The household was stirring, but no voices called out. Only the creak of stair-treads, the shuffle of cautious feet behind closed panels.
The library door stood wide. Marcus crossed the threshold and stopped short. Edmund Price lay near the hearth, one arm flung aside, his spectacles fallen askew beneath his temple. A dark stain had spread across the carpet, seeping into the fibres in a jagged arc across the marble. The poker lay a few feet distant, tipped as though discarded in haste.
Marcus advanced slowly, his gaze fixed upon Edmund’s still features. Not the peace of sleep. Not the pallor of illness. This was stilled violence. He found himself kneeling beside the body without quite realising it, his hand half-extended yet never touching. There was no need.
“Do not step closer, Lord Penwood,” said a voice behind him. “The scene is still being examined.”
Marcus rose slowly. A man in uniform stood at the threshold, a notebook already open in his hand.
“Constable Neal,” he said. “Called from the village. Forgive the intrusion.”
“There is nothing to forgive,” Marcus replied, his voice hoarse as he looked down again. “This is—was—Mr Edmund Price. He had been a guest at Penwood these past few days.”
The constable inclined his head. “And Lady Penwood?” he asked gently. “She cannot be accounted for.”
Marcus turned.
“She would have been either in her chambers or here in the library,” he said—suddenly aware of the implications as the words left his lips.
The constable shook his head.
“She is not in her chambers, though her belongings remain untouched. One of my men discovered certain items in a writing desk there. Forgive the presumption, my lord, but they must be examined. This matter may extend beyond a simple burglary.”
Marcus followed him upstairs.
Catherine’s chamber was orderly: the windows still latched, a shawl draped over a chair, the dressing table untouched. Yet on the writing desk, several pages lay flat, weighted at the corners. Constable Neal gestured toward them. Marcus lifted the first.
The hand was close enough to seem hers, though not exact. In his shock, he could not weigh the difference; the sight alone was enough to turn his stomach. The letter referenced Edmund by name, thanked him for assistance in identifying “specific catalogue inconsistencies,” and instructed him to withhold conclusions until “access to the full collection” had been achieved.
Another note described “removal of sensitive items” and warned that concealment might be delayed owing to her husband’s “recent increase in vigilance.” Each line struck harder than the last. The constable waited in silence as Marcus read.
At last, Marcus looked up. “This is a forgery,” he said. “This is not my wife’s handwriting.”
The constable lifted a brow.
“That is possible,” he allowed. “But these letters are not the only evidence. Several marked artefacts are missing from the catalogue drawers in your study. The drawers were not forced. Someone with access and familiarity removed them discreetly.”
Marcus scowled.
“Only my wife and I have access to those cabinets,” he said.
The constable gave a measured nod.
“As I suspected,” he replied. “And one of Mr Price’s notebooks was discovered beneath the wardrobe lining. It contains his assessments of several high-value pieces—the very pieces now missing.”
Marcus did not move.
“I assure you, you misread what lies before you.
The constable’s tone softened, almost kind.
“My lord, the evidence suggests that Lady Penwood and Mr Price acted in concert—that they planned to remove certain pieces without your knowledge. Perhaps Mr Price’s conscience failed him. Perhaps a quarrel turned violent. She may have struck him herself, or employed another to do so. Either way—”
“No,” Marcus said quietly.
The constable exhaled.
“She did not do this,” Marcus insisted, his voice steady now. “She was the one who helped me secure the items.”
