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* * *
“Murder?” Zach looked over at his shoulder at the peeler cuffing him. “Have you lost your mind? Who in God’s name was murdered?”
“From the evidence,” Moustache said, “you know very well who was murdered.”
“I’m telling you I don’t!” Zach resisted against the handcuffs, his heart thundering. “I’m not a common criminal, damn it. Harkins, tell him!”
“Newland,”—Harkins cleared his throat—“you may want to cease speaking until you see a barrister or solicitor.”
“I don’t need a fucking solicitor. I need to be let go. I have a theatre to run, gentlemen. I have not murdered anyone.”
“Your theatre has been barred from entrance pending a criminal investigation,” Moustache said.
“My theatre? What exactly are you saying?”
“I am saying what you already know, Mr. Newland. Someone was found murdered in your theatre. Your cleaning personnel found the body this morning and called us.”
Zach widened his eyes. Someone had been murdered at the theatre? And now they had penned it off? How would they have rehearsals? How would they get the show ready? He reached to rake his fingers through his hair but of course could not move his hands. Here he was, under arrest. Perhaps he should be more worried about that than the fate of his production.
“May I ask who was murdered?”
Harkins cleared his throat again. “Your lead soprano, Nanette Lloyd.”
* * *
Sophie descended to the small dining room for a quick breakfast. Her mother was seated alone in the room, a plate of fruit and scones in front of her.
“Good morning, Mother.”
“Sophie, good morning. I trust you slept well?”
Sophie’s cheeks warmed. She hoped her mother didn’t notice the redness she was sure was present. “Better than I have in weeks, actually. You’ll be happy to know that I just saw Ally. She was awake and feeding baby Sophie.”
“That’s excellent news. I shall go see her before she falls asleep again.”
Sophie nodded and sat down, and a footman brought her a plate of breakfast and poured her a cup of tea. She murmured her thanks and was about to take a sip of tea when Bertram entered.
“Pardon my intrusion, my lady, but a new message has been delivered for you.”
“Another? At this hour in the morning?”
Bertram nodded, handed her the parchment, bowed politely, and left.
Sophie opened the parchment and read.
That bitch will no longer be a thorn in your side. You will be mine soon.
Icy tentacles gripped Sophie’s neck. The penmanship was the same as the previous notes, which she had assumed were from Zach. Goodness, why had she not just asked him? This one could not be from Zach. She had no idea what it was even referring to.
Whoever was sending these notes had become a danger. She, timid Lady Sophie? An object of someone’s obsession? How could this have happened?
The time had come to speak to her mother and the earl about this. Graves, as well. He could at least tell her who had been delivering the notes. She stood, no longer hungry, and headed to the foyer. When she found Bertram, she asked, “I beg your pardon, Bertram, but where is Mr. Graves this morning?”
“I’m sorry, my lady, but I do not know. He asked me last night to take his morning shift. As he is getting closer and closer to retirement, I am taking over more and more of his duties.”
Sophie nodded. “Thank you, Bertram. Did you happen to see who delivered this parchment this morning?”
“Just one of the young lads from Bath. I’ve seen him before, but he’s one of several. A lad of about thirteen years, blond hair, blue eyes.”
