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That was one advantage of growing up in Ploughman’s Paramount Circus, where sword swallowing was a daily event. It tended to promote strong nerves.
    Plus, the odd problem could be dealt with by one of Gran Cooper’s spells. Not that the servants knew why Miss Imogen’s friend seemed to be able to solve the unsolvable on so many occasions; they were just grateful that she cared about their lot. But, taking her cue from Dora’s expression, Evelina was already having doubts that this situation could be rescued with a bit of herb magic.
    “What is it, Dora?” she asked again.
    The maid opened her mouth, inhaled, then closed it again. She gave a quick shake of her head, as if to say the words couldn’t come out. Tears were leaking from her eyes, trailing beside her pink-tipped nose.
    This wasn’t getting them anywhere. “Show me,” Evelina said, wanting to get away from her bedroom and the man hiding there.
    Without another word, Dora led the way toward the stairs. Once on the main floor, instead of going left to the statelydrawing rooms, she turned right toward the main entrance and the cloakroom used to hang the outerwear of the ambassador’s many guests. Though now retired from foreign service, Emerson Roth, Lord Bancroft, still moved chess pieces around the board of the Empire’s political scene, and that required lavish parties.
    They were almost to the entrance hall with its gold sconces and coffered ceiling. Evelina walked two paces behind Dora, following the silent, hunched form. Shadows dragged at the hem of her skirts, reminding her that someone—not Nick—had passed her in the upstairs corridor. There had been those hideous, dismembered dolls in the attic. And then there had been screams.
    Despite her vaunted nerves, a shudder slid down her backbone.
Why didn’t I at least bring along some of Nick’s knives?
    Evelina hurried to keep up with Dora, who was clearly on the verge of panic. She seemed to be heading directly to the cloakroom. The door stood open, light pooling on the marble floor beyond. Outside, one of the kitchen girls sat on a long upholstered bench, placed there so guests could change their footwear.
    The girl, surely no more than fourteen or fifteen, was bowed nearly double, her face in her hands. The housekeeper sat next to her, wrapped in a quilted housecoat. She murmured softly, cradling the youngster in a motherly embrace. Evelina dragged her gaze away, giving them privacy. “What happened?”
    “It was Maisie that cried out,” Dora said, the statement jerking out in pieces. “When she saw what was in there.” She pointed to the cloakroom.
    It was no wonder that Evelina had heard the cry all the way upstairs. The sound, far from being lost in the high ceilings, would have carried right up the stairwell. But what had the young girl seen?
    Evelina realized that her hands were icy and she badly wanted the water closet.
    The door to the cloakroom stood open. The moment was so silent, she could hear the faint sibilance of the gaslightsthat had been laid in throughout the main floor. She took a step toward the doorway when Dora touched her arm. The maid’s brow was knitted in concern. “It’s a terrible sight in there, miss. It’s … it’s …”
    Dora began to cry again, losing her power of speech.
    Evelina squeezed her hand. “Sh. You stay here and help with Maisie. Has someone told Bigelow?” The butler—pillar of all things respectable—was just what the staff needed.
    Dora nodded quickly. “He’s gone to tell the master.”
    “Good.” With that, Evelina went through the cloakroom doorway. The gas was turned up, as if someone had tried to banish what was in the middle of the floor.
    That sight made her forget every other detail of her surroundings.
    Evelina stared at the crumpled lump, gradually making out the still form of a woman in a plain jacket and skirt. Not the rags of the poor, but not much above that, either. Her face was turned away from Evelina, giving a