Ben let out a breath somewhere between a laugh and a curse, but he grabbed the vine behind Emerson.
Hand over hand, boot by cautious boot, they climbed.
The latch gave with a reluctant creak as Emerson pushed it open from the outside. The smell of old wood and paper wafted out.
He hoisted himself through the narrow window’s frame, then turned to offer a hand to Ben, who grunted and flopped onto the floor like a particularly elegant sack of potatoes.
“You’re heavier than you look,” Emerson muttered. “See if you can find a few candles.”
“I’m all bone and wit,” Ben wheezed, brushing at his now wrinkled attire. “I’m not one of your laborers from the docks,” he said. Shockingly, without heat.
Any retort Emerson deigned to come up with fell away as light exposed the room.
It appeared to have been untouched in months, if not years.
Books lined the walls, and not a single one was pulled or appeared out of place. The desk stood like a monolith in the center, its blotter paper brittle with age. The stale tang of dried ink was as familiar as it was unsettling. A lamp with a scorched wick, unlit, stood on the corner. Emerson took one of the candles and set the flame to the wick. Next to the lamp, there was a glass of something that had gone to mildew.
“This wasn’t abandoned,” Ben said, eyes narrowing. “It wasleft.”
Emerson moved toward the desk. “Don’t touch anything yet.”
Ben raised his hands in exaggerated surrender. “By all means, Constable Whitmore. I’ll attempt to restrain myself.”
Ignoring him, Emerson crouched on the far side of the desk. Most of the drawers—shut. The lone open drawer gave credence to Ben’s statement. Someone—Oscar?—had abruptly retreated. Emerson reached inside and pulled out the closest thing at hand. He rose and moved to the light.
Ahandbill forKing John, creased, worn, and frayed about the edges from the King’s Royale Theatre. His brow furrowed. It was dated 22 September of this very year. Curious.
Ben hovered over his shoulder. “Theatre memorabilia in Sussex? Odd. Wasn’t a prominent member of the peerage found stabbed at the King’s Theatre a few months ago?”
“Lady Stanford’s late husband,” Emerson said.
“That’s right. Baron Stanford. I’d forgotten. I believe he favored, er, really, er, young women. Look,” Ben said, snatching the handbill from Emerson. He ran a finger down the list of cast members and stopped at Lady Blanch. It was underlined. “This Florence Groves—she was killed as well.”
A chill stole over Emerson.
“Found bonked on the head at some house on Hope Street.” He handed the bill back to Emerson. “It was said she’d been impregnated by Stanford. Apparently, years before, Lady Bentick had been mad for Stanford. Even kidnapped Lady Huntley and shot her.”
Emerson stared at his brother. “Good God.”
Ben shrugged. “I have to keep up with the lateston dits. I might be a part of that set at some point. One must remain at the ready.” He moved around the desk and tried the other shut drawers. “Hmm. This is interesting.” He dropped into the chair behind the desk that let out an ominous creak.
“What?”
Ben shifted, reaching beneath the desk. “It’s hollow,” he murmured. “Here, beneath the center drawer. Hand me a candle.”
Emerson grabbed one and passed it over, narrowing his eyes as Ben tilted the flame and probed at the darkened wood. Even from his place across the desk, Emerson heard the softclick.
“It’s a false bottom,” Ben said. He glanced up, grinning. “Father always said I was good at finding trouble.” He leaned forward then back, drawing out a slim leather folio, bound in cracked brown hide and sealed with a plain wax stamp. “May I open it?” His eagerness and the very fact he’d asked touched Emerson.
“Of course.”
Ben broke the seal. Just on top lay a folded sheet of vellum.
Emerson detected a stain at one corner with something that might have been ink or water…or blood, but he wisely kept that notion to himself lest his brother pass out.
“The handwriting is neat,” Ben said.
“Read it aloud,” Emerson told him.
