Dark Angel (Gentlemen of the Order 4)

“That’s what my uncle said when I confronted him with the evidence I found in the chest.” She was relieved he wanted to discuss the case and not their intimate exchange. “He seemed shocked and clearly had no notion my aunt had kept the leather case.”

John Sands had tried to take the documents and read them for himself. But Beatrice had already switched her father’s notes with letters she had stolen from her uncle’s study. And so she’d emptied the contents into the fire blazing in the hearth before he could offer any protest.

Dante pushed a letter across the desk. Beatrice took it and peeled back the folds, though she knew it was the letter of appointment she had given him in the coffeehouse six days ago.

“My father hired Mr Watson in the December of 1804, three months before someone attacked my mother in an alley. Now, unless there was a prior attack, we must assume he had another reason for seeking the services of an enquiry agent.”

Beatrice studied the date scrawled on the page. “Though Mrs Pickering’s statement isn’t dated, she said the man who called at the house in Tidworth came when your father was in Italy. Evidently that’s when the problems started, and so the attack must have had something to do with the reason your mother threw him out.”

r /> “My father was away in Italy in the October of that year. I’ve seen a letter written by him promising to be home for Christmas. I’ve spent the morning examining these notes, and there’s an obvious discrepancy, a discrepancy easily overlooked when one has a personal interest in every harrowing detail.”

Guilt surfaced, along with a sense of inadequacy.

What had she missed?

“Give me a moment. Let me sit so I might concentrate and take notes.” She managed to undo the buttons and shrug out of her pelisse.

“Shall I ring for Mrs Gunning to bring tea?” he said.

“No. Once we begin, I’d rather not be disturbed.”

“Indeed.” He watched her intently as she draped the garment over the chair, his gaze roaming over the lilac day dress she’d worn because it flattered her figure and gave her a boost of confidence. “Perhaps you should close the door.”

“Of course.”

He waited for her to sit, for her to take her black notebook and pencil from her reticule and give him her undivided attention.

“You spoke of a discrepancy,” she prompted.

“It’s more an inconsistency.” He motioned to the papers spread out on the desk. “Clearly this isn’t a year’s worth of work. When we work on a case, we record every comment, every statement, every description given. We date the records and file them.” He gestured to the walnut drawers lining the wall at the far end of the room. “Daventry insists on keeping meticulous records.”

Beatrice knew how important it was to keep accurate accounts. Men had been hung from the gallows because of misplaced evidence.

“You mean pages are missing. When I showed my uncle the contents of the leather case, he said my aunt must have taken it as a keepsake, a memento. But I find that odd, unless she took only what she could find.”

Why hadn’t Aunt Margaret cut a lock of her brother’s hair, or kept his signet ring? Beatrice remembered sitting on her father’s lap and tracing her tiny finger over the initials engraved into the gold. Had he been buried with the ring? Because she’d not seen it since.

“Precisely. So what happened to the rest of your father’s work?”

“I have no idea.”

Beatrice knew very little about her life before moving to Rochester.

“It’s not just that. Mrs Pickering’s statement lacks basic information. There’s no description of the caller, no mention of the name given. We don’t know how long he stayed, if he came on horseback, by foot or by carriage. We don’t know what my mother did when he left.”

Beatrice grew a little defensive. “I’m sure my father asked those questions. His notes on the attack in the alley are extremely thorough.”

“Indeed, so thorough they contain an important piece of evidence.” He took a few calming breaths. “The brute attacked my mother in White Cross Alley in the parish of Shoreditch. One might ask what she was doing there alone and on foot, but Sloane said the alley leads off Wilson Street.”

“Wilson Street? Mr Coulter lives on Wilson Street.”

“Exactly. The question is, did Mr Coulter live on Wilson Street in the spring of 1805? If not, perhaps we’re looking for a relative.”

Beatrice’s heart raced. It couldn’t be a coincidence and was the first new piece of evidence they had. She made a note of it in her book before looking at Mr D’Angelo. His expression remained impassive, but his heart must be pounding too.

“I shall add Mr Coulter to our list of suspects.”

He propped his elbows on the desk and steepled his fingers. “We need to go back to the beginning, unravel every tangled thread in this web of deceit.”