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Breakfast was a new testing ground for Isabella. Above table, Madoc treated her as casually as any other morning. Below table, his knee pressed against hers. Every time he used his napkin, he laid it back across his lap with a sweep of his hand that landed on her thigh. And he used his napkin a lot. He drank less coffee than usual. She asked for a third cup, risking the jitters from drinking too much of Dorcas’ dark brew. Gawen and Standings talked about the photographic record with Lamb. Cecilia seemed immersed in her thoughts. Nigel gloomed with his usual morning blackness. Brown hair falling over his eyes, Petrie was unusually quiet, but Castlereagh and Matthews filled his silence with a debate about footballers.
Only Lamb didn’t troop down to the site, staying behind to develop his work over the previous days. Isabella trailed to the site as well. She hoped to find an artifact that would echo her success with the bracelet and the stirrup jar.
The excavation had changed since last she saw it. The mudslip had destroyed one complete side. They had abandoned it to concentrate their efforts on the still-exposed foundation and house interior. They were well below their work from when she had arrived. The change possible in that short two weeks amazed her. As she circled the site, looking for potential sketches, she came up behind the Tarrant brothers.
“Any nightmares, little brother?”
“Last night, but then I had the best distraction in the world.”
“Are you sure you want to get involved with her?”
“At least she’s not married.”
“That’s below the belt, Madoc. I’ve learned my lesson. I won’t seek comfort there ever again.”
Isabella backed off and headed in the opposite direction before they saw her.
Since she sought an artifact, she planted herself with Cecilia under the tarp and helped sort objects that the new boxman brought. Change had also happened here. Shaped stone was coming in with the clay disks.
“Look. We’ve unearthed a handful of these, rough and badly formed.” Cecilia handed her one of the stone images. “The first ones surfaced yesterday. My scholarly husband wanted to discard them. Gawen said no.”
“Why? It’s just rock, shaped by time.”
Cecilia lifted the sorting tray to reveal the tray beneath. Five more shaped rocks lay there, too similar to be accident of nature. “Earth mothers,” she said. “I must have discarded dozens before Gawen showed me the similarity in the shapes.”
Only after she named them did Isabella see the shape that the ancient carvers had attempted. They had achieved only the mere suggestion of a female body with rounded belly and pendulous breasts. No head. No arms. Only a hint of legs. The irregularly shaped stone filled her hand.
An idea glimmered. Here was the perfect example of knowledge an archaeologist must have before he sorted through his diggings. This earth mother could easily have become an overlooked artifact. “He’s reached pre-Minoan culture,” she said.
“Primitive man,” Cecilia said, her voice soft so it wouldn’t carry. “After the cave savage and before the palace cultures that my husband lusts for. Think how long someone labored over the best of these. Carving stone with stone. Do you suppose his pregnant wife was his model?”
“May I study these?”
“Certainly. If I discover any more, I’ll throw them your way.”
Isabella moved to a small table. She studied each one then lined them up based on detail: the clearest mother to the right, the most misshapen one to the left, a chronology of attempts or a chronology of developing abilities. As Cecilia had admitted, without the best example of the earth goddess, she would never have spotted the roughest form.
Someone blocked the sunlight. She looked around.
Nigel Arkwright tugged a flask from his back pocket. “I see you’ve discovered Tarrant’s little Aphrodites.” He drank, swallowing several times. His rumpled clothes looked slept-in.
She scowled. She didn’t want to talk to him, but she didn’t want to be rude. “Cecilia called them earth mothers.”
“Fertility goddesses. Round with life that was conceived in lust.” He picked one up. His thumb rubbed the stone, and Isabella’s skin crawled. He drank again before he returned the carving. “All the artifacts we have found, and you decide to draw these?”
“Gawen’s article is on the difficulties of modern archaeology. These carvings are perfect examples of that.” Even as she made the explanation, she was angry that she felt the need to justify her decision. He swigged more whiskey, and she realized how she despised a drunk. Malice against this man burned through her. She wanted him to know she knew how ignorant he was in his chosen field. “Didn’t you want to discard them? Gawen had to tell you what they were.”
With a calm that she hadn’t expected, he lowered his flask. His stare lacked anger. It lacked any emotion at all as he screwed the lid on the flask. “Back in the Tarrant camp, are you? Is that wise?” He slurred none of his words. “Or do you plan to become a little fertility goddess for Madoc?”
“Nigel? Isabella? Is something wrong?”
“Nothing, dear wife.” This time he did slur. A role he played.
Isabella had panicked when he suggested Madoc and she had consummated an affaire. Had he heard them? Had he seen them? Cecilia’s question helped unscramble her brain. Her father had always said that a good defense was a good offense. She kicked a question back to him. “Prof. Arkwright, why did you say Gawen was in for a mighty fall?”
“What?” He slewed around. The move threw him off-balance. He staggered into a table, upsetting a stack of sorted trays. They slid slowly. Before they hit the ground, Isabella had time to consider that Nigel Arkwright was drunk, after all, just not as much as he had wanted them to think.
“Oh, Nigel.” Exasperated, Cecilia dropped to her knees. “You’re too drunk to walk straight. Look what you’ve done.”
“An accident,” he protested.
The men at the site had heard the crash. They picked their way across the dig.
“You’ve ruined hours of work.”
“I’ve not ruined everything, dear wife.”
“You’re drunk. Again. When are you going to stop drinking?”
He barked a laugh. “When I have ruined everything, Cessy. When I’ve ruined everything you want and he wants.” With careful enunciation, he added, “I will not stop until I have accomplished that.”
Sherds in her hands, Isabella heard his last sentence with dawning dismay. Cecilia demanded, “What have you done?”
“Not enough, Cessy.”
Gawen reached them first. He bent to Cecilia. “Are you hurt?”
“No. Look at this mess. Look,” she displayed several red-colored sherds. “These were all large, and now they’re broken.”
Nigel watched them and drank more whiskey. When Gawen helped Cecilia to her feet, he threw the flask into the broken trays. Madoc and Petrie reached them as the flask shattered more fragile potsherds.
Fists on hips, Gawen turned to his peer. “Go to the house, Arkwright.”
“And leave my dear wife to you?” He laughed, short and mirthless. “I’ll go where I’m appreciated.” He stalked off, maintaining his balance very well until he had to clamber up a rise. He stumbled and finished the rest of the rise using his hands for support.
“He’s off to the taverna,” Petrie said. “We won’t see him till dinner or after. We need him here.”
“To make more work?” Gawen snapped. No one answered. In a few seconds, more calmly, he said, “Let’s go back to work. Time’s short.”
“I’ll help you re-sort the trays,” Isabella offered to Cecilia.
“Your work—.”
“Has to wait. I’m still trying to decide exactly what to do.”
Madoc brought new trays. Sorting was unfortunately quick work, for the crash had broken most of the potsherds and disks. Few disks were unmarred. Cecilia focused on finding those first.
By the lunch break they had re-sorted the trays. Isabella took the earth mothers to the house, wanting to work on them that afternoon. Before she washed, she tucked the six mothers in the top drawer of the low chest. She locked her room and pocketed the key. Lunch was subdued. Arkwright was the only one absent. Lamb emerged briefly, his golden curls ruffled. He squinted myopically at the dishes. Several times he had to be recalled to the conversation.
After she cleared the table, Dorcas left for the village. Kat told Miss Grey to take Markey for a walk, then she and her husband retired to the coolness of their room. Cecilia also disappeared to her room to escape the heat. Gawen worked in his study with Madoc. From her worktable, Isabella could hear the drone of their voices. The students wandered off. Movement on the terrace caught her eye. Madoc, leaving the study. He stopped and looked her way. She wondered if he would come to talk, then he headed to his room.
More movement, Gawen this time. He crossed the terrace diagonally to enter the door nearest hers. “Hard at work on another illustration? Ah, the fertility goddesses. That’s a curious choice for my article.”
“Cecilia told me how difficult they were to spot.” She picked up the roughest example, its form barely obvious. “I thought a panel of three or four, to show the ancient carver improving his technique.”
“Good idea. That adds an interesting angle to the article. Our collaboration is going well, Isabella.”
“Thank you, Professor. I also think it is.”
“We have a few minutes before we head back. Will you be down this afternoon?”
“I want to work on this illustration. I want all three done early this time.”
“You are turning into a slave driver. I’ve barely drafted the last article. I am glad you’ve started this. I’ll go back and add a few appropriate paragraphs. Perhaps Cecilia will type up the new version for me.” With that, he headed to the interior stairs, out of her line of sight. She listened. Once on the balcony he didn’t walk far. She heard a knock. Seconds passed before a door opened. Cecilia murmured something, then the door shut. She heard nothing more.
Isabella shook her head and returned to work. She surfaced when Gawen re-emerged. Finger-combing her hair, Cecilia came a few seconds behind him. “Have you seen Petrie?”
She hadn’t. They headed for the outer door. Madoc joined them. She didn’t hear Dorcas return. Tea appeared at her elbow. She looked up to thank the housekeeper, who lingered to cluck over the naked stone goddesses, the gist of her mutter that Europeans were pagans to prize such idols.
Like a return to summer, the day heated. Clouds built up, threatening another storm. Isabella finished her illustration. She didn’t have a watch and the mantel clock had stopped sometime last night, but the slant of shadow told that the afternoon had worn away. She carried the four-panel illustration to her room. As she walked along the balcony, she thought she heard voices. She paused but heard nothing more. Cecilia’s and Gawen’s doors stood open. Their shutters were also open, drafting a breeze. She may have caught an echo of people passing or working in the olive grove, the first harvesters. She returned to collect the earth mothers.
A lizard had jumped onto her worktable. Its tongue flicked to taste the air. She waved it away, and it flitted off the table to the dark cool of the floor. She gathered up the six carvings and returned them to her room as well. Only then did it dawn on her to wonder if Cecilia had logged them at the site. She didn’t think so. Here, the day before Harcourt-Smythe arrived, she had unrecorded artifacts in her possession. If anything happened, she would be blamed. Cradling them like precious eggs, she looked for a hiding spot. Her room, with its open window to draft a cooling breeze, wasn’t secure. She could take them to the storeroom—only she thought Madoc had locked it this afternoon. Nowhere was safe.
In the end she carried the earth mothers to her bath. She lined them up on the floor against the closed door, six headless females in a row. She kept a wary eye on them as she splashed in the tub. She couldn’t relax, for their missing eyes watched her. She climbed out long before she wanted to.
When she emerged, dressed for dinner, Cecilia and Gawen stood at his door. They looked toward her, and Cecilia’s hand dropped. He stepped into the room and shut the door.
Cecilia eyed Isabella’s simple white dress. “You look deliciously cool.”
“Cecilia, did you log in these stone goddesses?”
“No. I intended to. I’ll add them to my list in the morning.”
“Where should I put them?”
“Oh, I don’t know. Ask Madoc when he comes back.”
“He went somewhere?”
“Gawen said he had business in the village. When we came in, the door to his room was shut. If I want the next bath, I had better move. See you at dinner.”
After she dressed, Isabella carried the mother goddesses to the sitting room. The two men ensconced in chairs, smoking as they talked, brought her up short. Petrie she had expected. Rising to greet her, though, was Mr. Harcourt-Smythe.
“Oh dear.”
“Not pleased to see me, Miss Newcombe?”
“Cecilia said you would arrive on Thursday.”
“Have I disrupted your plans by coming early?” He came toward her with the winning smile that she now distrusted. He looked London-fresh in his suit, unwrinkled by the heat. She had once admired that coolness. “What are you cradling so closely?”
“Prehistoric carvings.” She wanted to tighten her arms and guard the little mothers from him, like a mother protecting her children. She steeled herself not to recoil as he reached for one, knowing such an obvious flinch would amuse him.
His lifted eyebrow revealed he had seen her subtle retreat. His mouth quirked, but he didn’t mock her. She had a feeling he would hoard her flinch for later use. He turned the carving in his hand. He had picked one of the mid-range, the shape evident but not obvious. “Fertility goddess,” he guessed with an accuracy that Prof. Arkwright had lacked. “I didn’t know Crete ran to such a prehistoric age.”
“We’re a good foot below our last Minoan find,” Petrie supplied as he joined them. “These surfaced yesterday. Cecilia didn’t say if more came up today, but she sorts about a half-day behind our work.” He plucked another from Isabella’s inadequate sheltering wing. “Here’s a better example,” and he swapped it with Harcourt-Smythe.
“Much better quality. Woman in her reproductive form.” He rubbed the pregnant belly. Isabella shuddered as she remembered his advances that last night in his employ. “In open market these would fetch a good price.”
“Enough to fund a small dig like this one?”
“As a group, with the right collector, without a doubt I could get that price.”
She shifted four into one arm and reached for Petrie’s. “May I have that back, please?”
“Afraid we will steal them, Miss Newcombe?”
Her gaze shot to Gareth Harcourt-Smythe. Amusement quirked his mouth and crinkled around his eyes, yet those dark eyes were watchful. “I have to see them placed in the storeroom.” With effort, she broke his locked gaze as she took the stone carving from him. “Petrie, do you know if Madoc is back?”
He shrugged as he turned away. “I’m not his keeper. Do you want a drink, sir?”
“A whiskey, neat.” He didn’t turn away but continued to stand before her. Only now did Isabella realize that he blocked her path through the sitting room. She didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of her retreat, but she felt a little foolish standing face to face. “You didn’t ask Miss Newcombe what she wants to drink, Frederick. Sherry, isn’t it?”
“I don’t want anything.” No, she wanted her wits clear. The wine with dinner was alcohol enough with Gareth Harcourt-Smythe waiting to pounce. She held out her hand for the last earth mother. He hefted it long enough to have her wondering if she would have to ask again, then he gave it back.
“Pour her a sherry, Frederick. Do sit down, Miss Newcombe. You can’t cuddle those goddesses all evening. They’re too uncomfortable and heavy.” He stepped back at an angle that opened up the seating, not the path to the storeroom and Madoc. Petrie was bringing the drinks. “Let me help you,” Harcourt-Smythe said, and he plucked the two she had just recovered and turned with them to the coffee table. He set them up as centerpieces.
Her heart sank at the coming tete-a-tete. She wished she had locked her room instead of leaving the door and window open to catch the cooling evening breeze.
Harcourt-Smythe plucked two more from her arms, his hands brushing against her. She flushed and froze as he arranged the carvings. In defense, she sank into a chair, not wanting to share the couch or settee with either man. She wanted to keep the last two in her hands, but he outmaneuvered her, taking her drink from Petrie then offering it to her while he removed another goddess. As the fifth one settled into line, Isabella realized she was too nice. She should have demanded the little mothers then barreled past her former employer. She shouldn’t passively follow his lead.
He held out his hand for the sixth goddess. She looked at him then at the carving. This was the best of the group, the only one he hadn’t touched. “I’ll hold her.” She tightened her fingers on the stone and sipped her sherry. She forced an amiable smile, as if she didn’t remember how often she had rebuffed him, as if she had never heard rumors about black-market antiquities.
His eyebrows lifted. He straightened. He took the whiskey from Petrie but didn’t take a seat. “I see you found a safe harbor after you left my employ, Miss Newcombe.”
Isabella studied him but couldn’t read his expression. Petrie, dropping onto the couch, didn’t seem to have heard the undercurrents she had.
“I was fortunate,” she said. “I have a job that will pay my return to England when added to what you banked for me in Athens.”
“Just your return, though, and board for a month until your next employment. I am certain you will be denied any side excursions. To Venice. To Nice. To the grand Chambourd. Those sites you will miss.”
What was he offering? Another chance in his employ? She was glad the offer held no enticements. She sipped the sherry to give herself time before she answered with covert caution. “Those are in my future, before I return to America.”
“Frederick has told me a little about your job. I did not realize that you were an artist as well as an accomplished governess.”
“Prof. Tarrant is pleased with my illustrations for his articles.”
“And thus you have the fertility goddesses. All is now clear. What does his current article cover? Primitive orgies disguised as the ceremonial worship of Mother Earth?”
“The difficulties of modern archaeology,” she said as blandly as he’d asked and had the pleasure of seeing his arch amusement briefly broken.
His riposte was a yawn. “That sounds incredibly boring. Did the professor actually find a publisher for that? No wonder he wants illustrations. The racier the better. Tell me, will you sketch any frescoes of Minoan women for these articles? Snake-haired and bare-breasted. That article I just might read.” He paused before the last word, to create the subtext he wanted.
Isabella had her own riposte. “How are your wife and daughters, Mr. Harcourt-Smythe?”
His eyes widened then crinkled in amusement. “You improve, Miss Newcombe. They are enjoying a beachside cottage on our friend’s estate. The girls miss you.”
“I’m surprised.” She lowered the sherry, her icy fingers cooling the remaining wine. “They never cared for my lessons.”
“I have a proposition for you, Miss Newcombe. No, not a repetition of my previous one. This one you will find acceptable, I am certain. Do think before you reject. It is still a long way back to England and even farther if you think to return to the States. A word from me, placed here and there, could smooth your passage—or not.”
Petrie, idly smoking, did not seem to have heard the threat that shivered down her spine. “What are you proposing, sir?”
“Oh, nothing very hard. We can discuss it later. I am certain Frederick does not wish to listen to all the little details.”
“I am no longer in your employ, sir. I do not see a way that I can work for you, not when I am here and you and your family are elsewhere.”
Before Gareth-Smythe responded, someone else spoke. “Good, I’m not late. And Dorcas tells me our visitor has arrived.” Madoc came forward with his hand extended. “Mr. Harcourt-Smythe, how do you do. We didn’t meet the last time you were here. I’m Madoc Tarrant.” He stepped between Isabella and her former employer. In shirt and khakis, he lacked Harcourt-Smythe’s refinement, but his athletic grace left the older man in his dust.
Harcourt-Smythe gave him a level look, hard and measuring. “You were pointed out to me, Mr. Tarrant. I understand you are another war hero. You and your brother and Castlereagh shame the rest of us.”
“Arkwright and Standings and Lamb all did their duty for God, king, and country.”
Isabella popped an earth mother into Madoc’s hand. As the men had greeted each other, she had set aside the sherry and quietly gathered the goddesses back into her sheltering wing. She handed him the last one. “Can you help me store these, Madoc?” She strove for an innocuous tone. “I’ve finished that illustration.”
“Excuse me, Mr. Harcourt-Smythe.” He stepped back to let her lead the way.
She walked to the door of his room and stopped. Madoc didn’t comment. He reached past her to open the door.
“Trouble with him?” he whispered.
She shook her head. As he shut the door, she arrayed the goddesses on the low chest. He added his then turned her to him. “So you’ve decided I’m not the thief?” Belatedly, he saw the tremors that had attacked her once out of Harcourt-Smythe’s presence. He seized her arms. “Bella, it’s all right. You’re safe. I won’t let him hurt you.”
“I hated talking to him,” she spat. “It’s like fencing, and I don’t know how to fence. I don’t even know the rules.”
“I would never have known it. You looked very composed, just a little pale, a little stiff. Tell me why we rescued that bevy of beauties?”
“They’re artifacts that Cecilia hasn’t yet logged in. I didn’t know that when I brought them up. They haven’t left my sight.” She laughed shakily. “I even took them to my bath.”
“Tub toys? Difficult to get them to float, wasn’t it?” His nonsense won a better laugh from her. He steered her to sit on his bed. “Has Harcourt-Smythe been here all afternoon?”
“He hadn’t arrived when I stopped work. I was shocked when I saw him with Petrie.”
“Does Gawen know?”
“He must. On my way to the sitting room I passed him and Cecilia.”
“Then Petrie can continue to serve as host until Gawen cleans up.”
“Cecilia said that you went into the village.”
He flicked her cheek. “Nothing serious. I had business there, fortunate business, as it turns out, with Harcourt-Smythe having arrived.” Isabella waited, but he didn’t explain. “I found Arkwright in the taverna, nursing a drink but not drunk. I managed to get him to talk without slinging insults. He was pouting because Gawen herded him off the dig.”
Isabella didn’t want to talk about Nigel Arkwright. “Madoc, Mr. Harcourt-Smythe is a day early. The day before you start crating the artifacts.”
“And you want to know what I’m going to do. I locked the storeroom. I’ve hidden the best of the smaller pieces.”
“He said the stone goddesses would sell at a very good price, enough to fund a dig.”
“That is a good price. And you want me to lock them away as well. You’ve decided I’m not one of the crooks.”
She didn’t confirm or deny the question in his statement. Before he pressed for an answer, the outer door opened. They listened as someone walked to the sitting room.
Madoc stood and tugged her up. “You go back, keep them distracted. I’ll join you in a minute. I promise.” He steered her into the passage and shut his door.
Men talked in the sitting room. Petrie and Harcourt-Smythe. And the other was Nigel Arkwright, sounding clear and sure. Not drunk.
She glanced back at Madoc’s door. If he were the thief, she had just handed him unlogged artifacts. Only her illustration and sketches were record of their existence. She had informed him that Harcourt-Smythe offered a price that proved their value. Had she handed the jewels to the thief? No. No, Madoc wasn’t the thief.
She straightened her shoulders, lifted her head, and marched into the sitting room.
Gawen was there, quietly sipping his drink as the Standings, Arkwright and Harcourt-Smythe discussed common acquaintances in London. Madoc soon returned. He leaned an arm on the mantel above the cold hearth and reviewed plans for tomorrow with his brother. Isabella strove to keep her eyes on her refilled wineglass.
Cecilia arrived last, gowned in filmy green. Arkwright drained his glass and stood. “Ah, my wife makes her entrance. We can finally sit to dinner.”
They took their accustomed seats at the table. Isabella had become used to being trapped behind the table against the wall. However, with Harcourt-Smythe directly across from her and Petrie and Castlereagh flanking her, claustrophobia threatened to overwhelm her. Dorcas served broth she wasn’t sure she could eat with a steady hand.
“Where’s Lamb?” Gawen said. “Surely he’s not still in that darkroom?”
“He’s been late before,” Petrie reminded. “Give him a bit. Or do you want to brave his wrath if you ruin his film?”
No one answered.
Harcourt-Smythe said, “I remember that Richard Lamb is your photographer. Does he compile the official record for the university? I’m surprised you did not ask him to supply photos for your articles, Prof. Tarrant. Surely that is more scientific than an artist’s rendering of your work.”
Isabella kept her eyes downcast for the rest of the meal.
Harcourt-Smythe continued to throw additional slights, ending with “You certainly have a full house, and now I arrive, begging another bed. Mrs. Arkwright, do you think you can find a cot for me in a quiet corner?”
Gawen answered first. “You can take my room, sir. I have a cot in my study.”
“I don’t want to turn anyone out. I understand that happened when Miss Newcombe came. I can take the cot.”
Madoc leaned forward. “Isabella’s arrival put out no one. Who told you otherwise?”
“Then I misunderstood when I came earlier with my family.” He dabbed his mouth with a napkin and reached for his wine. “A local vintage? It is better than I expected.”
No one asked Harcourt-Smythe how long he intended to stay. No one asked what had brought him to the dig a second time. No one asked why he came alone. Cecilia steered the conversation to London. He politely followed her lead then found a route back to the excavation, discovering tidbits about each archaeologist and student as he did so.
When Dorcas removed the meat, he leaned back in his chair. “Is the wrathful Lamb never to make an appearance?”
Only the Tarrant brothers were in a position to leave the table easily. After a brief pause, Madoc crushed his napkin. “I’ll go. I’m not afraid to beard our Lamb in his den.”
He quickly returned. Standing in the doorway, he said curtly, “Gawen, Standings, both of you had better come with me.”
Gawen obeyed, but Standings refused. “What is it? Why do I have to come?”
Madoc’s gaze flicked to Isabella. The green of his eyes looked dark, somehow dimmed. Then he looked past her. “Because Richard Lamb is dead, Professor.”
“Oh, no,” Cecilia gasped.
Isabella’s stomach roiled as if it were a cauldron. Another murder. She was shocked yet not shocked. The theft she had feared was nothing to another death. She stared at her food, and her stomach revolted. Lamb had been dead while they dined, his body cooling and stiffening, waiting to be found.
“Another death?” Harcourt-Smythe reached into his coat and brought out a gold-plated cigarette case. “That won’t help the dig’s reputation, will it? By any chance, is it another murder?”
“No question,” Madoc said. “I want Gawen and Standings to preserve the scene while I get the inspector.”
“Not me?” Arkwright asked.
“If you’ll forgive me, Prof. Arkwright, you’ve been inebriated for the past few days. Your colleagues will make better witnesses for Inspector Stavros.”
“A long drive to Heraklion and at night.” Standings shook his head. “We’ll have to do it in shifts. Tarrant can keep the vigil first.”
“No,” Madoc said. “You’ll do it together. Right now. I don’t need to drive to Heraklion. The inspector is already in the village, staying with the elder.”
Isabella happened to be looking at Harcourt-Smythe as Madoc spoke of the inspector. His hand shook as he lifted a cigarette from the case. He snapped the case shut and restored it to his pocket, searching next for matches. “The inspector already here?” he drawled. “Whatever for?”
“He decided my tale of stolen artifacts had merit. I told him the next theft had to occur before Friday’s shipment or the last one in two weeks. He arrived this afternoon.”
“We might have driven here together.” Harcourt-Smythe gave a short laugh. “I wonder if he followed me or I followed him.”
The three men left for the darkroom. Arkwright followed them, even though he was clearly unasked. Isabella began clearing the plates. Cecilia rose to help.
Her thoughts roiled as much as her stomach. Lamb killed. Why? What had he done? What had he seen? When had he seen it? The questions circled and circled in her head and found no answers.
With horror, she wondered how long he had lain dead in that darkroom. When had he been killed? Before dinner or earlier, when she was bathing? She remembered hearing voices earlier. Or was he killed even earlier, when she was still absorbed by her illustration? When she had thought only she and Lamb were in the house, with even Dorcas gone.
Isabella sank weakly onto a bench in the back passage.
She had thought her only worry was to be accused of being Harcourt-Smythe’s accomplice. How quickly would they fasten upon her as a suspect in Lamb’s murder?
