Barnaby sighed. “I know, but patience. We’ll get there in the end. We always do.”
Penelope reached the far end of the bookshelves. She swung around and started pacing back, then abruptly halted. She stared—almost ferociously—at a tome on the bottom shelf.
Puzzled, Barnaby asked, “What is it?”
“You know when something is just not right, and no matter how much you try to ignore it, your eyes keep returning to it, and you simply can’t not see it?”
“Yes.”
She pointed at the hefty tome. “While we were interviewing everyone and I was sitting in the armchair, watching our interviewees, this book was just inside my line of vision. I’d noted it more or less as soon as we arrived, and I knew it was…well,wrong.”
Barnaby walked to where he could see the offending volume. It was a tall, inches-wide tome covered in faded red leather. “Wrong in what way?” It looked perfectly normal to him.
“It’s stupidly misshelved! Who putsThe Collected Works of Shakespearewith maps and geography?” Shaking her head, Penelope swung and pointed at a shelf behind her. “It belongs there, with the other works of poetry and literature. There’s even space for it there.” She scowled at the irritating book. “I’m going to reshelve it where it belongs.”
She marched to the tome, bent, and wriggled it free, then hefted it. “Oh!”
“What?” Barnaby closed the distance between them.
Slowly, Penelope replied, “It’s not a book. Or at least, it might once have been a book, but now, it’s one of those book-safes. A box to hold valuables that masquerades as a book.” She tipped her head, fingertips exploring the longer side. “The catch should be somewhere here… Ah, there it is!”
The lid of the book-box released. Balancing the tome on one hand, she flipped back the lid. “What have we here?”
“Sit down and let’s see.” Barnaby steered her to the cluster of chairs they’d used to interview the company.
Her gaze fixed on the contents of the box, Penelope fell into the first chair and set the box on her lap.
Barnaby sat in the chair alongside and leaned across, watching as she lifted a thick folded parchment from the box.
With bated breath, Penelope unfolded the parchment, then her eyes widened, and her breath left her in a rush.
“What is it?” Barnaby angled to see.
She tilted the document so he could read what she had. “It’s the last will and testament of Augustus Frederick Armstrong, the late Earl of Leith. And if memory serves, this was written mere days before he died.”
In stunned amazement, they stared at the document.
After a lengthy pause, Penelope admitted, “I never imagined—never would have imagined—that Leith’s secret might be something like this.”
Barnaby nodded. “Of this magnitude.” After two more seconds, he tipped his head at the document. “We’re going to have to read it and learn what it is that the man currently holding the title is so desperate to conceal.”
“Indeed.” Penelope drew in a deep breath and, holding the document so Barnaby could read it as she did, turned over the front page.
It didn’t take them long to realize what they held.
Penelope met Barnaby’s eyes. “Good Lord!” She looked across the room, staring unseeing at the fateful window through which Leith had watched Monty Underhill retrieve his last payment. “I can only vaguely recall Jonathon. Do you remember him?”
“Only distantly. He was several years behind me at Eton.” Barnaby thought, then added, “He vanished from the ton when he was about twenty, soon after he came on the town.”
Barnaby looked at the parchment, and his features hardened. “You wanted to know what secret Leith could possibly have that would be worth killing for. This document definitely qualifies.”
Holding the will, Penelope lifted the box and sprang to her feet. “We need to show Stokes.” She dropped the book-box onto the chair.
Barnaby joined her, and they strode to the door. He opened it, and Penelope rushed out, and he followed at her heels.
He strode after her as she hurried toward the baize-covered door at the end of the hall.
She was almost there when the door was flung wide, and Stokes, his features grimly set, strode through.
