“It holds my notes on this inquiry.”

She cocked her head. “You make notes to yourself?”

“I do. Mostly lists of matters to address and things to inquire about and information acquired. I do it for all my inquiries.”

“Lists?” She laughed. “We have spoken of a list of suspects, and who is on it. Are you saying there really is a list?”

“There is.”

She seemed to find that peculiar. “So that is where you list all the hard proof and evidence that you need in order to know anything. Do you have a bad memory?”

“I have an excellent memory. This encourages me to progress through an inquiry efficiently.”

“Hmmm. I would think that one thing would lead to another in a natural way. That is how it has worked for me. I can’t imagine drawing up lists about it.”

“That is because it is not your profession.”

“Ah, yes.” She stood. “I will take my leave. Good day to you.” She turned on her heel.

“Since you can simply know the truth, in ways I am denied, what does your inner sense say about me?” he asked.

She looked back over her shoulder. “It says that you did not harm your uncle, but that you think learning who did will bring you pain.”

Brigsby arrived to escort her out. Chase heard her last words echo in his head. She was good. Very good.

* * *

“It was kind of you to offer to call on me, but it is better that I see you here.” Mrs. Oliver possessed a deep, quiet voice. She sat in Minerva’s little study, on a chair placed right where Chase Radnor had stood before the warming pan crashed down on his head. Deep into her middle years, Mrs. Oliver was a buxom, blond, proud woman with exacting posture. She imposed herself on the small chamber, her body tilted forward just enough to impose on Minerva as well.

Mrs. Oliver had been referred to Hepplewhite’s Office of Discreet Inquiries by Mrs. Drable. She was their first paying client.

“Tell me how we can assist you.”

Mrs. Oliver licked her lips. “It is complicated.”

Minerva had hoped it would be a simple matter that could be solved quickly, like proving a husband had a mistress. She needed to devote time to her own inquiry. This afternoon she had intended to do just that before Mrs. Oliver’s letter came in the morning mail. She hoped that staying busy on this matter would at least distract her from continually dwelling on what had happened in the library with Chase.

“It involves my husband’s business affairs. He imports mercery from France, then sells to shops and warehouses in London and other towns in the south. He has been very successful. He took on a new agent five months ago, however, who I believe is stealing from him.”

“Would that not become obvious to your husband? The accounts—”