Time seemed to slow to a crawl. She wouldn’t head for the watchmaker’s shop until day’s end. Boyd came out from the back room, giving them their break early, before heading out on an errand. She hadn’t yet seen Spencer, but she had a mind to go upstairs to his room and knock on his door. As Boyd left the shop, she set down her composing stick, her attention shifting to the stairs.

On the third floor, she tapped her knuckles on Spencer’s door. “Spencer,” she said. “It’s Catherine.” She put a hand on the doorknob. The rooms on this floor hadn’t locks, so she cracked the door open, glancing in. “Spencer?”

Spencer wasn’t there. His bed was neatly made, his desk at the window cleared of paper. Catherine took a step inside, looking about the space. If he’d found the timepiece last night, might it be somewhere here?

Crossing the room, she put her fingertips to the desk’s edge. She paused, hesitating, her gaze fixed on the street outside. She ought to be checking Boyd’s office. If she found some evidence of arsenic there, she could bring it to the police.

She took a deep breath and reached for the first drawer.

A creak in the floorboards told her of someone else’s presence.

“Catherine? What are you doing?”

She stilled. Stepping away from Spencer’s desk, she turned to find Bridget standing in the hall, regarding her with raised eyebrows. “If Spencer learns you’ve pried into his things, he’ll—”

“I’m not prying,” she lied, clasping her hands together. “I’m just—”

From below, the shop door slammed open. Catherine and Bridget looked at each other, equally puzzled, but Catherine’s eyes widened as she heard a voice she recognized.

“Miss Daly! Miss Daly, are you here?”

Owen Smith.

“Who is that?” asked Bridget. She followed Catherine back down to the print floor, where they met Owen at the foot of the stairs. He was hatless, his face pale. He put his knuckles to his mouth as though he couldn’t bear to speak.

“Owen,” Catherine said. “Is something the matter?”

His eyes were dark and red-rimmed. “Please,” he said. “You must come at once. Please, Catherine.” His voice broke in his distress, catching on a sob.

Catherine placed a hand on his arm, reassuring, even as her heart pounded in her chest. “Of course. It’s all right.” She looked to Bridget. “Tell Mr. Boyd I’ll be back later.”

“But—” Bridget shook her head. “Catherine…”

Catherine untied her apron, hung it up, and fetched her coat and bonnet.

When she came back downstairs, Owen turned for the door. Out on the street, he wiped at his eyes with his coat sleeve, taking a shuddering breath. He said, “I don’t know what to do.”

“What’s happened? Is it Guy?”

He nodded. “His—his father has died.”

Catherine’s breath left her in a rush. She recalled with clarity the fondness in Henry Nolan’s voice when he’d spoken to Guy, the kindness in his gaze. She did not wish to know how he’d died.