and mottled. A double strand of pearls was cinched round her slender throat. Blood-tinged welts ribbed the skin above and below. Her eyes were closed as though in sleep, but her expression of sheer terror she’d take to the grave.
Two men stood near her slippered feet, their hands clasped in front of them. One was Constable Hopkins. The other was unknown to me. I slipped behind them into the chamber, hoping for a few seconds’ reconnoiter before anyone took notice.
Two massive, claw-footed wardrobes stood like sentries in the corners of the room’s far end. The doors were closed and locked with tassled keys. Between them was an upholstered settee strewn with a rather ugly saffron dress, a chemise, petticoats, and stockings. A silver coffee service rested on a tray table in front of it.
Pricey gilded statuettes, receptacles, candlesticks, and foofaraws were displayed on matching, marble-topped dressers and chests. Separately, the accessories were pieces of art. In toto, each was as distinctive as a pile of autumn leaves.
The carved walnut bed whose headboard rose within an inch of the ceiling had been neatly turned down, but the bottom sheet was rumpled and a pillow was askew and devoid of its lace-trimmed casing. Nearby was a mirrored dressing table cluttered with crystal atomizers, pots of creams and lotions, a monogrammed silver brush, hand mirror and comb, and ornate trinket boxes. The lower drawers had been rifled; the contents of the two deeper ones were dumped on the floor.
A draft wended from French doors accessing onto a balcony. I moved nearer, stepping carefully over a jewelry case laying splayed open and empty on the Brussels carpet. I’d just glimpsed a rope knotted around one of the balcony’s wrought-iron rails when a hand gripped my arm and none too gently.
“Judas priest.” Jack glowered down at me, a spark of homicidal mania in his eye. Through clenched teeth, he said, “What the hell are you doing up here?”
“Investigating.”
“Snooping’s more like it.”
“It appears the victim interrupted another burglary-in-progress and paid with her life. I don’t recollect the newspaper mentioning the rope was left behind at the McCoyne and Whitelaw robberies, but the uncased pillow—”
“Joby—”
I grimaced and tried pulling from his grasp. “You’re hurting me.” He wasn’t, but he apologized and unhanded me all the same.
My eyes slid to the dead woman. Constable Hopkins had removed his coat and laid it over her head and torso. “If that’s Mrs. Abercrombie, she’s not much older than her daughter.”
“Stepdaughter. The deceased, first name Belinda, is—was—Hubert Abercrombie’s second wife.”
“Oh? How long have they been married?”
“I don’t know yet, and it’s none of your concern.” Jack looked over his shoulder at the other men. “Now you scat back to that buggy and hie for home.”
“No.”
He started. “No?”
“You can force my ejection, if you care to make a scene.” I jutted my chin. “A screaming, shin-kicking donnybrook, similar to our encounter at Madame Felicity’s.”
His voice dropped an octave. “Are you threatening me, Miz Sawyer?”
Of course I was, but only figuratively. If Jack called my bluff, I’d exit with all respect due the departed and her loved ones. “Oh, don’t be such a fusspot. Just ignore me altogether. You know I won’t meddle in your investigation.”
“You already have.”
“Observing is not meddling and this matter does concern me. This very afternoon, Garret McCoyne and Avery Whitelaw showed keen interest in hiring my father to recover the jewels stolen in the prior robberies.”
Jack shifted his weight, as if debating whether to assist me bodily out the front door, or perhaps the balcony, versus a more sedate approach to my unofficial presence. “Lord have mercy, if the chief ever finds out…”
“Well, I certainly won’t tell him, and I’m sure your men can be persuaded against carrying
Two men stood near her slippered feet, their hands clasped in front of them. One was Constable Hopkins. The other was unknown to me. I slipped behind them into the chamber, hoping for a few seconds’ reconnoiter before anyone took notice.
Two massive, claw-footed wardrobes stood like sentries in the corners of the room’s far end. The doors were closed and locked with tassled keys. Between them was an upholstered settee strewn with a rather ugly saffron dress, a chemise, petticoats, and stockings. A silver coffee service rested on a tray table in front of it.
Pricey gilded statuettes, receptacles, candlesticks, and foofaraws were displayed on matching, marble-topped dressers and chests. Separately, the accessories were pieces of art. In toto, each was as distinctive as a pile of autumn leaves.
The carved walnut bed whose headboard rose within an inch of the ceiling had been neatly turned down, but the bottom sheet was rumpled and a pillow was askew and devoid of its lace-trimmed casing. Nearby was a mirrored dressing table cluttered with crystal atomizers, pots of creams and lotions, a monogrammed silver brush, hand mirror and comb, and ornate trinket boxes. The lower drawers had been rifled; the contents of the two deeper ones were dumped on the floor.
A draft wended from French doors accessing onto a balcony. I moved nearer, stepping carefully over a jewelry case laying splayed open and empty on the Brussels carpet. I’d just glimpsed a rope knotted around one of the balcony’s wrought-iron rails when a hand gripped my arm and none too gently.
“Judas priest.” Jack glowered down at me, a spark of homicidal mania in his eye. Through clenched teeth, he said, “What the hell are you doing up here?”
“Investigating.”
“Snooping’s more like it.”
“It appears the victim interrupted another burglary-in-progress and paid with her life. I don’t recollect the newspaper mentioning the rope was left behind at the McCoyne and Whitelaw robberies, but the uncased pillow—”
“Joby—”
I grimaced and tried pulling from his grasp. “You’re hurting me.” He wasn’t, but he apologized and unhanded me all the same.
My eyes slid to the dead woman. Constable Hopkins had removed his coat and laid it over her head and torso. “If that’s Mrs. Abercrombie, she’s not much older than her daughter.”
“Stepdaughter. The deceased, first name Belinda, is—was—Hubert Abercrombie’s second wife.”
“Oh? How long have they been married?”
“I don’t know yet, and it’s none of your concern.” Jack looked over his shoulder at the other men. “Now you scat back to that buggy and hie for home.”
“No.”
He started. “No?”
“You can force my ejection, if you care to make a scene.” I jutted my chin. “A screaming, shin-kicking donnybrook, similar to our encounter at Madame Felicity’s.”
His voice dropped an octave. “Are you threatening me, Miz Sawyer?”
Of course I was, but only figuratively. If Jack called my bluff, I’d exit with all respect due the departed and her loved ones. “Oh, don’t be such a fusspot. Just ignore me altogether. You know I won’t meddle in your investigation.”
“You already have.”
“Observing is not meddling and this matter does concern me. This very afternoon, Garret McCoyne and Avery Whitelaw showed keen interest in hiring my father to recover the jewels stolen in the prior robberies.”
Jack shifted his weight, as if debating whether to assist me bodily out the front door, or perhaps the balcony, versus a more sedate approach to my unofficial presence. “Lord have mercy, if the chief ever finds out…”
“Well, I certainly won’t tell him, and I’m sure your men can be persuaded against carrying
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