“You will have to search Grey House,” Brisbane said flatly. He was watching me closely, waiting for my impassioned refusal. But I surprised him.
I sipped coolly at my tea. “Of course. I had already planned to do so.”
His expression was wary. He had not expected to find me so tractable. And I had not expected to find him so much improved. He was looking so much better, in fact, that if I had not seen him so ill with my own eyes I would never have known he had been unwell. We were on the terrace of Madame de Bellefleur’s villa, taking tea while she busied herself inside, tactfully out of earshot, although neither Brisbane nor I had asked her to leave. Her own natural delicacy dictated her withdrawal while we discussed business. I was rather sorry to see her go. She had greeted me even more warmly than before, and I found myself very glad to see her.
“I am surprised that you are amenable to the suggestion, considering your earlier vehemence.”
I raised my brows lightly at him. “Was I vehement? I don’t recall.”
“You questioned my sanity,” he returned with a touch of asperity.
I smiled sweetly. “Yes, I do recall that. As a matter of fact, I do still think it a daft notion. However—” I put up my hand to stem his interruption. “However, I am willing to concede thepossibilitythat someone at Grey House was involved. I fear the only way to put that particular suspicion to rest is to establish without question the innocence of my staff. And the only way to accomplish that is to search their rooms.”
“All of Grey House,” he corrected.
I suppressed the little ripple of irritation I felt at his bossiness. He was still recovering, I reminded myself, and though his temper was vastly improved, he was still a trifle prickly.
“I do not see the purpose—” I began.
“The purpose would be clear if you applied your considerable intellect for even a moment,” he said coldly. “If the perpetrator is an inmate of Grey House, he may share his quarters with someone else. That means that any evidence of his wrongdoing—poison, glue pots—would best be hidden in some neutral part of the house, someplace that would not implicate him if it were discovered.”
I sipped again at my tea, torn between my pleasure at the slightly peachy undertones of the Darjeeling and impatience at my own stupidity. Really, I was going to have to start thinking things through before I opened my mouth. I was going to have to start thinking like a criminal.
“That’s it,” I said suddenly.
“What is it?” Brisbane’s voice was weary and I wondered if his strength was beginning to flag.
“I do not know how to think like a criminal,” I said with some excitement. “If I knew how to think like one, I could probably unmask one.”
“It does help,” he returned dryly.
I tipped my head and regarded him from crisply shined boots to clean, waving hair. “You seem to have no difficulty with that. Have you a criminal past?” I asked, joking.
To my astonishment, he flushed. It was almost imperceptible, but I watched the edge of dull crimson creep over his features.
“What a perfectly stupid question,” he commented, his voice as controlled as ever. But in spite of the even tone, his colour was still high and I knew that I had struck a nerve.
“Your past is your own concern, of course,” I said lamely. I had never been so socially inept as I managed to be with Brisbane. How exactly did one extricate oneself from an apparently valid accusation of criminality against one’s investigative partner? There were no rules for this in the little etiquette books with which Aunt Hermia had drilled us. I stumbled on the best I could. “I mean, who among us has not stolen a sweet from a shop as a child?”
Brisbane’s complexion returned slowly to normal, but his hand had gone to his throat and he was rubbing absently at the spot where I knew the Medusa pendant hung beneath his shirt.
I had just opened my mouth to mention it, when I realized that I was not supposed to know about that pendant. I gulped at my tea, now gone stone cold, aghast at how nearly I had given myself away. He was irritated enough with me as it was. I did not think he would ever forgive knowing I had been with him during his illness.
“I will of course search all the rooms of Grey House,” I said quietly. “Even my own. I take your point. You are quite correct.”
He was silent a moment, his black eyes thoughtful.
“This is more difficult for you than you had anticipated.”
I nodded, tears springing suddenly to my eyes. I blinked them back, determined not to let them fall.
“I warned you when it began. But you thought I was simply being cruel.”
I bit my lip in silence. The tea had grown scummy. I placed it on the table, careful lest my trembling fingers upset the porcelain.
“I underestimated the difficulty, yes. And you were cruel.”
“And correct.” His voice held no trace of triumph, only certainty. He had known from long experience what this would cost me, and I had not listened.
