His manservant, Brigsby, had hot water waiting, and held large towels after Chase washed. Then he dressed for the second time this day. Finally cleansed and refreshed, he sat at a large writing table set in his bedchamber. Brigsby had already supplied it with a thick stack of good paper and a fresh ink and pen.

Chase opened a new portfolio and wrote Hollinburgh’s Death on it. He always kept detailed notes on his inquiries. He had learned to do this in the army where such notes helped in writing the final report on any case being investigated. He also relied on written words to keep his thinking organized.

He took a sheet of paper and headed it Facts. He took another and wrote the heading Paths to Pursue. On a third he wrote Inconsistencies. On the next Theories. Finally, he pulled a clean page forward and penned Suspects. Not all inquiries required these pages. Some needed other, different ones. Part of starting an inquiry was considering the best way to organize the campaign, however.

Eventually most of the pages would be filled with lists of things to do and evidence amassed. With one review he could see if he had forgotten something. There had been inquiries where reading through his notes and pages had presented answers he had not yet seen.

He opened a letter and placed it in the portfolio. It had come from Sanders and included the list of the last duke’s businesses and their partners. He found another list in a drawer of the bequests in the will and added that.

He spent a few minutes, jotting thoughts on the page regarding Paths to Pursue, and making a short list there of the most immediate actions needed. Finally, he flipped to the Suspects page.

He could fill this already if he listed every person with any motive at all. Instead, as was his habit, he would reserve it for those whom he believed might truly be strong possibilities.

He dipped his pen. He hesitated. Then he wrote. Minerva Hepplewhite.

Chapter Four

Chapter Four

Chase looked out the library window and watched the carriages line up. Everyone stepping down wore their finest clothes. Even the children had been turned out suitably for a visit to a duke’s home. Servants lowered trunks from the back and tops of the coaches, all full of yet more garments with which to bedazzle one another.

“Tell me this won’t be hell.” Nicholas stepped in beside him and gazed out. “Good heavens, that is Dolores. I haven’t seen her in a year.”

Dolores, a middle-aged, raven-haired woman of impressive height, was directing the servants working at her coach. Her voice could not be heard, but her mouth kept moving and her finger kept pointing and the servants kept grimacing.