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Chapter Text

“They are from Helstone, are they not? I know the deep indentations round the leaves. Oh! have you been there? When were you there?” Margaret gazed at the roses in Thornton’s hands, those deep, dark eyes of hers wide at the welcome sight.

“I wanted to see the place where Margaret grew to what she is, even at the worst time of all, when I had no hope of ever calling her mine. I went there on my return from Havre.” Thornton’s voice was low, almost a whisper, yet it still seemed to fill every part of the room.

Distantly, Margaret heard a knock upon the door. If she were not so wholly distracted by the lightness in her heart, by the fluttering in her chest, by the sight of her beloved Helstone roses in the strong, capable hands of the man she loved, she might have gathered herself together in the event that Henry Lennox had arrived.

But no such thought could penetrate her happiness. “You must give them to me,” she said, trying to take them out of his hand with gentle violence.

“Very well. Only you must pay me for them!” Thornton’s face raised in a colorful smile, and a new shine came to his eye. The front door was opened; the creaking of the hinges made it impossible not to notice. Still, neither Margaret nor Thornton gave a thought to it. They held their gazes, lovers caught in a new wash of joy.

The only sound was an exchange of voices in the passage. Someone asking to see Captain Lennox.

“How shall I ever tell Aunt Shaw?” she whispered, after some time of delicious silence.

“Let me speak to her.”

“Oh, no! I owe to her,—but what will she say?”

“I can guess.” Mischief entered Thornton’s gaze. “Her first exclamation will be, ‘That man!’” He matched Mrs. Shaw’s indignant tone almost perfectly, save for the deepness of his voice and the Northern accent.

“Hush!” said Margaret with laugher in her voice “or I shall try and show you your mother’s indignant tones as she says, ‘That woman!’” She imitated Mrs. Thornton almost as well as Mr. Thornton had imitated Mrs. Shaw, and the two grinned at each other like school children.

This perfect end to the trials which Margaret Hate and John Thornton had experienced in the past three years was cut abruptly short by a peeling scream.

It was Edith. Margaret’s body shot stock-straight at the scream, and she nearly completely forgot about the Helstone roses which fell from her hands as she dashed out of the drawing room and toward the parlor. Thornton was directly behind her, his heart pounding now not with enigmatic joy but with the instinctual need to find the source of distress and quash it as soon as humanly possible.

The pair burst into the parlor where they saw a terrible sight: Edith had fainted on her couch, her face as white as death. Captain Lennox sat in a chair, his face the same color as his wife’s, a mask of shock the only indication he even still breathed as he stared at the young man dressed in a black uniform which stood before him.

Margaret met the young man’s eyes, and gradually she realized the uniform he wore was that of a constable. He glanced between Margaret and Thornton, surprised at their sudden arrival, and gave an awkward bow. “Pardon me,” he stammered.

“What has happened?” Margaret asked, stepping more into the parlor.

The constable glanced back to Captain Lennox, but his shellshock had not subsided. Margaret hurried to her cousin’s side, kneeling before the couch and putting a hand to Edith’s pale face. She was warm, and she breathed, and Margaret turned her gaze back on the constable.

Thornton, meanwhile, had passed back into the passage and, finding the closest servant, requested on the Lennoxes’ behalf some smelling salts or cologne which could be used to rouse Edith. He returned to the parlor directly after giving this order in time to hear the constable stammer out the news which he had already delivered once.

“It concerns a Mr. Henry Lennox,” he said, gripping his helmet hard enough to turn his knuckles white. “He was found this morning.”

“He was found?” Margaret repeated, standing now as a servant entered the parlor carrying a tray. “Where was he found—how was he found?”

The constable looked to Thornton, clearly unsure of how he should break this news to another woman after the reaction of the first. Thornton understood him immediately, and he moved to Margaret’s side as the constable found his words again.

“He was found in the Temple library, ma’am,” he said. “He was found—”

Suddenly Captain Lennox came to life, jumping to feet which were not quite stable, and let out a horrid growl. “Not a suicide!”

-

Thornton stood beside Captain Lennox as they waited at the police station. Lennox hadn’t said a word since the two of them left the house a quarter-hour ago. Constable Hobbs had requested that Lennox come to the police station to properly identify the corpse.

“We’d had more than one mis-identified corpse,” Constable Hobbs had explained, more to Thornton than Lennox. “The Inspector wants to be completely certain, you see.”

Edith had been roused from her faint, but she was in no state to be consulted. As soon as the memory of what had put her down returned, she was reduced to nothing more than tears. Margaret held her tenderly, smoothing down the golden curls of her hair and whispering comforting words to her.

Lennox had agreed to Constable Hobbs’ request, and then he had pulled Thornton into the passage, his thick brows furrowed. “I feel a fool having to ask this of you,” he’d said, his voice low. “I cannot—Henry is my brother, you know. We may not always have gotten on, but I loved him dearly.” Thornton had nodded in silence. “Could I persuade you to accompany me?” Lennox finally was finally able to choke out. Thornton had opened his mouth to assent, but Lennox went on. “Surely a man can do this one task, but I—Henry was here just yesterday. Suicide?”

“I will go with you,” Thornton had answered deftly. Lennox’s tongue stilled, and he could only nod his gratitude.

Now they stood stupidly in the police station. Thornton glanced about them at the comings and goings of the sergeants, constables, and whatever miscreants and unfortunates they brought or released. The business of the station reminded Thornton of the busy streets of Milton, but the business here was not in the making of money but the dealing of crimes.

A lean, fair-haired man in a weathered gray suit emerged from one of the back rooms, his face set with deep lines. He was not much older than Thornton, but the lines in his face and the silver in his hair spoke to his experience. He approached Lennox and Thornton, his sharp blue eyes trained on the small notepad in his hand. “Captain Cosmo Sholto Lennox?” he asked.

“I am he,” Lennox answered, his shoulders squaring in that way military men always did.

The man glanced up to Thornton, the question plain on his face. “I am John Thornton, of Milton,” Thornton said, of Milton coming out almost automatically. The man did not move for a moment, evidently awaiting more information. “I am accompanying the captain.”

He nodded, having figured that much out for himself. “And did you know the deceased, John Thornton of Milton?”

Thornton bit down the irritation which arose from the way the man had said his name. “Yes. I met him a few days ago.”

The man nodded again, closing his notebook and tucking it away in his breast pocket. “Right. Gentlemen, I am Inspector Percival Chandler. If you’ll be so kind as to follow me.”

Lennox stammered in response, then obediently followed the inspector through the door which he had come out of. Thornton followed a half-step behind as they passed through the wide hallway. A drunk fellow bellowed from somewhere beyond, the clink of iron bars sounding out with the bellow. Inspector Chandler did not react to this.

“When-When was Henry found?” Lennox asked as they came to a pair of wooden double doors.

“This morning,” Inspector Chandler answered. “The old fellow came in before daybreak to get a head start on the little legal problems lawyers seem to always be engrossed in, and he discovered a bit of a shock before he’d even had his first cup of coffee.” Thornton was caught by the inspector’s tone. It was not quite irreverent, but there was a cold sort of humor to his voice which put him off. Lennox, however, was too distracted to notice.

The inspector reached out and pulled open one of the doors, beckoning the men inside with a tilt of his head. Lennox entered first, Thornton behind him, and they were met with a vinegary scent.

The room they entered was small, lit only by gaslight. Two long tables ran along adjacent sides of the room, and on one of these tables was a body covered in a white sheet. On the other table was a set of clothes—the tan suit which Henry Lennox had been wearing at the meeting he had had with Thornton and Margaret the previous day—as well as other personal effects.

Captain Lennox’s shoulders rose and fell with his heavy breathing as the inspector approached the corpse on the table and pulled the sheet back to reveal the face. Thornton gazed down at Henry Lennox, his brow furrowing. His thoughts went back to Margaret—she had lost so many people in her life, and here laid another.

Beside him, Captain Lennox began to tremble, and he pressed his hands over his face. “Henry—oh Henry,” he mumbled over and over to himself.

Inspector Chandler watched Lennox and Thornton. Lennox was overcome by his grief, but Thornton’s face was a mask which Chandler could not penetrate. Those dark eyes of the northern man remained on the face of the corpse, as if taking in every detail. Then they rose to meet Chandler’s, a question posed within which he did not yet dare to speak.

Chandler replaced the sheet.

“If it was—suicide,” Lennox said after a moment to gather himself, “then was there a note? Has my brother explained why he has done this?”

Chandler was silent for another moment, still watching Thornton.

“Well?” Lennox demanded, his voice taking an edge.

“My good man,” Chandler said, meeting Lennox’s gaze now, “if there is but one thread of comfort you can take in this, then let it be the fact that your brother did not take his own life.”

Lennox’s face twisted in confusion, but Thornton’s dark eyebrows rose. He was not surprised. “But—but that young man said suicide. How dare he?”

“If not suicide,” Thornton spoke up, “then the reason he rests is here must be murder.”

Chapter Text

Captain Lennox looked to Thornton. “Murder? Surely not—why would it be murder?”

“Otherwise, we would not be meeting with the inspector,” Thornton answered. A smile played at Chandler’s lips.

“They make them clever in Milton,” Chandler said, noting the prick of anger which flew into Mr. Thornton’s eyes and was quickly hidden. “Gentlemen, let us leave this poor chap to his rest and meet in my office. I will explain all there.”

Inspector Chandler’s office was only a hundred or so feet from the room in which Henry Lennox lay. The three men passed through the wooden door upon which the name of the inspector was engraved—Percival Chandler—and entered into a remarkably plain room. Arranged in the room was a wide wooden desk with the inspector’s chair behind it and two wooden chairs in front of it. The top of the desk was almost entirely clean save for a single pen in its font near the head of the desk and a collection of three small jars which contained glass beads, each one holding one color: red, blue, and green.

At the inspector’s invitation, they took their seats, and Chandler placed his hands flat on the desk, fingers spread. He gazed between Captain Lennox and Mr. Thornton for a few silent moments.

Lennox quickly grew impatient. “What is all this about murder?” he demanded, leaning forward.

“Your brother, sir, was found this morning hanging by his neck from a banister in the library,” Chandler stated with a cool but not heartless tone.

“God in Heaven,” Lennox muttered, his fists balling up on his chair’s arm rests. “I suppose that is why you initially said it was a suicide.”

“We initially called it a suicide because that is what the killer wants us to believe,” Chandler continued. As he spoke, one hand lifted off the desk and pulled open a drawer at his side. From this drawer he produced a folio and set it in the very center of the desk.

“The cause of death was a hard blow to the back of the head,” he went on. “Death would have been near instantaneous. However, our nefarious friend then took the time to find a length of rope and hoist Mr. Lennox from the banister to make it seem he had been hanged.”

“Who would do such a thing?” Captain Lennox asked.

But Chandler did not respond to this question, as Thornton had quietly let out an “Ah” to himself which drew Chandler’s attention. “Has something occurred to you, sir?” he asked Thornton.

Thornton felt Lennox’s eyes on him. “There has,” he said, hesitant to discuss his observation with the captain. “I had noticed there were only faint marks upon Mr. Lennox’s neck.”

Chandler raised one thin eyebrow. “And what gave you cause to notice that?”

Does he suspect me? Thornton wondered. “I have seen the corpse of a man who had been killed by hanging,” he answered. Chandler’s expression did not change, but Captain Lennox stiffened.

“Where on God’s earth have you seen such a thing?” Captain Lennox asked.

The image of the late Mr. Thornton was burned into the son’s mind. His mother had tried her best to shield young John from the sight, but he had gotten enough of an eyeful to remain with him forever.

“I am a magistrate in Milton,” Thornton explained, fighting the clench of his jaw so that he could speak. “Murder is not what one would call common, but I have had to oversee the unfortunate disposal of a man charged with the crime. The marks of strangulation are unmistakable.”

“I do not envy that task,” Captain Lennox told him.

“Indeed,” Chandler said, his lips rising in a smile which did not reach his eyes. “As this is a murder inquiry, I must ask the pair of you a routine question or two. This is to help us find the killer, you understand, although you may be made rather uncomfortable.”

“Go ahead,” Captain Lennox said with a nod.

“When was the last time you saw the deceased?”

“Yesterday afternoon,” Lennox answered. “He and Miss Hale were meeting in our drawing room to discuss some legal matters, I believe.”

“And who is Miss Hale?” Chandler asked. Thornton’s heart rate increased just at this mention of her name. He wondered how she was fairing with Mrs. Lennox in her state.

“My wife’s cousin,” Lennox explained. “Henry was advising her on some legal matters regarding property which she has recently inherited, I believe.” He turned to Thornton. “You are involved in all that, I believe.”

Chandler’s inquisitive gaze landed on Thornton once again. “Indeed,” Thornton said calmly. “I am Miss Hale’s tenant. I run a mill in Milton.”

“Magistrate and a mill,” he said. “Magnificent. And I take it you also saw Mr. Lennox last yesterday?”

“No,” he said. “Mr. Lennox and Miss Hale met together without me yesterday. I had met Mr. Lennox at a dinner party the night before. That was the last time I saw him.”

“They met without you?” Chandler carefully slid the folio to the edge of the desk, sitting forward now.

“I had not known they met,” Thornton explained. “I came up to London to discuss legal matters regarding the mill with Mr. Lennox. I was not expecting to meet Miss Hale at all. I was given an invitation to meet with Mr. Lennox and Miss Hale yesterday evening.”

“By Mr. Lennox himself?”

“The invitation came by way of a courier,” Thornton said.

Chandler was quiet for a moment, still fixing his gaze on Thornton. “What legal matters regarding your mill?”

“I beg your pardon?” Thornton said.

“I don’t think that’s relevant,” Captain Lennox said.

“With all due respect, I will decide what is relevant,” Chandler answered. “Now, Mr. Thornton of Milton, please tell me everything about this business with your mill.”

Thornton was reluctant to share the failure of his business. Although there was now a plan in place to restore Marlborough Mills, he still felt the sting of embarrassment over what had happened. But it was clear Chandler was looking upon this stranger in London with great suspicion, and Thornton had to be sure to clear himself of any ambiguities.

So he spoke at length about what had happened in Milton—the strike, the cotton costs, the failure to fulfill his orders and the closure of the mill. He spoke about Margaret, how she had inherited the property from Mr. Bell, and how she had agreed to invest much of her liquid funds back into the mill so that it could continue to operate.

As he spoke, Inspector Chandler did something quite odd. He reached over and picked up the jars of beads one by one, opened them, and tipped their contents onto his desk, mixing the three colors with each other. Then, as he listened to Thornton’s lengthy disclosure, he carefully sorted the beads back into their proper jars. Thornton did not pause his story to ask after this strange habit, but he shared an incredulous glance with Captain Lennox.

“So what I take from this,” Chandler said when Thornton had finished, “is that Mr. Lennox was quite important to you.” Thornton nodded. Chandler’s cold smile returned. “Then all I must ask of you two now is this. Where were you between the hours of ten o’clock last night and five o’clock this morning?”

“Why do you need to know that?” Captain Lennox asked.

“To establish an alibi,” Chandler explained. “Mr. Lennox was killed at some time between those two points. If you could tell me where you were, and if there is anyone who can verify you were where you say, then that would make it quite impossible for you to have committed the crime.”

Captain Lennox’s face flushed. “You suspect me of killing my own brother?”

“It is a legal formality,” Thornton said to him.

“Well,” Captain Lennox huffed, “I was in bed with my wife.”

Chandler nodded, then turned to Thornton. “And as for you, sir?”

“I was in my room at the Hart,” Thornton said. “I had tea brought to my room around ten o’clock. And there is a doorman at the hotel who watches through the night. He would have seen my leaving, if I had.”

“Naturally,” Chandler said. He replaced the last of the glass beads in its correct jar, then closed them and set them back in their spot on his desk. He pulled the folio back to the center of the desk. “There was a note which was found in his breast pocket which reads quite like a letter of dark despair.”

“My brother left a note?” Lennox asked, adding before Chandler could answer, “What does it say?”

Chandler opened the folio with one hand, pulling a small sheet of paper from within. He laid it above the folio, the text facing Lennox and Thornton so they could read it. The note was crinkled and worn, as if it had been crumpled up and smoothed out again more than once. It read:

Another end with nothing to show for it. It took so much time. My frustration mounts. I cannot wonder at why I was given this. I feel I am at the limit of my abilities. Miss H will not have it with me. How can I live with myself having let her down?

Thornton read it over several times, the words burning into his brain. Miss H…How can I live with myself having let her down? There could only be one Miss H he was referring to, a horrifying idea.

“The Miss H named here must be the same Miss Hale,” Chandler said, running a finger along a crease in the edge of the paper absently. “If Mr. Lennox was working so closely with Miss Hale, then that would be my conclusion.”

“It must be,” Captain Lennox said, shaking his head.

“Were your brother and Miss Hale involved in a romantic relationship?” Chandler asked.

“They were not.” Chandler’s gaze met Thornton’s, and Thornton was mortified to realize it was he who had spoken. It was automatic. He and Miss Hale had, not an hour ago, come to a most joyous understanding. She certainly could not have had any romantic feelings for Henry Lennox if she had so willingly and happily given herself to Thornton.

But Captain Lennox only looked more perplexed. “Well, according to my wife, that’s not the case.”

Thornton’s heart rate accelerated. He could only hope his face was not flushed under Chandler’s scrutinizing gaze. “Sir?”

Lennox shrugged. “She told me just a day or two ago that she was certain all was settled between Henry and Miss Hale.”

Impossible, Thornton’s mind screamed. Impossible, impossible!

“Perhaps,” Chandler said, joining his hands together on his desk, “not all was quite as settled as you believed, Captain. Mr. Thornton of Milton, you look like you have something I need to know.”

Lennox looked to Thornton, eyebrows raised. Thornton’s mouth ran dry, but he was no coward. “There were no romantic ties between Miss Hale and Mr. Lennox, because she and I are engaged.”

“What’s this?” Captain Lennox asked. “When did this happen?”

“This afternoon,” Mr. Thornton answered him.

“If your good wife believes Mr. Lennox and Miss Hale were settled a couple of days ago, then perhaps things between them degraded.” Chandler looked down to the letter. “It would explain the despair written here.”

“You said Mr. Lennox did not die by suicide,” Thornton countered.

“That’s not to say a romantic entanglement was not the motivating factor in his death,” Chandler said.

Thornton’s blood ran cold. He does think I did it, Thornton thought. How convenient for Inspector Chandler, that he could close this horrid murder so easily by laying the blame on the stranger from the north. Thornton’s supposed alibi, the hotel desk clerk, was flimsy at best.

Out of the corner of his eye, Thornton saw Captain Lennox looking at him. He met the captain’s gaze, and after a moment, Captain Lennox shook his head. “You’re not saying Thornton’s responsible, surely.”

“I’m saying nothing for now,” Chandler said. “I’m simply exploring my avenues of inquiry. I shall wish to speak to Miss Hale. Where might I find her?”

“She stays with my wife and I,” Lennox answered.

“Excellent, as I will have to speak with Mrs. Lennox as well. I believe that shall be all the information I need from you, for the time being,” Chandler said. “I shall follow up with you again sometime this afternoon.”

Captain Lennox and Thornton rose to their feet, Lennox extended his hand to shake Chandler’s. “Thank you, Inspector,” he said, his voice quivering. “I hope this matter can be resolved quickly.” He glanced to Thornton again.

Thornton tamped down on the rising anger in his chest. He could not show one iota of weakness before Chandler at this moment. As such, he did not speak when he shook Chandler’s hand, but only nodded in agreement with Captain Lennox.

“As do I,” Chandler said, standing. “In fact, I am confident I will find our killer in less than forty hours.”

“What makes you so confident?” Lennox asked.

“Because, my good man, if I don’t find your brother’s killer within the next forty hours, I will be out of a job.”

While Thornton and Captain Lennox were out, Margaret was tasked with caring for Edith. Edith was roused from her faint, but as soon as the memory of the horrid news returned to her, she was reduced to tears. Margaret and Edith’s servant Matilda brought Edith back to her bed chamber, where Margaret helped her to lay down.

“Oh Henry—dear, sweet Henry! Suicide!” Edith cried over and over. Margaret, who was still heavily in shock at the news, focused on attending to her delicate cousin.

Mrs. Shaw, who had been out calling on friends when the constable brought the news, returned a quarter hour after the gentlemen left. She was informed by Matilda, and she came to Edith’s room directly, her own face sallow.

“Margaret, my dear,” Mrs. Shaw said, standing in the doorway, her eyes on Edith, “is it true? Suicide?”

“That is what the constable told us,” Margaret said, struggling to raise her voice over Edith’s sobs. “Captain Lennox has gone to the police station to confirm it.”

“How—how dreadful,” Mrs. Shaw said, falling into a chair beside the bed. She still wore her bonnet. “Oh, Edith.” She reached over and grasped her daughter’s hand tightly. Her own were shaking. “How could Captain Lennox leave her in this state?”

“He had to go,” Margaret said, but she knew arguing with her aunt would be futile. She ceased her attempts at explanation and simply nodded along with Mrs. Shaw’s effusions as Edith’s sobs began to quiet.

Edith was exhausted, and Mrs. Shaw told Margaret to request a doctor. Margaret obeyed the command, leaving the bedroom to find Matilda so that they could dispatch one of the footmen to fetch the doctor. With this task completed, Margaret stood in the hallway, gazing at the closed door to Edith’s room.

The reality of Mr. Lennox’s death—another death, and one which felt more horrid than the many Margaret had experienced thus far—was beginning to come upon her. She had shed so many tears in the last few months that now she wondered if she might have any to spare for poor Henry Lennox. Nevertheless, she felt the loss within her keenly. He’d been so kind, so obliging, and so helpful in handling Frederick’s case. Oh! She’d have to inform Frederick.

Gathering up every ounce of her strength, Margaret approached the door, but paused as Edith’s voice, strained from her crying, rose up. “I fear I know—I know why he did it.”

“How could you know such a thing?” Mrs. Shaw asked.

“We spoke yesterday,” Edith said. “He and Margaret had spent so long in the drawing room that I thought all was settled between them. Then he emerged and requested the use of the drawing room again for today. I was certain they were reaching an understanding—that they were to be married.”

“She refused him?” Mrs. Shaw asked, gasping.

“She must have,” Edith said, sobbing again. “Oh, Mother, you should have heard him. Such despair! ‘Miss Hale will not have me. And I shall not ask her.’ That is what he said! But I tried to assure him. I thought he had been assured, that he’d try again today. Oh, what despair he must have been in, and I didn’t even realize.”

Margaret felt her knees grow weak at this, and she steadied herself against the solid wood of the closed door. Henry had never renewed his proposal, had never even hinted that he had any remaining feelings of affection for Margaret after all this time. She was certain of his indifference to her, ever since that day at Helstone, when she had actually refused him.

All that time working on Frederick’s case, then taking on her accounts. She was certain it was an act of friendship, not romance. Had she made a terrible miscalculation?

She recalled the way Mr. Lennox had hidden away his disappointment that day, how easily he was able to converse with her father. She had judged him as cold then; she realized now that he wasn’t cold. She had come to know many people who were able to hide their pain in ways she could not fathom. In fact, she had had to do such a thing herself.

She could not face Edith and Mrs. Shaw after they had been speaking about this matter, even if she were to act like she wasn’t just eavesdropping. After taking a moment to rally herself, Margaret returned to the parlor, and there she waited. The requested doctor arrived, was met by Margaret and shown to Edith’s room, where he administered a mild sedative. Margaret returned to her place in the parlor, and there she remained until Captain Lennox and Mr. Thornton returned, meditating on these dark circumstances.

Margaret greeted them, forcing herself to smile. Captain Lennox inquired about Edith, and Margaret told him of her emotional state and the doctor’s visit. He thanked Margaret for her attention, then excused himself as he withdrew back into the house. Margaret imagined he might join his wife in temporary sedation.

Thornton peered closely at Margaret, saw that her joy and elation had been overcome with that thick blanketing of grief which had taken up residence in her features far too often in recent times. But there was something else there, something darker which set Thornton’s heart pounding in his chest. He yearned to pluck it out of her, stamp it down, and restore her. Likewise, Margaret looked at Thornton and was alarmed at what she saw in his face: a muted distress which was not there when he left with Captain Lennox. She could only imagine what state Henry Lennox’s corpse had been in to leave Thornton in such a way.

Once again alone, Thornton allowed himself the liberty of moving closer to her, and she turned to him, her deep eyes speaking her feelings while silence consumed them. He bid her to sit down, and she let him gather her up in his arms.

“I can’t think how we shall tell anyone of our plan now,” she said after a few minutes of chilly silence. “I don’t know if Edith will recover from this shock. A suicide is…” her voice trailed off, her gaze unfixed as her mind crawled with overwhelming thoughts.

“It wasn’t suicide,” Thornton all but whispered.

She started, blinking, diamond-like tears caught in her dark eyelashes. “Not suicide? But surely no accident.”

“Unfortunately not,” Thornton answered. “According to the inspector, Mr. Lennox was murdered.”

There was a vexing conflict of emotions which flooded Margaret at these words. Relief that Mr. Lennox had not committed suicide, a new horror that his death had been at the hands of another. She pulled away from Thornton so that she could turn and face him, fixing him with her eyes in a way which made gravity feel heavier to Thornton. “Does the Inspector know who did this?”

Thornton didn’t immediately answer. His hands, which now rested on his knees, formed fists. “He does not. In fact, he suspects me.”

“You?” Margaret said, her voice low. Color came to her cheeks and neck. “There’s no sense in that. Why should he ever suspect you?”

“He believes that Mr. Lennox and I may have been romantic rivals,” Thornton said. “The captain had said his brother had proposed to you.

Margaret shook her head. She wanted to laugh at this absurd afternoon. “He never proposed to me. Perhaps he had such an intention, but he never made any hints to me. Our last conversation was about business, investments, the value of land.”

“Had he never expressed anything to you?” Thornton asked, noticing the nervous way her hands wrang themselves.

She was silent for several heart-rending moments. “Once,” she said in a voice so quiet Thornton nearly missed it. “Long ago, when I still lived in Helstone. He had come to visit my home because I always spoke of it highly while in London. He spent the day with us–with myself, and Mother and Father. And at the end of it all, he made me an offer of marriage.” Her tears at last spilled over, and she closed her eyes at their sting. “It had been so long ago. I never suspected he still…” She could no longer speak.

There was no hesitation on Thornton’s part here; he gathered her into his arms again, her rightful place, and she pressed her face into his chest. He could hardly blame Lennox for the attempted proposal. That Margaret had kept it a secret this whole time–she never ceased to surprise him. Thornton was briefly elated that he did not have to worry about any such romantic rivalry now, a thought which he quashed as inappropriate. Still, it did bring a secret smile to his lips.

They remained that way until Margaret was able to rally herself again. She remained in his arms, enjoying the solidity of his body against hers. “We must set the inspector right. Perhaps I could speak with him.”

“He will be around to meet you,” Thornton said. Margaret turned her face to him, her eyes wide with surprise. “There are some further details I should tell you, if you can bear to hear them.”

She took a deep breath then nodded.

Thornton shared all with her, understanding if not consciously then on a deeper level that Margaret had to be equipped with the pertinent information. She was unsettled by these details–the killing blow to Lennox’s head, the staged hanging, the planted note and its contents–but she remained silent as Thornton spoke, taking it in, that striking mind of her digesting every syllable.

He had just completed his report when a loud pounding came upon the front door, startling them both.

Inspector Chandler called upon the Lennox house that afternoon. He had just been around to the Hart Hotel to confirm Thornton's alibi. The dubious amount of stock he could put into the nighttime observations of the old desk clerk notwithstanding, Chandler knew he had a valuable asset in the two people he hoped to meet at this house at this hour.

He was let in by a pretty servant and led to a parlor where Thornton was standing with a young woman. The servant announced Chandler's name to the pair, and the young woman bid him to come in.

Even before the introductions were made, Chandler knew this woman to be the Miss Hale he sought. Thornton stood quite close to her—Chandler imagined they had been seated on the sofa before which they stood, discussing the very crime which employed Chandler that day. But within seconds of Chandler's arrival, Miss Hale moved a step or two forward, putting a respectable distance between Thornton and herself.

She was remarkable, to say the least. She stood tall, not just in her physical height, but in the way she held her chin up, the way she squared her narrow shoulders and met Chandler's gaze with deep, dark eyes which looked like they could swallow him. Chandler had once been privileged to accompany the Queen's entourage through London during a royal visit, and he had been given thorough instruction on how to conduct his person in Her Majesty’s presence. He felt that instruction come to the forefront if his overactive mind then, and the bow he made might have appeared more formal than was necessary.

“Inspector Chandler,” Miss Hale began after the introductions, “Mr. Thornton has been so good as to tell me that Mr. Lennox did not take his own life.”

“Indeed,” Chandler answered, his gaze falling over the charming room decorations. “It seems someone else has taken it.”

“And you believe that to be Mr. Thornton,” she accused. Chandler looked at her again, a smile tugging at his lips. She was a protective soul. Lucky Mr. Thornton had snagged her for himself.

“I believe,” Chandler said, looking at Thornton now, “I had said that I was simply exploring my avenues of inquiry. It doesn’t take much for one person to end another’s life by violence. Any foolish passions can lead one to do it, and there are many things which lead to passionate emotions. But I imagine you will now convince me you are both beyond such things.”

Chandler could see he had angered Thornton, as color was rising to his cheeks from his neck, but Miss Hale appeared unstirred. “I wouldn’t think that’s possible. I’m certain your work has shown you how quickly one can move from calm civility to brutish fervor.” There was something in her tone here which Chandler’s mind caught: experience. Miss Hale was no ordinary London woman, it seemed. “But I do believe your understanding of the, as you called it, rivalry between Mr. Lennox and Mr. Thornton is mistaken. If you would be so kind as to listen, I can explain how that rivalry was not possible.”

She gestured for him to sit, and he took her offer, settling down in a chair across from the sofa that Miss Hale and Mr. Thornton sat on. From there, she explained with remarkable precision of language and undeniable sincerity that Mr. Lennox had not made any proposal of marriage to her, that Thornton had not any knowledge of a great connection between herself and the deceased, and that Mr. Lennox had never even conceived an idea that she and Mr. Thornton had a connection.

When she had finished, Chandler nodded, rather satisfied by her defense. Truthfully, Chandler had not suspected Mr. Thornton nor Captain Lennox, but he was certain that something about Miss Hale was important to this case. He was pleased he had met her, but it also meant that he had not progressed in his case one bit since he met Captain Lennox and Mr. John Thornton, mill master and magistrate of Milton, that morning.

“Thank you very much, miss,” Chandler said. He was anxious now, and this made him restless. He stood. “I believe I may find more answers in Mr. Lennox’s place of work rather here in this charming home.”

“You have other suspects,” Thornton observed.

Chandler nodded. “I do hope these proceedings have not caused too much offense.”

They were quiet for a few moments before Miss Hale let out a breath of relief. “Who could have done such a thing?” she asked, clasping her hands tightly before her.

It was just the question which haunted Chandler, and he could not help speaking. “The Who is a question which must be put aside for the time being,” Chandler said, walking closer to the hearth, over which sat a few ceramic figures of dancers. “The question of Who is far too lost in the dark to be of much use. We must first understand the Why and the How.”

He turned to look at Miss Hale again, effecting a smile which did not put her at any ease. “Presumably that means you already know the what and the where,” she said.

“That is, indeed, the case, my lady,” Chandler answered. “The What? Murder. The Where?” He sighed, shaking his head. “His very own office.”

“Then your business lies there,” Thornton said. Clearly he was losing patience with Chandler’s presence.

“It does. But I do have one further line of inquiry to make here. You see, there is another very big possible Why,” Chandler answered. He met Miss Hale’s eyes, seeing himself reflected in them. He turned away, electing to gaze out the curtained window. “Mr. Lennox was tending to your business affairs, if I understood Mr. Thornton here correctly.”

“Yes, sir,” Miss Hale answered.

Thornton stepped forward. “You’re not suggesting Miss Hale is responsible,” he said, his body stiff, his muscles tense. Chandler met this physical imposition with one of his smiles.

“I could never suggest that Miss Hale is capable of hoisting a man four feet off the ground by his neck and a rope, no,” he said. He was surprised that Miss Hale did not react to this information with a gasp or a hand to her mouth. Did Thornton tell her the grisly details already? “There’s a brutality—and a need for raw physical strength—which I would shrink to believe Miss Hale capable of. Unless you would like to correct me?”

Thornton’s eyes narrowed into a glare, but Miss Hale’s chin rose as she said, “Nonetheless, you believe Mr. Lennox’s business with me is connected to this crime.”

“What I believe,” Inspector Chandler said, bowing his head down, “is that this is my only lead. If I may be allowed to ask you for every detail, and if you would do me the favor of answering all in honesty, you would go a long way to help me understand this happening.”

He felt her eyes on him; it was like a burning sensation. She was silent for a moment, then let out a short breath. “Of course,” she said. “There are quite a lot of details. I will have some tea brought in. And then I will tell you everything I can.”

Thornton had listened and watched Inspector Chandler through the meeting. All the facts of Margaret’s accounts—her inheritance, her owning the property on which Marlborough Mills was built, her owning the Thorntons’ very future—had been weighing on his mind for months. Yet as Margaret dutifully and accurately relayed these details to Chandler, filling in the gaps of Thornton’s account, Thornton’s mind could only focus on one strange detail.

Forty hours, Chandler had said. By now, it would only be about thirty-eight. Could he find the man who had ended Henry Lennox’s life in such a short time?

Chandler had listened, his hands fidgeting with his teacup. He hardly took any tea, but he passed the saucer between his hands, carefully stirred it with the teaspoon so that it didn’t clink against the porcelain, looped his slender index finger through the handle before releasing it again. Occasionally he cocked his head to the side as Margaret expanded on some legal details which Henry had been involved in. It was an odd gesture for the man, for it seemed to take fifteen years off his face.

When all was finished, Chandler thanked Margaret coolly and paid her a deep bow. Mrs. Shaw’s voice floated down from the bed chambers, and the cry of a child came with it. Chandler had been with them almost an hour, and Margaret was anxious to attend to her family. She had asked Thornton to see Inspector Chandler out, and he was happy to oblige.

Thornton followed Chandler to the front door as Margaret’s regal form disappeared up the stairs. On the front step, Chandler tugged his gloves on, letting out a long sigh.

“I hope this was enlightening,” Thornton said, knowing his hurt pride was still evident in his voice.

“So far we are still groping through the dark,” Chandler said, his eyes on the busy street before them. “Still, I’m to see the men at the Temple now. Perhaps another piece of this puzzle will fall into place.”

Thornton expected Chandler to say his goodbyes, or perhaps even just walk down the steps and into the street. But instead, the inspector stood still, cocked his head to the side again, looking upward as if receiving a message from God. Then he looked to Thornton, shrugged one shoulder, and asked, “Would you care to come with me?”

Thornton raised an eyebrow, totally incredulous. Had Chandler not suspected Thornton just one hour ago? “Me, sir?”

“I could use the insight of a magistrate,” Chandler said, smiling now. There was no artifice to his expression. “Particularly one from Milton.”

Chapter Text

Thornton had never seen the Honorable Society of the Middle Temple. It was a handsome building, one which had seen hundreds of years of change in the great city. Inspector Chandler led him through the labyrinthine interior until they came to the Temple’s grand library. It was a two-story behemoth which stretched for out what felt like miles. Books were attractively tucked into shelves which lined the walls on the ground and first floors, and long tables lined the center of the library at which the barristers, lawyers, and their assistants could study their tomes at all hours.

Even standing just in the doorway to the library, Thornton spotted the place where Henry Lennox must have been found: A piece of the handsome oak railing on the first floor near the entrance was knocked askew, although no body or rope hung there. The rest of the library was immaculate, so this damaged railing stood out.

A young, uniformed police officer stood dutifully by the door which led to the library. Chandler nodded to him, adding an irreverent “Afternoon, Hobbs.”

“Good afternoon, Inspector,” the young man responded. He eyed Thornton as if he were nothing more than a trespasser.

“Oh, right,” he said, “Constable, this is John Thornton of Milton. He’ll be giving us some assistance.”

“Yes, sir,” Hobbs said. He and Thornton’s eyes met, and they nodded in mutual neutrality.

Toward the center of the library was a group of men. Four were arranged there, one sat at the table while the other three stood, and all four appeared in some state of irritation to be there rather than at the work which they no doubt had waiting for them. The eldest gentleman, a heavy man in his sixties, stepped forward as Chandler and Thornton approached, peering over a pair of spectacles which sat low on his round nose. “Hmm, Inspector, we have been waiting for nearly half an hour,” he said in place of a greeting.

“I do apologize for my delay,” Chandler responded, smiling now. He fixed his icy eyes on the gentleman who spoke. “I had to gather up some facts, and in the process of that, I found a magistrate to help us, as Mr. Willoughby is currently out at Weymouth.”

“Magistrate?” the gentleman said, the skin on his wide forehead crinkling as his eyebrows rose. “Hmm, from where, sir?”

“Milton-Northern,” Thornton answered.

“Ah, Milton,” the man repeated. “I do believe that is where you were born, Mr. Wright?”

A plump, fashionable gentleman around the same age as Henry Lennox nodded once. “I’ve not laid my eyes on it in years,” he said, his voice absent of any northern accent, “although I’ve heard it has experienced quite a measure of material prosperity.” His gaze traveled over Thornton as if he were assessing all of Milton’s wealth based on Thornton’s appearance alone.

“I expect you have,” Chandler broke in, “as that prosperity is what brought those great accounts to Mr. Lennox’s attention, is it not?” The mention of the deceased had a chilling effect on the air around the gentlemen. At this silence, Chandler took the opportunity to introduce the men to Thornton.

The eldest gentleman was Derrick Grant, and Henry Lennox had been one of his direct associates. Beside him stood a man of a similar height and build to Thornton, but with much lighter coloring. He had a closed manner and a stern face which was hard to read. He wore his wavy yellow hair long and tied neatly into a tail. He was Mr. Grant’s other associate, called August Barnett.

Across the table from them was Mr. Wright, whose first name was Jacob, and sat beside him was Manfred Todd, a thin man who looked to be the youngest of them all. His eyes, deep-set and dark, peered at Thornton with tentative curiosity. He hardly seemed old enough to be out of school. As Chandler explained, Mr. Wright and Mr. Todd were the associates of Mr. Grant’s partner, a man by the name of Owen Oswald, who was currently away on holiday.

“Why are we here?” Barnett asked, folding his thick arms over his wide chest.

“Old boy did himself in,” Wright added, drawing a mortified look from Todd. “I hardly see any reason why you should feel the need to call such a conference with all of us.”

“Were you the one who discovered Mr. Lennox?” Chandler asked Wright, locking eyes with him. He pointed to the damaged piece of railing on the floor above them, visible from where they stood. “Right there, was it not?”

“That is true,” Wright responded, some of his bravado fading. He leaned forward on the table, his hands which were arranged into loose fists resting on the solid oak.

“Hmm, for goodness’ sake,” Grant spoke up, “we know what happened. We have work to do.”

“Ah, but my Mr. Thornton does not know,” Chandler said, and all eyes were on Thornton again. “Please, Mr. Wright, for Mr. Thornton.” For a moment, Wright didn’t say anything, and his dark brow grew severe. Thornton became aware of something silent passing between Wright and Chandler.

“I shall,” Wright said, standing upright, “for your Mr. Thornton. I arrived here this very morning at a quarter of six to begin work on a complicated case which our Mr. Barnett has been tasked with. I proceeded into the library to fetch a reference text, the details of which you may not be familiar. Of course, as it was so early, the lights remained extinguished, but I had brought my own candle from my office, so I had no need to turn them on.

“Now I could not see a thing beyond the light of my modest candle, and therefore I did not notice Lennox when I entered the library, you understand. The text which I sought was there.” Wright pointed to a bookcase behind Chandler and Thornton, which was placed just feet away from where Lennox’s body would have hanged. “I very nearly collided with the stiff corpse. There he swung, like some sort of condemned criminal, hanged by his neck.” There was a theatrical drama to his voice, the emotion of which did not match his expression. As a result, Wright’s recounting of the discovery to Mr. Lennox’s corpse almost seemed mocking. Thornton found this in poor taste.

Grant and Barnett listened with little reaction, but Todd fidgeted uncomfortably in his seat, and this drew Thornton’s attention. He considered the youth, whether he would have been capable of this crime. Chandler’s words to Margaret echoed in his head, and Thornton doubted very much that the lad had the physical capabilities to hang Lennox from the second floor. Could the other three gentlemen in the room, however, be more capable of this crime?

“And what did you do upon finding the corpse?” Chandler asked.

“Why, I called for the police,” Wright spat, “of course.”

“I do believe the call was placed by Mr. Grant,” Chandler remarked.

Wright’s neck and round cheeks turned a shade of pink, but Grant broke in. “Hmm, I heard Wright shouting for the police from my office, and after attending to him and seeing the corpse for myself. Hm, yes, I placed the call. On the police box just out on the street.”

When Chandler did not follow up to that, Thornton asked, “Were only yourself and Mr. Wright present in the building?”

Grant appeared to consider this question for a moment, glancing to his colleagues. “Hmm, yes, I believe so. Mr. Barnett arrived some time after seven o’clock–” to which Barnett nodded “–and Mr. Todd arrived, oh, when was it?”

“N-nine o’clock, sir,” Todd spoke up, his voice raspy, as if he had hardly spoken that entire day.

“Indeed, there you have it,” Grant said, satisfied.

“Indeed, there we have it,” Chandler repeated. “Gentlemen, I shall release you to return to your tireless work, but as you remain persons of interest in this case, I ask that you not go far. My men will remain in the building while I complete a second investigation of this library as well as Mr. Lennox’s office. That is a shared office with Mr. Barnett, correct?”

Barnett nodded wordlessly.

“Then I must ask you continue to avoid that office and work elsewhere, if the need arises.” Chandler smiled coldly as the men walked out of the library. Wright threw him one final dark look before following Todd out, and once they all left, Chandler blew out a sigh. “Quite a group, eh?” he said to Thornton.

“I can understand their testiness,” Thornton responded. “I’m often not pleasant when interrupted during my work.”’

“Who is, particularly in this age when work is so all-encompassing, so important, that the very death of a colleague is not enough to stop the work for even one day?” He pinned Thornton with his icy stare. “Let me ask, if you were to discover a dead body inside your mill, how many hours would it be before operations returned to normal?”

Thornton knew what answer Chandler wanted. Nonetheless, he could calculate in his head to the nearest shilling how much a loss of operations would cost the mill per hour, how valuable time itself was to his business, and so he said, “The very bare minimum.”

Chandler snorted. “If that is the sole piece of honesty I find in this place today, then I know I am truly cursed. Come, I would like to have you look at the scenes of the crime. My men have been all over them since daybreak, and I believe I shall go cross-eyed if I keep staring at them. A new perspective is exactly what I need. We will begin here, on the first floor.”

As the pair proceeded to the staircase at the back of the library to climb to the floor above them, Thornton asked, “Do you doubt Mr. Wright’s account?”

“He is a lawyer, Mr. Thornton,” Chandler responded. “I make it a practice to doubt when a lawyer tells me the earth revolves around the sun. That said, Mr. Wright did express one detail that he failed to mention in his earlier account to me. He said Mr. Lennox’s corpse was stiff. I’m sure as a magistrate, you are aware of how a body stiffens after death?”

“I am.” That image of his father flashed to the forefront of his mind.

“When Mr. Grant called the police, I was still quite asleep. I did not see Mr. Lennox until after I had come here to view the scenes and interview those four men, and when I finally saw the corpse for myself, he was quite flaccid. Now this gives me a better estimation of his time of death.” He paused at the top of the staircase, looking thoughtful. “Perhaps between midnight and two o’clock. That is, if Mr. Wright is correct in what he says and is not just adding more details to enjoy the sound of his own voice for longer.”

Thornton joined him, his gaze traveling over to the scene of the hanging immediately. As they approached it, Thornton realized how extensive the damage of the bannister was. The wood had rented and split, leaving a scattering of splinters along the carpet. The horizontal bars held better than the hand rail, but they were bent unnaturally at the bottom. The scarlet carpet just under the damaged bannister featured a quarter-inch dark mark not unlike a burn.

“The noose has been taken in as evidence, of course,” Chandler said as they approached the scene. “I had a sketch made of the scene, but I shall describe it for you now. The rope had been secured to the bannister where you can see the damage. It broke through the handrail and caught on the bottom here, where I believe the rope burned into the carpet. Mr. Lennox was hanging about four feet from the ground. According to my measurements, he was about five feet and seven inches and just under one hundred and eighty pounds, and the rope itself only came down about four feet. It would have been a gruesome death, had that been his true end.”

“He’d have suffocated,” Thornton said, his voice low.

“Indeed,” Chandler said, watching Thornton closely. “You have seen this for yourself, I see. Horrid sight. Lucky for Mr. Lennox, he avoided that.”

Lucky would hardly be the word Thornton would use, but he was beginning to understand Inspector Chandler held a rather relative view of the world.

Thornton stood several feet from the damaged part of the bannister, so he felt comfortable enough to reach out and touch the handrail near his arm. It was quite solid, made of sturdy hardwood and polished to a handsome shine. Even leaning upon it, Thornton felt confident it would hold all if not most of his weight. So to see such a break in the handrail rather surprised him.

He moved past Chandler to look at the damage closer. “Peculiar,” he said aloud, “that the handrail broke like this. There’s no rot inside.”

“I’ve been thinking very much the same thing,” Chandler said, stepping close to Thornton. “This is a well-built library, meant to last for centuries. Of course, these bannisters were not built with hanging in mind. And it could have been damaged already. Yet the issue still sticks in my mind.” He gazed to the ground floor, his hands on the rail.

Something caught in the splintered wood glimmered in the light which filtered in through a glazed window beside them. Thornton moved so he wouldn’t block any of the light and saw that it was a few strands of shiny dark hair. “What is this?” he said, catching Chandler’s attention.

The inspector stepped forward and peered down, producing a pair of tweezers and a small paper pouch from his breast pocket as he did so. With a still hand, he plucked the hair free with the tweezers and held it up. The strands curled loosely and shined with pomade.

“This is not Lennox’s hair,” Thornton observed.

“Nor yours,” Chandler remarked, and this drew Thornton’s gaze to him in surprised indignation. He caught Chandler’s mischievous little grin, however. “Apologies, my friend. Humor is hard to come by in this work. I take it where I can find it–even at someone’s expense.”

Chandler tucked the hair into the pouch carefully as Thornton bit back a twinge of irritation. “Of our persons of interest,” Chandler said after a moment, “only Mr. Wright and Mr. Todd have dark hair, but only Todd’s hair curls.”

“I shouldn’t think Mr. Todd could be capable of bringing Lennox up here,” Thornton said, tracing the path from the library entrance all the way to the staircase at the back and finally to this point in the middle with his eyes.

“Not alone, certainly,” Chandler said. “But what if he had help?”

They were both silent a moment as they imagined any one man trying to carry Henry Lennox through the library and up the stairs. One hundred and eighty pounds of dead weight was no small matter. Then he would have had to have been hoisted over the bannister–a height of four feet, perhaps a little more–once the noose was tightened around his neck.

Barnett was the tallest and looked to be the strongest of all of them, and even for him, this would have been quite a struggle.

“There must have been another,” Thornton said, a cold knot in his stomach. “At least.”

“Potentially it could have been all of them,” Chandler said, letting out a sigh which betrayed his exhaustion.

Thornton reflected back on the conversation he had had with the lawyers. Todd was blatantly nervous, Wright full of bluster, and Barnett hardly said a single sentence. Even Mr. Grant’s answers had sounded carefully considered. They could all be hiding something.

“Shall we move to the office?” Chandler suggested, ripping Thornton from his thoughts.

As they made their way out of the library, Thornton asked, “Do the gentlemen have alibis?”

“Mr. Grant was at home with his wife, which I have confirmed myself,” Chandler said. “Mr. Todd says he was staying at his sister’s home as she just had a baby a few days ago, and Mr. Barnett says the owner of the boarding house he stays in requires the tenants to check in and out in a book if they leave after sundown. My men are currently confirming these alibis. Jacob–” Chandler paused there, shaking his head. “Mr. Wright does not have an alibi.”

Thornton caught the use of the first name, but made no comment on it and let it slip by. They briskly passed into a long hallway and made their way through the inner chambers of the Middle Temple until they came to the office where Henry Lennox had practiced.

It was a spacious room, handsomely furnished for both comfort and practical use. The walls were paneled with dark wood upon which ancient tapestries were draped, giving the room a warm and historical look. In the center of the office, two large oak desks were arranged facing each other, their matching chairs pushed in. Along the far wall was an arrangement of comfortable-looking chairs accompanied by a low table upon which a set of glasses and a carafe of brandy were arranged. The floor was covered in carpeted rugs the same scarlet color as those in the library. Sunlight filtered in through the glazed windows.

It wasn’t difficult to distinguish whose desk was whose. The desk on the right was rather pristine, the pen in its font, the blotter clean, no doubt the desk of August Barnett. The desk on the left, however, was a mess of papers, folios, books, and notes. Henry Lennox never came off as an unorganized person; rather the opposite seemed true to Thornton in the short time they had known each other. But Henry was in the midst of organizing Margaret’s accounts, and on top of that, Chandler mentioned that the police had already combed through the desk. Thornton could picture in his mind Constable Hobbs or someone like him haphazardly moving piles of documents and books as they sought clues to this grisly crime and not bothering to order them again.

“As I explained previously,” Chandler said, standing with his hip leaning on Barnett’s desk, “Mr. Lennox had been killed by a hard blow to the back of his head, hard enough to kill him nearly instantly.”

“Did you collect the weapon?” Thornton asked.

“We collected a small marble bust and a wooden baton from this room,” Chandler said, shaking his head. “They were both clean of any blood, and neither had the shape of the wound on Lennox’s skull.” He rubbed at his stubbly chin. “I’m beginning to wonder if there ever was a weapon.”

Thornton furrowed his brow. “A blow from a fist?” he asked, recalling how large Barnett’s hands were.

“No, it’s quite rectangular,” Chandler said, making the shape with his hands. “Long and narrow, like this. About four inches.” Thornton glanced around the room, unsure of what could create such a wound that was not a weapon. “Well, perhaps your fresh eyes will yield some result.”

Thornton walked over to Henry’s desk, taking in the chaos of the items upon it. He didn’t wish to peer too closely at the documents on top of the pile, although he did know some of them may have had to do with Marlborough Mills. He wondered briefly how Margaret would manage now that Lennox was gone. Thornton knew of several lawyers in Milton who would be up to this task, but they were no one Margaret knew, and she may not feel comfortable trusting them with all her assets.

Refocusing, Thornton pulled the chair out to look under the desk. He felt a bit foolish, as he was sure the police had already done this, but nonetheless he knelt down on the floor and maneuvered his broad body under, wondering if he might find something–hair, blood, even an suspicious letter opener–down there, yet he only discovered the Middle Temple employed a rather slapdash cleaner.

With nothing to show for this, Thornton moved to back out from under the desk to stand up, but he miscalculated and hit the back of his head on the edge of the desk. He was knocked back down, briefly disoriented, a bloom of pain on the back of his head. He swore, shaking his head and pulling himself to his feet.

Chandler made no move to help him, but only asked, “Did you draw blood?”

“No, no,” Thornton said, letting out a breath. “I’m quite alright.”

“Good,” Chandler said with a smile, “I’m not sure what I’d do with a second corpse.”

But Thornton hardly heard the quip. He gazed at the edge of the desk where he had hit his head. The edge made a perfect long, narrow rectangle. Something that wasn’t a weapon. As the pain in his head subsided, something clicked into place.

With a new boldness, Thornton carefully gathered up the papers on the desk, clearing them enough so that the edges of the desk were visible. There was no evidence anything had fallen against them–no blood, no denting. Perhaps the wood was too hard to be damaged by a skull.

“Have you got something?” Chandler asked, leaning forward now.

“I believe,” Thornton said, putting a hand to the back of his head, “that perhaps Lennox wasn’t hit with something. Maybe he fell into the edge of his desk.”

Chandler followed Thornton’s gaze to the edge of the desk. He picked up more of the papers, clearing the head of the desk. All clean there as well.

But now with the papers cleared away, both men noticed something tucked between the desks where their heads met. Chandler tried to pull it out, but it was stuck. Carefully, Thornton grasped Lennox’s desk by either side and pulled it away a few inches, allowing Chandler to free the item.

It was a small leather-bound diary.

“Secrets?” Chandler asked as he opened the diary. Thornton briefly peered over Chandler’s shoulder, but he recalled himself and looked away. Chandler must look at its contents, but Thornton had no business reading a dead man’s personal thoughts–even if they may have had to do with Margaret.

To distract from the curiosity, Thornton gently started to push the desk back. It was then that his eyes landed on Barnett’s desk.

There, at the edge of the desk where it met Lennox’s, was a four-inch dent in the wood.

Thornton pointed it out, and Chandler ripped his eyes away from the diary to the desk. He all but shoved the diary into Thornton’s hands (who carefully closed it) and peered down at the dent.

“It’s clean,” Chandler said, “but it looked like a match to the wound on Lennox’s head. But how could he have hit his head here?”

“Have these desks always been in this position?” Thornton wondered aloud.

“You stole the very question from my lips,” Chandler said. “Look to the floor.”

And there the answer lay. The carpet rug on the floor showed eight prominent indents grouped together in fours. These indents demonstrated that the desks did not usually face each other; rather, they usually faced toward the office’s entrance, arranged about three feet apart from each other.

Henry Lennox had fallen against Barnett’s desk–hard, he had probably been pushed–and the desks had been cleaned and rearranged to hide that fact.

Chandler was grinning now, and to Thornton, this sight was unnerving. With more excitement than he had displayed yet, Chandler announced, “I believe we need to speak to Mr. Barnett.”

In the time it took to complete this secondary investigation, the four gentlemen had scattered. Chandler inquired with Constable Hobbs and discovered that Wright had left to attend a meeting with a client, and Barnett and Grant had left to take a late lunch. Chandler left Hobbs with an order to summon them back to the Temple directly.

As they waited for this, they discovered Mr. Todd remained. He was in a common workroom with a few other junior members who belonged to other barristers unrelated to this case. But where his colleagues were all busy at their work, Mr. Todd sat still at his desk, his hands folded neatly before him, and he gazed ahead like a dutiful schoolboy awaiting a lecture.

Thornton remained in the hall while Chandler stepped into the workroom to fetch Todd. As they joined Thornton, Thornton saw that Todd looked rather haggard. His hair stuck out in places, and his eyes were irritated with unshed tears.

“You seem quite distraught, Mr. Todd,” Chandler commented, his tone carefully neutral.

“Is that such an odd reaction?” Todd asked, his voice quiet and unsteady. “It must seem, compared to Mr. Grant and the–the others. You’d almost think they were happy Mr. Lennox is d-dead.”

“Are they?” Chandler asked, eyebrow cocked.

Todd let out a long breath. “O-oh, I don’t know. Mr. Lennox was always so agreeable and–and kind. He always went out of his way to wish me a good morning when he was in. Um, but I know he had his differences with the other two.”

“What differences?” Thornton asked, leaning forward. Todd regarded him with a suspicious look and glanced to Chandler.

“Answer the man’s question,” Chandler commanded.

Todd swallowed. “Mr. Lennox, Mr. Barnett, and Mr. Wright have been so eager to make names for themselves. The, uh, competition to gain great and remarkable clients is intense. I’ve often heard the three of them shouting at each other over such matters, but–but they’d always calm down again.

“Th-that is, until Mr. Lennox took up the accounts of, um, Miss Margaret Hale earlier this year. It wasn’t much of a fuss at first, as Miss Hale was not well known outside of Mr. Lennox’s circle, and the funds, while great, were not remarkable for our usual clientele. But there was a sizable investment in a speculation which paid out m-massively.”

Thornton fought to keep his countenance at the mention of that cursed speculation. It was proving to be an event which would haunt him for life.

“The payout increased the value of the accounts by, well, a sizable factor,” Todd continued. “Mr. Lennox had the p-privilege of handling the affairs of a young woman of a grand fortune. It was a boon for him, certainly. Erm, I know the lady had extensive plans for these funds. I imagine if Mr. Lennox had handled these plans to their conclusion, it would have recommended him very well to other potential wealthy clients.”

“How did Barnett and Wright take to this?” Chandler asked.

Todd sighed again, running a trembling hand through his tousled curls. “Oh, with envy, of course. They both did everything in their, uh, power to block Mr. Lennox from taking part in other accounts and helping our clients, saying with derision that he would be, uh, too busy with Miss Hale’s accounts to work on anything else. And, well, Mr. Lennox argued that would be ridiculous for a man of his, um, talents. It was quite an ugly display from them all.”

Chandler nodded to Thornton as if Thornton could miss that this was significant information. This was the motive they sought.

Thornton could just about imagine the scene clearly. Barnett, Wright, and Lennox, arranged in Barnett and Lennox’s office. Their conversation heated, escalating to violence. Who would have pushed Lennox? Wright’s personality was quite volatile and he seemed like he might lose his temper quickly, but Barnett possessed the strength to shove Lennox hard enough to cause him to die within minutes of impact against the edge of the desk.

Then what? Did they panic or did they plan? Was the rope at hand or did they have to fetch it? How long did it take them to haul Henry into the library, stage the suicide, clean the office?

…And where had the despairing note come from?

It didn’t explain all, but at an inquest, means, motive, and opportunity was all that was needed to move to a criminal trial, and all three were now present for Wright and Barnett.

“Another thing,” Chandler said, his voice slicing through Thornton’s thoughts. He produced the paper pouch he had placed the strands of hair in earlier. “You told me that you stayed with your sister last night.”

“I did,” Todd said, and his voice took up a surprisingly confident note.

“Then tell me,” Chandler said, opening the pouch. With his tweezers, he pulled the strands of hair out. “Does this belong to your scalp?”

Todd gazed down at the strands, his eyes widening. Thornton compared the strands to Todd’s hair. It was quite similar–same shade, the texture looked close–but Thornton noted that Todd’s hair was not applied with pomade. It would have rubbed off on his hands if that were the case. Further, his hair was dry and frizzy, in need of a good oil.

That’s not to say he hadn’t been wearing a pomade earlier. Perhaps, if he had needed to clean himself, he would have washed it out of his hair.

Todd’s face hardened, his jaw set, and he tore his gaze away from the strands. “I-I don’t mean to be rude,” he said, his voice quiet and totally devoid of any confidence now, “but I believe I should not say another word to you until the–the inquest.”