Free The Emperor's Assassin by T.F. Banks

Mrs. Collicott for talking to you when I was told never to.”
    She shook her head. “I didn't know about that.”
    “A lifetime ago,” Morton said, and smiled. “You wrote of an art object.”
    “A painting, yes. A Vernet—one of his sea storms. A…a very powerful canvas, really. I—we all thought it quite sublime. It was taken from our house sometime in the last few days.”
    “You don't know when, exactly?”
    A slight look of embarrassment. “No, it was hanging in the viscount's study. No one had been in there since he departed, four days ago.” She met his eye and smiled charmingly. “But let me offer you some refreshment, Mr. Morton. Certainly a Runner must need to rest his feet occasionally.”
    Morton was as susceptible to charm as the next man, when his mood allowed it—but his mood was very low this afternoon. “Why have you called on me, Miss Richardson, if you don't mind me asking?”
    The young lady struggled with a look of distress, then said in a slightly trembling voice, “Your recent legal triumph has proven you to be a man of unimpeachable integrity, Mr. Morton. And I was being entirely honest when I said I had long wanted to make your acquaintance.”
    “Curiosity?”
    “Perhaps. Was it not something like that that drew you here?”
    Morton shrugged. “Something like.”
    “Well, here we are, curious. The only way to satisfy our curiosity would be to have speech, I believe.”
    Morton fought off the temptation. “I mean no offence, Miss Richardson, but I'm engaged in another matter of some importance, and my time is very short.”
    “Ah,” she said. “And what foul crime calls the formidable Mr. Henry Morton today?”
    “The murder of a lovely young woman, I regret to say.”
    “Oh,” she said, “I'm sorry to hear it.”
    “May I ask some questions?”
    She nodded her assent.
    “How many servants do you employ?”
    “A good number. I will have a list drawn up.”
    “And who else lives in the house?”
    “Myself, the viscount, of course, my brother Lord Robert, and my aunt, Mrs. Eugenie Childers. I rather suspect Aunt Eugenie myself, though she is more than a little infirm and can't get around of her own—but she has an eye for a good painting.”
    Morton smiled in spite of himself. “Might I see the room from which it was stolen?”
    The viscount's study was shadowed by oak panelling and books. Morton was a bit abashed to find how widely his father read. The scent of pipe smoke emanated from carpet and furniture. Upon the desk were some neatly stacked papers beneath weights and an almost new blotter. All was perfectly ordered. Nothing was out of place but the missing painting, which was marked by a light rectangle upon one wall.
    “Nothing else is missing?” Morton wondered.
    “Not that we know of. The viscount would have to say, but the painting seems to be the only thing that was taken.” She stood tentatively by the door, as though this room were forbidden to her. She looked somewhat younger, hovering there so hesitantly.
    Morton took a last look around the study. “I wonder how they got access to the house.”
    “Through a service door that opens onto Whetstone Park, the street that runs behind. They broke a small window and managed to unlatch the door from there.”
    “Would you have a servant show me?”
    “I'll show you myself.”
    They wound downstairs to the servants' domain, a world familiar to Morton. This was where his mother had been employed—perhaps where she had been seduced.
    “Anyone new belowstairs?” Morton asked.
    “No. Most have been with us forever. Charles, the footman who answered the door, joined us a little more than a year ago, I think. He would be the most recent addition.”
    The glazier had already been by to repair the shattered pane, and all signs of the breakage had been swept away. Morton sighed. He looked briefly outside but found that the glazier's efforts had erased or muddied any signs of the burglary.
    An hour was spent