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amid the crimson, and a faint whiff of cognac underlay the smell of the blood.
    "It looks as though he was pouring drinks when he was shot," Roth said.
    Malcolm nodded. A full glass stood beside the decanter and the stopper lay on the floor beside the trolley.
    "He poured one glass, then was shot as he poured the second," Suzanne said. "So he obviously knew whoever shot him and was on good enough terms to drink with them."
    "He was obviously on good enough terms with Miss Dudley that she knew about the secret entrance to his study," Roth said.
    Suzanne nodded. She was too much a realist to try to argue.
    Malcolm lit another lamp and a brace of candles. "I looked at the desk," Roth said, "but you should as well."
    While Malcolm moved to the desk, Suzanne took the second lamp and moved about the room. Trenchard's desk was tidy. A folded copy of yesterday's Times , a stack of blank writing paper, a draft of a speech that looked to be in someone else's hand (his secretary?) with a few notes from Trenchard. Letters—from his estate manager, a cousin who appeared to want help settling gambling debts, an Eton classmate encouraging him to invest in a racehorse. Account books in the drawers. Trenchard appeared to be a careful landlord, if an absent one.
    Malcolm returned to the desktop and lifted the lamp to shine the light over the gold-embossed green leather of the blotter. "Trenchard wrote something tonight. You can see the depressions on the blotter."
    Roth let out a whistle. "I should have seen that."
    "You had more to look for."
    "Do think he gave it to a footman to deliver?"
    Malcolm touched his fingers to the sealing wax. "It's cold. You looked in Trenchard's pockets?"
    "Of course. Nothing."
    "So Trenchard either gave it to a servant—which doesn't seem particularly likely, as one would think he'd have simply rung and delivered instructions—or the killer took it."
    "Malcolm," Suzanne said in a sharp voice.
    "Yes, I know it's a bit of a leap," he said, "but—"
    "No, not that, though I was half listening. But look what I found under the cabinet."
    She was on her knees beside a Boulle cabinet. Red and gold sparkled from her fingers. An earring. She got to her feet and carried it over to them. The gold filigree and bloodred stones would have blended into the gilt and crimson of the carpet. Malcolm bought enough jewelry for his wife to recognize that the red stones were rubies, not garnets, and the gold had a rich gleam that didn't belong to vermeil. It was a chandelier style, the sort of thing Suzanne would wear to a ball or the opera.
    "Laura was wearing the pearl earbobs we gave her for Christmas," Suzanne said. "She still had them both on when we saw her at the Brown Bear."
    Roth inclined his head. "We should see if it belongs to the duchess. Perhaps you could talk to her, Mrs.— Suzanne. It's a delicate matter."
    "I'd be happy to. Though from our prior conversation it's plain Mary Trenchard had few illusions about her marriage or her husband."
    They made a further circuit of the study without discovering more. Then Roth went to question the servants while Malcolm and Suzanne rejoined Mary and David. Malcolm's task was to take David out of the room, but he found his friend only too eager to accompany him to the library.
    "What did you learn?" David asked, the moment the library doors were closed. "I know Roth is very capable, but I imagine—"
    "David," Malcolm said.
    "Yes, I know it's an investigation, and you can't tell me everything, but this isn't some obscure international intrigue. We're talking about my sister's husband."
    Malcolm felt his fingers tighten. Of all the complications of his ties to the Mallinson family, perhaps his friendship with David was the most problematic in the investigation. "Quite."
    "Malcolm, in God's name—"
    "I know very little at this point, David."
    "But you think Miss Dudley is innocent."
    "I do."
    David scraped a hand over his hair. "You must have considered the implications of where