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The question was unexpected and off topic, so she understood the quizzical looks she received from Mr. and Mrs. Harwood.

“Yes, a small one, off the morning room,” Mr. Harwood answered. “Why do you ask?”

Hugh placed his hand on the small of Audrey’s back. “It would be helpful if we could see it. I assure you, the reason involves my investigation into Miss Harwood’s death.”

Mr. and Mrs. Harwood looked at each other in astonishment. Then, Mr. Harwood said, “Very well. Follow me, my lord, my lady.”

He started for the drawing room door, and in the foyer, Mrs. Harwood slowed. “If you’ll excuse me, I want to look in on Papa. Don’t worry, dear, I won’t say anything to him about what’s happened,” she was quick to tack on. “I will let you decide how best to handle giving him the news.”

Mrs. Harwood bid them farewell before climbing to the next floor. Audrey followed Hugh and Mr. Harwood, contemplating the toll this might take on the baron. He was already weak and ill; now, he would learn of his daughter’s death. If he could no longer communicate, she wondered how cognizant he was of his surroundings and hoped that he would not understand what had happened.

Mr. Harwood led them through the ground floor to the back of the house where a morning room was situated. This was normally where a lady of the house would relax to take her breakfast or tea, see to correspondence, entertain close friends, and enjoy the sunlight coming in through large windows designed to catch the morning rays. Audrey delighted in her morning room, vastly preferring it to the more formal rooms in the house. But as she and Hugh walked through, to a pair of beveled glass doors leading to the glasshouse, she noted this room, too, did not have many cozy touches. The walls were mostly bare, and there wasn’t much in it for furniture; notably, there was no carpet to cover the floor. It left the space feeling rather spartan and cold.

They entered the glasshouse, and Audrey set aside her critique of the morning room. The glassed-in space around her unexpectedly set her back on her heels. The room was just as she had seen in her visions, first from Tobias and next, from the ring found under Penelope’s body. The killer had been carrying it, Audrey knew, and she was almost certain the murder had taken place here.

The air in the glasshouse was much warmer than outdoors, though it was still cool enough for there to be no fog of condensation on the glass panes, as there would be during summer. Given the limited space of the Harwood’s lot on Shepherd Street, the glasshouse was small—not much larger than the drawing room, Audrey would suspect. However, the placement of the garden beds and shrubbery created a small maze.

“What is it you wish to inspect, my lord?” Mr. Harwood asked as he came to a stop on the sunset-orange, terracotta-tiled floor.

Audrey walked toward the turn in the path, which she had seen Penelope take in her second vision. To each side of the path there were low, boxed-in rows of ivy, white-flowering shrubs, mosses, and potted palms and citrus trees. Keeping in mind the detritus they had found in Penelope’s hair, she ambled to the left at the turn, just as Penelope had.

“Mr. Harwood,” Hugh began to answer, “your sister was found with some leaves in her hair.”

“Marjoram,” Audrey supplied. “The sprig was fresh, not dried, though it would not be in season out-of-doors just now.”

As another corner of the glasshouse came into view, Audrey’s eyes fell on a bed of green, leafy herbs. It looked almost like oregano, but as she plucked one of the small leaves and held it to her nose, she traced the sweet, citrus-like aroma of marjoram.

She pulled back and inspected the area. To the right of the marjoram, low, sprawling clusters of thyme appeared unmarred. To the left, the feathery stems of chamomile were still soft and springy. However, the marjoram plants appeared flattened, and more ominously, there were two vacant plots of freshly turned dirt where additional sprigs of marjoram might have been. Had they been removed? There was no sign of blood on the tiles, or on the leaves of the remaining herbs.

“You…you cannot be suggesting that Penelope was harmed here?” Mr. Harwood exclaimed after a moment.

“I cannot rule it out,” Hugh replied. “Was anyone due to call on your sister last evening?”

“No.” The answer snapped harshly. “But if Sinclair came here, found her alone, and my sister allowed him in…” He raked his hand through his close-cropped brown hair. “Excuse me, my lord, but I need to speak to Lord Sinclair.”

“You will not, Mr. Harwood.” Hugh said it sternly enough to stop the man from taking another step. “The chief magistrate of Bow Street has requested I investigate this case, and I take that seriously. You have my word that I will find the person who killed your sister, and I plan to begin my inquiry with Lord Sinclair. But I must ask you to keep your distance from him, and from anyone else I question.”

“You expect me to stay here and do nothing?” Mr. Harwood again turned to leave, and as Hugh went after him, imploring Mr. Harwood to stop and mind himself, to not jump to conclusions, Audrey’s attention landed on a garden ornament speared into the nearby chamomile.

It was a long, thin rod of copper, oxidized to a pale green. The top had been forged into the shape of a small bird. Behind her, at the turn in the path, Audrey had seen a matching ornament speared into one of two large potted palms. The second potted palm had no ornament at all. If the two birds were meant to be a pair, what was one doing here, among the herbs?

Grateful for her gloved hands, which would prevent any vision, Audrey grasped the ornament in the chamomile and lifted it. The stake was roughly the length of her arm from wrist to shoulder, and there was some dirt on the green, wrought metal rod, along with something darker. A reddish-brown substance. It looked very much like dried blood.

The stake was long and thin enough to have impaled Penelope, and the base was plenty sharp too. However, instinct told her to keep the discovery from Penelope’s brother. She wanted to be certain this was the murder weapon before drawing his attention to it.

“Very well,” Mr. Harwood was telling Hugh, a handful of paces away from Audrey at the herb bed. “I will not approach Lord Sinclair. For now.”

Audrey quickly speared the stake back into the soil. “Over there, Mr. Harwood,” she said, turning to point toward the other end of the glasshouse. “Has that cracked glass in the back door always been there? Or perhaps that is how someone forced their way in?”

He spun in the direction she had indicated. “What? Back here?”

He started toward the other end, and when his back was turned, Audrey plucked the garden stake from the soil again, opened her cloak—now grateful that there had been no maid or footman to take it earlier—and folded the ornament under her arm, out of sight. Well, at least out of Mr. Harwood’s sight. Hugh, on the other hand, watched her secret away the stake with an arched brow.

“I don’t see any cracked glass in the door, my lady,” Mr. Harwood said as he searched in vain.

“My apologies,” Audrey said as she adjusted the cloak to be sure it had closed properly. “It must have been a trick of the light.”

Chapter