“He’s dead.” Daniel jammed his hands into his pockets, his shoulders hunched. “When we came through the door without him, Miss Montgomery took one look and swooned. We hadn’t even told her. I don’t know what she’s going to do when she learns the truth.”

“So he was in the mill.” Juliette huddled in the folds of Daniel’s cloak. “I had hoped he was elsewhere when it blew.” Poor Agatha.

“It wouldn’t have mattered if the mill had still been whole.”

“Why?”

“He didn’t die in the blast. He was murdered.”

Chapter 3

DANIEL TROTTED UP THE SHORT set of steps into the Bow Street Magistrate’s Court and headed for the detectives’ room. His cloak lay over his arm, and he pitched it at the hook behind his desk as he passed. A glimpse of his reflection in the mirror over the fireplace made him wince. Tunneling his fingers through his hair, he tried to restore some order to his dark curls. His clothes were filthy, but that couldn’t be helped.

Now to beard the lion in his den.

“What happened to you? You been crawling through the dustbins?”

Owen Wilkinson, one of the office boys, stood with his hands on his hips, an insolent grin twisting his lips. “You look like you got dragged under a curricle the length of Rotten Row.”

“Very nearly.” Daniel brushed at his lapels and scowled at the state of his boots. “Is Sir Michael in his office?”

“He is. Just sent me to fetch some tea.”

“Good. While you’re at it, please get me a cup of coffee. You can leave it on my desk.”

It was certainly part of the duties of an office boy to fetch tea and coffee, so Daniel didn’t feel bad asking, but Owen always put on such a martyred air, as if he was vastly underutilized as an office boy. He had proven helpful on Daniel’s last case, but he still carried a chip on his narrow shoulder and thinly veiled his contempt for Daniel.

Bracing himself to face another man who always seemed to doubt his capabilities, Daniel headed down the hall to Sir Michael Biddle’s office. As the supervisor in charge of the court detectives, Sir Michael was Daniel’s guv’nor.

“Come in,” his voice responded to Daniel’s knock on the door casing. He didn’t look up from his writing when Daniel entered. “I hope you let the tea steep long enough. Last time it was the strength of dayold dishwater.”

“Sir Michael.”

The man raised his head. “Oh, what do you want?”

Pleasant as always.

Daniel forced himself not to frown. “I have a new case.”

“Did it involve rolling in a pigsty?” Sir Michael sat back, his leather chair creaking. “What is the meaning of your coming into my office in such a condition?”