As she examined the bedcovering of yellow silk, she realized it was not only new, but also of fine quality. No imitation silk. Mrs. Thornton would only have procured such lovely things if her employer had authorized it. How generous her dear uncle had been.
She turned and went for the door. "I've seen enough," she said in a trembling voice.
Once in her uncle's dark library, she first drew open the drapes to allow good light, then she showed her husband her uncle's favorite chair. "See how worn down the cushion is?"
He nodded. "I understand what Mrs. Thornton was talking about. It looks as if that chair was the place where he was most comfortable."
"And over here is the glass . . ." Her mouth gaped open. "It's gone!"
"What's gone?"
"The murderer's glass!"
His brows lowered. "Perhaps you just thought you saw a glass there. No one else could have gained access to this house."
Anger bolted through her. "I'm positive there was a glass next to the visitor's chair." A prickly chill inched up her spine. Her terrified gaze circled the library. "He's been here."
Adam's gaze darkened. "Sawyer did say it looked to him that someone had been whittling at the door since the last time he tampered with it."
She collapsed onto her uncle's chair, clutching her chest. "Dear God. This is frightening." The only thing saving her from being paralyzed with fear was her husband's presence. Her determined gaze took in his towering strength from his booted feet planted so close to her, along his long, muscled legs sheathed in fine buckskin to his broad-shouldered torso. He looked more powerful than the most decorated military hero. Even though he wore no sword, she felt exempt from danger as long as she was with him. My husband. Instinctively she knew he would always protect her. Since that first night, he had looked after her.
"Forgive me," he said. "I know you saw a glass next to the visitor's seat the last time we were here."
"He must have remembered and sneaked back in here to remove it—and any sign that my uncle might have had a visitor that last night."
"I wonder if there was anything else he thought might incriminate him."
"I suppose there could have been a note or letter from the murderer to inform Uncle Simon he would be calling on him that Sunday evening."
He leveled a grave look at her. "You might as well say his name, Emma. There's little doubt James Ashburnham's the murderer."
She shivered. "It's mortifying to think we've been in the same room with such an evil person. You even spoke to him."
He nodded grimly. "I suggest we stop talking about murder and try to look for something that might help us prove Ashburnham's guilt."
They both moved to stand in front of her uncle's desk. "Since you looked at the top last time, I will now," she said.
"I'll start with the drawers on the right."
"Wait!" She snatched a single sheet of paper. "Look at this! It was right on top of Uncle Simon's ledger."
They both read. I should like to call on you Sunday evening on a personal matter. —Faukes
"Was this note here the last time we were in the library?"
He shook his head. "Absolutely not."
"Then Ashburnham forged it to point the guilt at my uncle's business partner." What a diabolical plan.
"Who better to forge the handwriting of both his employers than a man who serves as their clerk?" He took the note and placed it in his pocket.
She shook her head gravely. "How could someone betray those he worked so closely with?"
"We will never understand the mind of a murderer."
"It's so upsetting to know that fiend has been here."
He nodded. "Had I known, I would have had the house guarded."
"Even if we caught him in the act, it wouldn't have proven anything."
"True. We need real evidence." He opened the drawer he'd been about to inspect.
With a sigh, she scanned the top of her uncle's desk. A tall, cloth-bound ledger was the largest thing on it. She began to examine its pages. Her uncle kept detailed records of household expenses, accounting for every farthing, down to the quarterly expenditure for candles. Her brows hiked. She'd never realized how costly it was to light a house this size. Oddly fascinated by the ledger, she sank into the desk chair to peruse it. There were payments for the green grocer, the coal, the Morning Chronicle, a tithe to his church, and small sums she would never have thought to calculate. She went through a dozen pages. Seeing his neat numerals and getting a glimpse into his exacting nature, she felt closer to him but bitter that she would never know him in the flesh.