Free The Vital Principle by Amy Corwin

the situation might not be that simple. There was the matter of motive. He was not comfortable that he knew why she poisoned her host. Murdering Lord Crowley just because he had hired an inquiry agent seemed somewhat excessive. Had she been afraid he would discover some other secret? Something worth killing for?
    Something was amiss, and he didn’t think it was the spirits haunting Rosecrest.
    Considering matters, he retrieved his handkerchief and unwrapped the cork he had found last night. As he turned it over between his fingers, he discovered a black thread caught in the edge of the cork. It was the end that remained outside the bottle. Apparently, the rough surface of the cork had rubbed against some fabric and picked up a thread, most likely from a reticule, or a jacket pocket.
    Unfortunately, it proved nothing except the killer was too hurried to retrieve the stopper. Perhaps she—or he—had been unable to stoop and pick it up without being observed.
    He pulled a slim pair of tweezers from his shaving kit and plucked out the thread. Although it was difficult to be sure, the strand had a sheen to it that made him think it might be silk. He took another sip of his cooling coffee and pondered it before placing the cork and fiber on a sheet of thick writing paper. He carefully folded the edges to form a pouch and sealed it with a blob of red wax. After a hasty glance around, he slipped it behind the painting of a seascape hanging over the narrow table next to his bed.
    Several of the women had reticules hanging from their wrists by ribbons. All of the pouches had been fanciful affairs, lavishly embroidered and beaded. And all of them had traces of black silk thread to enhance the designs. Unfortunately, he had noted that neither Miss Barnard nor the dowager felt the need to carry reticules. Perhaps the two women had used pockets, fastened around their waists and hidden under their skirts, instead.
    The tiny strand might also have come from a man’s clothing. Several of the men had worn black silk jackets and pantaloons to dinner. He, himself, had worn black. So in fact, the thread could have come from nearly anyone’s pocket or reticule and was therefore of dubious assistance.
    Coffee gone except for a few bitter dregs, Knighton rang for Crowley’s valet. He had not expected to stay above a day or two and had left his own man in his London apartments to keep an eye on his offices. Second Sons, Discreet Inquiries , was prospering, particularly after the latest scandal involving a few less-than-honest Bow Street runners. The Bow Street runners were not always discriminating about those with whom they shared information, and they involved the newspapers far too frequently. So there seemed to be an endless supply of patrons who felt the need to hire someone guaranteed not to discuss private matters at the end of an inquiry.
    As a result, Knighton disliked leaving the business unattended for long. Sooner, rather than later, he was going to have to hire additional agents. Or at least an assistant—although his valet, Boodle, seemed perfectly willing to fill that role. Knighton glanced in the mirror as Crowley’s man brushed the back of his coat. He wished he had brought Boodle. Boodle was not overly fussy and knew when to offer his services and when to slip quietly away.
    “Will that be all, sir?” the valet asked, nervous and pale with distress. “I must be going along to tend to his lordship. The dowager, poor soul, is too fluey to lay him out. Distraught with grief, as you'd expect. And someone's got to do it properly, don't they?”
    “Is she in her room?”
    “Yes, sir, I expect so. Will be all day, too, if I guess a-right. 'Tis unaccountable, all this tragedy a-coming so hard on the heels of her husband’s passing. And then there's the inquest and no answers....” The valet let his final sentence hang in the air, his eyes fixed on Knighton, clearly hoping for more information.
    Knighton refused to add to the