Back Malice at the Palace
Chapters (37)
  1. Cover
  2. Berkley Prime Crime Titles by Rhys Bowen
  3. Title Page
  4. Copyright
  5. Dedication
  6. Chapter 1
  7. Chapter 2
  8. Chapter 3
  9. Chapter 4
  10. Chapter 5
  11. Chapter 6
  12. Chapter 7
  13. Chapter 8
  14. Chapter 9
  15. Chapter 10
  16. Chapter 11
  17. Chapter 12
  18. Chapter 13
  19. Chapter 14
  20. Chapter 15
  21. Chapter 16
  22. Chapter 17
  23. Chapter 18
  24. Chapter 19
  25. Chapter 20
  26. Chapter 21
  27. Chapter 22
  28. Chapter 23
  29. Chapter 24
  30. Chapter 25
  31. Chapter 26
  32. Chapter 27
  33. Chapter 28
  34. Chapter 29
  35. Chapter 30
  36. Chapter 31
  37. Historical Note

This time I did not present myself to Frederick at the front entrance to Bobo’s building. Instead I went skulking around until I found an alley leading past the dustbins to a back way in. What’s more, the outer door opened without a key and I found myself in a narrow, dark hallway, facing a small service lift. Up I went and let myself into Bobo’s flat without anybody seeing me. I was feeling rather proud of myself. I was going to take my gloves off, but then decided I should leave no fingerprints. I went through the sitting room, finding nothing. In the bathroom I found a syringe and what must have been some kind of drug. But then, the police knew about her habit. I expected they’d found out by now who supplied it to her. I hoped so, as that was certainly something I didn’t want to look into. Dealing with drug gangs was out of my league.

I’d managed to put Darcy from my mind until I went through into the bedroom. There was that dressing gown hanging behind the door, thick navy blue wool with his initials on it. And my insides clenched themselves into knots again. Had he been visiting her all the time he’d professed he loved me? And then the second thought—had he gone to her because I had refused to sleep with him? I didn’t know whether to be glad the police were now grilling him and giving him an unpleasant time, or frightened that they might really try to pin this murder on him.

I turned my back on that door and forced him out of my mind. I had to work quickly and thoroughly. There was a small modern writing desk by the window. I went through it but it contained nothing revealing. No checkbook. No personal letters. Of course the police had probably taken them away. It was silly of me really to think I could find anything of value here. I was about to walk away from the desk when I noticed the blotter. It hadn’t been changed and there was the faintest imprint of writing on it. I lifted it up and carried it over to the mirror. Holding it up, I read with some difficulty:

Mary Boyle, 14 Edward Street, Deptford, London