horrid incident alone.”
Evelina laughed. “You’re just sorry you missed out on the excitement.”
“You can’t blame me, can you?” Imogen caught her lip in her teeth. Her handwork sat idle in her lap, the needle poked carelessly into the cloth. “Mama sent Maisie home. She offered to let Dora have time off, but she wouldn’t go. Not with Mama’s birthday party the day after tomorrow.”
A party seemed trivial, but Dora was right. The business of Hilliard House would go on. Guests would flood the lawns, play croquet, and eat too much. A herd of Imogen’s hopeful suitors would no doubt descend in hopes of winning fair maid and fortune. Evelina looked forward to it. It was one event she could attend whether or not she’d been presented to the queen.
And yet, it would seem odd to sip tea and make small talk so soon after a tragic and violent death. “Do we know who Grace Child’s people were?”
“Yes. They live over in Whitechapel.”
“Has anyone told them?”
“Mama took care of that, too. Someone from here will go to the funeral, of course. Papa gave them a handsome sum to pay for the funeral and more besides. Or at least that’s what Tobias said.” Imogen turned to Evelina, the clean angle of her cheekbone catching the sunlight. Her gray eyes looked almost translucent, like the eyes of a wolf. Despite a discreet application of powder, Evelina could tell she’d been crying.
“I heard that Tobias was talking to Grace just before she was killed,” Imogen added.
A bird warbled high in the branches, a throaty whoop of joy. Evelina squinted up seeing only a black speck hopping through the elms that rimmed the lawn. Not her bird. It wouldn’t be back yet—but she hoped when it did, it would have answers that cleared Nick and Tobias.
Evelina squeezed her friend’s hand. “I know what Dora saw.”
But Imogen went on anyway. “Maisie found Grace just after one o’clock. Dora saw him with Grace not long before.”
Evelina frowned. She didn’t like to see Imogen fretting. “Who told you all this?”
“No one. I heard Dora talking with Bigelow.” Her friend swallowed hard. “I honestly don’t think Tobias did it. He’s my brother. But the timing looks very bad. The problem is, if it wasn’t Tobias, who was it? No matter how you turn it around, there was a killer in our house.”
“I know.”
“Are you afraid?”
“Yes and no,” Evelina replied.
“Yes I understand, but why no?”
Evelina hesitated. She didn’t want to involve Imogen in any of this, but doubt was an insidious foe. That had to be worse than talking it through, and frankly Evelina welcomed the chance to go over what had happened. She wanted, even needed, Imogen’s support.
Evelina’s immediate problem was simple: she wanted answers, but she wasn’t sure where to begin. She’d lain awake all night, trying to get the details straight in her own mind. Uncle Sherlock would tell her to get her facts in order before making a single move. Anything less, and he’d give her that eyebrow-raise and accuse her of sloppy thinking. “There’s more to Grace’s death than meets the eye.”
Imogen’s brow puckered. “What makes you say that?”
Evelina reached into her work bag and withdrew the envelope she’d pocketed right under Lestrade’s nose. In all the commotion last night, she’d all but forgotten it until she had undressed for bed. “I think there was a reason Grace died. She had this hidden in her clothes.”
“And you took it?” Imogen’s eyes widened.
“I had my reasons.”
“But this is evidence!”
“The police aren’t going to understand it.”
At least, not until they started hiring experts who could detect the magical signatures—she was sure there were two—clinging to the envelope. The residue was so disturbing to be around, she’d packed the whole thing in salt to neutralize the bad energy. It was mostly gone now. Otherwise, she’d hesitate to let Imogen handle it.
She turned the envelope over in her hands, feeling her friend’s curiosity like a flame. Despite the seriousness of the subject, Evelina had a showman’s thrill anticipating the reveal. One could take a girl out of the circus …
“Look at what’s inside.” She tipped it and a bright silk bag fell into her hand with a clinking sound.
Imogen reached over and picked it up. “What is it?”
“Another layer of mystery. Keep looking.”
Imogen pulled the drawstring open and peered down into the silk mouth. Evelina watched in amusement as her friend’s eyes widened. “Oh! Oh, dear!” Imogen dipped her long fingers into the bag and pulled out a rectangle of bright gold. “This is …”
“Worth a fair bit of money, I’d guess. I weighed it. That’s three ounces by the scale in the pantry. And there’s more in the bag.”
Imogen fished out a handful of tiny stones, looking at them curiously. Evelina could see the shock fading and curiosity taking over. Imogen had a mind every bit as good as her brother’s, but was rarely pushed to use it.
“These are emeralds,” she said, excitement thrumming in her words. “But roughly cut. Not like any I’ve seen. And the gold is so pure, but there are no markings on it. I’ve seen Papa with gold that has come from a bank. There’s almost always a stamp to say where it was minted.” Imogen’s eyes were bright with interest. “It looks like someone melted this down.”
“No. Nothing we have would boil down to this.” Imogen slipped the items back into the bag. “The gold puts another light on the matter entirely. What was Grace doing with it? What had she got herself into?”
A bee zipped by, stirring the flower-scented air. In a moment, it was lost in the shivering shadows of the leaves.
“She was delivering it, probably.”
“But why kill her and not rob her?”
“Maybe the killer was interrupted—or maybe she was killed for an entirely different reason.” Evelina pulled a paper out of the envelope. It was plain, the cheap kind that could be purchased anywhere, and it bore a few lines of block letters. The words were printed by hand with ordinary ink. “Look at what was with the gold.”
The paper was folded in half. Imogen flipped it open, the breeze fluttering its edges. Her chin tucked back as if the words had offended her. “This is pure nonsense.”
“It’s written in a cipher of some kind.”
Imogen gave her a blank look. “One of your uncle’s specialties, I suppose?”
“He’s written what he describes as a trifling monograph on the subject in which he analyzes one hundred and sixty separate ciphers.”
Imogen raised one fair brow. “He would have, wouldn’t he?”
“He doesn’t have many friends.”
“Except that poor doctor he used to live with. He must be a very patient man.”
Evelina gave a slight shrug. There was no point in trying to explain Uncle Sherlock. It just couldn’t be done. “Anyhow, if I’m right about what this is, ciphers of this type are extremely hard to figure out.”
A stubborn look came over Imogen’s face. “But we have to, don’t we? To clear Tobias?”
Evelina held up a hand, a wave of unease urging her to caution. “Nothing good can come out of poking around murders and thievery. You have your presentation and Season to worry about.”
“So leave it to you?” Imogen shot back. “Not bloody likely, Evelina Cooper. You’re not the only girl with wit and daring. By this time next year, I could be an old married lady. Give me an adventure to remember!”
Evelina’s heart caught. After the Season, their paths were sure to part. They would still adore each other, they would write letters, but hours together would become a treat rather than the general rule. Their youth would end with all the predictability of a clock striking midnight.
