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A half hour later, Jasper pulled his horse to a halt in front of Matthew Horn’s town house. He looked at the old bricks and thought of the family that had lived here for generations. Horn’s mother was an invalid, confined to this house now. God, this was a nasty business. Jasper sighed and dismounted his horse, then climbed the steps grimly. He knocked at the door and waited, conscious that Pynch stood on a step just below him.
There was a long pause. The house was still, no sound coming from within. Jasper took a step back, glancing up at the windows above. Nothing stirred. He frowned and knocked again, more forcefully this time. Where were the servants? Had Horn told them not to let him in?
He was raising his hand to pound once more when the door creaked open. A harried-looking young footman looked out.
“Is your master at home?” Jasper asked.
“I believe so, sir.”
Jasper cocked his head. “Then will you let us in so I may see him?”
The footman flushed. “Of course, sir.” He held the door wide. “If you’ll wait in the library, sir, I’ll fetch Mr. Horn.”
“Thank you.” Jasper entered the room with Pynch and looked about.
Everything was the same as the last time he’d visited Matthew. A clock ticked on the mantelpiece, and from the street came the muted sounds of carriages. Jasper strolled to the map that was missing Italy to examine it while they waited. The map hung beside two large wing chairs and a table in a corner. As he neared, he heard a sort of whimper. Pynch started toward him even as Jasper leaned over a chair to look in the corner.
Two people were on the floor behind the chairs, a woman cradling a man in her lap. She rocked back and forth steadily, a whispered whimper coming from her lips. The man’s coat was fouled with blood, and a dagger still protruded from his chest. He was quite obviously dead.
“What has happened here?” Jasper asked.
The woman raised her eyes. She was pretty, her eyes a lovely blue, but her face was bone-white, her lips colorless.
“He said we would have a fortune,” she said. “Enough money to go to the country and open a tavern of our own. He said that he’d marry me and we would be rich.”
She dropped her eyes again, quietly rocking.
“It’s the butler, my lord,” Pynch said from behind him. “Mr. Horn’s butler—the one I talked to.”
“Pynch, go get help,” Jasper ordered. “And see that Horn is all right.”
“All right?” The woman laughed as Pynch ran from the room. “He was the one who did this. Stabbed my man and shoved him back here like so much rubbish.”
Jasper stared blankly at her. “What?”
“My man found a letter,” the woman whispered. “A letter to a French gentleman. My man said Mr. Horn sold secrets to the French during the war in the Colonies. He said we would make a fortune selling the letter back to the master. And then we could open a tavern in the country.”
Jasper squatted by her. “He tried to blackmail Horn?”
She nodded. “We’d be rich, he said. I hid behind the curtain when he asked to talk to Mr. Horn. To tell him about the letter. But Mr. Horn . . .”
Her words trailed into a low keening.
“Matthew did this?” Jasper finally grasped the full horror. The butler’s head lolled on his bloody chest.
“My lord,” Pynch said from behind him.
Jasper looked up. “What?”
“The other servants say Mr. Horn is nowhere to be found.”
“He went looking for the letter,” the woman said.
Jasper frowned at her. “I thought your man, the butler, had it.”
“Nay.” The woman shook her head. “He was too smart to have it on him.”
“Where is it, then?”
