He began a more thorough, methodical search of the room, looking in places where a man might stash his secrets. He found the strongbox beneath a false panel of wood in the wardrobe. The lock was excellent, crafted by one of the best manufacturers in Willenhall, but it was no Apollo. It took him less than fifteen seconds to crack it.

The only thing inside was a notebook. It contained a record of what, at first glance, appeared to be large sums of money won at gambling. There were only five entries, however. The dates went back nearly three years. There were initials next to each of the amounts. The initials matched those of the five young ladies who had been compromised. He realized that he was looking at a record of the payments Thurlow had received in exchange for delivering the blackmail victims into Hastings’s clutches.

He tucked the notebook into a pocket and stood quietly, looking around the room one last time. Something seemed slightly off. He contemplated the items on the dresser for a long moment, trying to understand what it was that was out of place. Vague smudges in the thin layer of dust on the dresser and a few carelessly folded handkerchiefs in a wardrobe drawer were all that stood out. When he could not come to a conclusion, he went back downstairs.

On a hunch, he decided to search the desk again, this time more thoroughly. Opening the folder of unpaid bills, he suddenly knew what was wrong: The bills were out of order. Everything else in Thurlow’s lodgings was neatly arranged, but the bills had been dumped into the file in a random fashion. It was as though someone had gone through them in a great hurry and then tossed them back into the drawer.

With that observation in mind, he continued his search. When he was finished, he was certain of his conclusion.

A short time later a carriage clattered to a halt outside in the street. He went to the window and eased the curtain aside in time to see the bearish form of Harold Fowler descend from a hansom.

He opened the door before Fowler could knock.

“I got your message, Mr. Stalbridge.” Fowler came into the hall. He removed his hat and looked around with the stoic curiosity of a man who was accustomed to being summoned for unpleasant reasons. “What is this about?”

“The occupant of these lodgings, Benjamin Thurlow, is dead in the upstairs bedroom. It appears that, in despair over his gambling debts, he put a pistol to his head. There is a suicide note. The words are all neatly printed.”

“Printed, you say?” Fowler’s bushy whiskers twitched. His sad eyes sharpened. “Like Grantley’s note.”

“Yes.” He handed the note to Fowler. “The printing makes it impossible to compare the handwriting, but I suspect that Thurlow did not write this.”

Fowler took the note in his broad paw and scrutinized it for a few seconds. When he looked up, his expression was grim. “I agree with you, sir. But we’ll never be able to prove that the killer wrote this note.”

“Another thing,” Anthony said. “There is no way to prove it, either, but I would swear that someone searched these rooms before I arrived.”

“I see.” Fowler squinted slightly. “What sort of information was it that brought you here today?”

“I got word that Thurlow, like Grantley, was employed by Hastings. It appears that Hastings paid him a great deal of money at various times in the past. I wanted to talk to him.”

“You think that Hastings killed him, don’t you?”

“I think it likely, yes. But that doesn’t bring me any closer to finding a motive for Fiona Risby’s murder. And now someone else who might have been able to answer my questions is dead.”

Fowler’s bleak face softened. “I’ve warned you, Mr. Stalbridge, the odds of learning anything new after all this time are dismal, indeed. My advice is to leave the poor dead girl to rest in peace.”

“You don’t understand,” Anthony said. “I am the one who cannot rest, Detective. I must find out why she was killed.”

“In my experience there are only a small number of reasons for murder. Greed, revenge, the need to conceal a secret, and madness.”

“Are you all right?” Anthony asked quietly. Louisa looked out over the moonlit gardens. It was nearly midnight. Here and there decorative lanterns bobbed. Off to the right the fanciful shape of a large iron-and-glass conservatory loomed. Behind them the crowded ballroom sparkled and glittered. Laughter and music poured through the open French doors.

“Yes, of course,” she said, suppressing another shiver.

But the strain of pretending to enjoy herself for the past two hours was starting to take its toll. Her smile felt frozen. She wanted to go back to Arden Square and drink a very large glass of brandy. “Can we go home now?”

“Soon,” Anthony promised. He took her elbow. “Let’s walk.”

“Well, at least we now know for certain what sort of service Mr. Thurlow provided for Elwin Hastings,” she said after a while. “He compromised the victims and then stole their journals and letters to give to Hastings.”

“He was a chronic gambler. That meant he was always in need of large sums of cash to meet his debts. Hastings was willing to pay well for the blackmail items. Grantley no doubt handled the collection of the extortion payments. I cannot envision Hastings doing that sort of work.”

They went down the terrace steps and followed a gravel path that wound through the elaborately landscaped garden. They were not the only couple who had taken a respite from the heat and energy of the ballroom, Louisa noticed. She heard low voices from the shadows. A man laughed softly. The pale skirts of a woman’s gown gleamed briefly in the moonlight before vanishing around a hedge.

The last thing she had wanted to do tonight was attend the ball, but she understood Anthony’s reasoning. They must carry on as if nothing out of the ordinary had occurred that afternoon. Anthony seemed to be having very little difficulty, but she had been fighting a disturbing anxiety all afternoon and evening. The truth was that the discovery of Thurlow’s body that morning had unsettled her nerves far more than she had realized at the time.

The murder scene had brought back the horror and fear of that dreadful night a little over a year ago. She had been unable to get the image of Gavin’s body out of her head. She knew that no matter how late she stayed up tonight or how much brandy she drank when she got home, she was unlikely to sleep. That was not necessarily a bad thing, she thought. If she did manage to fall asleep, there would no doubt be nightmares.

Anthony brought her to a halt near the entrance to the large conservatory. The glass walls were opaque in the silver moonlight.

“We can be private here,” Anthony said quietly.

She sank down onto a marble bench. The skirts of her gown spilled around her ankles. She looked into the night and shivered again.

“Are you cold?” Anthony asked.

“A little.” She could not tell him how much the murder scene had shaken her. He would conclude that she lacked the nerve required to continue the investigation. “What are we going to do now? With Victoria Hastings, Thurlow, and Grantley all conveniently dead we have no more clues to follow. There appears to be no one left who knows Elwin Hastings’s secrets.”

Anthony braced one foot on the bench beside her and rested his forearm on his thigh. “The only thing we can do is to continue asking questions.”

She tried to concentrate on the problem. “It occurs to me that there is a place where some of Hastings’s secrets may be known.”

He looked down at her. “Where is that?”

“The brothel where he keeps his weekly appointments.”

“Phoenix House?” He was silent for a few seconds. Then he nodded slowly. “That is an interesting notion.”

She wrinkled her nose. “I hope you are not going to tell me that you intend to book an appointment there yourself in an effort to research your theory.”