The maid's fingers crept toward another biscuit, and Marianne gave her an encouraging smile. "Was there any particular pattern to his activities?"
"Mostly 'e stayed in London. But ev'ry month 'e took off for a few days," Lucinda said as she chewed. Marianne's heart thudded faster. "Ne'er said where 'e was goin', o' course."
"You haven't any idea where he went?" Marianne persisted.
Lucinda dusted the crumbs from her fingers. "None o' my business. None o' the servants knew much 'bout the master—except maybe the groom. 'Is lips are sewn tighter than a seam, seein' as 'e's been with the master for years."
The groom was currently chauffeuring Coyner's getaway, so no help there. Thinking quickly, Marianne switched to a different tactic.
"What about when Sir Coyner was here at home? What was he wont to do?"
"Not much. The gent's not the carousin' type. Mostly 'e spent time in 'is study—sometimes I think 'e slept in there."
"What makes you say that?"
Lucinda gave her a wry look. "The sheets on 'is bed weren't touched when I went to change 'em in the mornin'."
Interesting. Marianne would have to investigate Coyner's study next. "What about visitors? Who came to call upon your master?"
"'E was a private sort. Didn't 'ave much in the way o' friends. Once in a while, one o' the Runners might drop by, but 'twas always for work." Lucinda's tone drifted into a wistful range. "Those Runners are a dashing lot, ain't they?"
Marianne stifled a sigh. She wouldn't get much more from the maid. "Thank you, Lucinda," she said. "Could you show me the way to the study?"
Out in the hallway, Marianne met up with Harteford and Sir Birnie, and the trio followed Lucinda to Coyner's study. Cramped and furnished in a Spartan fashion, the square chamber was no more than fifteen feet across. It housed only a desk and a single wingchair by a small grate. Bookshelves covered one wall of the room, making it seem even smaller.
Marianne surveyed the close quarters. "According to Lucinda, Coyner spent most of his time in here. Doing what, I wonder?"
"Working? Reading?" Birnie grunted as he looked over the desk. "Can't fault a man for that, can we?"
Joining him, Marianne saw nothing out of the ordinary on the blotter: a small brass statue of a horse stood on its surface next to a folded newspaper and an inkwell. She opened the single drawer and found a few pieces of parchment and an assortment of writing instruments. Seeing a crumpled ball in the back corner, she fished it out and smoothed it flat.
She read the two sentences aloud. "Endeavor to show indefatigable courage. The implacable receive their just rewards." She paused. "What in blazes does that mean?"
"The words of an ambitious man," Birnie said, shrugging.
Leaving the paper on the desk, Marianne circled her gaze around the chamber once again. Something felt wrong about the stifling space. It was too small, too neat—too perfect for a man who had as much to hide as Gerald Coyner.
"The maid said he oftsleptin here," Marianne said slowly. "Where would he do that? There's not even a sofa."
Harteford paced the length of the room, and she could tell he had hit upon the same notion as she had. He stopped in front of the bookshelves. Clearing a few volumes, he reached in and knocked against the wood. A hollow sound emerged, and Marianne's pulse sped up.
"Could be an antechamber behind the shelves," he said.
Marianne rushed over, running her hands along the book spines. "How do we get inside?"
Together, they began to remove the volumes. When the books lay in heaps upon the floor, they examined the seams where the shelves met the wall. Neither found a hidden latch or anything that would provide a way to get inside.
"There's something behind here, I know it," she said with mounting frustration. "We need to get the proper tools, a saw or a—"
A creaking noise cut off her words. To her astonishment, an entire section of the shelves parted, swinging inward like a door. Her gaze shot to the Chief Magistrate, whose hand rested on the brass horse statue on the desk. He twisted it another quarter turn and the gap in the wall widened further.
"An ingenious design. Seen a few in my time," Birnie said by way of explanation.
Taking a breath, Marianne entered the hidden chamber. The space was dark, the air heavy. A light floral perfume tickled her nose, and she squinted in the gloom, making out vague shapes on the walls. A match rasped behind her. She blinked in the flaring brightness… and the air rushed from her lungs.
Pain, shock, longing. Feelings exploded from the locked box within her as she regarded the portraits of her daughter. For 'twas undeniably her girl—her own blond tresses and green eyes glowed in the swirling oils. Within the four gilded frames, her little girl, captured at various ages, beamed down at her.
"Primrose," she said in a broken whisper.
