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"And it is near the bedpost the cravat was tied to," he said. "If he tied her to the bedpost, and she was in discomfort—or pretending to be—she might have clawed at—"
"In discomfort?"
He saw her fingers tighten on the fabric. "Your husband took pleasure in others' emotional pain," he said. "It is reasonable to suppose he would also take pleasure in their physical pain. Being a professional, Helena would surely give him a dramatic show."
Leila let go of the hanging and moved to the opposite side of the bed. "Well, then, I was luckier than I knew. Poor Helena."
"Helena knew well enough what to expect and how to deal with it," he said. "She did not come up from the sinkholes of London by magic, you know. Not many with such low beginnings manage to live past adolescence, let alone rise to the heights she has. That is a formidable woman, Leila."
"I understand. It's just the—the irony. If Francis hadn't married me, I should have learned firsthand what Helena knows." She gave a short laugh. "How exasperating. No matter how you look at it, he truly was my knight in shining armor. I might have ended on the Venice streets, or the Paris ones, if not for him. Certainly he saved me from the more immediate danger. Those men who killed my father might have..." She shivered.
The reminder stung deep and sharp as a viper's fangs, and Ismal lashed out reflexively, his voice harsh. "Aye, he was like the prince in the fairy tale. He stole your innocence, and for once—perhaps the only time—in his life did the honorable thing and gave you his name. Then he gave you so agreeable a view of wedded life that you will risk your reputation and career before you will even consider trying it again."
He heard her sharply indrawn breath, and cursed himself. Wrenching back his self-control, he stood up. "I talk like an ignorant brute," he said. "Please forgive me. To think of you upon the streets—a young girl...It upset me. Yet it is just as I deserve, for I thoughtlessly distressed you about Helena. Even for her, you feel compassion."
If he had inflicted hurt, she concealed it well. She stood a bit more arrogantly erect, but that was all. "Compassion is one thing," she said. "Maundering on about the past is another. It's probably this damned room. I always found it...oppressive. Everything so heavy and ornate. The air was always stale, because he'd never open a window. After his little soirees, it would reek of wine and smoke."
"It is an oppressive room, I agree," he said.
"I always said his tarts had to have strong stomachs. Not to mention that he created a prime environment for vermin. You could not have got me into this bed, even if the entire mattress were stuffed with strong repellent herbs like tansy. As it was..."
Frowning, she stepped back a few paces from the bed, her gaze lifting to the rectangular canopy.
"The bags," she said after a long pause. "The bags of herbs."
He looked up, too, and his brain promptly went to work. "To discourage the insects, you mean."
She drew back the fabric. "There, you see? In all four corners—those small balloonlike decorations with the tassles. He had them made to match. That's why they look like part of the draperies. But they aren't. They tie to the supports. Every few months, you take them down and put in a fresh supply of herbs."
Ismal was already pulling off his boots.
"He did that himself," she said. "His sole domestic chore."
He understood. In the next moment, he was standing on the bed, squeezing the fabric bags as Helena had probably done. He found what he was looking for in the right-hand corner at the head: paper crackled under his hand.
Balancing himself with one foot on the nightstand, he untied the bag. Then he dropped down to a sitting position. Leila climbed onto the mattress and sat beside him.
He gave her the bag. "You made the deduction, Madame. You must do the honors."
She loosened the drawstrings and emptied the contents onto the mattress. The resulting heap comprised a handful of tansy and one carefully rolled-up sheet of lavender-tinted stationery. It took but an instant to open it. It was blank.
She turned gleaming eyes upon him. "She did it. She got the letters. I'll wager fifty quid this is her own writing paper." She held it up to his nose, though Ismal already recognized the paper as well as the scent.
"Perfumed," Leila said. "Helena's scent. Very distinctive. She left it on purpose, so Francis would know who'd done it—just as he had left that stickpin for Sherburne to find."
That was all it took. The one sentence. After weeks of collecting bits of information and doing precious little with them, Ismal's mind finally began assembling the pieces.
He took the sheet of paper from her. "Evidently, Helena did not realize your husband had no sense of smell," he said. "Still, the paper is also distinctive. All in all, a broad enough hint. Do you not find this odd?"
She looked at him, then at the paper. "Goddamn. Yes. It's obvious, isn't it? She wouldn't have left a message if she'd poisoned the laudanum. You don't hide messages for a man you know will be dead within twenty-four hours. Also, you don't deliberately leave incriminating evidence behind."
He nodded. "Even if we supposed she stole the papers on New Year's Eve, and came back weeks later to poison him—"
"Which is highly improbable—"
"She would have remembered to remove the evidence implicating her."
"So someone else poisoned him," Leila said. "And Helena didn't know. That would explain her being so upset about my sense of smell. Francis' death and the inquest must have come as a shock to her. And probably to Langford, if he'd hired her to steal."
"Timing," he said. "We have both been puzzled by the timing. It seems that the theft and poisoning did not occur at the same time—most likely, not even the same day. So we must theorize that Helena stole the papers either on New Year's Eve or the next time she was sure you were safely away. That leaves the first night you were at Norbury House. Sunday, the eleventh of January."
"Either way, I think we have to eliminate Langford, too. Why risk a scandal at best—a nasty murder trial at worst—when Francis couldn't bother him any more?"
'That leaves us with Avory, Sherburne, and Lady Carroll." He was beginning to see just what was left—timing, personalities, connections. He should have put it together weeks ago. A week ago at least.
"Yes, yes, I know." She rubbed her head. "But it doesn't—there has to be something. Helena. I know she's the key. Damn. I need to see it in black and white." She stuffed the paper back into the bag and got off the bed. "I need to get out of this beastly room, too. As soon as we've solved this pestilential murder, I'm going to strip this whole damned chamber down to bare walls and floors, I vow."
"Actually, I would prefer we found another house."
She halted halfway to the door.
"After we are wed," he said. "A larger house. So that you might have one full floor for your work area."
The air began to pulse. She marched to the door. "We can talk about that later," she said. "I'm having enough trouble keeping things straight in my head as it is. I need to write it down. I'm going to the studio."
He could have told her she didn't need to write anything down. He could explain what had happened, or most of it. But it would give her more satisfaction to work it out on her own. And so he held his tongue and followed her to the studio.
It took Leila about ten minutes to realize Ismal was humoring her. He sat beside her at the worktable, his attention seemingly riveted on the sheet of foolscap she was covering with notes and arrows. He seemed to be listening attentively to every syllable she uttered.
And he was bored.
She put down the pencil and folded her hands. "Go ahead, tell me," she said.
"I am listening," he said. "It is very interesting what you say of Sherburne. I myself saw him with Helena Martin on that night I encountered Avory. Indeed, it is possible Sherburne confided his troubles—or part, at least—to her."
"You may be listening, but you're not thinking."
He treated her to his most seraphically innoc
ent expression. "What makes you believe I am not thinking?"
"Your eyes. Your thinking color is several degrees more intense. You don't need to think because you've worked it all out."
He let out a sigh. "I thought you would prefer to assemble the pieces yourself."
"I prefer to observe the genius at work," she said.
"It is not genius. You have pointed out some pertinent issues. I have merely connected them."
"I'm well aware that we make a good team," she said.
