“Last night, the servants heard shouting in the study. When the door was unlocked, Clara Gattenger was dead.” I looked at Phyllida. “Are you sure everything was all right between them?”

“Yes. I know evil. I lived with my brother long enough. Evil had never entered their home. They were in love.”

Glancing at my plate, I found I’d finished my luncheon. I never tasted a bite.

*   *   *

THE DUKE OF Blackford returned to the shop in the middle of the afternoon to tell us what time to be at Sir Broderick’s and to escort me to the Gattenger house. Even with a hand up, I still had to struggle to get into the tall, ancient carriage given to the duke’s family by Wellington. Glancing out the window, I saw Emma in the bookshop doorway, grinning at my lack of grace. I looked forward to seeing the scene of the crime, but I would rather the duke had used one of his normal-sized carriages.

The Gattenger home was one of a row of similar houses in a fairly new, middle-class section of South Kensington. Once the duke caught me around the waist as I half tumbled from the carriage and set me safely on the sidewalk, he walked up the steps and rang the front doorbell. I straightened my skirt to give myself a moment to recover from the ridiculous flutter in my chest from his touch. I glanced down the steep concrete steps behind the black wrought-iron railing and caught a glimpse of a young woman’s face looking at me before she drew back from the tradesmen’s entrance.

The front door opened and I saw Inspector Grantham standing in the hallway. I hurried up the steps as the men exchanged bows and followed the duke inside.

“Inspector Grantham, is this your case?” I asked.

“Yes, Miss Fenchurch. I suppose I’ll be working with the Archivist Society again?” He sounded weary. I hoped it wasn’t due to working with us.

“Yes. Phyllida Monthalf, my friend, is the murdered woman’s cousin. She says the husband couldn’t have killed his wife.”

“It gave me no joy charging him. The navy has already involved itself in this case because of his importance to British ship design.” He looked at Blackford. “I suppose that’s why you’re interested. But there’s no evidence supporting his story.” The inspector spread his hands in the air.

“May we look at the room where the death occurred?” I gave Grantham a hopeful smile.

The inspector held my gaze for a moment before shrugging. “If you think you can find something we missed, go right ahead.”

Detective Inspector Grantham had worked several cases over the years for Scotland Yard that the Archivist Society was interested in, including the one last spring where I had first met the Duke of Blackford. I knew he trusted our abilities. Whether he liked working with us was another story.

The duke led the way down the wide hallway, past the staircase going up and a narrower one going down. I followed until we reached a door near the back of the house. The duke stopped and let the inspector open it. I was the last to enter the small study, making it a little crowded as we moved around. None of us stepped near the fireplace with the bloodied hearth rug.

The duke strolled to the triple bay window facing the garden. With the heat, only the lace curtains were across the open windows, while the heavy dark blue drapes were pushed back to the ends of their rods. “Were these windows open when you arrived?”

“Yes. With the dryness of the weather, there were no footprints outside, and the climb wouldn’t have been difficult for an agile man. The cook says she was in the kitchen, which is by the tradesmen’s entrance in the front under the dining room. The maids were clearing away dinner. You saw where the stairs are, and the first door we passed in the hallway leads to the dining room. There was no reason for the servants to come this far toward the back of the house,” Inspector Grantham said.

“There’re no back stairs?” the duke asked.

The inspector and I stared at each other in surprise for an instant before we must have had the same thought. He’s a duke. “Not enough room in a house this size,” I said. “There’re only the three servants? The cook and two maids?”

“Yes,” Grantham answered. “One of the maids heard the argument and stopped to listen. Her excuse was the master and missus rarely argued. The other came to find her after a minute and heard the end of the argument and the crashes. There were two loud noises.”

“Could the servants make out what was said?” Blackford asked.

“They said no.”

“Did they try to open the door or knock?”

“It was locked.”

“How long before the door—” I began.

“A full minute at the very least,” Grantham said as if the words hurt his mouth.

I took in the room without moving. There were two comfortable chairs with ottomans, one on each side of the fireplace. Gaslights were set to shine down on those two spots, and a small table by each chair held a stack of books. Shelves across the room from the fireplace held a large collection of volumes. A desk was set by the window to catch the best light. A jumble of papers, pens, ink pots, books, a diary, and a paperweight were scattered across the floor from the desk toward the fireplace, and the desk chair was knocked over in that direction. The fireplace held a pile of ash.

“Where were the plans kept?” the duke asked.

“In there.” Inspector Grantham pointed to a low chest with three drawers across the room from the windows and close by the door.

“I was told there was a burned fragment of a drawing found in this room. Where is it?” The duke stood facing the inspector with his arms crossed.

Grantham stared back, his jaw jutting aggressively. “Locked up by Scotland Yard until the trial.”

If they continued to act like schoolboys, I’d never learn anything. “What fragment?”

“A small singed piece of the last page of the missing blueprints was found at the edge of the fireplace.”

I needed to know more. “How many pages are there in one set of plans?”

“In this case, seven. It’s the master from which working drawings are made for the manufacturing process.”

“Are they large?”

Grantham held his arms wide. “When unfolded, each is this big.”

“Is this the only master set of drawings in existence?”

“No, but the other sets are locked up in the Admiralty.”

“Why wasn’t this one?”

“Gattenger said he had an idea that he needed to work on. He sometimes worked from home.”

“In this room? At night?”

I had both men’s attention now. “Yes,” the inspector said.

“This was also the room where he and his wife frequently read in the evening.”

“Yes.”

“So from the outside, last night wouldn’t have looked any different from any other night. But the thief chose last night to strike.” I looked from one man to the other. “If the Germans stole the drawings, there would have to be a leak in the office where the drawings are kept. Someone would have had to tell the burglar that Gattenger took a set of ship plans home last night. The only way that could happen is if there’s a traitor in the Admiralty.”

CHAPTER TWO

MY conclusion made me even less popular than I expected. The Duke of Blackford looked as if he’d like to throw me out the window as he muttered, “Bloody hell.”

Inspector Grantham glared at me. “There’s no sign of a burglary. The Gattengers argued, he killed her, accidentally most likely, and then burned the plans he was working on to cover his guilt and blamed everything on a housebreaker. There’s no traitor.”