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him.
    She ignored him. He dropped his hand self-consciously and his face grew even grayer. His expression was so desolate, his eyes so full of hopelessness, that Knighton felt a sudden certainty that Mr. Hereford could never have poisoned his nephew.
    “This has been a terrible shock for her. For all of us,” George Denham replied quickly. “I can't understand this—how could this happen? Why?”
    “Hardly surprising,” Lord Thompson said. “Your mental agility was always somewhat flat-footed, Denham. Though even you should find this comprehensible enough.”
    Denham flushed but refused to respond to Thompson's baiting. He shook his head. Clearly, he knew the tall man well enough to recognize a temperament that resorted to anger and sarcasm when stressed.
    “Perhaps after you assist Lady Crowley upstairs, you’ll join us?” Knighton requested, breaking the tension. He examined Miss Barnard. If he wanted this entire matter resolved as expeditiously as possible, questioning her seemed most likely to yield the desired results.
    She returned his look steadily, her expression unreadable. “I’ll be here in the morning if you wish to speak to me. I’m not intending to leave Rosecrest this late at night.”
    “Perhaps it would be easier if you returned so we could speak to you this evening. After the coroner arrives and while events are still fresh in your mind.” Then he could leave instead of begging for a room somewhere nearby.
    There was a beat of silence. All eyes turned to Miss Barnard. She gazed at Knighton, tightening her arm around Lady Crowley.
    Odd how her dark glance made the other occupants of the room recede into insignificance, he thought.
    “If you think it helpful, then of course.” She helped Lady Crowley through the door without appearing to notice the others who continued to stare after her.
    The remaining women, after agitated whispers to the men nearest to them, said muted good nights. Lady Howard helped Miss Spencer from the room as the young woman continued to cry and trembled violently if they strayed too close to the shadows.
    When the men were alone, Mr. Jekyll stepped over to Knighton and watched him drape a linen napkin over the dead man’s face. “Why did you ask Miss Barnard to return? Surely, you don’t think she had anything to do with this?”
    Mr. Hereford interrupted, “Poison is a woman’s crime. My nephew was trying to force her out of Rosecrest. That’s why he asked you here, isn’t it?”
    “Yes.” Knighton ignored the others and stooped to run his hand over the deep, thick pile of the oriental carpet in the space between Lady Crowley’s and Miss Barnard’s chairs.
    There was no ridge, no imperfection in the rug to cause the maid to stumble, although the surface wasn’t entirely smooth. His sensitive fingertips detected a slightly raised nap outlining the floral pattern. However, he would have to wait for daylight to be sure.
    Perhaps the maid was only clumsy. Or perhaps Miss Barnard had extended her foot and tripped the girl. If so, then her maneuver had certainly provided ample opportunity to poison Lord Crowley.
    And despite her calm demeanor, it could only mean that Miss Barnard was furious at his attempt to defame her. Knighton shook his head, trying to make sense of it. The precise series of events leading to Crowley's death refused to crystallize in his tired mind, and he felt a small measure of discomfort at his precipitous decision to request Miss Barnard to return to the sitting room. If she were innocent, it was a terrible thing to do to her.
    He ran his hand one last time over the soft carpet and stood. A small, mottled-tan object caught his eye. A cork rested on the floor, against one of the table legs. He picked it up and sniffed the darker, damp end.
    Bitter almonds.
    Aware of the other men speaking quietly in two small clusters, he wrapped the cork in his handkerchief and placed it in his pocket. He’d examine it later. For now, he was strangely