The body had been discovered at half past midnight, slumped beneath the chandelier in the east wing. Detective Marlowe crouched beside it, studying the wan complexion of the victim — that ghostly pallor that only comes when blood has long since stopped moving.
"Someone wanted him gone," she murmured.
Her partner, Reed, stood in the doorway looking temporarily stunned, his thoughts clearly scrambled by the scene. He would recover. He always did. But right now, he was useless.
Marlowe turned her attention to the letter on the desk. It was addressed to Lord Hensley — the dead man — and contained a single line: Your secrets will not survive the morning.
She felt something revolt inside her, a deep rising resistance against whoever had done this so coldly, so deliberately, as though the man's life were merely an inconvenience to be removed. Murder was never routine, no matter how many times she'd stood at the edge of it.
The envelope bore no stamp, no return address. Hand-delivered, then. Someone in this very house.
She called the staff together in the parlor. Twelve faces, all watching her with careful expressions. One of them was hiding something — she could feel it in the room's tight, airless silence.
"Whoever is responsible," Marlowe said quietly, "will face the full ignominy of what they've done. Every newspaper in London will print your name. Every neighbor, every colleague, every person you've ever tried to impress — they will all know."
Across the room, someone's jaw tightened almost imperceptibly.
Marlowe smiled. There you are.