squabbling. Plus, she was terrified for him—far more than for herself. “It’s the only way we’ll both be safe. Nick, my conscience can’t bear it if you’re arrested when all you did was come to see me for old time’s sake.”
“Old time’s sake.” His lips curled at the last words, and he flicked a hand as if batting them away. “There’s a woman screaming downstairs. You thought someone was creeping around the corridors. I would worry about more than your reputation.”
Pounding shook Evelina’s door, making her jump. Nick pulled a knife from his belt, the blade gleaming in the candlelight. She caught her breath and grabbed his forearm, feeling the play of lean muscle under layers of clothing. “Wait here, then. Get out of sight.”
Nick didn’t budge.
The pounding came again, making the door latch rattle. “Miss Cooper?”
It was Dora.
“Who is that?” Nick whispered.
“One of the upstairs maids. Hide! Quickly!” Evelina was already in motion toward the door. When she cast a glance over her shoulder, Nick had vanished. Only a flutter of bed curtains betrayed his hiding place.
Dora stood with a candle in one hand. Her face was whey-pale, her lips bloodless. “Miss, you must come. I don’t know what to do.” The maid looked smaller than usual, as if her entire body had retracted in shock.
“What is it?” Evelina stepped into the corridor and pulled the door shut behind her. She wasn’t surprised that she was the first port of call in an emergency. Although she had little authority in the household, she knew the servants relied on her for a cool head and practical advice. That was one advantage of growing up in Ploughman’s Paramount Circus, where sword swallowing was a daily event. It tended to promote strong nerves.
Plus, the odd problem could be dealt with with by one of Gran Cooper’s spells. Not that the servants knew why Miss Imogen’s friend seemed to be able to solve the unsolvable on so many occasions; they were just grateful that she cared about their lot. But, taking her cue from Dora’s expression, Evelina was already having doubts that this situation could be rescued with a bit of herb magic.
“What is it, Dora?” she asked again.
The maid opened her mouth, inhaled, then closed it again. She gave a quick shake of her head, as if to say the words couldn’t come out. Tears were leaking from her eyes, trailing beside her pink-tipped nose.
This wasn’t getting them anywhere. “Show me,” Evelina said, wanting to get away from her bedroom and the man hiding there.
Without another word, Dora led the way toward the stairs. Once on the main floor, instead of going left to the stately drawing rooms, she turned right toward the main entrance and the cloakroom used to hang the outerwear of the ambassador’s many guests. Though now retired from foreign service, Emerson Roth, Lord Bancroft, still moved chess pieces around the board of the Empire’s political scene, and that required lavish parties.
They were almost to the entrance hall with its gold sconces and coffered ceiling. Evelina walked two paces behind Dora, following the silent, hunched form. Shadows dragged at the hem of her skirts, reminding her that someone—not Nick—had passed her in the upstairs corridor. There had been those hideous, dismembered dolls in the attic. And then there had been screams.
Despite her vaunted nerves, a shudder slid down her backbone.
Evelina hurried to keep up with Dora, who was clearly on the verge of panic. She seemed to be heading directly to the cloakroom. The door stood open, light pooling on the marble floor beyond. Outside, one of the kitchen girls sat on a long upholstered bench, placed there so guests could change their footwear.
The girl, surely no more than fourteen or fifteen, was bowed nearly double, her face in her hands. The housekeeper sat next to her, wrapped in a quilted housecoat. She murmured softly, cradling the youngster in a motherly embrace. Evelina dragged her gaze away, giving them privacy. “What happened?”
“It was Maisie that cried out,” Dora said, the statement jerking out in pieces. “When she saw what was in there.” She pointed to the cloakroom.
It was no wonder that Evelina had heard the cry all the way upstairs. The sound, far from being lost in the high ceilings, would have carried right up the stairwell. But what had the young girl seen?
Evelina realized that her hands were icy and she badly wanted the water closet.
The door to the cloakroom stood open. The moment was so silent, she could hear the faint sibilance of the gaslights that had been laid in throughout the main floor. She took a step toward the doorway when Dora touched her arm. The maid’s brow was knitted in concern. “It’s a terrible sight in there, miss. It’s … it’s …”
Dora began to cry again, losing her power of speech.
Evelina squeezed her hand. “Sh. You stay here and help with Maisie. Has someone told Bigelow?” The butler—pillar of all things respectable—was just what the staff needed.
Dora nodded quickly. “He’s gone to tell the master.”
“Good.” With that, Evelina went through the cloakroom doorway. The gas was turned up, as if someone had tried to banish what was in the middle of the floor.
That sight made her forget every other detail of her surroundings.
Evelina stared at the crumpled lump, gradually making out the still form of a woman in a plain jacket and skirt. Not the rags of the poor, but not much above that, either. Her face was turned away from Evelina, giving a view of the back of her head. Her pale brown hair had been torn from its pins, the long tresses trailing around her. A well-worn hat lay a little distance from the body. Someone had carelessly stepped on it, crushing the crown. From the looks of her wardrobe, it had probably been the only one she owned.
It was the last detail that struck home, clogging Evelina’s throat with a trembling ache. As a child, she had never gone hungry, but there had been days when the proverbial wolf howled just outside the door. She knew what it was like to have few clothes, and how precious each item could be. It was something the Roths, for all their kindness, could never understand.
Slowly she came to terms with the fact that she was looking at a dead body. Not just dead, but violently dead. The straggling hair was matted with blood. A flutter of nausea worked its way up from Evelina’s stomach. She’d seen plenty of funerals and even helped with the laying out, but this was different. Someone had clubbed this woman over the head with casual brutishness.
And Evelina was utterly alone in the room. The soul of the girl was gone. Sometimes the dead lingered, but this time Evelina’s magic would be of no use. Death reigned over the tableau. Her nausea soured to a chill anger as questions began crowding in—a babble that threatened to turn into a roar. Foremost among them: Why was this dead woman here, at Hilliard House?
Anger thawed the first shock, and Evelina began a slow circuit, looking at the fallen figure from different angles. Suddenly the room itself came into focus, and what had been irrelevant noise turned to important details.
Clearly, the woman’s life had been ended here, at this very spot. It was a good thing that the rows of hooks and hangers along the wall were empty of costly garments that night. The simple white paint in the room made the sprays of blood stand out in gaudy contrast.
Evelina’s path took her past the victim’s feet. A broken candle lay on the floor, as if it had dropped from her hand during the struggle. Wax stuck to the floor, still soft enough to feel greasy when Evelina poked it with her finger.
When she finally caught a glimpse of the woman’s front, Evelina gave a stifled gasp. The dead woman’s face was obscured by the tumble of her hair, but Evelina could see the throat had been slashed from ear to ear. What was left of Evelina’s dinner began rushing up her throat and she was suddenly aware of the sticky, meaty smell of flesh, thick with the coppery tang of blood.
She turned away, gulping. She had to skitter to avoid the slick of blood pooling under the body. Someone had already stepped in it—the partial arc of a shoeprint had been left just beside the dead girl. It was small— maybe it belonged to the girl herself.
Narrowing her eyes, she studied the skin of the victim. She knew blood pooled inside the body once someone died, leaving bruiselike marks. But there were other faint shadows—very slight abrasions, perhaps— around the chin and along the jaw as if the killer had grabbed her there. Perhaps in order to cut her throat? The
