He nodded, crossing to her side. Their shoulders nearly touched as they leaned over the same document. She reached across him to retrieve a separate sheet, her shoulder brushing against his sleeve. The contact was brief, but his breath caught.
She pulled back at once and continued with her task, though he saw the slight tremor in her hand.
“I beg your pardon,” she murmured.
Marcus shook his head at once.
“There is nothing to pardon,” he said quickly.
Catherine blushed, but she merely nodded. The moment passed yet lingered. Marcus found himself watching the careful movements of her hands, the order she brought to chaos. He recognised her system of categorising evidence by subject, correlating dates, and tracking inconsistencies in guest behaviour and movement. It was not unlike his own method of study. But where his thoughts often tangled in urgency, hers brought clarity.
She glanced up and caught his gaze. Her cheeks coloured, and she lowered her eyes again.
“You have devised a remarkably efficient structure,” he said.
Catherine nodded, as if the explanation was plain.
“It seemed the only way forward,” she said.
He moved to sit across from her, picking up one of Edmund’s notes, which he had ultimately left with them. He scanned the page, then another.
“This account here,” he said, tapping the paper. “The man in Dover who hosted a private showing of his antiquities. A brooch vanished under similar circumstances.”
She nodded.
“Yes,” she said. “I cross-referenced that with the name listed at the bottom. It is Harold’s former colleague at Cambridge. He was among the guests.”
Marcus sat back.
“It may yet be coincidence,” he said—though inwardly he struggled to believe anything mere chance at present.
“Perhaps. But if that colleague left Cambridge under questionable circumstances…” she began.
Marcus understood immediately.
“And now reappears in connection with Harold, whose own history is curiously elusive,” he said, finishing her thought.
She nodded once.
“Then we have something more than conjecture,” she said.
He stared at her across the desk.
“You astonish me with your shrewd, composed logic,” he said.
She smiled faintly.
“That is most kind of you to say,” she said.
Marcus shook his head slowly.
“It is not kindness,” he said. “It is simple fact.”
Catherine flushed again, but this time, her gaze did not linger. She went back to her work, and Marcus turned his attention back to his own.
They worked for another hour, papers passing between them in silence except for the scratch of quill on parchment and the occasional murmur of realisation.
As the clock on the mantel struck the half-hour, Catherine rubbed her temples.
