wardrobe. Charles, normally far more tidy than she was herself, had tossed half the cravats on the floor and was doing the same with his handkerchiefs. She went to her dressing table and opened the central drawer. She lifted out a box with rose-wood cranes inlaid in the lid, pressed one of the cranes to release the false bottom, and took out the set of picklocks Raoul had given her so many years ago. She crossed back to her husband, who was now riffling through a box of sleeve-links, and held out her hand.
Charles stared at the shiny instruments held together with green satin ribbon rather than a metal ring like his own set. “Of course. Any self-respecting agent would need her own.” He pushed the drawer shut. The sleeve-links rattled like ammunition. “Handy for all sorts of things. Including opening your husband’s dispatch box, I imagine.”
She received his gaze as a duelist might receive a bullet. “Among other things.”
The brief, hard flare in his eyes made her bleed inwardly. “I always wondered why you took to picking locks with such natural ability. But then there are any number of things you pretended to learn from me that you were already expert at.”
They stared at each other. Every paper she had stolen, every secret she had gleaned from him and passed on to Raoul hung between them, as impenetrable as the wall of any fortress.
Melanie drew a breath. “If you’re wondering exactly when—”
“No.” Charles folded his arms across his chest. “As it happens, I’m trying to remember how many dispatch boxes I’ve broken into myself through the years.”
He watched her a moment longer, his gaze steady and unreadable on her own. Then he shrugged into a black coat, wound a black silk scarf over the white gleam of his shirt, and walked to the door. Melanie put the picklocks in the pocket of her gown and picked up the black cloak.
After seven years, her husband could still surprise her.
The back of the Constable house was as Addison had described, two ground-floor windows with simple latches. The curtains were drawn, but the fringed chintz at one and the velvet drapes at the other easily differentiated the breakfast parlor and study.
Melanie glanced at Charles. They had left Addison and Edgar to keep watch at the front of the house, with orders for one of them to follow anyone who left.
Charles jerked his head at the study window. Melanie took out her picklocks and opened the window of this London house as easily as she had any in Lisbon or Vienna. Charles boosted her up and she pulled herself over the sill, ignoring a twinge in her side. She stretched down a hand to Charles and he pulled himself up, using the strength in his arms to make up for the weakness in his leg. He sucked in his breath as he dragged his wounded leg over the sill.
A faint smell of ink washed over them in the darkness.
Charles eased open the door. The hall to which they had been admitted a few hours before stretched before them. A smell of scented beeswax lingered in the air. A half-moon of gray light indicated the fanlight over the front door. After a few moments, she could make out the mass of the stairs and the outline of the hall table.
They tiptoed over a few feet of polished floor to the muffling pile of the Turkey rug. Space seemed to expand in the dark. It felt as though the relatively compact hall took as long to traverse as a palatial gallery. The trick was not to panic and move too quickly, not to rely on one’s faulty memory rather than the evidence of one’s senses. At last Charles stopped, and she heard the faint stir of his hand closing round the newel post.
Mercifully, thanks perhaps to the house’s newness, none of the treads squeaked. Her foot nearly collided with the balustrade as they rounded the first-floor landing, but Charles steadied her. On the second floor, they paused at the head of the stairs. A window at the end of the corridor let in a faint glow of moonlight. The white-painted doors stood out as pale blurs against the dark wallpaper. No light shone beneath the doors.
The door directly across from the stairhead was wider than the others, with a carved doorcase. Charles jerked his head at her and moved to the door to the left of it. It opened on the smell of camphor and lavender. Standing behind Charles, Melanie could make out the bulk of a four-poster. A spare bedchamber. They moved to the door to the right of the carved doorcase. A faint smell of perfume and face powder seeped round the door as Charles reached for the handle. He pushed the door open.
The curtains had been thrown back from the windows. A scene of chaos shimmered in the moonlight. The wardrobe doors gaped open. Gowns and shawls and hats were strewn about. The dressing table drawers hung from their slots. Powder and jewels and scent spilled across the top of the dressing table. A small oil painting had been pulled from the wall, the canvas slashed.
Charles made a quick circuit of the room. Melanie moved to the door to the adjoining bedchamber and put her ear to the panels. No sound, not even the stir of bedclothes. She turned to Charles and shook her head. He moved to her side and exchanged a look with her. She nodded and turned the door handle, a fraction of an inch at a time, so it made only the softest of clicks. She put her shoulder to the door and eased it open.
The curtains were thrown back in this room as well. The moonlight fell over the rumpled, empty bed. The room was marked with the same signs of chaos as the boudoir, but her gaze skimmed past them. For on the hearth rug, before the cold, banked fire, was the sprawled figure of Helen Trevennen, the woman who now called herself Elinor Constable.
A pistol gleamed silver on the carpet beside her, and a red stain spread over the front of her nightdress. But Melanie still hurried forward, dropped to her knees, and put her fingers to the woman’s cold neck. She was dead.
He looked from the pistol to the wound in Helen Trevennen’s chest. Scorch marks showed on the embroidered linen of her nightdress. “The bullet went in at an upward angle,” he said, “at close range.”
Melanie glanced at the bed with its thrown-back covers, then looked at Helen. Her sheer nightdress was lavish with lace, but she wore no dressing gown and her feet were bare. The pistol was small and elegant, a lady’s weapon. “He was searching the room, she woke and jumped out of bed and grabbed her pistol—she must sleep with it beside her bed, which fits with Giles saying she kept a pistol in her reticule. They struggled and the gun went off.”
“Yes, that’s how it looks. The question is, did he find the ring?” Charles put out his hand as though to close Helen’s eyes, then drew it back. “Best not to disturb things more than we have to. But I think we can risk lighting a lamp.” He pushed himself to his feet and held out his hand to her.
Melanie stood and glanced once more at the still face of the woman they had spent the past thirty-six hours searching for. Violet Goddard’s friend, Hugo Trevennen’s niece, Susan Trevennen’s sister, Jemmy Moore’s lover. A different woman to all of them, but in all their eyes she had been a creature of life and vitality. With a single bullet, all that life and vitality had been extinguished. Put out the light indeed.
Further speech was a dangerous luxury. They found a tinderbox on the mantel and lit a single lamp, then moved about the disordered room in silence, unscrewing finials, rummaging through already opened drawers, turning back the pastel carpets, glancing in vases and jewel boxes, under the mattress, inside the coal scuttle. It seemed obvious that the murderer had begun in the boudoir and only risked the bedroom when his search of the first room proved fruitless, but Charles checked the boudoir again while Melanie inspected the porcelain on the bedroom mantel.
He came back into the bedchamber, shook his head, then went still. Melanie heard it a fraction of a second later. A faint thud outside the door that was different from the normal stirrings and creakings of the house. She barely had time to call herself a fool before the door from the corridor was pushed open.
“Darling?” A man’s voice, questioning, not suspicious. More candlelight spilled into the room. “Are you awake? I decided to—”
