paul’s Cathedral, one mile farther to the east, on Ludgate Hill.

As usual when nearing the site of a crime, Corravan quickened his pace. We turned north on Fetter Lane and Corravan nodded to the right, through an open arch that led onto Ely Place. “St. Etheldreda’s,” he said. I peered in to find a church made of pale brick, its only adornment a stained-glass window in the Gothic style, probably thirteenth century. “I’ve always liked it,” Corravan added. “No frills or fuss.”

St. Etheldreda’s Church, Ely Place, London (present day)

We continued north onto Hatton Garden and turned right onto St. Cross, easily finding the sign for “Atherton Jewelers” halfway down, between another jeweler and a clockmaker. One of the two front plate-glass windows was missing, and both of us tipped our umbrellas back so we could peer through the empty frame into the shop. There was a rumpled carpet and glass scattered across the floor, but no rock or projectile. I examined the ragged edges of the thick glass remaining along the painted jamb. The thief must have struck the pane with something sturdy as a way of gaining entry.

“What a mess,” I observed. Corravan grunted and laid his hand on the front door’s brass handle, casting a quick eye over the handsome door. Fashioned of dark wood, the top half held four rectangular glass panels, their beveling crisp and elegant, as if to suggest the sharpness of the diamond facets to be found inside.

The shop was approximately a square, and of a fair size. Eight empty jewelry cases stood in a U. Four electrified chandeliers cast light that caused the glass surfaces and brass fittings to sparkle. Beside one case, on the polished floor, sprawled the body of the jeweler, face-up, his right leg bent, his arms flung out to the side as if in alarm or disbelief. He looked to be about forty years of age, with a pale, handsome face and dark hair graying at the temples. A young uniformed sergeant stood to one side, near the open right hand. Beside the torso crouched Mr. Wilkes from the morgue, his head bent over the dead man. I found Wilkes a strange fellow, bizarrely cheerful, often humming snatches of music hall tunes over a corpse.

He looked up, and a broad smile wreathed his round face. “Mr. Corravan! And young Mr. Stiles! A pleasure to see you.”

We nodded a greeting. “And this is Mr. Atherton?” Corravan asked.

“Ah, no.” Wilkes waved toward the back of the room where there were two doors on either side of a narrow corridor, which probably led out to a back alley or another street. The door on the left was ajar. “Atherton’s in there, alive. This poor bloke is his partner, Francis O’Sullivan. No question as to the cause of his demise, is there?” He heaved a sigh of disappointment at having no puzzle to solve.

The hole in Mr. O’Sullivan’s shirtfront, right over the heart, left no doubt. His blood had spread and run down his side and into the grooves of the wooden floor, almost reaching the edge of the patterned carpet with a central medallion. Absently, I bent and lifted an unstained corner of the textile: single-knotted. Persian, expensive, and heavy.

Corravan turned to the sergeant. “Your name?”

“Milford.” He dipped his chin deferentially. “Mr. Corravan.”

Corravan nodded in return. “When was he found?”

“Not long after midnight,” he replied. “The constable walking his beat passes every two hours or so and saw the window.” He grimaced. “‘Twas easy enough to see it broke, what with the gas lamp right out in front. The wonder is no one heard the smash.”

“Or the blast of the pistol,” I commented. Fast on the heels of that thought came another: “Perhaps it was timed to be camouflaged by a thunderclap. Even if they heard it, people might dismiss it.”

“That would be a clever use of nature,” Corravan said. Leaning partway through the empty window frame, he gazed upward through the drizzle at the buildings opposite. “All those people living above these shops, and no one noticed anything? I’ll be visiting them next.”

“What about the wife?” I asked. “We heard she was injured.”

Wilkes started. “Oh, beg your pardon. Slipped my mind. Mrs. O’Sullivan was over there,” he pointed to a spot ten feet away. “Wrists tied together and a nasty bump.” He tapped the back of his head. “She’s in hospital. Denmark Street.”

Trust Wilkes to forget the live person in his enthusiasm for the dead.

“What was stolen?” Corravan asked Milford.

“They’re still looking.” The sergeant nodded toward the door on the left. “The safe is in there.”

“What’s behind that?” I asked, pointing to the door on the right.

Church bells rang eleven, and Milford raised his voice to be heard: “Stairs. Goes up to their rooms. A bedsit, nice parlor and all. Thief never went up there.”

Corravan raised an eyebrow, briefly. I knew he would want to determine that for himself, but as the bells faded, he strode to the door on the left and palmed it all the way open. Inside the room stood another uniformed policeman whose red hair and amiable expression reminded me of kindly Constable Perkins back in the village of Guildford, where I spent my youth. In the corner stood a Chubb safe, and behind a well-polished wooden desk sat Mr. Atherton. Approximately forty-five years of age, with long arms and a round balding head, he reminded me of a spider. His hands were twined in the scraps of gray hair that fringed his ears, and his eyes flicked from Corravan to me. “You’re the Yard men?” he asked. There was no hope in his voice; he was merely ascertaining the facts.

“Yes, we are,” Corravan said and introduced us both.

“I’m Stuart Atherton,” he said glumly. “They took everything but one cabinet’s worth.”

They also took your partner O’Sullivan’s life, I thought. I searched his face for some sign of personal grief but found none. Perhaps I was too quick to judge—perhaps the tragedy still hadn’t struck home—but I lost some sympathy for the man.

“Was the safe locked?” Corravan asked.

Atherton nodded. “With one case inside. That’s why I think the thief must have broken in between nine o’clock when we close and quarter past.” He saw our puzzlement and continued, “Francis was very methodical. He’d unlock a case, starting with the one by the door. He’d remove everything, locking it inside the safe before going back out to open the second case.”

“Is that how you do it?”

He stiffened. “I don’t close up very often, but yes, of course, I do it properly.”

I glanced at Corravan. We both heard the note of defensiveness. Atherton had a good deal to gain by O’Sullivan’s death, and he must know he’d be considered a possible suspect in the murder. Did he think being testy was the best way of establishing his innocence?

“Is there any chance he kept the store open late or varied his routine?” I asked.

“Never.” Atherton shook his head. “I’ve seen him close the door in the face of a customer who appeared half a minute after nine o’clock.”

“Where were you last night?” Corravan asked.

Atherton groaned. “In a cab, mostly. My wife is away for the week, so I left our house intending to dine at my club on Pall Mall. With the rain, the cab slid and broke an axle, and rather than climb out into the storm, I sat there for hours until it was repaired. Didn’t arrive home until nearly midnight. Appalling business.”

“Yes, appalling,” Corravan said. I heard the note of derision. His sympathies were wholly with the cab driver who had to fix the axle in the downpour.

“The thief missed an earring,” the uniformed man said and held it out for inspection. “We found it on the floor, near the fourth case.” Corravan cupped his palm, and the man dropped it in. It was a lovely little thing, a pearl set in gold with emeralds like leaves in a cluster.

“So one case’s worth of jewelry is in the safe, and the rest…” Corravan prompted.

“Is gone,” Atherton finished. “The thief likely unlocked the cases and dumped everything into satchels. Probably two separate ones, so the bullion wouldn’t crush the fragile gems—pearls, emeralds, and opals.”

“Bullion?” I asked.

“Yes. We had several gold bars in the fourth case with the watches, just for show. Francis thought it caught people’s eye.”

“Was there a different key for each case?”
He nodded dispiritedly. “Once Francis was shot, it would be easy enough to take the ring from his pocket.”

“And the safe combination,” Corravan said. “Who knows it?”

“The two of us. That’s all.”

“Not your wife?”

“No. Not Myna. Nor his wife.”

“Would you open it for us, please?” Corravan asked.

Atherton unfolded his spindly form from the chair and cast a mistrustful look at the uniformed man, who agreeably stepped out of the room. The jeweler swung open the door and revealed a black velvet tray, divided into compartments, all filled with shining, sparkling jewels. He drew it out only six inches, his hand ready to shove it back inside if we grabbed for it. After surveying it, Corravan told him he could put it away, and with a breath of relief, Atherton closed the safe and turned the lock.

“Was there anything unusual about the past week?” I asked. “Anything special on the premises?”

“Yes.” A ragged sigh. “The Glenarthur necklace. Not to be sold, mind you. To be cleaned. The countess left it on Friday. She planned to wear it to a special event. It’s gone.”

I knew of the Glenarthur family—the Earl’s title was centuries old, and he was an influential MP with the railway interest—but the necklace was, naturally, unfamiliar to me.

“What does it look like?” I asked.

Atherton sat again, removed a piece of embossed writing paper from the desk drawer and took up a pen. In the manner of men who favored their left hand, he drew from right to left so as not to smudge the ink. The sketch showed a choker-length necklace with what I assumed to be a graduated series of pearls from which dangled a central pendant, which he cross-hatched to suggest color. “A cabochon sapphire here,” he pointed. “These others are diamonds.”

Not pearls, but diamonds? I thought. Good lord.

“What’s a cabochon?” Corravan asked.

Atherton cupped his hand. “Rounded instead of faceted. It highlights the star quality of the gem. Francis was hired specially to cut the sapphire for the pendant.”

“What was the necklace worth?” I asked.

He hesitated. “Twenty-three hundred pounds.”

One could build a comfortable house for such a sum.

“And where was the necklace?” Corravan asked.

“In the workroom cabinet.” Atherton gestured toward a door behind him. “We use it when a piece is soaking in our special cleaning solution. The room is locked, of course, and that cabinet has a key lock, like the ones in here. Francis has been polishing each stone individually and checking its setting.”

“Had you cleaned pieces for the Glenarthur family before?” Corravan asked.

“No.” Atherton gave a humorless smile. “I daresay it’ll be the last time.”

“Insurance will cover the loss,” I said reassuringly.

“There’s no replacing an heirloom.” He opened a desk drawer with a sigh. “At least we still have the inventory logs. I’m surprised the thief didn’t take them.”

That was surprising. Those logs meant we could send descriptions round to pawn shops. Either the thief didn’t know about that practice or he planned to take the jewels out of London.

Atherton shut the drawer with a click. “Even if the jewels are recovered, insurance won’t recover my reputation. Trust is a matter of public opinion, easily destroyed by one terrible story in the newspapers.”

Corravan and I knew that truth well enough ourselves.

“Rumors are already circulating,” Atherton said. “I may be ruined beyond repair.” A shudder shook his narrow frame, and he muttered, “I don’t know how I’m going to tell Myna.”

Despite myself, my sympathy for him returned. He was quite right: even if we recovered the jewels, his name would forever be linked with theft and murder.

“Were you equal partners, Mr. Atherton?” asked Corravan.

His eyes flashed. “Yes. Equal partners, from the start.”

Again, I noticed the defensive tone.

If they were equals, I wondered, why wasn’t O’Sullivan’s name on the door next to his own? However, I kept my concern to myself. I knew Corravan’s methods. He liked to hold some questions, like cards in his pocket, for later.

“And his wife?” Corravan inquired.

“Adelia. She’s in hospital.” Atherton looked troubled at the thought of her.

I was relieved to find he wasn’t completely heartless.

“We’ll visit her there,” Corravan said.

“I’m sorry for your loss,” I said.

His eyes drifted to the safe. “Yes.”

I waited until Corravan and I were on the street before I commented that some people might consider the death of their partner a misfortune.

Denmark Street Hospital wasn’t far, and the rain had diminished to an occasional spit from the clouds. I had never been to this hospital on St. George Street, but Corravan strode through the front door and turned left toward an office without searching for it. A helpful clerk checked a list and informed us that Mrs. O’Sullivan was in the women’s wing, upstairs.

The ward was long and narrow, like an oversized railway car, with windows that could have used a cleaning. But some cheerful paintings adorned the drab walls, the room smelled of laundered sheets, and the wooden floor was spotless. A stove at the center provided heat, and a nurse approached us, her gray eyes looking Corravan up and down. “You’re police?” she asked.

We nodded, and when Corravan asked for Mrs. O’Sullivan, we were led toward a private curtained area near the back wall.

“How badly was she hurt?” Corravan asked.

There was a tight look about her mouth. “She has a nasty contusion on her head and some bruises from her fall. ‘Twas a beastly act, to be sure.” She shifted the curtain, and we both stepped forward. She put up a hand. “Only one, please.”

When Corravan saw that Mrs. O’Sullivan was young and pretty, he retreated, though he remained close by, to listen. He persisted in thinking that I was a less alarming personage to women. The dead man’s wife was sitting partially upright against white pillows. Approaching the bedside, I observed the neat bandage wrapped around her head. Brown eyes in a sweet face revealed a timidness that compelled me to speak gently:

“Mrs. O’Sullivan, how are you?”

She winced. “My head aches, but they tell me I’ll be better tomorrow.”

“What happened last night?”

Fear sprang into her eyes at the memory. “I’m—I’m not sure.”

“Were you at the jewelry store for the evening?”

“Oh, no,” she said quickly. “I was at the Folly, with—friends.” Self-reproach flashed across her countenance.

It wasn’t logical for her to feel guilty because she’d been at the theater enjoying herself while her husband was being murdered, but I knew better than to say so. “The Folly Theater?” I clarified. Formerly the Charing Cross Theater, it wasn’t more than five minutes from the Yard, in William IV Street. I’d been there last week myself, to see Les Cloches de Corneville, the wildly popular comic opera by Robert Panquette. “What’s showing?” I asked idly.

She blinked. “Why, Les Cloches. It’s been there for months.”

“Is that the opera about the gypsies?” I asked. Best to ascertain straight away if she’d seen the show.

A look of perplexity. “No. It’s … it’s about an evil servant who tries to steal a family fortune. He tricks people into staying away by claiming the castle is haunted, until the rightful marquise comes and fixes everything.”

“Ah!” I nodded. “I’ve heard bells ring at the end.”

“Yes.” Another wince, as if she were imagining the pain they’d cause in her current state. “They’re terribly loud.”

“Who were you with?”

“My friend—er, Elizabeth—er, Miss Northcott and her brother.”

“Would you happen to have their address?”

She gave it readily: “Streighton Place, number 4.”

“And when did you arrive home?”

“Perhaps a quarter past ten,” she said hesitantly. “At least, I think so. It was raining but I heard the bell of the church.”

“St. Etheldreda’s?”

She nodded. “It’s on the next block. I had the carriage drop me off in the street behind because the front door sticks awfully when it rains. It was dark and rather cold in the shop, and I called for Francis, but no one answered. I thought I heard a noise, so I went inside … where I saw him lying on the floor.” She shivered, and her voice dropped to a whisper. “I saw the dark spot on his shirt … and felt someone behind me.”

I made a sympathetic sound. “Just one person, was it?”

Her eyes widened. “Why, I don’t know. I assume there was only one, though perhaps there were more. But I have good eyesight, and there’s a gas lamp just outside.”

“There were no lights on inside?” I asked.

“No. But that wasn’t unusual. Francis usually finishes …” she swallowed. “Finished unloading the cases before ten o’clock and came upstairs to our rooms.”

“I see. And when did you wake up?” I asked.

“This morning, here,” she replied. “The doctor said I’d been observed all night, as I was concussed.” She leaned forward and gingerly touched the lump of bandage at the back of her head. The hospital gown shifted, revealing a thin silver chain around her neck, several yellowing bruises on her forearm, and an angry red mark at her wrist, as if from a rope that had chafed.

I nodded. “Thank you, Mrs. O’Sullivan. I’m very sorry for your loss.”

Tears sparked to her eyes and she gulped and looked away.

“I wish you a speedy recovery,” I said and exited the curtained enclosure.

Corravan arched an eyebrow in question as we left the ward.

“Poor thing,” I said, and I meant it. “She’s badly shaken.”

As we went down the stairs and onto the pavement, he was muddling through something, and I knew to keep quiet. We paused on a corner to let a hansom cab and a costermonger’s wagon pass, and he said, “Still, we should confirm her alibi.”

I knew why. It was impossible that Mrs. O’Sullivan hit her own head and bound her own hands. However, quite often friends provided valuable insights. “I can visit Miss Northcott and her brother,” I offered.

He nodded. “I’ll talk to the people in the Garden and look into Atherton.”

“I wonder what he would have to gain,” I said. “He seemed rather indifferent about his partner’s death, but I don’t think his distress at being ruined was feigned.”

Corravan shrugged. “He could recut the gems, relocate to another city, and begin anew.”

“He could have broken the window to make it appear a burglary and deflect suspicion from himself,” I conceded. “But it seems to me he wouldn’t want to call attention to the break in, and Atherton of all people would know the constable passes his door every two hours.”

Corravan sniffed. “But why didn’t the thief just break one of the small panes, work the deadbolts, and open the door from inside? It’s a plain brass knob. Why break a window that the constable couldn’t miss?”

“You’re right. It’s odd,” I admitted, ashamed that I hadn’t thought of this myself. “But what if the thief assumed the lock couldn’t be opened without a key?” Mr. Yale’s pin-tumbler cylinder lock had made its way across the Atlantic, and we were seeing more of them here in London.

Corravan looked skeptical. “If he knew the store well enough to know when they closed, he’d know what kind of handle was on the front door.”

“True.” And that sort of knowledge suggested that the thief was someone close, someone who knew the store or the jeweler.

We walked a few moments in silence before I shared my thoughts: “What about the Glenarthur family? Are they beyond suspicion?”

“You mean it’s an odd coincidence that they dropped off that necklace mere days before it’s stolen, when they’ve never left anything at this jeweler before?” He grimaced. “Yes, I thought so too. But it might simply be unfortunate timing. We’ll see.” He halted at the corner and pointed down the side road. “Shortest way to Streighton Place.”

The man carried a map of London in his head.

“I’ll meet you back at the Yard,” I said and waved, though he’d already turned away.

Streighton Place held only six houses, all virtual copies of each other, with pale stone steps rising to respectable black doors and wrought-iron work adorning the windows above. I used the brass knocker, and a maid opened the door. “Yes, sir?”

“I’m Mr. Stiles of the police.” When at all possible, I avoided mentioning the Yard. “Might I speak with Miss Northcott? Miss Elizabeth Northcott,” I added, in case there were several daughters, or an elder one.

The maid’s brown eyes widened and her lips parted. “I’ll see if she’s at home,” she murmured. “Please, come in.” Once I was inside, it was clear she wasn’t quite sure what to do with me. The parlor was usually reserved for friends and callers, but I—

“I’ll wait here,” I said kindly. She nodded, bobbed a curtsy, and vanished upstairs, returning a few moments later followed by a woman of about twenty. Miss Northcott was rather short and stout, with the demeanor of a strict teacher, although her countenance could have been attractive had she troubled to put a smile on it.

“Miss Northcott, I’m Mr. Stiles with the police. Might I speak with you privately?”

She drew back and laid a plump hand near her throat. “What’s the matter? Has something happened to David? My brother?”

“No.”

“What is it?” she demanded.

“Could you tell me where you were last evening?” I asked.

“Is it Adelia—Mrs. O’Sullivan?” her voice rose anxiously.

“So you were with her last night,” I said.

“What has happened?”

I suppressed a sigh. Clearly I was going to get very little information until I explained. “Her husband was killed last night at the store.”

“Oh.” The syllable escaped her lips in a whisper, and her hand rose to her mouth.

Out of the corner of my eye I saw a shadow move at the end of the hallway. “Is there somewhere we might talk privately?” I asked again.

She gestured toward a set of doors that led to a parlor. The fireplace was unlit and the room cool, though the curtains, held back with tasseled cords, let in the light. She did not ask me to sit down but stood with her hands folded tightly together at her waist.

“How long have you known Mrs. O’Sullivan?” I asked. “Where did you meet?”

She looked nonplussed. “Why, er—I don’t remember. I think—at a—a party a year or two ago.”

I’d had the impression from Mrs. O’Sullivan that they were friends; but perhaps in Miss Northcott’s mind, the two women were only acquaintances.

“You say her husband was killed?” she asked.

“Yes. Did you know him?”

Her head tipped forward. “But she’s alive?”

I nodded. “She’s in hospital, but she should be fine in a day or two.”

“Oh.” Her chest rose and fell in apparent relief. Then, suddenly, she seemed to realize the question most people might have asked first: “How did Mr. O’Sullivan die?”

“He was shot.”

“Shot,” she echoed. “With a—with a pistol?”

“Possibly.” Uninvited, I sat down in a chair nearby and she sat opposite. “Did you know Mr. O’Sullivan?”

She shook her head slowly. “We’d only met once, at the shop. He didn’t usually attend parties with her. She said he didn’t like crowds or loud noise … or shows.”

“Is Les Cloches a favorite of hers?”

Her fingers pleated the silk of her skirt in unusually precise, supple movements. “I—I believe so. She’s seen it before.”

That weakened Mrs. O’Sullivan’s alibi. Despite the need to be impartial, I wished Miss Northcott had answered differently.

“Was anything amiss at the store of late?” I asked.

“Not that I know of.”

“Anything worrying her? Any difficulty with her husband?”

Her gaze skidded away. “No.”

“Are you certain?” I pressed gently.

Her aplomb righted itself, and she met my gaze. “She didn’t speak of him often.”

“And your brother? Where is he today?”

“At the factory,” she said. “Our family owns a tea company on Brooke’s Quay, east of Blackfriars.”

I knew the area near the bridge. I’d visit him there.

“Which hospital is it?” she asked as I rose. “I could visit her.”

“Denmark Street. But she’ll likely be home tomorrow,” I assured her. Miss Northcott walked me to the door, where I thanked her and took my leave.

Upper Thames Street was a slurry of mud and muck from the rain of the past week. I found Northcott Tea & Shipping Co., a three-story brick building that smelled of Darjeeling—my mum’s favorite—mixed with the stagnant brine of the river. Tea dust thickened the air inside, and a light black silt covered the floor, the wooden crates, and the table where a dozen workers filled tins. I sneezed violently four times before I jerked my handkerchief from my pocket and applied it to my nose and mouth. Through it, I inquired for Mr. Northcott and was directed to a flight of stairs. From the first story landing, I observed a room in which stood a long table stacked with empty wooden trays, suitable for separating notes and coins. The room also held six desks, each occupied by a young man bent over a ledger, his pen scratching away diligently. My father, a grocer back in Guildford, had once hoped I’d become a clerk. Watching these men, with their hunched backs and the black stains on their fingers, I winced. I’d been sorry to disappoint my kindly father, who only wanted the best for me, but better mud and muck on my boots than that.

I climbed the second flight of stairs and approached the office door, which stood ajar. I peered inside. Three diamond-paned windows faced the Thames, and by the light they admitted, I could see Mr. Northcott at his desk, bent over what appeared to be a report of many pages. He was perhaps five-and-twenty, with a handsome, clean-shaven face, and fair hair falling over his brow. I tapped at the door. “Mr. Northcott?”

He looked up. “Yes?”

“Mr. Stiles, of the police. May I come in?”

He gave a blank look and then rose with anxious alacrity. “Of course.” Gesturing toward one of the comfortable chairs near the desk, he closed the door behind me. As he returned to his desk, I surveyed the office. On the wall to my left were tidy bookcases filled with ledgers. Behind the desk hung a three-quarter portrait of an imposing and unsmiling man of about thirty-five years of age, wearing the formal dress uniform of the Royal Navy—the embroidered blue coat with white facings, gold buttons, and epaulettes along with the usual sword and sidearm.

Mr. Northcott followed my gaze and observed the painting with a fond smile. “That was my father, Captain Thomas Northcott. After being wounded in India, he returned home and founded the company. Just two ships at first, for tea and spices, but he made it a splendid success.”

The stalwart captain appeared very unlike Mr. Northcott, who struck me as unassuming and soft-spoken. The lines about the son’s mouth suggested a sense of humor, and he certainly had nothing of the martial air about him.

He turned toward me, his expression amiable. “What can I do for you?”

“An incident happened last night involving your sister’s friend Mrs. O’Sullivan.”

“Mrs. O’Sullivan?” he echoed, blinking rapidly in surprise. “Do you mean after the theater?”

“Yes. She returned home to find her husband had been killed in their jewelry store. Unfortunately, when she arrived, the thief was still there, and she was attacked.”

As I spoke, his lips parted, and he stared in horror. “Is she all right? Where is she?”

“In hospital at Denmark Street. She was concussed, but she’ll be fine.”

An expression of relief appeared as took that in. Then consternation returned. “But—but you say, her husband is dead?”

“Yes, did you know him?”

“No—no. Never met him. Just ….” He grasped the situation from another angle. “That poor woman—a widow! So suddenly! How was he killed?”

“He was shot.”

“Good lord.” He sat back with an audible exhale. “It’s dreadful.”

I nodded.

“Was—was—that is—was anything stolen? Was it a burglary?”

“Yes. Most of the inventory.”

He flinched and, unconsciously, his eyes traveled to the ledgers on the shelves, the signs of his own business’s wares. “Good lord,” he said again under his breath.

“Had you ever been to the shop?” I asked.

He shook his head. “Elizabeth has, I believe. They’re … quite intimate.”

That hadn’t been my impression from his sister, but she wouldn’t be the first to be wary of revealing her true feelings to a detective inspector. I merely asked, “How did you meet?”

“Er … I don’t recall,” he said uncertainly. “My sister—er … might’ve met her at a party or a private concert. Elizabeth is at the Royal Academy in Tenterden Street for piano.”

“Ah, piano.” That explained the deftness of her fingers pleating her skirt.

“Look here,” he said. “Is there anything I can do for Mrs. O’Sullivan? I’m sure Elizabeth would stay with her—or—well—”

“I’m sure she’ll appreciate any gestures,” I replied.

His fingertips jittered across the chair arm. “Dreadful,” he repeated.

I thanked him for his time and left.

When I reached the Yard, Corravan was in his office, writing up notes, which I would do myself before I left for home. Mr. Vincent was a stickler about us keeping our diaries current, on the chance that someone from the Review Commission might ask to see them at a moment’s notice. I didn’t mind, as writing down the day’s events often revealed patterns, reminded me of small details, or helped me decide what steps to take on the morrow.

I shared with Corravan what I’d discovered, and he listened with care. When I finished, he nodded. “No one in St. Cross saw anything or heard the window break,” he said with evident annoyance. “Most said they shut their curtains because of the storm. The pub in the road behind had its shutters open because there’s an awning to keep out the rain, and it’s stuffy if they’re closed. One patron reported he saw a woman entering the back door of the store sometime after nine. Another disagreed and said it was nearer ten, but the barkeep said they were both well into their cups, and there’s no clock. So all we know for certain is a woman entered sometime after the gas lamps were lit. No one else saw anything.”

“Mrs. O’Sullivan coming home,” I said. “Though it doesn’t mean the thief didn’t enter that way too, just that he wasn’t seen.”

“At least Atherton was more interesting.” Corravan tilted back in his chair, propping a knee against the desk, his thick fingers fiddling with an expensive black lacquered fountain pen. A gift from a friend, he’d told me when I’d once commented upon it. From the tone in his voice, I suspected a woman, but the look in his eye warned me not to ask.

“Oh? What was interesting?” I prompted.

“I checked the accounts. Atherton had been borrowing against his future salary.”

“Did he volunteer that information?” I asked.

“No—and he didn’t forfeit it easily.” He laid down the pen and shifted to rest his elbows on the desk. “He said the transaction had been documented properly—as evidenced by O’Sullivan’s initials beside the entries. Then he turned surly, saying he knew how it looked, and no doubt now we’d assume he was guilty. When I asked him why he needed the extra money, he said it was to buy some furnishings his new wife wanted—new wall coverings, curtains, furniture, that sort of thing. They were married in September and live in one of those new fancy homes in Islington.”

“Hm,” I said. “Well, it could provide a motive, I suppose, if he’s living beyond his means. But he needn’t steal every piece of jewelry from the store. Wouldn’t it be wiser to manage it more surreptitiously?”

“My first thought too—except I gather O’Sullivan was the sort who’d notice even a small theft.” Corravan stood and went to stare out the lone window which overlooked the Thames. “Atherton also admitted he and O’Sullivan were partners but not friends.”

“He was very particular about saying that they were equal partners,” I recalled.

He turned away from the window. “Yes, I asked about that. Apparently fifteen years ago, O’Sullivan was known as the best gem cutter in London, but he’s Irish. That’s why they left his name off the business.” Corravan was Irish himself, and while I wasn’t, I understood the barriers that could present to a man’s professional advancement. “Atherton, being bred-in-the-bone English, provided the name and two-thirds of the money to purchase the store and the first installment of goods. O’Sullivan provided one third and the expertise. They divided the profits equally.”

“Do you think over time, Atherton might have resented giving up half, if he paid more than his share initially?”

“Might have,” Corravan said. He stepped to the desk and palmed the wooden back of his chair, leaning his bulk into it. “Either way, they were no longer on friendly terms.”

“Atherton said so?” I asked in surprise.

“Described O’Sullivan as ‘disagreeable’ and ‘overly exacting’—although he also said O’Sullivan was one of the best jewelers in the Garden. I think that was by way of proving he wouldn’t have killed him.” He pulled out the chair with a scrape and sat. I was used to his restlessness, but he seemed especially fidgety this evening. “One other odd thing. A month or so ago, Mrs. O’Sullivan came to see Atherton at his house.”

“Oh?”

“It was mid-afternoon and Atherton wasn’t home, so she waited in his parlor for over an hour. He found her anxious and upset. It seems O’Sullivan was angry but wouldn’t tell her why. She asked Atherton if something was wrong at the store, but he had no idea. He hadn’t noticed O’Sullivan being any more disagreeable than usual.”

“Hm.” I rocked back on my heels. “If O’Sullivan is so disagreeable generally speaking, could this be personal? That is, maybe the thief simply despised him. Maybe the burglary is … ”

“A false motive? An afterthought?” Corravan supplied skeptically. “Thirty thousand pounds worth of gems and gold?”

I grimaced. “I only meant maybe that’s the reason his store was broken into and not the one next door.”

“Hmph.” Corravan drew the partially finished page of notes toward him and picked up the pen. “Tomorrow I’ll speak to some of the jewelers who weren’t available today.”

“Did you go upstairs to their rooms?”

“Yes, and I asked Atherton about that arrangement. O’Sullivan paid him monthly for the use of them.” He rolled the pen between his thumb and forefinger. “Milford was right. No signs of disturbance or being searched. Closets full, larder stocked, two newspapers, some photographs and paintings. Nothing obvious missing, tea things washed, the room tidied. Usual for a married couple.”

As I turned away, I hid my smile, for Corravan might not be the best judge of conjugal normalcy. He was a bachelor, and I’d once stepped briefly inside his home. I’d seen neither photographs nor paintings, nor any evidence of tidying.

At the threshold, I remembered to ask, “And Atherton’s wife? Is she back at their house?”

“Myna,” he said. “No, she’s visiting her sister in Hertford. Atherton put her on the train on Sunday. She plans to stay for a week, back Saturday. I saw her portrait. She’s much younger than he and very pretty. Then again—” he shrugged “—it’s probably not true to life.”

“No one pays for an unflattering likeness,” I agreed and went to my desk to write up my own notes. Upon finishing, I shrugged into my coat and bid Mr. Corravan goodnight.

“You’ll see the Glenarthurs tomorrow?” he asked.

I nodded. “Of course.”

He gave me the address.

The Glenarthurs lived on the venerable Southwark Square, in an elegant home behind a tall wrought-iron fence. I was admitted by a stout butler, who attempted to conceal his surprise when I asked to see the countess. From a distant room came the strains of a piano concerto. The butler took my card and my coat and hat, leaving me free to admire two pairs of portraits, facing each other as if over a dinner table. I’d spent some time at the National Gallery in Trafalgar Square, in the company of a friend’s sister who was studying at the Slade School of Art. She fancied her oils more than she fancied me, but I remembered our hours there fondly, as she knew a good deal about painting and conveyed it with enthusiasm and humor. Each portrait featured a stern-faced gentleman, painted in the style of Sir Joshua Reynolds. The piano music halted, and as I approached the nearest one, my eye was caught by the signature.

I started. Good Lord, it was painted by Sir Joshua Reynolds. I spun to look. They all were. Each must be worth a small fortune.

“Good morning.” A woman’s voice interrupted my astonishment.

I turned to find a handsome woman of about thirty-five, with cool blue eyes and a composed demeanor.

“Rawlings said you wish to speak with me.”

Such a beautiful voice, cultured and smooth as a pearl. Everything about her, from her pale golden hair to the embroidered silk sash of her dress bore the sheen of refinement.

“Yes, please,” I replied.

With infinitely more grace than Miss Northcott, she led me to a pair of doors, and we entered a room whose ceiling was at least twice my height. The curtains were all gathered away from the windows, and by the day’s light I saw the walls of pale sage green, with white cornices and moldings. The mantel was white marble threaded with gray, and despite the room previously being uninhabited, a fire burned cheerfully.

She touched her fingertips together, as if holding a tiny fragile object at her waist, and gazed at me expectantly.

“Lady Glenarthur,” I began, “have you heard what happened at Atherton Jewelers on Tuesday night?”

Her eyebrows rose with polite interest. “I’ve been away from London, I’m afraid. I only returned last evening.”

“One of the partners was killed, and the majority of the inventory was stolen.”

I saw a momentary sharpening of her gaze, as if performing a calculation, though her face remained placid. Yes, it was ill-bred to reveal heightened emotion, but I found myself marveling at her self-possession.

“Poor Mr. Atherton,” she said mildly.

“It was his partner Mr. O’Sullivan, actually,” I corrected her. “He cut the sapphire pendant for you.”

“For the heirloom necklace, you mean,” she corrected me in turn. “And I assume you’re here because the necklace has been stolen. Would you like to see the receipt?”

“Er—yes, I would.” I paused, surprised at her nonchalance. Perhaps with such enormous wealth, a necklace worth over two thousand pounds meant nothing.

She went to the fireplace and tugged an emerald velvet cord. A moment later a maid entered, was bidden to fetch the countess’s correspondence box, and vanished.

I stepped nearer the warm fire. “Lady Glenarthur, Mr. Atherton said that you haven’t had your jewelry cleaned there before. Why did you choose to have it cleaned now, and why there?”

“The jeweler came highly recommended, and the Marquess Rothermere’s ball is in a few weeks. The queen herself makes an appearance. ” Her smile was brittle. “My husband wants it to look its best, of course.

“Your husband,” I echoed.

“It was at his insistence that I visited a jeweler.”

Perhaps it was hasty of me, but I formed the impression that her husband was overbearing.

“Of course,” I said. “Who else knew the necklace was at the jeweler’s?”

“Rawlings,” she said. “Our butler, who accompanied me there last week. To my knowledge, no one else, aside from the jewelers themselves, of course.”

“How long had you owned the necklace?” I asked.

“I don’t own it,” she replied. “It belongs to my husband’s family. It’s been part of the estate for generations. I am merely the owner of the neck used to display it.”

Clearly she resented the role.

But—generations? “Begging your pardon, but I thought Mr. O’Sullivan created it.”

“He cut the sapphire for a new pendant, for our wedding,” she replied. “The rest of the necklace is nearly a hundred years old.”

The maid entered the room and set a box approximately eighteen inches square on the table. The fabric covering was pale blue silk, with the initial “G” stamped in gold on the top. The countess opened the box and riffled through several papers. “Here it is.” She handed the page to me, and I recognized the texture and embossing from the paper that Atherton used to sketch the necklace. I glanced over the lengthy description of nineteen stones and the weight of the gold. The valuation was “£2300,” just as Atherton had said.

“Thank you,” I said and offered the paper back. She took it with a flicker of a smile and returned it to its box.

There was nothing more to say, so I bowed, and we left the room and parted. A maid stood by to escort me out. As we reached the foyer, I heard the piano again, beautiful chords and trills, and I could imagine Lady Glenarthur’s slender fingers on the ivory keys. I took my time buttoning my coat so I might listen, and the maid waited patiently before opening the door. The piano’s notes vanished as the door shut behind me, but the sound nagged at me like a cat’s paw teasing a loose string. As I reached the corner, I paused, thinking of Miss Northcott, and turned toward Tenterden Street.

The Royal Academy of Music occupied three houses from the previous century that took up most of one side of Hanover Square. I entered and stood in the foyer, listening. From an upper floor came the melodic strains of two violins. They broke off mid-phrase, and I imagined a teacher instructing a pupil. The music resumed, and I walked toward an office, where a man stood sorting papers into wooden cubbyholes. He looked at me through his silver-rimmed spectacles. “May I help you?”

I introduced myself and asked if he knew Miss Northcott. “I understand she studies here.”

He looked at me stiffly. “No, she instructs the younger students. She teaches on Tuesdays, Fridays, and Saturdays, if you’d like to see her.”

I recalled my first impression of her. So she was a teacher, after all. But that hadn’t been the impression her brother gave. “Oh—I misunderstood.”

He tipped his head and relented. “She did attend, once. But when she could no longer afford tuition, we offered her the opportunity to teach here.”

“How much is tuition, if you don’t mind me asking?” I asked.

He named the amount, which surprised me. It seemed as though, given the successful tea business and the reasonable affluence of their home, the Northcotts should be able to afford that much. Perhaps there was another reason Miss Northcott had given up her study and turned to teaching. Did her brother secretly disapprove of her pursuit? Or perhaps the reason was more personal: she realized she had limited talent. A painful truth to accept, for anyone. That seemed plausible, for Miss Northcott’s demeanor could easily be the result of unhappiness and disappointment.

I left the Academy, and as I reached the pavement, I recalled her brother’s statement. In light of what I’d just discovered, it seemed David Northcott had been deliberately ambiguous, if not misleading. Or perhaps he was being deceived. But why would Miss Northcott lie to her brother?

I reached Hatton Garden, looking into one shop after another until I found Corravan in a shop three doors down from our victim’s. Hartewell Clocks & Watches was very much like Atherton’s and furnished with similar elegance, including some beautiful oak cabinets. On the shelves above stood a dozen fine mantel clocks, their imbricate ticking a pleasant susurration, and in the two near corners stood two handsome mahogany longcase clocks taller than I was. The cabinet closest to the door was lined in a rich crimson velvet, and I couldn’t help but pause. It contained two rows of engraved pocket-watches, though it seemed several had recently been sold, as the velvet still bore their round imprint. I’d always fancied a silver pocket watch. My grandfather had one, which he passed on to my father, and while it would eventually come to me, my father—God willing—had a good many years remaining during which to use it.

I became aware of a silence. The jeweler and Corravan were both eying me, and hastily I stepped forward so Corravan might introduce us. The jeweler pushed his spectacles back in place and continued, “O’Sullivan was an ornery sort, kept himself to himself. His wife was pleasant enough. She came over for tea with Elsie a few times.”

“How long were they married?”

He considered. “Three years? Maybe four.”

Corravan asked, “Did you know about any special inventory Atherton or O’Sullivan had taken in recently?”

He dropped his chin and looked at us knowingly over his spectacles. “Do you mean from the Countess Glenarthur?”

So it was not only the butler Rawlings who knew about the necklace. “They told you?” I asked.

Mr. Hartewell snorted. “No. But I’d have to be blind not to see the Glenarthur carriage pull up last week and the countess herself getting out.”

He probably wasn’t the only jeweler who’d seen.

“You know the family?” I asked.

“The first countess purchased several pocket watches from me,” he replied. “The marquess collects them, you see. He still comes to visit every few months, to see if I’ve anything new.” His mouth tightened. “The second countess apparently prefer to take her commerce elsewhere.”

So the countess I met was his second wife. That perhaps contributed to her strained demeanor—and her decision to visit a new jeweler, one not favored by her predecessor.

The bell tinkled, a young man entered, and Corravan and I thanked Mr. Hartewell and left.

Walking in the direction of the Yard, we were both quiet for the first quarter mile. At last Corravan broke the silence: “Mr. Atherton owns a pistol, and it’s missing.”

I started. “He told you?”

A quick sideways glance. “Not voluntarily. I asked him if he owned a firearm, and he admitted he did. I asked to see it, so we went to his house. He didn’t know it was gone until he pulled out the desk drawer.”

As we passed a woman sweeping dust from the stoop of a bakery, I felt a sneeze rising and took out my handkerchief to fend it off. “Did Atherton seem truly surprised?”

“Shocked. When he recovered, he told me he knew how it looked, but he would never do something so stupid. He’s convinced it was stolen with an eye to shifting the blame toward himself.” He dragged his fingers through his dark hair, leaving it standing up in a way that made me think of sheaves of barley standing in a farmer’s field, though I didn’t dare smile.

“When is the last time he saw it in the drawer?” I asked.

“Couldn’t recall. Months, he guessed. He doesn’t check on it.”

So Atherton had a weapon, as well as a weak alibi, a motive, and intimate knowledge of the store.

“Well, he does seem the most logical suspect,” I said. “Especially given his lack of fondness for O’Sullivan.”

Corravan shot me a look. “I noticed. But Atherton wasn’t the only one. I haven’t found one person yet who liked the man.” He screwed up his face. “I’m not convinced of his guilt yet.”

I wasn’t either, not least because Atherton struck me as being clever enough to arrange a better alibi. “Well, I find myself curious about David and Elizabeth Northcott.”

He looked surprised. “Mrs. O’Sullivan’s friends?”

“Yes.” I conveyed the gist of my interviews, concluding with, “David seems to believe his sister is studying at the Academy, when she is only teaching. And he characterized Elizabeth and Mrs. O’Sullivan as ‘very intimate,’ but Elizabeth couldn’t recall how they met, though it was only a year or two ago.” I shook my head and added apologetically, “Frankly, my impression is he’s a decent, good-hearted fellow, but she doesn’t seem altogether truthful.”

Corravan sniffed. “Do you think Elizabeth might have cultivated a friendship with Mrs. O’Sullivan for the purpose of the burglary?”

The cold-bloodedness of the idea made my heart sink. But it was plausible.

“Elizabeth isn’t particularly pleasant, and I sense she’s discontented,” I admitted. “If money is her only obstacle to studying at the Academy, that could be a motive, I suppose.” I knew women committed murder—I’d solved two cases of infanticide when I worked in Lambeth—but I did hate to think about it.

“She might not have intended murder,” Corravan replied. “Except as a last resort.”

“True. She could have cultivated a friendship to learn about the shop and gain access to the key.” And then another thought occurred to me. “The two men from the pub disagreed about what time they saw a woman enter—but what if there really were two? Elizabeth and then Mrs. O’Sullivan, a short time later?”

Corravan was deep in thought and nearly stepped off the curb into the path of an oncoming bicycle. I laid a hand on his arm, and he jerked to a halt, scowling in the direction of the vanishing wheels. “Bloody fool,” he muttered, and we resumed walking. “Or it could be David who seduced Mrs. O’Sullivan into being an unwitting accomplice. If her husband was as unpleasant as everyone says, she might just be flattered enough to forget herself.”

I winced at the thought. I’d instinctively liked both David and Mrs. O’Sullivan. “If Elizabeth committed the burglary and killed Mr. O’Sullivan, it’s unlikely she was at the theater on Tuesday night, at least not for the whole show. I’m fairly sure it doesn’t let out until after nine. So Mrs. O’Sullivan would have lied about being there with Elizabeth, which means she’d have to be a willing accomplice, not an unwitting one,” I concluded reluctantly.

“Not necessarily. She might lie about being at the theater alone with David because it’s improper,” Corravan pointed out.

“True,” I said. The thought of Mrs. O’Sullivan being party to a murder ran against every instinct I had; her telling a fib to preserve the appearance of decorum was less egregious. But either way, if only David and Mrs. O’Sullivan attended the theater, Elizabeth could have entered the shop at nine o’clock and Mrs. O’Sullivan an hour or so later. I couldn’t recall precisely how long the show was.

“I’m going to the Folly,” I said. “I don’t suppose it’s likely, but I wonder if anyone noticed an empty seat.”

The theater was closed, of course, but I banged upon the back door until I heard the squawk of a metal bolt drawing back. A young man stuck his head out. “What be ye wanting? We don’t open for …” his voice dwindled.

“I’m Mr. Stiles, of the police. Is the manager in?”

“You’re a Yard man?” he asked.

I merely looked, and he huffed resignedly and pushed the door open. “He’s orderin’ repairs.”

From above came a crash and a screech, but the boy was evidently accustomed to the racket. He pointed toward a set of stairs, which brought me to stage right, and I found a man pacing in front of the first row of seats. I assumed it was the manager and approached. He frowned. “What do you want?”

I introduced myself. “I want to ask about your show a few nights ago. Tuesday.”

His eyes returned to the stage. “What of it?”

“Did you have any empty seats?”

He turned. “What? When?”

“Tuesday,” I repeated patiently. “The night of the storm.”

He shook his head. “We never have empty seats. Six months running, and people are paying double and triple to see it.” He turned and shouted toward the stage, “I can still see the broken slat!”

“You’re sure?” I asked. “Does anyone leave partway through?”

He turned back, an amused look on his face. “Of course not! Come tonight and see for yourself.”

I hesitated. “Could I even obtain a ticket?”

“Ho, ho,” he chortled, as if I’d tricked him. “Trust a Yard man to angle for something free.”

“I’ll pay for it,” I retorted. “I want to watch the audience, not the show.”

“You can’t pay; it isn’t a seat.” He smirked and reached into a coat pocket from whence he drew out his card and a bit of pencil, scrawling something on the reverse. “Here, young man. You’ll have to stand in the back.” He glowered. “Mind you, I don’t expect to have any trouble about this.”

I didn’t bother to reply. “Remind me, how long is the show?”

“Two hours and forty minutes, curtain to curtain.” Something over my shoulder caught his eye, and he strode toward the stage, his arms outspread. “No, no! That’s not what I want!”

I left the theater the way I’d entered, out the back, and began to assemble a possible train of events.

The show began at seven o’clock, which meant it finished by a quarter of ten. Elizabeth could have given away or sold the ticket (no difficult feat) or left the theater at intermission, after establishing an alibi, to be at the jewelry store by nine o’clock. If I could ascertain that Elizabeth had not been present at the theater for part or all of the show, it was quite possible that she was involved. Conversely, if Elizabeth was at the theater the whole time, we probably needed to look elsewhere for our thief. I hoped that was the case. I hated the thought of Mrs. O’Sullivan being abused by someone she believed to be her friend.

I went to one of my favorite pubs, where the shepherd’s pie had a flaky crust and was always served hot. At a quarter past six, I departed for the Folly, so I might observe the audience as they entered. By the time the curtain rose, the theater was indeed full. Not one seat was vacant. At intermission, I exited to the lobby, leaning against the wall near the door, where I could look out into the street.

There I saw something strange. A man and woman bundled up in their coats exited the theater. They approached another man and woman standing outside. There was an exchange of money and tickets, and the two people who had been outside came in, with no one the wiser. It was unclear to me why someone would want to see only half of the show. Then again, I wasn’t besotted by theatre the way some people were.

I had discovered, however, that someone could leave the theater, and yet, just as the manager said, there wouldn’t be an empty seat in the house.

The next morning, Corravan was sitting in my chair when I reached the Yard. “There you are,” he grumbled as he pushed himself out of it. “I nearly left.”

I paused in the act of undoing the buttons on my coat and, as he strode toward the front door, I refastened them and hurried after him. “Where are we going?”

“Back to the shop. I had another thought about the window.”

I knew better than to ask what it was before we arrived, but I used the cab ride to tell him what I’d discovered at the Folly. “So,” I concluded as we stepped onto the pavement in front of the shop, “it’s possible that Elizabeth left the theater early.”

He harumphed and stared out the cab window, his eyes narrowed against the morning sun. At the shop, we stepped out of the cab, and Corravan halted on the pavement, where he stood gazing at the shopfront. I couldn’t conceive what he saw, so I remained silent. “Why not the small one?” he asked under his breath.

His attention was still fixed on the pane in the door.

Corravan drew a key from his pocket. “I’m wondering if the pane was removed afterwards, from inside.”

“By star-glazing?” I asked dubiously. It was a method used by thieving gangs. A knife inserted near the frame made a small starburst in the glass, so the pane could be pulled out silently. But no woman could have managed a pane this size. Perhaps that’s why it was found in shards.

“Wouldn’t work.” His mouth curled dismissively. “This plate-glass is too big.” His tone hinted that he spoke from experience. The stories I’d heard at Lambeth division included Corravan nearly drowning in the Thames and bare-knuckles boxing as a lad. I hadn’t heard that he’d belonged to a thieving gang, but I wouldn’t put it past him.

With the wood planks over the broken window, the room was dim, and Corravan illuminated the chandeliers. He went to the dustbin and, using his handkerchief, brought out the larger pieces of broken glass one by one and laid them on top of one of the cabinets.

“What are you looking for?” I asked.

“A diamond could be used to cut a hole, and then the glass pulled out from the frame. It could give the appearance of being smashed in the middle. We never found what broke it, remember.” He brought the last of the large pieces up. “I’m looking for a smooth curve across a few pieces.”

I bent over the pieces, rearranging them carefully with a pencil stub from my pocket. Any one of the pieces could cause a nasty slice to a finger.

He gave an audible inhale. “There.” He brought two large fragments together. My eye caught the curve of a third, and I pushed it into place. The curve matched precisely, forming three quarters of a circle perhaps eight inches across—nowhere near large enough for a person to fit through.

“It was cut from inside, then pulled out,” Corravan said.

“To make it look like the entry and exit point of a clumsy thief,” I added, stunned. “Which means it wasn’t.”

“If we can find how he truly left, it’ll tell us something about the thief,” Corravan said.

Suddenly I remembered that Mrs. O’Sullivan said the shop was cold. “If the policeman passed every two hours, and he didn’t see the broken glass until after midnight, it must’ve been broken after ten—but that doesn’t leave much time before Mrs. O’Sullivan arrived home, if she’s correct in saying she arrived around quarter past.”

“Or the policeman tucked into a pub for a while,” Corravan said. “It was a horrible storm that night.”

I granted that was possible, though I was sure the policeman would never admit it.

Corravan set aside the three pieces of glass, handling them carefully with his folded handkerchief. “After what you said about Miss Northcott not being able to afford tuition, I made some inquiries into their tea business. It was solvent when their father died, but it’s been losing money the last few years. You know about the Food and Drugs Acts.”

“Yes, of course.” A series of laws had been passed recently in response to adulteration of tea and spices and meat with everything from ground cork to cat guts.

“Last year, the company was accused of cutting their tea with hawthorn leaves and sand,” Corravan said as he wrapped the glass in the handkerchief and then inside a page from an old newspaper lying on the table nearby. “Northcott claimed that a single batch of tea had been doctored and the inspectors were tipped to arrive on a particular day. The company was fined two thousand pounds. He mostly kept the incident out of the papers, but of course some customers went elsewhere.”

My heart sank at the thought that Mrs. O’Sullivan may have been deceived not only by Elizabeth but by David as well. “Avoiding bankruptcy of his beloved father’s company could be a strong motive,” I admitted.

“If you’re right and a woman entered through the back door—whether it was Elizabeth or not—she must have had an accomplice,” Corravan said. “A woman couldn’t carry all that inventory discreetly, or even easily. Gold bars are heavy, and Atherton said it would require two satchels.” He spun slowly, surveying the room. “How could they depart? If you were a thief, would you risk carrying two satchels out of a jewelry store, even after dark, in full view of anyone who happened to look out a window of the pub or from across the way?”

Not this thief. The burglary had been planned with too much care.

Corravan’s eyes sparked with a new idea, and he began backing away from me. “Talk to Mrs. O’Sullivan again. See if she remembers anything else about the person who attacked her, if it could have been a woman. And if there’s any possibility there were two. But don’t alert her to our suspicions.”

I felt a flicker of resentment. He needn’t have added that caution.

He reached the door that led to the upstairs living quarters, and I asked, “Are you going to search their rooms again?”

“I’m wondering if the thieves came in and out over the roof. It’s not too steep, and even in the rain, the clay tiles wouldn’t be as slippery as steel,” he said and vanished, his coat flapping about his legs as I stared after him.

I knew about the thieving rings across London who accessed houses via rooftops. Three years ago, the largest one, headed by a man named Simms, had been broken by a Yard inspector named Matthew Hallam, who’d since been made director of a division.

As I reached the pavement I wondered if at some time in Corravan’s past, he’d traveled across roofs for that purpose.

Mrs. O’Sullivan was still in hospital, as she’d fainted when she tried to stand up that morning. She wanted to go home, and as a result she was fretful when I saw her. Still, a cup of tea that I begged from one of the nurses seemed to settle her nerves, and after a bit of friendly conversation about Les Cloches, I began my inquiry at some distance from my primary concern. “What were relations like between your husband and his partner? Did they get on?”

Her lips formed a moue of regret. “It was a business venture, for both of them. Years ago, Francis wanted to purchase the shop, but he didn’t have enough money. So Stuart—Mr. Atherton, I mean—and he became partners. But Francis said Stuart was absent-minded and sloppy. And then when Stuart fell in love with Myna—well, he became less and less interested in the business. She’s very beautiful, you see,” she added apologetically. “And Myna … well, I think she aspires to living very elegantly, and he’s trying to please her.”

That fit with what Corravan had discovered about Atherton taking an advance on salary.

“Understandable, for a newly married man.” I smiled. “You said there was only one person in the store that night. Was it definitely a man, or could it have been a woman?”

Her brown eyes flitted nervously away at the memory. “Oh, a man, I think. I—I’d have noticed skirts, wouldn’t I?”

“Can you remember anything about him? His height or weight or age? Perhaps the color of his hair? Was he masked?”

“I—I only saw him out of the corner of my eye, and I was startled.”

“Did he smell of anything. For example, cigar smoke or …”

She shook her head. “No.”

“How tall was he?” I stood. “Was he close to my height?”

She began to look upset, and her voice rose and quavered. “I really couldn’t say. I would say so. But as I said, I didn’t—I didn’t see him properly.” She was near tears, and I steered the conversation into another channel.

“Your friend Miss Northcott,” I said. “How did you meet?”

“Miss Northcott?” She appeared bewildered by the change in topic. “Er—well, it was at a party at Mrs. Waybeck’s house. Elizabeth played a Schubert concerto. Why do you ask?”

It was on the tip of my tongue to ask whether Elizabeth and David had remained for the entire theater performance when a nurse appeared between the curtains, her expression disapproving. “Your questions are upsetting her. That’s enough for now.”

“Just one other—”

“You need to go,” she said firmly.

My voice rose over the nurse’s. “Did either David or Elizabeth leave the theater early?”

“What? Why—I—I—” Mrs. O’Sullivan’s eyes were wide and her voice breathless with fright.

Her eyes blazing, the nurse pushed me outside of the curtain. “I said, that’s enough! Have you no consideration?”

“I’m sorry,” I said, instantly ashamed. “You’re right, of course.”

She crossed her arms and glowered at me until I left the ward.

Mrs. O’Sullivan hadn’t answered my question, but her evasion suggested that something irregular had happened. As I descended the stairs, I believed I was close to understanding what had happened. I felt some chagrin, for my instincts about David—and even Elizabeth—were badly mistaken. But more than that, I felt sorry for Mrs. O’Sullivan, for it seemed increasingly evident she’d been played for a fool.

My guess was that Elizabeth or David had obtained Mrs. O’Sullivan’s key, copied it, and returned it. Elizabeth had left the show early, used the key to enter the shop through the back door, and then shot O’Sullivan and cleared out the cases. David watched the show to the end and then put Mrs. O’Sullivan in a cab, perhaps asking the driver to take the slowest route, so he could reach the shop in time to help Elizabeth carry the goods away before Mrs. O’Sullivan arrived. It had been their unfortunate luck that she arrived before they’d finished. They hadn’t wanted to murder their hapless friend, so they merely injured her. And perhaps, as an act of decency, they had broken the window as they left, knowing they’d be safely away before it was discovered, so that Mrs. O’Sullivan wouldn’t lie there, bound and gagged, all night.

I realized this was all supposition, and I was loath to share my suspicions with Corravan until I tracked Elizabeth’s whereabouts on Tuesday night. That was one of her teaching days, I remembered. I’d have to visit the Royal Academy again tomorrow.

Still, Corravan’s question remained: How did they depart?

As I reached the street, I peered up. Unlike the jewelry store, the hospital’s roof was of metal and pitched to such a degree that no one could possibly have traversed it. And to fall from that height—I shuddered to think about it.

But Corravan’s idea had given me one of my own.

I had a stop to make on the way home.

Peabody’s Bookshop was a treasure trove of books from rare first editions to penny dreadfuls. I’d taken up the habit of stopping in from time to time to chat with Mr. Peabody, as we were both enthusiastic on the subject of English history, and the bookseller had become a friend.

“Hallo, hallo!” he called from the back room, peering down the corridor between the shelves. The wind snatched the door out of my grasp, and I caught it just in time to keep it from slamming.

I called back, “Mr. Peabody! It’s me, Gordon Stiles.”

“Hello, my boy,” he beamed as he came toward me. His spectacles were askew, and his white thatch of hair rumpled, though his bookshelves were perfectly kept.

We exchanged a few pleasantries before I made my request: “I’m looking for a book on Hatton Garden. With illustrations, if you have it.”

“Hatton Garden?” He considered for a moment and then drew the rolling ladder toward the third bookcase.

Hastily, I offered to climb myself, but he waved me aside. “No, lad. I’ll know the book when I see it.”

He ascended, and I confess it made me somewhat nervous to see him perched at the top of the ladder, one hand holding the book, the other flipping the pages. “Ah, this might do.”

He climbed down, slowly, and not wanting to hurt his feelings, I restrained the impulse to take a position in which I might catch him if he fell. He handed me the book to examine. It contained several illustrations and maps that might answer my purpose. I paid, he wrapped it up in brown paper, and after bidding him good evening, I strode home, holding my hat on my head with one hand and leaning into the gusts.

Once inside, I lit a cozy fire. On nights like this I deeply appreciated my comfortable chair and my thick Turkish carpets. I also liked my whiskey’s rich gold color in its crystal decanter and the pleasant taste it laid across my tongue. Someday I might marry, but I saw no reason to postpone my own comforts until such time as I had someone to share them with.

The historical tome was rather dry, although the illustrations of buildings were of interest, and I found myself taking note of rooflines. I’d been plodding my way through the book for about an hour when I heard a sharp knock at the door. Surprised, I opened it, adjusting my gaze downward, for before me stood a boy no more than twelve, his brown curls tumbling in the wind. He held out a package. “From Mr. Peabody,” he said. “‘E thought this might be o’ use. Says you can settle up, next time you’re by.”

“Thank you, lad. Just a moment.” I fumbled for a shilling and dropped it into his hand. He gave a tug to an imaginary cap and vanished.

I unwrapped the brown paper and, to my surprise, found a poor edition of a novel: The Haunting of Hatton Garden.

My eyebrows rose. What was this? A yellowback! The cheapest sort of book, sold at railway station bookstalls to passengers seeking to while away a wearisome train journey. Yellowbacks were usually sensational in nature, full of absurd characters, melodramatic scenes, and implausible plots. I smiled and realized I hadn’t specifically told Mr. Peabody that I was looking for a factual account of Hatton Garden. I set it aside and picked up the historical tome. But after a moment, I closed the tome and took up the novel, puzzled that Mr. Peabody would go to the trouble of having a messenger bring it tonight. Was it possible that the novelist had based his—I checked the title page: Mrs. Robert Walker—no, her—story on facts?

I opened to chapter 1 and began to read.

It was a tale as gothic as Mrs. Radcliffe’s Mysteries of Udolpho, set in the English home of the absurdly named Sir Percival FitzMaurice. Chuckling at creaking stairs, incessant thunderstorms, and glimpses of ghosts, I sipped at my whiskey and toasted my feet by the fire as I turned the pages. Despite myself I became engrossed in the tale of a woman who lived in Hatton Garden during the 1830s and was found murdered in the crypt of St. Etheldreda, of all places. There was no factual value to it—but it was tawdry and delightfully entertaining—

The clock struck eleven, and I nearly went to bed. Still, I had only sixty pages left, so I kept on. I didn’t want to go to sleep without discovering the villain.

And then, with only thirty pages remaining, I came upon a passage that made me sit upright:

Benumbed and bewildered, I followed the wraith as she skimmed across the lower corridor toward a section of the paneled cellar wall. By gestures she led me understand that I was to open it. As I drew the panel aside, the smell of earth, fragrant and musty, smelling vaguely of the sea, emanated from the passage. She entered and I followed. What else could I do?

I was in the labyrinthine web of bricked channels, built underneath the streets, providing drainage from the River Fleet as it flowed from its beginnings at Hampstead Heath, down through Camden Town—giving a polite berth to Regent’s Park—down through Clerkenwell and at last finding its peace in the Thames.

She led me on, and though there was little water, the bricks were slippery with silt, and I nearly fell several times …

I skimmed through the remainder of the book, finding nothing of use and utterly unpersuaded that the woman had been killed by her niece in a fit of pique. But that hardly mattered.

Bricked drainage channels? The possibility made my pulse race as I prepared for bed. I knew the Fleet River, open to the air during the medieval period, was covered piecemeal during this century, and adjacent passages would naturally become tunnels. I found myself thinking of a book I’d read the previous year by Mr. Hugo, whose long-suffering Frenchman, Jean Valjean, employed the filthy Paris tunnels to flee his pursuers. I climbed into bed, shivering, my mind alit with possibilities. Was it possible to navigate those channels? Did they run close enough to Hatton Garden that a trap door in the shop floor might provide access? I recalled the rumpled Persian rug. If perhaps Elizabeth had entered the shop through the back door with a key, was this how her accomplice had arrived inside the shop? Or was this how they both left with the jewels?

I closed my eyes, but my limbs were tingling in anticipation of the morrow.

I went to the Yard early to find Corravan already in his office, a set of what looked like old building plans unfurled on his desk. He looked up, and I observed a shadow of whiskers along his jaw and determination in his eyes.

“What are you looking at?” I asked.

“1720s drawings of St. Etheldreda’s,” he said. “I thought I might find a priests hole, a secret passageway connecting it to a nearby house.”

Of course. The church was built in the thirteenth century, so it was Roman. Once Elizabeth took the throne, priests needed places to hide and ways of escaping, if priest-hunters came looking. “Is there one?” I asked.

Corravan shook his head. “Not anymore. There was one below the roofline in Ely House, with a hidden staircase down to the street. But Ely House was torn down.” He sat down heavily, his elbows on the chair arms, his left hand rubbing the knuckles of his right, which often ached when it rained. “The other possibility is a connecting cellar. Those large old houses were divided into shops, so they might still share cellars—though I’d imagine passages would’ve been bricked up. They could be broken through, I suppose.”

“What about the Fleet River?” I asked.

His eyes were still on the drawings. “Too far west.”

“What about the old drainage channels?” I persisted. “They might reach to Hatton Garden, and there could be trap doors into the shops. I found mention of them in a book last night. Do we have a map?”

His blue eyes met mine, suddenly bright with interest. “We do.” He vanished and returned with a rolled cylinder. Unfurling the map, he laid it on his desk, placing metal bookends on two of the corners. I held down the others. “The Fleet comes down through here.” His thick finger traced a line from Hampstead Heath southeast past Kings Cross, east of Holborn, and down to Blackfriars Bridge. “That’s too far away. But you’re right. A drainage channel could run east.”

I frowned. “The streets have changed since this map was made.”

“But the location of the church hasn’t.” He tapped the map. “This is the back of it, which means Atherton’s is here.” He pulled his coat off the rack, and I let go of my corners. “Some of the drainage tunnels near the Thames are big enough for a small boat after a rain. These could be as well.”

We headed out and hailed a cab. On the way to the shop, I told him about Mrs. O’Sullivan not answering definitively whether all three of them stayed for the entire performance, and I acknowledged my embarrassment that I’d likely misjudged the Northcotts.

Corravan’s only comment was a skeptical, “Hmph,” and a frown deep enough that his dark brows nearly met over his nose. I had no idea what that meant, and I didn’t ask.

At the store, we rolled the carpet into a tidy cylinder and placed it as far out of the way as we could, but we saw no obvious variation in the floor.

Corravan got down on his hands and knees, pressing his left cheek to the wooden planks so he could squint across. A grunt of triumph, and he tapped a board. “Try this one.”

Studying the floor, I patted my pocket for the blade I kept there, but Corravan wordlessly handed me his, a noticeably fiercer, sharper version of my own, with a steel tip that wouldn’t break. I slipped the pointed end around the edges of the board, and it yielded, revealing a door, hinged on one side like the front cover of a book. I got my fingertips underneath and lifted it. The opening was big enough for me, though Corravan, with those shoulders of his, would have a more difficult time getting through. And though neither David nor Elizabeth were slender, they could have managed.

Peering down, I saw a faint light from far away. The briny, oily smell of the river rose to my nostrils. Corravan grinned in satisfaction. “There’s a lantern in the kitchen, above the sink. Fetch it, would you?”

Upstairs, I found it in the cupboard. It was heavy, and I heard the slosh of oil. Five boxes of matches sat beside it, all the boxes neatly parallel to each other, yet another sign of Mr. O’Sullivan’s overly particular ways. I chose one and headed back downstairs.

Corravan swung the lit lantern down into the darkness. Below, the water rose perhaps two feet up the curved brick walls.

“I’ll need some constables,” Corravan said. “I’m guessing there’s a boat.”

It was on the tip of my tongue to ask if the water was too shallow for clearance when I remembered the storm would cause the water level to rise. The lamplight revealed marks several feet above the water’s current level. With a boat floating there, it would require no more than a six-foot drop from the floor.

It was better Corravan than I went down there. He’d worked on the river as a young man and knew the tides and all, which I did not.

“Be careful,” I said. I was thinking about the rats.

Appreciation at my concern warmed his expression briefly, and his mouth formed a crooked smile. “Oh, I’ve paid my debts to the rivers. They won’t harm me.”

It was time to ascertain Elizabeth Northcott’s movements precisely.

I returned to the Royal Academy and entered the office once more. Instead of the man I’d met previously, I found a young woman. I introduced myself and inquired what time Miss Northcott’s last appointment was on the previous Tuesday. Obligingly, she took down a book from the shelf and opened it to the day’s page. “Her last pupil arrived at a quarter to six, for an hour.”

A weight of certainty settled in my chest.

The show began at seven. It was impossible that Elizabeth could reach the Folly from here in fifteen minutes, even in a cab. She didn’t attend the show—or at least she didn’t attend the first half. But she had plenty of time to reach the jewelry store by nine o’clock.

“Thank you,” I said and turned to leave.

“Did you not want to speak to her?” she asked. “She’ll be available in twenty minutes. I’m sure she’d want to—”

“No,” I said, feigning regret, and manufactured a cheerful smile. “It isn’t urgent. I’ll stop back tomorrow.”

I returned to the Yard and transcribed in my diary what I believed to be the timeline of events while I waited for Corravan.

At half-past six, Corravan finally entered. He smelled of soap and water; clearly, he had stopped home to wash. I could imagine why.

“Was there a boat?” I asked.

“No, but there were fresh scrapes along the brick and a broken oar that had been used recently.” He continued on to his office, and I rose to follow. As usual the chairs were occupied with files and papers, but no matter. I was too agitated to sit.

My fingertips braced on the top of the wooden chair-back, I began: “Elizabeth Northcott taught at the Academy in Tenterden Street until quarter to seven, so she could never have arrived at the Folly in time for the show. I think she accomplished the entire burglary.”

“While David and Mrs. O’Sullivan were at the theater together,” Corravan said.

“Then, after the show,” I continued, “David put Mrs. O’Sullivan into a cab. Maybe he asked the driver to travel slowly, feign a problem with the horse or a wheel, so David could reach the shop before Mrs. O’Sullivan arrived home. How far is the nearest entrance to the tunnel?”

“Less than a hundred yards,” Corravan replied. “The boat could have been stowed earlier in the day. He could row the boat in, in a matter of minutes, and Elizabeth could drop a rope ladder down to him.”

“But Mrs. O’Sullivan arrived too soon,” I said.

“So David struck Mrs. O’Sullivan and bound her. They broke the window to deceive us. Then they lowered the jewelry into the boat, unrolled the carpet as well as they could, and left by boat.”

“The glass,” I said, suddenly realizing. “The shards weren’t on the carpet, at least not that I noticed. They were only on the floor.”

He thought for a moment and his expression changed. “I think you’re right.”

“Poor Mrs. O’Sullivan,” I groaned. “She’s been badly abused by those two.” But then came another thought. “The storm was crucial to their plan, wasn’t it?”

Corravan shrugged. “Not crucial, but it made it easier. The water would be higher, and the thunder could conceal the sounds.” He grunted. “Of course, it’s been raining off-and-on for weeks, so there were plenty of nights the water would be high enough. The important question, though, is where did they obtain a gun? All of this is conjecture without the means.”

Remembering the portrait behind David’s desk, I had an idea about that.

It was only two o’clock, so I presumed that David was still at the factory. A maid at the Northcotts’ home answered the door, and I asked to speak with the housekeeper.

“Mrs. Daly?” she asked, her eyebrows curving upward.

“If she is the housekeeper, yes.”

She bid me wait, and she’d fetch her.

The housekeeper, a pleasant looking woman of middle age approached.

“Good afternoon, mum,” I began. “I’m Mr. Stiles, of the police. Could you please show me the captain’s firearms?”

She paled. “Goodness. Why do you want to see those?”

“Please, mum. It’s a serious matter.”

“Very well.” She led me into a study. At the far end was a long table, upon which sat a chess board, mid-game, and a wooden box. She pointed. “There.”

I undid the clasps and opened the box. Two pistols, quite handsome, lay in a bed of dark blue velvet. I picked up the first and examined it, raising the end to my nose; it had not been fired recently. But it did not seem as though the second one had either. Or had it been cleaned very thoroughly, and I merely waited too long?

“Mrs. Daly, I need to take these with me. I’m going to see Mr. Northcott at the factory.”

She looked troubled. “He doesn’t like them, you know,” she said as I refastened the clasps. “He only keeps them out of respect for his father.”

I tucked the box under my arm. “I’ll return them in good time.”

Her mouth tight with disapproval, she walked me civilly to the door, and closed it behind me.

Between the Northcott factory and the warehouse was an alley. As the cab rolled slowly past, I could see a swath of the Thames. Most days the river looks gray, with boats churning greasy waves, but with the late-afternoon sun casting a golden light, the water looked almost pleasing. I stepped from the cab and looked up at the factory. Lights gleamed from the windows, and the smell of tea seemed even stronger than on my first visit.

I covered my face with my handkerchief as I strode through the ground floor and up toward the office.

Only to find it empty.

My heart sank as I descended the stairs. I prayed Mr. Northcott had not left for the day—or, worse, gone home to be told by the housekeeper that I’d taken his guns. He could be on a train out of London inside the hour.

At the end of the first-floor corridor was a window, and I stared out at the dock, searching for Mr. Northcott’s fair hair.

To my relief, I caught sight of him. I ran down the remaining flight and out onto the wooden pier.

Mr. Northcott greeted me pleasantly as I approached. “Why, Mr. Stiles!”

“Mr. Northcott, I’m afraid we have more questions,” I said. “I need you to come to the Yard.”

His gaze snagged on the box under my arm, and his expression sobered. I was ready for him to bolt, but he merely gathered himself and said with some dignity, “Very well. I’ll get my coat.”

Taking no chances of his escaping, I followed him closely up a back stairway that bypassed the manufacturing rooms and then back out to the street.

I installed Mr. Northcott in one of the rooms reserved for witnesses, and as I locked it from the outside, Corravan’s voice came down the corridor. “You brought him in?”

I handed him the box. “With his father’s two pistols. I thought they’d be worth examining.”

His eyebrows rose, and he carried the box to his office, where he opened it. I knew how to handle a gun and shoot it and clean it properly. But Corravan’s hands moved over the gun as if it were part of him. In minutes he had examined both and shook his head in disappointment. “Neither is our weapon. The firing spring pin on this one is broken, and here, absent altogether. They don’t look they’ve been fired in years.”

Well, it had been a reasonable guess, I thought. A small bubble of hope rose inside me at the possibility that perhaps we were completely wrong in our surmises. I’d liked Mr. Northcott on sight, and I hated the thought he’d have plotted a scheme this wicked.

“It’s still good you brought him in. I have questions,” Corravan said, and together we entered the room where our suspect sat hunched inside his coat. The room was cold.

Corravan paced slowly as he began: “Mr. Northcott, you are aware we are investigating the death of Mr. O’Sullivan.”

“Yes, his wife is a good friend of my sister’s—” he turned to me and gestured “—as I told Mr. Stiles.”

“What precisely is the nature of your relationship with her?”

His eyebrows rose. “I beg your pardon?”

Corravan reached into his pocket and withdrew an envelope. From where I sat, I could tell the cover was blank, but he held it convincingly. “This is a letter from Mrs. O’Sullivan to a friend of hers. You know her better than you’ve indicated, don’t you?”

A warm flush rose to his cheeks, but he remained silent.

“Did you befriend her precisely because she was married to a jeweler, with the intention of robbing the store?”

His eyes widened with what appeared to be sincere indignation and disgust. “Of course not!”

“Did you kill her husband?” Corravan asked.

His face paled. “No! I didn’t—I couldn’t kill anyone.”

“The night you and Mrs. O’Sullivan were alone at the Folly together,” I said, “did you leave early?”

He looked as if he might deny that he and Mrs. O’Sullivan had been alone together but then his face fell, and he looked deflated. “No. We remained to the end.” Suddenly he straightened up. “I can prove it! I saw my friend Matthew across the lobby afterwards. He waved, so he’d likely remember it.”

“Where can I find him?”

He took a card from his wallet. “At my club.” He scribbled a note on the back. “There’ll be no trouble about admitting you.”

I took the card, feeling certain it wasn’t necessary. He wouldn’t offer it with such alacrity if he weren’t sure of the outcome. Still, I would go and speak with his friend. “What is his surname?”

“Glendenning. Matthew Glendenning.”

Corravan and I rose. “You’ll need to stay here overnight,” he said. “We’ll have someone bring you supper and a blanket.”

He shook his head. “You have it all wrong,” he insisted. “O’Sullivan was a heartless brute. But I didn’t kill him.”

Perhaps you didn’t fire the pistol, I thought. But if your sister did, and you were part of the plot, you’ll share the blame.

We dispatched a detective to fetch Miss Northcott and put her in another of our holding rooms, and I sent another man to confirm with Mr. Glendenning that he’d seen David with Mrs. O’Sullivan at the theater. Then, exhausted, I went home and tumbled into bed.

Logic said that the brother and sister were accomplices, and Mrs. O’Sullivan had been terribly deceived. But logical or not, something about my reasoning felt wrong to me, like a door that didn’t fit properly into its jamb.

The next morning, I lay in bed, my thoughts centered not on the case per se but on poor Mrs. O’Sullivan. Coming home after a pleasant night to the sight of her husband, murdered. Being attacked and injured badly enough to put her in hospital. Betrayed by two friends who had preyed upon her very natural desire for friendship and kindness. Married to a man who, by all accounts, was not only unpleasant, but had an angry temper on occasion—

I sat upright, startled by a memory.

Those bruises on Mrs. O’Sullivan’s arms had been yellow. Which meant there was no possibility that they’d come from the attack the previous night. Had they been signs of her husband’s long-standing cruelty?

Would she have committed a crime to escape it? Could she be capable of such a thing? I remembered the first interview with her, how timid and frightened she’d been—and I thought, No, it’s impossible.

Until I remembered that when Mrs. O’Sullivan had come to see Atherton weeks ago, to ask why her husband was angry, she had waited in his parlor for an hour.

An hour was a long time. Had Mrs. O’Sullivan truly been in despair and seeking his counsel? Or had she been searching for his gun—a gun she might know he owned? A gun that was—to Atherton’s surprise—now missing?

I shoved the bedclothes off and splashed water on my face preparatory to shaving.

What if Mrs. O’Sullivan wasn’t a dupe at all but had hatched the plan in conjunction with the Northcotts—not for the money, perhaps, but as a means of escape from a wretched marriage?

My initial impressions of her had been utterly to the contrary. But was that merely my prejudice at work? The idea that a pretty, soft-spoken young woman with lovely brown eyes could never hate her husband so much that she’d kill him?

Hastily, and with some self-disgust, I drew on my shirt and trousers, reflecting upon each step of the case.

When Mrs. O’Sullivan told me about Mr. Atherton trying to please his wife, who aspired to living elegantly, had it been her sly way to suggest a motive for him, in order to deflect suspicion away from herself and her accomplices?

And how was it that neither David nor Elizabeth remembered precisely how they’d met her, and yet Mrs. O’Sullivan’s memory was so detailed? Was that because she remembered it clearly or because Elizabeth had paid her a visit at the hospital and warned her to have a story ready?

I looked at myself in the mirror as I fastened the last button. “You’re a fool, Stiles,” I told my reflection. “You felt sympathetic toward a pretty woman and you couldn’t see her as anything but the victim. Mrs. O’Sullivan could have helped to plan this.” My instincts protested vehemently, but it was a logical possibility, and my shame at ignoring it mortified me. I dreaded telling Corravan.

I reached the Yard and went straight to his office, closing the door behind me.

It was a humiliating five minutes, as I relayed my thoughts.

Throughout, he leaned against the window frame, his arms folded over his chest. As I concluded, he snorted and studied me through narrowed eyes. “When you arrived at the Yard, I went to Lambeth to ask about you. Do you know what they said?”

My cheeks felt warm. “They probably told you they called me ‘the young don’ because of my book learning.”

Corravan gave a low, good-natured chuckle. “Your book learning led us to the Fleet drainage channels.” He paused. “They said other things too. That you might give people the benefit of the doubt too often, but you’ve a keen eye for people’s true characters and feelings.” He studied me frankly for a moment. “I don’t need someone like me at my side, Stiles.”

I was too stunned—humbled—gratified to speak. As we stood in silence, it came to me that even Hercules needed his Iolaus in the face of the Hydra that was London crime. Within me I felt a small kernel of unexpected pride, and an understanding that perhaps, at least with Corravan, I need not apologize for myself.

Corravan ran a hand through his hair. “This new explanation of yours fits the circumstances, perhaps. But it doesn’t fit your impressions. You described Mrs. O’Sullivan as being frightened but innocent and David as a decent fellow. Let’s not abandon that yet.”

Suddenly, into my mind came the fervency in David’s voice last night when he said that O’Sullivan was a heartless brute. But how would he know? When I first spoke to David, he said he never met Mr. O’Sullivan. What if David’s feeling derived from his longing to protect Mrs. O’Sullivan? And how could he know she needed protecting unless she confided in him?

What if, far from exploiting Mrs. O’Sullivan, he truly loved her?

Was this merely wishful thinking on my part? So I wouldn’t have judged their characters poorly?

“I’m going to interview them all again today,” Corravan said. “Probably best I do it alone.”

“Of course,” I said. “But meanwhile, may I have the key to the jewelry store?”

Corravan’s eyebrows rose. “Any reason in particular?”

I felt myself flush. “I wonder if David and Mrs. O’Sullivan feel a sincere affection for each other. Perhaps there’s a letter from her—or a diary.”

Wordlessly he handed me the key. I climbed into a cab, and as the bells of St. Etheldreda rang ten o’clock, I used it to enter the shop for the fourth time.

Upstairs, I sifted through the few letters on Mrs. O’Sullivan’s desk. None appeared to be from David or Elizabeth or addressed to either, but I read them all anyway, in vain.

I looked through Mrs. O’Sullivan’s clothing, in her closet, and under the bed and the rug. At last I sat at her dressing table. The drawer stuck, and I wiggled it, determined to open it. At last, I jimmied it with my knife, easing it out with a screech. I discovered the reason it wouldn’t open: a jeweler’s box, approximately three inches square, too deep for the drawer.

But Atherton boxes were blue with an “A” in silver on top. This one was pale green and missing the initial, and I opened it to discover it was empty.

In my head, I heard a piece of advice Corravan had once given me: Keep an eye out for something missing.

I squinted at the green velvet, tilting it against the light. There was an impression in the velvet, but the shape wasn’t round, like a pocket watch. It was an oval, and there was a small frayed gathering at the back where a chain had been tucked in behind the fabric. At one point, this box had likely held a locket. O’Sullivan wouldn’t have given her a locket from another shop. What if David had given it to her? Perhaps it was part of the seduction. But it might also be a token of sincere love.

I tucked the box into my pocket slowly. On my first visit to Mrs. O’Sullivan, there had been a thin chain around her neck, half-hidden by the hospital gown.

I found Mrs. O’Sullivan dressed and prepared to leave the hospital. My eyes went to her neck, but it was covered by the high lace-edged collar of her dress.

“Mrs. O’Sullivan, I have more questions for you.”

She reminded me of a fawn, ready to jump and run. But she said, “Very well.” She sat on the edge of the bed, her fingertips working nervously in her lap.

“Mrs. O’Sullivan, I don’t want to frighten you, but I need to speak plainly,” I said. “Your husband was cruel to you, wasn’t he?”

Her face paled, and her arms slid protectively over her belly by way of answer.

“Have you ever seen or touched Mr. Atherton’s gun?”

“A gun?” she whispered. “No! I’m afraid of guns.”

“And you love David Northcott, and he loves you,” I said.

She drew in her breath sharply, and her eyes skittered away.

I held out my hand. “May I see your locket, please?”

Fear sparked in her eyes.

“Please, Mrs. O’Sullivan,” I said gently.

She gulped as she withdrew a shining silver chain from her inside her collar. Silently she brought the long loop over her head and dropped the locket into my palm.

I opened it to find the miniature I expected—of David—and looked up.

“I didn’t love my husband. But I didn’t kill him,” she said, her voice breaking. “And neither did David, though he was disgusted by him.”

“You were very unhappy, weren’t you?” I asked.

Her face twisted in misery. “Of course I was! He beat me.” She unbuttoned her cuff and showed me her arm, revealing a trail of yellow bruises, with some particularly ugly ones in the shape of fingerprints in the soft flesh above the elbow. Her eyes pleaded for understanding. “Nearly every day. Nothing I did pleased him—not the tea I made, not the amount of whiskey I poured, not the way I ironed his shirt.” Tears rose and ran unheeded onto her cheeks. “I wished desperately I could undo my wretched marriage—run away—I was so frightened—” she sobbed. “David has been nothing but kind, from the first day I met him. Is it so wrong to want to be with someone who doesn’t hit you—or—or hate you? Is it?”

“Any man who beats a woman is a savage,” I said. “You certainly deserved better. But there is a law in place to protect wives from cruelty. You might have tried—”

“And had him beat me all the harder for it, if the courts didn’t believe me?” Her eyes were incredulous. “He’d never let me go!”

We were silent for a long moment, and she looked ashamed of her outburst. At last I said, “Well, he can’t hurt you anymore. But I need to ask you for the truth. How did you meet the Northcotts?”

“At a party at Mrs. Waybeck’s, like I told you. Only …” she hesitated. “I met David first. Then Elizabeth began to perform at the piano—she plays very beautifully—and we sat together to listen. The following week, he introduced to me to her.”

“Did all three of you go to the performance at the Folly? You and Elizabeth and David? Or just you and David?”

She gave me an apologetic look. “Only David and I. Elizabeth was tired from work, so we gave her ticket to someone outside the theater.”

“You stayed for the entire performance?”

“Yes. I remember wishing it could go on forever,” she said wistfully. She looked down at her hands in her lap and shuddered. “Then I came home and saw Francis on the floor, and someone hit me, and I don’t remember anything else.” Her shoulders eased, as if a burden had been lifted, and her eyes met mine. “That is the entire truth. I was miserable with Francis, and yes, I love David. But I did not kill my husband.”

I was dismayed that we still hadn’t found the killer, but I also felt a rising tide of relief that David, Elizabeth, and Mrs. O’Sullivan might be the decent people they seemed.

“I’m inclined to believe you,” I said, sighing. “But you’ll need to come with me.”

By the time Mrs. O’Sullivan was dismissed from the hospital and we reached the Yard, it was dark. The three rooms were fully occupied now with our witnesses, and I found Corravan in his office, staring out his window.

I relayed the substance of my interview, concluding, “I think she and David are in love. She insists they didn’t kill him.” I spread my hands. “Frankly, given her violent marriage, I don’t believe she could love a man who would commit murder, even to save her from that brute.”

Somewhat to my surprise, he said, “I believe you’re right. David hasn’t said a word all day, out of loyalty to her, I assume. But I questioned Miss Northcott very particularly about Tuesday. Once I said David could hang for murder, Elizabeth explained everything. The three of them were supposed to go to the show, but by mid-day, she wasn’t feeling well and sent a note to David saying so. She taught until quarter till seven, left the Academy and walked home, arriving by half past seven with supper at eight. Afterwards, she went upstairs and wrote in her journal, as usual, until half-past nine.” He paused. “I sent for it.” He had an odd, regretful expression on his face, and he leaned over his desk, tapping his right forefinger on a red leather-bound book. “She writes between five and six pages every day, and they’re dated. Her revelations are … ” He halted a moment. “Very, very unhappy. If she intended this as her alibi, she …”

“Wouldn’t have bared her heart,” I finished.

“No.” His tone was somber and certain.

There was a long silence.

“And then there’s the matter of the tickets,” he said, and there was an undercurrent of satisfaction in his voice. “Did you ever ask Mrs. O’Sullivan where they obtained them?”

“No,” I admitted. “I assumed David bought them.”

“Mrs. Atherton gave then to Mrs. O’Sullivan.” He dropped his hands onto the top of his chair and met my gaze. “Claimed she purchased them before she arranged to be at her sister’s. That’s why Elizabeth didn’t feel guilty canceling—because the tickets were free.”

Slowly I said, “Mrs. Atherton gave Mrs. O’Sullivan the tickets to make sure she wouldn’t be home until late.”

Corravan gave a single nod. “And what if the reason Atherton was so shocked at the missing gun is because he suspected his wife had used it?”

That made my breath catch. I hadn’t given Atherton’s wife a second thought, as she’d been in Hertford all week. But that was only three hours by railway. “Why, she could have taken the down train on Tuesday afternoon, left before dawn on Wednesday morning, and been back to her sister’s without anyone knowing.”

Corravan nodded.

“But how would she have managed it alone?” I asked. “And getting the jewelry out? Do you think Atherton helped her? He doesn’t seem the sort to manage a boat in a tunnel.”

“I think there were two people. But I don’t think it was Atherton—or any of these three.” Corravan waved a hand toward the holding rooms. “Have them prepare written statements, and then release them. Meanwhile, I’ll see Atherton. We need his wife’s sister’s address in Hempstead.”

Corravan and I met the next morning, early, at Liverpool Railway Station. Had I been less anxious to find Mrs. Atherton, I might have enjoyed the view from inside the train: the sky was a rare cornflower blue, and the sun cast a golden light over the plowed fields and brightened the trees to emerald.

From a stunned, despondent Mr. Atherton, Corravan had learned that Myna and her sister had been left nearly penniless by their father—a fact Myna had concealed for most of their courtship—and he obtained the address of Mrs. Atherton’s sister, Cathy Whiting, a widow. We took a cab from the Hertford railway station and asked to be dropped a hundred yards from the house. Situated on a road a mile outside the village of Rowan, the gray dwelling appeared sedate and respectable. We paused to survey the landscape. Three horses grazed in the pasture. Beyond that shimmered a fair-sized pond, with a boat moored to a small dock. I glanced at Corravan and could tell he, too, had seen the boat. It likely meant that Myna’s sister knew how to handle one. As we passed through the gate, a trio of birds flitted overhead, from one tree to another, and Corravan grunted. “Did you know a myna is a bird?” he asked. “In Australia.”

“I did not,” I replied. Sometimes the facts he knew could be as esoteric as my own.

We unlatched the gate, closing it behind us, and knocked at the door. It was opened by a tall woman with broad shoulders, capable hands, and bright black eyes. “Can I help you?”

“Are you Mrs. Whiting?” Corravan asked.

A wary expression came over her face, and she braced her shoulder against the door. Corravan said, “We’re looking for your sister, Mrs. Atherton.”

She shook her head and pursed her mouth. “She’s not here. She went home, to London.”

“No, she didn’t,” Corravan said. “Her husband hasn’t seen her.”

“Well, I don’t know where she is, then.”

“Where did she stay? We need to see her room.”

She hesitated a moment, then shrugged, drawing the door open. “As you please. The yellow room at the end of the hall.”

We entered, and I had the peculiar sense of a house not lived in, or one about to be departed. In the room Mrs. Atherton had inhabited, we saw signs of recent occupation–a small pin left on the table, a scuff of dirt from a shoe. But the rack upon which one might have set a suitcase and the armoire were both empty.

Our bird had flown.

We bid Mrs. Whiting goodbye, and to my surprise, the door hadn’t even closed behind us before Corravan announced, “Back to London, then. Maybe we can catch her there,” and strode toward the gate.

I nearly stopped dead in my tracks because this wasn’t like Corravan at all, to take a suspect’s word as truth. Mystified and troubled, I followed behind him until we were well away, and then I spoke up: “Begging pardon, sir, but I have a feeling Mrs. Whiting is about to leave herself, perhaps to join her sister. The house felt almost overly tidy.”

He grunted. “There was a satchel on the bed in the second bedroom.”

I hadn’t noticed that. Somewhat ruefully, I trudged in silence beside him, not understanding why we walked on. But halfway back to the train station, out of the sight of prying eyes, he drew me to the side of the road, stepping into a stand of birches and hurrying back in the direction from which we’d just come. With a sigh of understanding I followed him until we reached the edge of the trees, where we could see Mrs. Whiting’s house. Wordlessly, he crouched down on the ground and peered between branches.

“She’ll come out eventually,” I muttered.

He nodded, and we settled in to wait.

It was a long, long day with no food and no water. I had hours to muse over the strong possibility that the murder and theft had been accomplished by these two conniving women; to wonder just how Mrs. Whiting’s husband had died; to speculate how Mrs. O’Sullivan and David would fare now, given that O’Sullivan’s death had been necessary for their happiness. I’ve no idea if Corravan’s thoughts ran along similar lines, for he said not a word.

As darkness fell and lights were extinguished from the windows in her house, I admit I was close to giving up.

I don’t think it even occurred to Corravan. He remained crouched, with one knee in the dirt and his eyes on the house. The night was clear, and soon our only light was that of the moon, which shone at half-strength, barely enough for us to see each other.

And then—at a quarter past ten—

A woman wrapped in a cloak and with a shawl over her head emerged from the dark house, closing the door silently behind her. She carried no lantern, only a satchel in each hand, and we waited until she had reached the road before we slipped out of our hiding place. I imagined we’d seize her at once, but instead, Corravan motioned me to stay back, in the shadows. She trod sturdily at a fair pace, and we followed her for nearly a mile, several times losing her in the shadows of the trees that lined the road but always finding her again, until we reached a main road. On the far side stood a small open carriage with one lantern, and a second woman holding the lone horse’s head by the reins.

Corravan launched forward. I followed, running as silently as I could, and we came upon them so suddenly that the woman by the horse only had time to cry out a warning to her sister: “Cathy!”

I seized the woman, who succumbed with a cry and an attempt to squirm away, but I quickly subdued her, placing her wrists in my pair of metal cuffs. Corravan wasn’t so lucky. Myna’s hand came up like a claw, scratching his face, but Corravan caught it at its second swipe. She let out a cry of pain, but Corravan managed to place his metal cuffs on her. Carrying the satchels in one hand and the chain between the cuffs in the other, I drew Mrs. Whiting toward the lantern. Holding Myna with a firm grip, Corravan opened one of the bags. The jewels sparkled in the light.

Myna Atherton’s face was furious, but even so, by the golden lamplight I saw that the artist who’d painted the portrait Corravan had seen would have had no need to flatter her. She was quite beautiful enough without that, with her brilliant dark eyes sparkling with anger, her high brow, the fine bones of her cheeks and chin, her sensuous lips, and the lush dark ringlets caught up behind, escaping the shawl she’d draped over them.

“Mrs. Atherton, how could you do it?” Corravan turned on her. “Kill a man?”

Her chin tilted up and she met his gaze. “As if you know anything about it!” she spat. “The world is better off without him. He was a despicable, vicious brute! He treated Stuart and me like servants, and—and he beat Adelia!”

“So you were meting out justice?” Corravan squinted at her. “That’s nonsense. You would’ve let Adelia be hanged in your place. You wanted the money.”

“Yes, I wanted the money.” Her eyes glittered. “I wanted to live—and to have clothes and food and a bed to sleep in. Why else would I marry a dull old man like Stuart?” She gave a horrible dry laugh. “He wanted to buy a young, beautiful wife, and he got one, didn’t he?”

I turned to her sister. “And you?” I asked. “You managed the boat?”

She spat in my face and uttered a string of expletives I had never before heard from a woman’s lips, not even in the Jasper Street brothels.

I wiped my cheek on the shoulder of my coat, my heart shriveling at the signs of so much hatred. God knows, there are vicious, cruel, selfish scoundrels in the world, but—foolishly—I found myself wanting to protest that we men weren’t all deserving of such venom. Yet perhaps those were the only sort of men these sisters had found, and perhaps marriage truly was the only choice for women with no family and limited means, if they wanted those necessities of life—clothes and food and a bed to sleep in. The thought made me feel unexpectedly sorry for both of them, and to give a thought to the challenges faced by women generally.

We took the sisters by train back to London, where two weeks later, one judge sentenced Mrs. Whiting to five years in prison, and a second pronounced that in twenty-one days a noose would be placed around Mrs. Atherton’s neck.

That same evening, the Countess Glenarthur received several compliments on the sparkling gems around hers.

Author: Karen Odden

Ripping Out Pipes: Out with the Old, in with the New, in life and writing…

An Impression in Velvet: An Inspector Corravan Novella