Now she rubbed her eyes. „I’m going to get some coffee, then hit the father again. Thanks for coming down.“

„It’s been fascinating. I’d like to do the testing on her personally. If you’ve no objection.“

„When I’m done, she’s all yours.“

Because her own AutoChef had the only real coffee in all of cop central, Eve detoured there first.

There he was, sitting at her desk, fiddling with his ppc.

„You should go home,“ Eve told Roarke. „I’m going to have an all-nighter on this.“

„I will, but I wanted to see you first.“ He rose, touched his hand to her cheek. „Put something on that, will you?“ Until she did, he put his lips there. „Do you have a confession?“

„She’s singing – ha-ha. Chapter and verse. Mira says she’s nuts, but that won’t keep her out of lockup.“

„Sad, really, that an obsession with one woman could cause so much grief, and for so long.“

„Some of it ends tonight.“

This time he laid his lips on hers. „Come back to me when you can.“

„You can count on that one.“

Alone, she sat. And alone she wrote up a report, and the paperwork that charged Radcliff C. Hopkins I with murder in the first degree in the unlawful death of Bobbie Bray. She filed it, then after a moment’s thought, put in another form.

She requested the release of Bobbie Bray’s remains to herself – if they weren’t claimed by next of kin – so that she could arrange for their burial. Quietly.

„Somebody should do it,“ she stated aloud.

She got her coffee, rolled her aching shoulders. Then headed back to work.

In Number Twelve, there was silence in the dark. No one sang, or wept or laughed. No one walked there.

For the first time in eighty-five years, Number Twelve sat empty.

London, England April 2006

The bright blue door opened into another world. She could tell the minute she stepped into the entry hall that this small museum was exactly the sort of place she liked best. History was about people, not politics. How they lived was what mattered. Whoever had preserved this townhouse felt the same.

Inside it was a tribute to the Regency period. A time before trains changed village life forever, when fifty miles in a carriage was a good day’s travel. There was no electricity, computers or air-conditioning.

Jim groaned when she insisted she wanted to take the tour.

„How is this different from every other old house we’ve seen? I bet it has a basement kitchen, no bathroom, and they call the first floor the ground floor.“

„This is different because it’s in Mayfair, the primo neighborhood way back in 1800 and still one of the best addresses. It’s where die rich lived for the spring months, when they came to London to see and be seen.“

„Lots of parties.“

„Exactly.“

Jim shrugged, and she knew she could talk him into it. „Come on. We have one week left of our year abroad. We’ve spent enough time studying economics. Let’s learn a little history. Let’s see how they lived.“

„Yeah, without indoor plumbing.“

They dutifully worked their way through the belowstairs exhibits, the wine cellar, and servants’ hall; watched the cooking demonstration, accepting a sample of syllabub, a cream and sugar concoction that tasted faintly of lemon.

„Boring,“ Jim said.

„Interesting,“ she insisted.

The feeling that the tour was little more than a lecture ended when she stood in the bedroom, surrounded by the trappings of everyday life for the woman who had lived here two centuries ago.

There was a display of clothing from the inside out. No real underwear as she knew it, but a long slip that she would wear today as a dress, covered by a corset that did not look as uncomfortable as it sounded. Stockings in both silk and cotton, and charming flower-embroidered garters to hold them up.

The high-waisted gown would do nothing for her figure but she bet women with big hips and butts loved them. She smiled. Gowns like these would make life very interesting for a lover, like unwrapping a surprise package. There had been a military uniform in the man’s dressing room. If all guys wore breeches that form-fitting, then their bodies were much less of a mystery.

She stopped in front of a vanity, the top outlined with a Plexiglas cover, filled with the familiar combs and brushes, though these were silver-backed and monogrammed. A pile of coins spilled from the tiniest of purses. A „reticule,“ the posted sign called it.

„Hey, Jim, look at this.“

He was halfway out the door but came back to her side.

„The sign says coinage has changed since 1810, but surely that shiny gold one with the dent in it is way different from the usual even in those days.“

„Who knows. The money here is still a mystery to me. I hand over a pound coin and the only thing I know is that it’s way more than a dollar.“

The girl leaned closer. „It’s weird. It has writing on it, but it’s definitely not in any language I know. Is there a do-cent on this floor?“

She looked up to find that Jim was gone. But she was not alone. A man sat in a chair tucked behind the door. Dressed in something like a naval uniform, he stood up and bowed to her, his face all smiles.

„You wish to know something of the coin, miss? The writing is Arabic. The East India Company minted the coins to be used in India. This particular one never made it that far. It’s one of the few that was saved when the ship sank in the Bay of Biscay barely a week after leaving port.“ He stood up. „Would you like to hold it?“

„Yes, please.“ She turned back to the vanity, surprised to see that the Plexiglas was gone. How did they do that?

The man picked up the coin and handed it to her. Just as she bent to look at it, Jim leaned in the doorway. „Hey, let’s go. I’m starved and I want to catch that soccer match.“

„Come look at this, Jim.“

He shook his head, impatient to be gone. „I’ll meet you at Earl’s Place.“

She nodded and let him go. Walking over to the window, she inspected the coin, tested its weight and wondered what could have happened that dented it so. She turned back to the docent.

„I wish I could have known what life was like then.“

„Ach, miss,“ the man scolded, „don’t waste a wish on that. Have a seat. I can tell you all you want to know.“

London, England March 1817

„Here, Papa, take this. I do not want you to be sad anymore.“ Poppy held out the bright gold coin as she came into his study.

David Lindsay looked up from the bills that littered his desk. The child was only nine years old and already trying to rule the world.

„Poppy,“ he said, trying for kindness rather than exasperation, „you know I am not your father. I thought we agreed that you would call me ‘uncle.’“

„ ‘Uncle’ is what I called Mama’s friends,“ Poppy said, coming closer to his desk. „I know you are not my true papa. You are Major David Lindsay of the 28th Regiment of Foot. You fought Napoleon and beat him. But the war is over and you are the one who takes care of me and Billy. That makes you my papa.“

Her papa and not her uncle. Now he understood the difference. How many men had she called uncle? The answer to that question would tell even strangers all they needed to know about her mother. If only he could afford a decent nanny for her; but Billy needed a wet nurse far more than Poppy needed to learn what to say and what to keep to herself. He wanted any number of things for them, some a deal more urgent than a teacher for this sweedieart of a child.