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I stare at the signature. Something about it…
I rifle through the papers on the desk. I’d seen business pages with her signature. I pull one out and compare it.
The one on the money transfer is not Annis’s signature. It only superficially resembles it.
Leslie was forging his wife’s signature to give money to Burns.
I dig through the rest of the papers as fast as I can, but there’s nothing else like this. That’s why it was hidden.
Yet why would Leslie keep it? Why not burn it?
I glance at the fireplace to see bits of paper in the hearth. I hurry over and drop to my knees. Most of the remaining paper is scraps, and I can see only a letter or two on the tiny blackened pieces. I peer into the dark hearth and notice something pale. Moving a log, I find a sheet of paper that is only half burned.
I take it out. Then I rock back on my heels.
It’s a sheet of paper with the same line written over and over again.
With gratitude for both your assistance and your kindness.
It’s the line from the box we found in Ware’s office. A variation on it, at least. And with each iteration, the writing changes.
With each iteration, it gets closer to Sarah’s handwriting.
Someone was trying to copy Sarah’s hand.
Lord Leslie? He forged his wife’s signature on the bank withdrawals, and then forged Sarah’s hand?
No. Annis’s signature was poorly done. A haphazard effort by someone who didn’t care to do better. This is meticulous. Practiced and precise.
My gut sinks as I look around the office. What had I thought when I first came in? That it wasn’t what I expected from Leslie. It was less ostentatious. It was more obviously used. A practical, working space. A space that had reminded me a bit of Gray’s and Isla’s work areas, though this was better organized.
I’m not in Leslie’s office.
I’m in Annis’s.
FORTY-THREE
I spend the next few minutes double-checking my suspicion. I open drawers. I scan books on the shelf. I examine the papers more carefully. There is soon no doubt that I am in Annis’s office.
I’m holding the handwriting practice in one hand and the forged money transfer in the other when a board creaks in the hall. I freeze. Steps sound, as soft as if they were from slippered feet.
I dowse the lantern and hold my breath. Moonlight filters through the half-open blind, and I watch the doorknob turn one way and then the other. I creep over.
Someone is there. Someone stands right outside the door.
I swear I hear breathing.
I wait for the sound of a key in the lock. When it doesn’t come, I lower myself to one knee and peer out the keyhole. My line of sight is blocked by dark fabric. The black of mourning.
Annis?
I hold my breath. Two seconds tick past. Then those soft slippered steps, and the black wall of fabric moves from my line of sight. The steps continue down the hall, heading opposite the direction of Annis’s wing. I can see nothing from my narrow vantage.
I unlock the door and crack it open, ever so carefully. I catch sight of the retreating figure.
A slender brunette in mourning black gliding down the hall.
Gliding toherterritory.
