had intended to make her own announcement that night, to confess she had taken her life into her own hands, and done so with a passion. Something told her she would not get the chance.
THE MORGUE SMELLED SHARPLY of antiseptic, which did not, however, mask the underlying stench of death and decomposition.
Mark stood next to the operating table that held the earthly remains of Giles Brandon. Despite the naked lightbulbs above the corpse, the room seemed shadowed. He was there with two men, Dr. Evan Tiel, the coroner, and Detective Ian Douglas.
Detective Douglas was one of the finest men Mark had ever had the pleasure to meet. Big and gruff, he could handle himself against any man. The fifth son of a minor Scottish landowner, he had spent time dabbling in the law at Eton, then returned to his native land to study medicine in Edinburgh. By the end of his studies he’d realized he was most interested in bringing killers to justice and seeing that the innocent were never mistakenly convicted. He was a handsome man, strong and broad-shouldered, but showing the telltale stress of a man who fought a losing battle—defending the innocent and seeking to uproot evil. It might well be a grand and glorious age in which they were living, but poverty was rampant in London, and poverty was a sure breeder of crime.
Dr. Evan Tiel was an equally laudable man. Shorter, slim, wiry, he had the energy of a hummingbird. He was fascinated with the growing field of using science and medicine in the search for justice. He and Douglas had both attended classes in Edinburgh taught by Dr. Bell, the surgeon and teacher who had been Arthur Conan Doyle’s inspiration for the character of Sherlock Holmes. While some men might mock the idea of paying heed to a writer of fiction when seeking truth, both Tiel and Douglas saw the wisdom in the methods Holmes propounded. While Bell devoted his observations to ascertaining the causes of disease, such methods were equally applicable in other matters.
“He was found slumped across his desk, his fingers clutching his last article,” Ian Douglas said.
“Indeed,” Tiel added, “from the way the blood set, it appears that his head was drawn back as his throat was slit, then the body cast forward onto the desk as he bled to death.”
“But he fought?” Mark asked, indicating slashes on the arms.
“I surmise,” Dr. Tiel said, “that he saw his attacker and fought, but the killer got behind him in the end. He must have stood thus.” Tiel demonstrated, using Douglas as the victim. He mimed holding a knife in his hand, showing how it had been drawn against the throat.
“All right,” Mark theorized aloud. “Giles Brandon was at his desk, typing. He finished his piece. The killer came into the room, and there was a scuffle, but the killer managed to get behind him and slit his throat.”
Ian Douglas cleared his throat. “Here’s the problem. The door to the yard was bolted from the inside. The entry gate to the yard was locked. And Giles Brandon kept his office locked. I don’t believe the killer simply entered by the door and took Brandon by surprise. I believe he was waiting there for Brandon’s return.”
“Then it would seem that the killer stood in the back of the room, in the shadows, for a long time,” Mark said.
“Yes, that could be so,” Ian agreed.
“It’s…almost more like an assassination than a simple murder,” Mark mused.
Ian Douglas stared at him. “Yes, maybe.”
Mark stared down at the sad remains of Giles Brandon. Many had hated the man, but few would wish anyone, even their worst enemy, such an ending.
He studied the slashes on the arms, looked at the deep gash on the neck.
“There are no other injuries to the body? No damage done after death?”
“None,” Dr. Tiel assured him.
Mark stood back. “So if the killer was in the room all the time, he—or she—must have had a key,” Mark said.
Ian Douglas shook his head. “His wife adored him. He was by all reports a bellowing wretch who abused her verbally, even in public, upon occasion. But she adored him. She thought he was a genius.”
“Something he probably told her himself,” Mark said sardonically.
Douglas nodded. “No doubt. But there is simply no way she could have done this, nor that she would have allowed it to happen.”
“Who else had a key?” Mark asked.
“Only Brandon himself, and the housekeeper, Tilly. And when you meet Tilly, you’ll know she didn’t do this, either. She is a frail bag of bones, hardworking, but hardly capable of overpowering a man such as Brandon. In addition, she needed the income she received from him, and despite his temper, there was an element of prestige for Tilly in being the housekeeper of such a man.”
“If the wife is not guilty and the housekeeper is not guilty, then one or the other was used by the killer. I would say that one of them had her key stolen, then replaced. This was not a random act of violence, obviously, and the killer took his time planning it,” Mark said.
“It’s another attack on the anti-monarchists,” Douglas said, shaking his head. “Doesn’t this fool zealot realize he is only making matters worse for the queen?”
Mark was quiet for a minute. “I believe,” he said, “that the killer is an anti-monarchist.”
“What?” Douglas demanded. “Then why kill…?” His voice trailed off as he realized Mark’s point.
“Precisely,” Mark murmured. “The idea is to make the populace believe the monarchists are killing these men because they are speaking out. What better way to win a cause then to create an army of martyrs?”
“Then…?” Douglas said, eyes narrowing.
“I think we need to look at Giles Brandon’s friends and contemporaries. Because I’m certain of one thing,” Mark said.
“And what is that?”
“Giles Brandon knew his killer. I’d say he knew him very well.”
WITH DINNER OVER, IT SEEMED that the long table disappeared in an instant. New tables were set against the walls, with elegant little demitasses of coffee, small dessert plates and aperitifs. As the dancing began, Ally began to recognize more and more guests she either knew or knew about.
The first to whisk her out on the floor was Brian Stirling. She danced very well with him, since, as a child, she had learned her first dances by standing on his toes, laughing as he swept her around the room.
As they moved across the floor, she whispered, “That journalist is here—Thane Grier.”
“Yes.”
Brian didn’t sound pleased.
“You invited him?”
“Of course. Had I not…Well, it’s best to befriend the enemy.”
“He’s the enemy?”
“Anyone who rules the press can be a dangerous enemy,” Brian said. “So of course I asked him here tonight.
