Fire at Midnight by Olivia Drake

Author:Olivia Drake [Drake, Olivia]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781641970938

Chapter 11

A short while later, Norah studied the faces of the people assembled around her desk. Thaddeus frowned in concern, Winnifred pursed her lips in disapproval, and Ivy blinked in perplexity as she twisted her lacy handkerchief around her gnarled fingers. Lark hovered in the entry to the cubicle, his eyes agog as he hopped from one foot to the other in an effort to see past Winnifred’s thickset form.

Kit’s swarthy palm cupped the dull metallic gleam of gold. But he ignored the brooch and studied the silver and brown strands scattered over the oak desk.

“You’re certain that’s Maurice’s hair?” he asked Norah.

“Yes.” Now that the initial shock had passed, she could speak calmly, without the shuddering queasiness in her stomach. “If you’ve any doubt, the engraving inside the brooch should convince you.”

One black eyebrow edged upward as he read the inscription: “‘Whose hair I wear, I love most dear. Maurice Rutherford, 31 December 1886.’”

“Oh my.” Ivy reached beneath her spectacles to dab at her eyes. “It was never meant to honor my brother’s demise. Maurice made the brooch himself thirty years ago, as a remembrance of our parents’ passing. It was the very first piece of jewelry he ever crafted. I wore it to church every Sunday, until it was stolen.”

Aha, Norah thought. So that was why the brooch had looked familiar.

Winnifred snorted. “The brooch wasn’t stolen, Ivy. You lost it out on the street, just as you lost your hat last week. Given half a chance, you’d misplace your own head.”

Ivy’s lip quivered. “That isn’t true. Someone filched my precious memento.”

“I see. A footpad walked into our house, ignored the silver and jewels, and went straight up into your chamber to take a near-worthless brooch, did he? How ridiculous can you be—”

“Stop your bickering.” Norah’s patience snapped. “Clearly the brooch wasn’t lost, Winnifred, because someone took it to play this cruel trick on me.”

The air reverberated with tension. Lark poked his head past Winnifred, the whites of his eyes vivid against his street-rough features. In a dramatic whisper, he said, “It ain’t just anyone. It’s ’er. The madwoman o’ Mayfair.”

“Madwoman?” Thaddeus craned his neck to glare at the boy. “You surely cannot mean the female who murdered Mr. Rutherford.”

“Aye, I do.”

Hearing her own suspicion voiced aloud jarred Norah. Dear Blessed Virgin. Why would someone go to the trouble of stealing the brooch and delivering it to her? Even worse, who would clip a lock of Maurice’s hair, then hold on to it for so many weeks?

A chill slithered over her skin and dampened her palms. Someone who loved him? Or someone who hated him?

“Hush, Lark,” Kit said, glowering at the boy. “Miss Ivy, when did you first notice the brooch was gone?”

“Last November seventeenth.” Setting her chin as if to dare Winnifred to disagree, Ivy added, “I remember especially, since it was Marmalade’s ninth birthday.”

Kit snapped the brooch shut and placed it on the desk. “And no one here saw the piece again until Lark found the packet on the back step?”

In unison, they all shook their heads.

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