“Where exactly did Nick serve?” Saffron asked Elizabeth.
She was curled on the couch, paging through a magazine. “Don’t know.”
“He received a medal, something about delivering a message under fire?”
“Don’t know,” Elizabeth repeated, turning another page.
“Do you think your mother knows?”
“Don’t know, don’t care.”
Saffron sighed. Her friend’s family matters were just as touchy as her own. She couldn’t ask Elizabeth to telephone her mother to find out.
“You should ask him,” Elizabeth added, not looking up from her magazine. “I’m sure he’d love the chance to impress you with his exploits.”
Saffron sighed at the sourness in Elizabeth’s tone. “I don’t think he would. He seemed more interested in talking about plants.”
She snorted. “Darling, if I were a man trying to win your affections, that is precisely where I would begin.”
Hadn’t Saffron just been thinking that about Alexander? “He knows about the Petrov case, Eliza.”
That got her attention. She straightened up, tossing the magazine aside. “Doeshe? Well, well …” She exhaled, shaking her head. “I suppose he does have to be interesting somehow.” She tapped a finger to her chin, a wide smile stretching across her face, the sort that promised mischief. “Petrov was an émigré, you said. Lord Tremaine might have been the one to look over his case. He’s in charge of immigration matters, you know. I could find his file—”
“And be found poking around in a possible murder victim’s file? Absolutely not, Eliza.”
Elizabeth rolled her eyes. “So, it’s all good and well for you to do the same a dozen times over, but not me? It’s fine for you to quite literallyrisk your lifeto solve your mysteries, but I can’t pick up one little file?”
Saffron blinked. Elizabeth’s temper could be volatile, but it usually took a few minutes to be riled. “Elizabeth—”
“No,” Elizabeth snapped, getting to her feet. “Why can you investigate murders and I can’t even look at a piece of paper?”
She marched out of the room, punctuating her anger with her bedroom door slamming.
Nick coming into town had bothered her much more than Saffron had imagined. Even if her friend said she was feeling warmly toward her brother now, she knew that this explosion of frustration was linked to his presence. Having Nick around brought back to the surface unresolved family problems: Wesley’s death, Elizabeth’s attempted betrothal to restore the Hale’s fortunes, her subsequent estrangement from her parents. She wondered if either Elizabeth or Nick was aware of all the things left unsaid between them.
Elizabeth’s position as the receptionist for Lord Tremaine was a very good one, despite her constant complaints. Saffron could never ask her to risk that, even though she now burned with curiosity as to what Petrov’s file would say. Perhaps it would reveal that he’d been a high-level government scientist for the late tsar, and there was a possibility that there was some sort of political motivation for Petrov’s death. That would put Adrian in the clear for sure.
Alexander arrived at the Coleridge Gardens Hotel, a nondescript hotel a ten-minute walk from Saffron and Elizabeth’s flat, just after three in the afternoon. He strode into the lobby and up to the spotty man at the counter.
“How may I help you, sir?”
“I needed to pick up a package from Mr. Nicholas Hale. He should have left something for a Mr. Johnson.”
The clerk went to through a door behind the counter, presumably to check for a package. Alexander nudged the guestbook further into view and scanned the page for the right name until the clerk returned and replied nothing had been left for him. Alexander frowned and spoke forcefully. “He must have forgotten it in his room. Is it possible to check? I’m afraid I must have it as soon as possible.”
The clerk regarded him nervously. “No, sir, I’m afraid that’s against our policies.”
Alexander affected a frustrated sigh. “Check again, then, the safe, perhaps. It’s valuable, he might have had it locked away until I arrived.”
“Yes, sir,” the clerk said, already scurrying away.
Alexander had just slipped the right key off the wall behind the desk and into his pocket when the clerk returned, shaking his head apologetically.
“What time is Mr. Hale returning?” Alexander asked. When the clerk had no answer, he said, “I’ll have to telephone his office then. Where is the telephone?”
After receiving directions to a room down the hall, Alexander instead found the staircase. Ignoring the creaking floors and garishwallpaper, he found the correct number. It was midafternoon and the hall was empty. He softly knocked, and when no answer came, he slipped the key into the lock. He opened the door and stepped inside.
There was nothing unusual about the room. It had a bed, neatly made, the usual arrangement of toiletries, and a range of normal clothing in the wardrobe. Alexander checked the usual places, not expecting to find anything. A man in Nick’s line of business wouldn’t hide anything meaningful under the bed.
