Free Whispers from the Shadows by Roseanna M. White Page B

shocked him. Though he hadn’t served directly under him, Arthur knew Fairchild’s reputation.
    But if he had secrets like this, it could be tied to his murder. Arthur studied out the French text.
    My dearest Isaac, how I yearn for you. How much longer until you return to me? This dreadful weakness is seeping more and more through my limbs. I fear, my love. I fear I will not live to see your homecoming. I fear leaving Gwyneth alone.
    Gwyneth. Arthur’s gaze went to the end of the letter, where Julienne was written. Mrs. Fairchild, not some secret mistress. He had forgotten she was half French. This would not help him determine who could have killed the man or why. It could not lead him to Gwyneth. He set the letter on top of the row of books.
    â€œAh!”
    Gates’s exclamation brought Arthur around. The older man knelt by the window seat, the lower paneling of which had been removed. He maneuvered a strongbox from within the hidden cubbyhole.
    Though a skitter of unease swept up his spine, as Arthur hurried to his companion he told himself that if it would save Gwyneth it was not prying. “How will we open it?”
    From within a pocket Gates produced a large metal key. “I procured it from the Bow Street runners. ’Twas in the general’s boot.” He set it at the lock but then paused to shoot Arthur one of his serious looks. “Do be aware, sir, that you are not to poke into any military-related articles that may be within.”
    Again his hand flexed, craving the surety that came with his trusted sidearms. “Mr. Gates, I was a military man for a decade, sent home because of injury and for no other reason. You need not lecture me on such things.”
    This time Gates offered no apology. He turned back to the box, inserted the key, and gave it a hard quarter turn.
    Clank.
    Another quarter turn.
    Clank .
    Once more.
    Clank.
    And a final twist, a final release, a final metal-on-metal clank . Arthur strained forward, leaned in, and frowned.
    Gates withdrew the single sheet of paper and held it so they could both read it.
    You are too late. The game, as they say, is up. You have lost.
    Pushing to his feet, Gates tossed the paper to the window seat. “It seems our hunch was correct, Sir Arthur. Fairchild’s death could not be a result of a random burglary, given this.”
    â€œIndeed.” Still frowning, he looked from the safe to the page. Speculation flew through his mind, but he focused again upon the facts.
    One—Fairchild had expected someone to look in this strongbox.
    Two—he therefore knew he had an enemy closing in upon him.
    Three—if Fairchild expected someone to look in here, then he expected them to have the key. The key which he wore in his boot. It therefore stood to reason that he suspected his enemy capable of murder.
    He had taken steps to counteract this enemy, though, clearly. Likely with the removal of whatever had been in the safe at one point. Just as likely with the removal of his daughter from harm’s way.
    â€œWhere does that leave us?”
    A muscle in Gates’s jaw pulsed, as if he clenched his teeth too tightly. “I know not. I have already canvassed every stop along the post roads from London, the shipyard, everything. No one recalled seeing her, and if they did not recall it two months ago, they will not now.”
    â€œShe can’t have disappeared.” Yet she seemed to have. Arthur walked over to the window, pushed aside the drapes, and looked out into the garden. Heavy with blooms and lustrous with life, but empty. So very empty. “I asked after her in all the likely places too during that first week. I even followed several false leads. The only one I could not track down was at the shipping office.”
    â€œWhat?” Gates had been turning away but halted. “I checked there. No one saw any young ladies the days in question.”
    â€œNone of the officials, but a young lad searching for