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on his hips.
Elizabeth Maud Elliot, you stop this depravity at once
. She rapidly searched through the remaining clothing and refrained from touching a double-barreled shotgun and shells. Then her hand touched fur.
    Peering inside the dark trunk, she grasped an animal skin with black hair. When she pulled it out, her gaze caught the glint of metal. A hinged boxreinforced with metal. And it was padlocked. Faded letters on its top spelled out “Wells Fargo.” Liza felt a burst of satisfaction as she hauled the box out and set it on the floor of the dressing room.
    From the pocket of her apron she drew a slim metal tool acquired from Toby Inch. Inch was the retired-thief-turned-butler she’d hired to pose as the respectable Mr. Pennant when she’d first opened her agency for domestic servants. Up to now she hadn’t required his criminal expertise.
    She slipped the tool into the opening of the lock and worked it slowly. After a few agonizing minutes, the lock clicked. Liza opened the box—and groaned. It was filled with dark, slim cigars.
    Frustrated, she replaced the contents of the trunk and rapidly searched through armoires and chests filled with male clothing. She found neckties and stocks, shirts and collars, morning coats, frock coats, dress coats, and overcoats. She riffled through dozens of half boots, military boots, unused slippers. She opened drawers full of watches and chains, tie pins, studs, and rings. And found nothing.
    Next she tried the bedchamber itself, even searching between the mattresses and bed frame. Nothing. Liza ground her teeth together in frustration, then glanced at the desk in the sitting room. Surely he wouldn’t hide anything in that ornate freight car. Still, she had to search. Poking through every drawer and slot took time, and glancing at all the letters took even longer.
    Once she heard footsteps on the landing, but they faded. The bulk of his correspondence concerned his estates, business interests, and political dealings with men in government. For a man reputed to be so dissolute, he was surprisingly concerned withreform of the army and the controversy stirred up when the queen tried to bestow upon the foreign-born Prince Albert the title of king. Liza folded a letter and replaced it in a slot. She had poked and prodded for secret compartments to no avail.
    Reluctantly she closed the desk, rose, and straightened the chair in front of it. Slowly she turned in a circle, inspecting the sitting room. She noted the eighteenth-century armchairs, the curio cabinets that had yielded nothing more sinister than Ming china, the white mantel over the fireplace, an old secretary too small to be of use except for decoration.
    To expect a murderer to keep about him anything that would indict him in his crimes had been foolish. She realized this now, after all her elaborate schemes had failed. Dejected, Liza gathered her coal scuttle, brushes, and cloths, and walked to the door. She turned and gave the sitting room one last look. Cool elegance, silver-gray, classical, sparsely decorated except for a few ornaments like that blue thing on the mantel.
    Liza’s hand was on the door. She paused in mid-twist of the knob, cocked her head to the side, and fixed her gaze on the blue vessel above the fireplace. She set her coal scuttle on the floor, plucked a clean dust rag from it, and darted to the mantel. She wiped the rag along it until she came to a nautilus shell contraption. Humming to herself, she poked her nose into its interior. Empty. She gave the surface a swipe with the rag and put it back.
    The rag slid along the mantel to a Wedgwood piece. She tipped it and stuck three fingers inside. They swirled around in empty space. Muttering, Liza pulled her hand free and dabbed along the mantel again. She paused to consider the next vessel. Theblue thing looked like a flask. It had a small base. She would have to hold it with both hands to keep it from tipping over. The rag patted nearer and nearer the