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he has no notion of why you have employed him?”
    “No.”
    The truth was, she had needed time to think about the situation. Time to be certain that taking on the enigmatic St. Ives was the right course of action. There was a great deal at stake. But the more contemplation she gave to the matter, the fewer alternatives Charlotte perceived.
    She was, in fact, quite desperate.
    Ariel put down her fork and gave Charlotte a direct look. “Perhaps he will not want the position once he learns the details.”
    Charlotte pondered that. She did not know whether to be cheered or alarmed by the prospect. “Things might be a good deal simpler if Mr. St. Ives takes to his heels when he learns the true nature of his responsibilities.”
    Mrs. Witty hove to in the doorway of the morning room, a fresh pot of coffee in one broad, work-worn fist. “You’d best hope he doesn’t run off when he learns what ye want him to do for ye, Miss Charlotte. It’s not as if there’s any number of gentlemen running about London who would be willing to help ye investigate a murder.”
    “I’m aware of that.” Charlotte scowled. “I’ve agreed to hire St. Ives, have I not?”
    “Aye, and thank the good Lord. I don’t mind tellin’ ye, I don’t much like this situation. Making inquiries into a bloody murder ain’t in our usual line around here.”
    “I’m aware of that as well.” Charlotte watched Mrs. Witty pour fresh coffee.
    The housekeeper was an imposing woman whose monumental proportions would have done credit to an ancient goddess. In the three years since she had joinedthe household, Charlotte had had cause to be grateful for her steady nerves. Not many housekeepers would have tolerated an employer engaged in a career such as the one Charlotte had carved out for herself. Fewer still would have been willing to provide valuable assistance.
    Then again, there were not many housekeepers as well dressed as Mrs. Witty, Charlotte thought. When one required unusual services from one’s staff, one naturally paid very well.
    “She’s right.” Ariel’s expression grew more serious. “What you are proposing to do could prove dangerous, Charlotte.”
    “I have no choice,” Charlotte said quietly. “I must discover who killed Drusilla Heskett.”
    B axter was in his laboratory unpacking a new shipment of glassware that had been designed to his exacting specifications when the knock came on the door.
    “What is it, Lambert?” He removed a gleaming new retort from the box and held it up to the light to admire it. “I am occupied at the moment.”
    The door opened.
    “Lady Trengloss, sir,” Lambert announced in his tomblike accents.
    Baxter reluctantly put down the retort and looked at Lambert. His butler had a pained expression on his pinched face but that was nothing new. Lambert always looked pained. He was sixty-six years of age, well past the time when most men in his position retired with their pensions.
    The years had taken their toll. He suffered greatly from painful joints. His hands were gnarled and swollenand his movements had grown noticeably slower in the past year.
    “I suppose my aunt wants a full report on my new career as a man-of-affairs,” Baxter said, resigned to the inevitable interview.
    “Lady Trengloss appears to be somewhat agitated, sir.”
    “Show her in here, Lambert.”
    “Aye, sir.” Lambert made to remove himself and then paused. “There is something else I should mention, sir. The new housekeeper departed an hour ago.”
    “Bloody hell.” Baxter scowled at a small flaw in a glass flask. “Not another one. That makes three in the past five months.”
    “Aye, sir.”
    “What did this one have to complain of? There have been no explosions of any significance in the laboratory in weeks and I have taken care to make certain that noxious odors did not permeate the hall.”
    “Mrs. Hardy apparently concluded that you were attempting to poison her, sir,” Lambert said.
    “Poison her?” Baxter