Beatrice glanced around the room, looking for a place where a man might hide evidence of his crimes. The bookcase full of leather-bound volumes captured her interest. Her uncle had hidden the damning newspaper cuttings between the leaves of a book entitled Farming Practices of the Middle Ages.
Mr D’Angelo cracked open the drawer and sifted through the contents while she studied the gold embossed lettering on the spines of numerous books.
“Search under the seat cushions,” came Mr D’Angelo’s whispered command. “Open the bureau and look there.”
But Beatrice was drawn to the row of books on the top shelf. She took the footstool positioned near the fireside chair, stood on tiptoes on the cushioned seat, but could not reach to pull a book from the shelf.
“Mr D’Angelo, might I borrow you a moment?”
He closed a ledger and placed it back in the drawer. “We haven’t time to examine every book on the shelf.”
“I merely need you to take the candlestick and read a few titles.” Her intuition had served her well so far and would not fail her tonight. “You did say I might lead our investigation.”
“Miss Sands, we—”
“There are four shelves, sir. There isn’t a speck of dust on the highest shelf, look.” Beatrice ran her gloved fingers over the walnut wood. She did the same on the third shelf, leaving one white finger covered in grey fluff. “Please, it will take a minute, no more.”
He sighed as he captured the candlestick and rounded the desk. Muttering something incoherent, he stood on the footstool and held the candlestick aloft. “What am I looking for?”
“The least appealing title. The one you wouldn’t touch even if you were bored beyond belief.”
“The stool isn’t made to take my weight. I’m liable to snap the legs.” He wobbled on the stool for effect. “You’ll need to hold me steady lest I drop the candle and set the room ablaze.”
“When we’re done here, you may go in search of a lady to caress your muscular thighs, sir. Now read the titles.”
He chuckled to himself and then began his study of the leather spines. “Fashionable Infidelity. Most people would want to read that. The Nunnery for Coquettes. Hell, I might take that one with me. Agricultural History. Rural Economy of Lancashire. The—”
“Stop! Remove the last title.”
Mr D’Angelo did as instructed. Paper fell out and fluttered to the floor. Beatrice scooped up various receipts and a dog-eared trade card. One receipt was for a ring pawned at Crockett’s Emporium in Shoreditch.
“Perhaps the proprietor has no scruples when buying merchandise,” she said, handing the chit to Mr D’Angelo. “Though one wonders why Mr Babington kept it when it’s dated four months ago.”
Mr D’Angelo scanned the receipt before slipping it into his pocket. “Is that a calling card?”
“No, a trade card for a goldsmith in Cornhill. There’s a name scrawled on the back—Craddock, I think.”
“Mrs Emery visited a goldsmith in Cornhill for an appraisal on her clock, though Mr Craddock informed her it was of inferior quality, hence the reason she sold it privately.”
“Mr Walters did a similar thing.”
“Walters?” Mr D’Angelo placed the book back on the shelf and stepped down from the footstool.
“Yes. It occurred to me that Mr Babington might have conned others out of their heirlooms. I visited modistes, gathered old copies of the periodical, searched for a similar advertisement to that of Mrs Emery’s.” It had taken two days to find what she needed, another two days to gain Mr Walters’ direction from the publisher. “Mr Walters accepted the forged cheque but was too embarrassed to visit a police office.”
Dark, sensual eyes held her pinned. “Miss Sands, your deductive skills leave me somewhat breathless.”
“Why, thank you, sir.” She offered a serene smile, but her heart hopped about like a March hare. “Now we have proof of a connection, a visit to the goldsmith is necessary.”
“Agreed. I shall call at Howland Street at noon tomorrow. Be ready.”
Beatrice couldn’t help but give a relieved sigh. “You wish me to accompany you to Cornhill?”
“Daventry was right. Your insight is a help, not a hindrance. Nothing matters more than catching Babington, so it appears you’re stuck with me until we’ve solved this case.”
She hoped to be stuck with him a little longer than that.
“Then I shall make myself so indispensable you might ask me to assist you again.” Namely, in finding the murdering blackguard who’d shot his parents.