He needed to focus on what was happening.
The money was fairly easy to understand. Either he needed it, or he needed Mary's father not to have it. In either case, though, that left him at square one. Why would a Colonel in His Majesty's Army need money? Surely his day-to-day expenses were covered by his stipend.
If he wanted his brother not to have it—why? Was he trying to sap him completely dry? He was doing a perfectly adequate job of it, if so.
Every answer, every possible answer, only had more questions. James shut his eyes and tried not to think about Mary, sitting across from him. He tried to push the image of her, sitting on his bed and softly crying, out of his mind. He would make it up to her, in time, if he could. Now he needed to help her with something larger and much more important.
But he couldn't distract himself long enough to solve the problem, and he couldn't find the words to ask her for help.
They arrived back at the house in the late afternoon, after having eaten supper in town, in a steely silence. He didn't know what he expected, but James was surprised to find the place in the same condition they had left it. He thought they'd find it ransacked, or find someone waiting for them.
Instead, the lock eased open and when they went in, the place was empty. He carried their bags, one in either hand, to her room, and then to the room he'd claimed for himself.
That was when he noticed it. It wasn't ransacked. His things were in bags, the way he'd left them. His papers weren't strewn about the floor. But as he looked, he could tell. Someone had gone through them, while they were gone. And then they'd put them back, hoping that he wouldn't notice.
"Mary," he called out loudly. He couldn't tell if she heard him, and he didn't know if she would answer if she had.
The halls seemed longer, now. As if the anxiety were keeping her further away from him.
"Mary!"
He felt as if he'd been walking forever when he got to her door. He wasn't sure what had possessed him of the idea, but he pounded on it; he absolutely had to talk to her, and immediately.
She opened the door wordlessly. There was a book on her bed, a leather-bound journal that he hadn't seen before.
"Mary, thank God you're alright." James took a deep breath and closed his eyes, trying to get himself back under control. His heart thudded in his ears. "Someone's been in the house. They went through my things."
"Are you sure?"
For a moment he wondered why she had asked. But that wasn't important. It was only important that he communicate it all to her.
"Certain."
"Is anything missing?"
James blinked. He hadn't thought to check, beyond his room. He couldn't make a complete inventory of any place in the house, except... Without answering, he
started to walk toward the study.
It looked right to him. At first. A stack of ledgers, neatly arranged. The papers had been pushed aside, he recalled with a blush, by Mary's bottom. He'd never put them back in order. Now they looked like a jumbled mess on the table, just like he'd remembered them looking.
It seemed strange, though. Something seemed slightly... off. He started sorting through them, and then it became clear.
Several of them—the ones that had led them to Oliver Geis in the first place—were missing. P and D were still there, as was B and R, but O was mysteriously absent.
If someone were presented with only this evidence, then they'd never have gotten even as far as James and Mary had. It would have all looked like the records were incomplete.
He opened one of the ledgers. They were the same as he remembered, except the last. On the bottom, as he opened it, someone had written in handwriting that could have passed for his own, one word: "Embezzled?"
James sat back in the chair and stewed. What on earth was going on here? He laid back and let out a long sigh. The day had already been long. He'd been upset and confused before he ever got on the train, and then things had been incomprehensibly tense. The discovery that the house had been broken into was triply worrying.
But now he had a new reason to worry, a big reason to worry.
Someone was going back to cover up their tracks.
17
Mary