Breathing once more, she stepped through, closing the door softly behind her.
But for the half-halo from her lantern, the study was ebony blackness, shutters bolted fast.
With no time to dawdle, she turned the dial on her lantern to fully unveil its light and headed for the desk. On its leather inlay was an Ormolu candelabra, unused paper and an ink pot, so placing her lantern aside, Amelia bent to the fine graduated drawers.
She must be quick.
The first opened. Naught but the interview notes of a week ago.
The second also slid open but purely held bills and…
Howmuch for his boots?
Shaking her head, she placed a hand to the third.
Locked.
Pursing her lips, she reached up to pull two pins from her hair, one bent into waves whilst the other hooked at the tip. She pushed the latter into the keyhole and then manoeuvred the wavy pin below it, shifting and…
A click.
She drew open the drawer and sifted through the papers within.
Most were documents pertaining to the Royal Welsh Fusiliers, their postings during the war categorised by date, with a list of the men within the regiment. The nameLieutenant Davieswas handwritten in capitals upon another sheet, together with notes on appearance and mannerisms, as if for a character in a play. She memorised the information and then returned the papers to their same positions.
With a gentle hand, she closed the drawer and once more inserted her pins in the keyhole, guiding them to and fro until she heard the deadlock slide back into its home.
She turned to the right-hand set of drawers.
The first was a little warped but opened with a soft groan. Business papers relating to his houses and mines, but Phoebe was correct… Mr Cadwalader was worth a pretty penny indeed.
The second was locked so she once again reached for her hairpins.
A folded handwritten list of names was the sole contents of this drawer and she perused them with a frown.
Most were crossed through.
Lady Tadcaster
Lady Tenby
Lady Thurwood
Lady Tremlach
Amelia was unsure if this penmanship was Mr Cadwalader’s as she recalled his being more elaborate, but Thurwood was the name of the lady he was squiring about Town according to Sally and whose literary salon he’d attended, so who were the other women?
Was he seducing his way through the alphabet?
Scowling, she remembered in the nick of time not to slam the drawer shut and then commenced upon the third.
This held ledgers but also an appointment book so she skimmed through to…
On the last written page of use was a gruesome sketch of a colossal bird with rapacious eyes, blood dripping from its wings. It pecked at a sprawled dead man’s chest while the name of Phoebe’s father, Ross Thornton, had been written so fiercely underneath that the nib had torn the page.
Aside were the words:
If you poison us, do we not die?
