After a few seconds the spell seemed to pass, and he opened his eyes. He paged through the Psalter, pausing to read the inscription in the princess’ hand and my own childish scrawl beneath it. He thumbed on, stopping at the page I had marked with the splitting silk ribbon, the page defiled by the sender of Edward’s notes. He leafed through it slowly, taking note of each neatly scissored hole.
When he reached the end, he rifled through it slowly again backward, but found nothing new. He sniffed it again, carefully, but either detected nothing of interest, or did not see fit to share it.
Finally, he spoke. “Where did you find it?”
“In my study. It was tucked into a stack of books that I have not looked at for years.”
“Was it dusty?”
I hesitated to admit the slatternly state of my bookshelves, but I knew that it might be important.
“Yes. That is, the top book was dusty, those below it, including the Psalter, less so.”
“Could the stack have been disturbed recently?”
I closed my eyes, picturing the pile of crumbling volumes. “No, I do not think so. The maids never clean there, they are forbidden. And I’m afraid that I haven’t done it myself for quite some time. There were a few newspapers in there as well, old ones, quite creased, but only folded once. I think they might have been creased more if the pile was disturbed.”
“Not necessarily, not if our villain was quite careful. And I think he must have been.”
My ears pricked unexpectedly. “He? You think it definitely a man, then?”
Brisbane was examining the book again. “No, I simply grow tired of multiple pronouns. You may take it as given that I do not know the gender of the perpetrator.”
Prickly, indeed! I pursed my lips in displeasure at his tone, but I might have been a potted cactus for all the notice he took of me. He was too busy comparing the holes and measuring them with his fingers.
“Seven passages of the Psalms, all cut at the same time, then the book was returned to your study—but why?”
“How can you be certain they were cut at the same time?” I interrupted. His tone had been thoughtful, as if he had been posing his question more to himself than to me, but I did not care. I had found the clue, after all, and I deserved to know what he had deduced from it.
He regarded me impatiently. “What villain in his right mind would take the book seven times, and risk apprehension each time he retrieved it and put it back?”
I bit my lip again, now thoroughly chagrined. How stupid I was! No wonder he treated me like a slow-witted child.
“Besides,” he added, his tone somewhat milder, “the passages all appear to have been cut with the same scissor—a short one, perhaps a nail scissor. In the longer passages there is an overlap where the blade was moved.”
He opened the book for my inspection and I saw that he was correct.
“So the question is, who had access to the book, and more important, access to replace it, a year ago?” he mused.
I spread my hands. “Anyone! The Psalter has been there since Edward and I moved into Grey House. We entertained frequently—it could have been taken by anyone and returned at any time and we would not have noticed.”
“But would just anyone know that?” he asked softly.
It was my turn for exasperation. “What do you mean?”
He leaned forward, his long fingers tapping the cover of the Psalter. “Many people use the books given at their confirmation for spiritual comfort. One would think a volume given by the Princess of Wales would be even more prized. Most people,” he went on, “have the downstairs maid clean their bookshelves, on a regular if not a daily basis. Now, who among your circle would know that not only did you not use this Psalter, but that in fact, you never even permitted your staff to clean the study where it was kept?”
I stared at him blankly. “Brisbane, what are you on about? If you are criticizing my housekeeping skills, I will admit I have been less than—”
“I do not give a damn about your housekeeping,” he said sharply. “I am talking about someone in your own house who just might be the villain.”
“You are quite mad,” I said evenly. It was unthinkable that he could be right.
“Am I? Think about it,” he said, not bothering to be kind. His tone was harsh, his words unutterably painful. “The person who took that Psalter had to know that you did not open it often, or he risked detection. It must have been someone with little access to another such book—this points either to someone who has little money or whose time is not their own. They needed your Psalter because it was handy and would not implicate them, but also because it was unlikely to be discovered. And if it was, whom would it implicate? No one except the lady of the house. So, whom does that suggest to you, my lady? Someone inside Grey House with little time and little money to call their own.Whom does that suggest?”
I saw what he was saying and I hated him for it.
“One of my staff.”
