“It will take a few days to finish my examination, and then you shall have my report. Or rather Miss Montgomery shall have it, since she is paying for my services. At first glance, it appears the structure is still sound, but I’ve yet to see the main working parts where the fire burned the longest. I will err on the side of caution when it comes to my recommendations, I assure you.”

“Do you have any theories as to the cause of the explosion? Was it deliberate or an accident?”

“I cannot say until I’ve made a thorough examination. I prefer to complete my work before positing theories. I am no expert in arson or explosives, merely architecture. I do know someone a bit unorthodox but brilliant I can call in as an expert.”

“Are there such people as experts in arson and explosives?” Daniel asked.

“Arsonists and bombers come to mind.” Hoffman’s lips twitched, and Daniel appreciated his wry humor. “However, the young man I have in mind is a scientist.”

“While you are looking things over, keep your eye out for the murder weapon. We’re looking for a small gun, not unlike a ladies’ muff gun or a gambler’s sleeve pistol.”

“If I find such a thing here, I shall inform you immediately.”

Daniel rode back to London balancing the strongbox on his lap. His horse did not care for this maneuver and let him know it all the way. By the time he returned the horse to the livery and toted the box up the steps and into the Bow Street offices, he was tired and irritable.

Owen sat at Daniel’s desk—where he had no right to be—his back to the room, swinging gently from side to side. He drummed his fingers on the chair arms, eyes raised to the ceiling, seemingly oblivious to Daniel’s arrival.

Thomas Fyfe and Matthias Tollivar, two of his fellow detectives, sat at their desks, bent over the inevitable paperwork that came along with working at Bow Street. When they looked up, Daniel tucked the box under his arm and raised one finger to his lips to indicate his desire for quiet. They nodded, grinning like fiends.

Daniel eased silently across the detectives’ room, calling upon his recent training with Sir Bertrand Thorndike on covert movements, careful not to alert Owen to his presence. When he stood across the desk from Owen’s back, he raised the strongbox in both hands and let go, dropping it flat onto the desk with a bang that shot Owen out of the chair as from a catapult. The boy’s yell ricocheted around the room, melding with the hoots of laughter from Fyfe and Tollivar.

Owen staggered against the wall, his hand to his narrow chest, eyes wide as cartwheels. “What’d you do that for?”