The accent was unmistakably American. It stirred a shipboard memory. It took only a second for Benedict to put it together with the physical aspects of the intruder—slender, sandy-haired, young and male.
“Declan Garraway,” Benedict said. He shook his head in disgust. “The expert on psychology. So you’re the spy. I should have known. I suppose the two careers do complement each other.”
“I was afraid you would recognize me.” Declan yanked the scarf away, revealing his deceptively earnest, honest face. “It’s the accent, isn’t it? For your information, I’m not a damn spy. I’m a private investigator. Sort of.”
“A fine distinction, I’m sure. Who are you working for?”
“That’s none of your damn business. Where is Foxcroft’s notebook?”
Benedict looked around the study, affecting mild surprise. “You mean you didn’t find it?”
“Get it or so help me, I’ll—”
“What? Shoot me and my butler and maybe my housekeeper before I shoot you? I doubt it. I’m no expert with a gun, but I have practiced a bit and at this distance it would be hard to miss. Even if you got lucky on your first shots, how far do you think you’ll get after committing several murders in a quiet, respectable neighborhood like this? Trust me, someone will have noticed you when you arrived.”
“No one saw me come here,” Declan said quickly.
“What about the hansom that dropped you off nearby? Do you really think the driver won’t remember that he had an American in his cab tonight? One who got out close to the scene of the killings?”
“How did you know I came in a hansom?” Declan sounded appalled.
“How else would you have been able to find this street? I doubt that you know London well.”
“Forget the hansom. I’m not here to kill anyone. Your butler interrupted me as I was starting to search the place. I had to tie him up. He was going to summon the police. And then the housekeeper showed up. I had to do something. Give me the notebook and I’ll leave.”
“You’re an idiot, Garraway. Did you really think I’d leave it lying around in my study?”
Benedict took the small leather-bound notebook out of the pocket of his coat. He flipped it open and shut very quickly, just long enough to reveal the pages covered with cryptic notes and sketches.
“Is that it? That little notebook?” Doubt creased Declan’s forehead. He took a step closer. “I thought it would be much bigger.”
“Foxcroft kept his notes in a small, convenient notebook that could be carried in his pocket.”
Benedict tossed the notebook into the low-burning fire.
“No.”Declan dashed across the room, heading for the fireplace.
Benedict seized a poker and swung it in a low arc that took Declan’s legs out from under him. He tumbled to the floor. The gun landed on the carpet. Benedict scooped it up.
“Damn you, damn you, damn you.” Anguished, Declan sat up slowly and dropped his head into his hands. “You’ve ruined everything.”
“What, exactly, have I ruined?” Benedict used the poker to draw the little notebook out of the embers. The small volume was somewhat singed around the edges but otherwise unharmed.
“My father sent me to get that blasted notebook.” Declan watched Benedict set the notebook on the desk. “It was my last chance to prove to him that I had what it takes to join the family business.”
“Must be a rather unusual business.” Benedict went to Mrs. Hodges and untied the gag. “Are you injured, Mrs. Hodges?”
“No, sir,” she said.
Benedict removed Hodges’s gag. “What about you?”
“Only my pride, sir.”
Benedict went to work first on Mrs. Hodges’s bindings. Declan sat on the floor and gazed morosely at the notebook.
“Don’t look so woebegone, Garraway.” Benedict finished untying the ropes that bound Mrs. Hodges’s ankles. “That isn’t Foxcroft’s notebook. It’s one of my own personal notebooks. There is nothing of earthshaking importance in it.”
Declan groaned. “I should have known. You tricked me.”
