Raimundo O'Roarke turned his teacup in his hands, as though secrets he couldn't fathom were hidden between the violet flowers and twining green leaves.
"Violence is always a shock." Mélanie picked up the teapot and refilled their cups. "In an odd way, it's rather a relief that it is. I would hate to ever take it for granted."
Raimundo—they might not be on first-name terms but she couldn't think of him as O'Roarke—met her gaze across the sofa table. "This is scarcely fit for you. We've none of us been thinking. You could—"
"My dear Mr. O'Roarke. We may have only just met, but you must have seen enough to realize I'm not shocked by violence. I nursed the wounded in the Peninsula and at Waterloo."
Raimundo regarded her for a moment. "You're Spanish."
Mélanie kept her fingers steady on the milk jug. She was so accustomed these days to acknowledging the truth of her past that it was a bit of a shock to have to return to the role that had once defined her. "My mother was Spanish, my father French." That part was true. "My family sought refuge there after the Revolution." That part wasn't.
"I'm sorry."
"I had a happy childhood." That part was true as well. "The war was difficult for my family." As was that. "But the past years have been difficult for everyone who loves Spain." And God knows that was.
Raimundo took a quick drink of tea and then grimaced, as though it had scalded his throat. "My father has long believed the solution is to stay out of politics. But I found that impossible."
"So did your uncle."
"You know him?" Raimundo returned his cup to its saucer. "Oh, of course you must, as your husband does."
"He's a close friend of my husband's family." Which was also the truth, if it didn't begin to explain what Raoul O'Roarke had been and still was to her.
"Surprising a Radical, such as he is, is on such close terms with a family in the British beau monde. But then, he spent a great deal of time in Ireland. Far more than I did." Raimundo snatched up his cup, as though looking for a refuge. "It's an odd thing, meeting someone who knows a close family member far better than I do myself."
It was also an odd thing sitting across from the nephew of her former lover, who also happened to be her husband's father, while her husband was searching for clues with his own former lover, but she couldn't say any of that. They were going to have to tell Raimundo that Raoul lived with them, at some point, but she needed to confer with Malcolm first. "Family can be complicated. I scarcely know some of my own relations in France and Spain." Yet another truth.
Raimundo wiped a trace of tea from his cup. "My father's always called him dangerous."
"Your uncle? I'm not surprised."
"You aren't? I mean, knowing him as you do—"
"He's a brilliant man of whom I'm very fond. But he'd be an impossible challenge to one trying to stay out of politics."
"I met him once or twice. He was kind to me. Gave me advice about what to watch out for in the field." Raimundo stared into his teacup. "Odd after my father was so set against his politics that we ended up, more or less, on the same side."
Only of course they hadn't been on the same side at all during the war. But were now in the new landscape of Spain. "Sides have a way of shifting." Mélanie took a drink of her own tea. "Especially in Europe in the past two decades."
Raimundo shook his head in disbelief. "I was looking forward to coming to England because it would be quieter."
"I've learned life is very rarely quiet. My husband and I undertake investigations," she added.
"Yes, I've heard. That is—"
"You've heard the stories but can't quite credit them."
"No, of course not. I told your husband—"
"But you can't quite believe a woman could be so involved in adventure?"
"No. That is—You're obviously a lady, Mrs. Rannoch."
"Be wary of the obvious, Mr. O'Roarke. As I said, a lot changes in the midst of a war."
She took a sip of tea. He did the same and stared into the cup again. "I seem to be offered a cup of tea every time I turn round here. Just as I was by my British friends during the war. I confess I still can't see the allure."
"I couldn't either, for a long time. But now it makes me think of home." It had been a surprising comfort whenever she grew homesick the six months they'd spent in Italy. "You must have spent time in Lisbon," she added.
"Yes, that's where I got to know the Larimers."
"And Mrs. Ashford."
"Though she wasn't Mrs. Ashford yet." He turned his cup in his hands.
"I understand her cousin Victor Velasquez worked with the guerrilleros," Mélanie said.
"Yes, we met through Victor. It was a dangerous time. K—Mrs. Ashford—saw more danger than one would wish for any gently bred woman. But Annabel never seemed part of any of that."
"She was married to a soldier."
"But wives don't—"
"That depends upon the wife."
Raimundo met her gaze across the sofa table. "As I said, I've heard stories about you, Mrs. Rannoch. Even if I found some of them hard to credit, I know how capable you are. Not that Annabel wasn't—isn't. But she always seemed an island of calm in a mad world."
Mélanie took a sip of tea. Speaking of hard to credit, she found it hard to credit that he was quite as disingenuous as he appeared. Or perhaps that was her, finding it hard to see simplicity in anyone who was even remotely connected to Raoul.
"I keep thinking it's all a terrible misunderstanding," Raimundo said.
"There may well be misunderstanding. But I don't think Annabel is an accidental victim. The crime appears too planned."
He nodded.
"You can't think who?" Mélanie asked.
For a moment she'd swear she caught a flash of calculation in his gaze. Then he shook his head. "No. Nothing at all." He took another sip of tea, as though seeking refuge behind the violet-flowered rim of the cup. "But then, I hadn't seen her for years."
Jeremy Roth surveyed the sitting room. "I think you've deduced it quite accurately. The attacker snatched up the paperweight, probably from the escritoire, and hit her from behind, then escaped out the window." He eased up the sash, which Malcolm hadn't liked to do before Roth arrived. "Dark threads. As you noted." He held them to the sunlight. The thread gleamed in the light. "From a good fabric, it appears." He leaned out the window. "You can just see part of the print of a boot. There, in the corner, by the broken stalks."
Malcolm joined Roth at the window. They were alone in the sitting room. Mélanie had gathered the others in the morning room across the passage. Malcolm looked where Roth was pointing in the shadows. The print left by the edge of a boot heel showed among the broken flower stalks. "So the attacker seems to have at least worn men's clothes."
Roth nodded. "Add to that that the attacker was several inches taller than Mrs. Larimer and the strength required—I'd say it's nearly certain we're looking for a man. A little under six feet. Able to strike a hard blow and climb out a window and down a wall. Which doesn't narrow it down very much. Did she have enemies?"
"Not that we've been able to determine so far."
"She wasn't—"
"An agent? Not so far as I knew. Mrs. Ashford has information that suggests otherwise, but we haven't been able to get any corroboration."
"What about your cousin?"
Roth was a good friend. And his comment was a reminder of the complications with Raimundo O'Roarke. "He doesn't know—"
"That he's your cousin? Yes, I assumed as much."
"We hadn't met until today. Raimundo fought in the Peninsula, but he wasn't an agent, as far as I know. Apparently he knew Mrs. Larimer and her late husband and just happened to call today."
"Do you believe that?"
"The footman's account tallies with Raimundo O'Roarke's calling and discovering Mrs. Larimer after the attack."
Roth pulled an envelope from his pocket and tucked the threads into it. "She was attacked when you were coming to see her. Who else knew you were calling on her?"
Malcolm's mind had already gone there and he'd been sifting the evidence. "Laura. Addison and Blanca. We hadn't even told Raoul, because he was gone before we came down this morning. We hadn't told Harry and Cordy either. Simply because we hadn't seen them."
Roth tucked the envelope back into his pocket. "And Mrs. Ashford?"
"I don't know whom she may have told. Though she isn't the sort to lightly confide information."
Roth watched him for a moment. "You know her well?"
Malcolm hesitated. Jeremy was a good friend. They were not the sort for personal confidences, but thanks to their work they already knew a great deal about each other. Still, there were key things Jeremy didn't know. Such as that Malcolm's wife had been a French agent. "I knew her fairly well eight years ago. She's been in the Argentine since."
Roth nodded, no doubt as usual seeing a great deal more than he let on. "Have you looked at Mrs. Larimer's things?"
There were things they might have discovered that he'd have kept from Jeremy. But the love letter didn't fall into that category. As he'd told Kitty, it might provide a motive for the attack. "I found a love letter hidden in the back of a miniature on the escritoire in her study. She appears to have or have had a lover. And to have been at pains to keep the affair secret."
"That could be significant. You didn't recognize the handwriting? Mélanie didn't?"
Malcolm hesitated again. But Roth would learn. Silly to keep it secret. "Mélanie didn't search with me. Mrs. Ashford did."
Roth's gaze remained steady. "So Mrs. Ashford is an agent?"
"She was during the war."
"If I've learned one thing from you lot, it's that people can't leave off being agents. What did she want with Mrs. Larimer?"
"Damn it, Jeremy, you're too good."
"I understand if you can't tell me. I'm used to it."
"She's looking for an agent from the Peninsular War called the Goshawk. Yes, I know. Code names."
"And she thought Annabel Larimer was the Goshawk?"
"No. At least, no one's suggested that, and I think Annabel was in Lisbon too much for the timing to work. But Mrs. Ashford thought Mrs. Larimer had information about the Goshawk."
"And you still think Mrs. Larimer wasn't an agent?"
"I'm not sure what to think."
"You haven't looked at the bedchamber yet?"
"No. Geoffrey's been with her since we moved her up there."
"We should look. You'd better get Mélanie. It's a wonder she let you search the study without her. She'll never put up with being kept out longer."
"Your restraint is remarkable," Malcolm murmured to Mélanie as they climbed the stairs to the second floor.
Mélanie smiled at her husband. "Practicality, darling. And I had an interesting talk with your cousin while you and Kitty were searching. His father told him Raoul is dangerous."
"Ha. Hardly surprising. Or even untrue."
"And he seems quite fond of Annabel Larimer."
"And?" Malcolm asked.
"He appears quite disingenuous. Perhaps it's me. Perhaps I jump at shadows. Perhaps I can't credit anyone remotely connected to Raoul being so what he seems on the surface. But I can't rid myself of the sense that there's more to him than we're seeing."
Geoffrey looked up when they came into the bedchamber. "You want to search."
"Do you mind?" Malcolm asked.
"On the contrary. For my patient's sake, we need to learn the truth as quickly as possible." He glanced at the bed. Annabel lay still beneath the embroidered coverlet, her chest moving rhythmically. "She'll be safe with you, and in her present condition you can't disturb her. I'll take advantage of the chance to get up and move about a bit."
Mélanie looked round the room. It was papered in a blue trellis pattern with simple white moldings. The furniture was painted white as well, which gave the small room an airy feel. Chintz curtains and muslin subcurtains were looped back from the windows. A framed cross-stitch sampler hung on the wall, perhaps the work of a child of eight or nine. A framed drawing by a younger child hung beside it.
Malcolm went to the writing desk and Jeremy to the wardrobe. Mélanie took the chest of drawers. Jeremy and Malcolm could be a bit squeamish about going through a lady's underclothing, though they tried to hide it. She lifted out layers of chemises and drawers, habit shirts, tippets, and neckerchiefs. The clothing of a woman who dressed modestly but not without style and who used accessories to give her gowns a different look. Nothing hidden between the layers of muslin and linen. She went to the dressing table. One jewel box that held a strand of pearls, a string of jade beads, several pairs of gold earrings that looked as though they might have been bought in Portugal or Spain. Lip rouge and violet toilet water, but not nearly as many cosmetics as Mélanie herself had. Her gaze fell on a trinket box. She opened it to find a collection of hair ribbons and jeweled hairpins. A surprising jumble given the neatness of the rest of Annabel's things. A couple of handkerchiefs were below, the sort embroidered with colorful thread that were to be found in the marketplace in Lisbon. Mélanie picked them up and found a book with clasps below.
"A journal?" Malcolm crossed the room to stand beside her.
Mélanie pulled a pin from her hair, picked the lock, flipped through the pages. Strings of letters met her gaze. Neat lines that told volumes about the woman who lived in this pretty, tidy, innocuous chamber. "Better than that. A codebook. We still may not know who attacked Annabel Larimer or why, or if she knew anything about the Goshawk. But it seems she was an agent."