Page 96 of His Improper Lady

“Well,” Desiree said when at last he lifted his head. “That’s quite a hello.”

“Good morning,” he offered and smiled, taking her hand. “I’ve been thinking about that since I woke up this morning.”

“I’m glad. I’ve been thinking about tonight.”

Light flared in his eyes. “That, too.” He cleared his throat and stepped away. “I checked the schedule. There’s a train to Weymouth at eleven. That gives us enough time to see Falk first.”

“Falk? Why?”

“You said he knew something more than he told us. I’d really like to know what it is.”

“Even if we have to pay him?” Desiree asked.

Tom grimaced. “Maybe. I was hopeful, though, that if we asked him some more specific things about your parents, like what day they left, whether they left together, or what he saw or overheard, you might be able to get some idea of what he’s hiding. At least enough to know whether his information is valuable enough to pay the crook.”

“It’s worth a try,” Desiree agreed.

As they rode to Falk’s office, Desiree’s stomach began to knot. She assumed her anxiety arose from her desire to find the cottage, but as they walked toward Falk’s employee at the foot of the stairs, a sharp frisson of alarm shot through her, and it occurred to her that perhaps her dark feeling was about something else altogether.

“We need to see Falk,” she told the guard abruptly.

The man was the one they had encountered yesterday, and he regarded her with a sour expression. “He’s not in yet.”

Desiree turned to Tom. “Something’s wrong. Falk’s always here early, taking in last night’s receipts.”

“You mean, you’re having—” Tom began, but Desiree didn’t answer. She was already running up the stairs to Falk’s office. Tom followed her, and after a moment, the guard climbed after them. She grabbed the door handle, but it would not turn.

Dread was humming in Desiree now. She squatted down to peer through the keyhole. “I can’t see. It’s locked from the inside.” She stood up and looked at the guard. “Did you knock?”

“Aye. I ain’t stupid. That’s how I knew he weren’t here.”

Tom banged loudly on the door. “Falk! Open up!”

“We need to get inside,” Desiree said sharply.

Tom reached into his pocket and extracted his case of tools, then squatted down and went to work. “There, knocked the key out.” He peered through the hole. “But I can’t see anything except the opposite wall.” He went back to his picks.

“The boss isn’t going to like this,” their companion said, shifting on his feet and glancing around.

“Blame it on me,” Tom told him and turned the handle. He opened the door and stepped inside, but he stopped abruptly, stretching out his arm to hold back Desiree.

It was too late for that. Over his arm she could clearly see Falk seated at the desk. He was slumped in his chair, his head hanging down, a black hole in his temple and blood streaking the side of his face. To her eyes, tendrils of darkness curled all around him. Desiree’s stomach lurched. Behind her, Falk’s guard let out an oath.

“He never shot himself, did he?” the man said in shocked tones.

“I seriously doubt it, though I think perhaps the killer may have hoped it would look that way if they locked the door from the inside.” Tom moved forward and crouched down beside the chair. “Yes, here’s a gun on the floor.”

“But how they’d get out, then?” the guard asked, a frown creasing his forehead.

“Same way we did yesterday. He has—had—another exit,” Desiree replied, swallowing the gorge that rose in her throat. The scene in front of her was so dark and fractured that she felt dizzy. She made no move to go closer to Tom and the body.

Tom nodded. “It would have to be someone who knew about his secret entrance.” He stood up and turned toward Falk’s man. “You better go tell a bobby.”

“A blue bottle?” The man stared, apparently as aghast at this idea as he was at Falk’s death. “Are you cracked?” He hung there for a moment, then said in a relieved tone, “I’ll go find Trotter.”

After the man left, Tom looked over the desk, then opened drawers and rummaged around in them.

“What are you looking for?”