if their housekeeper is anything like my Mary. So the wax can be no older than a day."
Don Sebastien was no sorcerer, and she largely ignored him while she dipped mingled salt and lampblack out of a little pouch and spread those around the circle, pretending she did not notice the cold water dripping down her collar. Don Sebastien seemed untroubled. "What intrigues me, Crown Investigator, is the swiftness of the attack. Have you eliminated a human agency?"
She tucked the little pouch into her pocket. "I've ruled out nothing," she answered, feeling as if he tested her. "But I must admit, I can see no way around suspicions of sorcery. Unless it was a beast." She let her voice drop. "In which case, we can expect further attacks."
Don Sebastien pursed sensual lips. Rain spattered from the brim of his hat. "May I call you Lady Abigail? It is so much less unwieldy than 'Crown Investigator.'"
"My name is 'Abigail Irene.' And I would prefer to be addressed by the title appropriate to the situation. 'Garrett' will do if you are pressed for time, Don Sebastien."
"I meant no disrespect. DCI, have you considered some of the more unpleasant possibilities?"
"What would you consider the more pleasant possibilities, Don
Sebastien? A deranged lunatic with the strength to peel a man's spine out of his back?"
"Ah. I take your point, Investigator. Although I admit, I am still exceedingly curious about the candlewax."
Garrett chuckled. "So am I, Don Sebastien. So am I. And curious as well, where the other residents have gotten off to. Shall we proceed?"
Once the coroner had moved the body, Don Sebastien wrapped the brass door-pull—which had already been examined—carefully in his handkerchief and tugged it open, stepping aside so that Garrett could precede him. "Crown Investigator, may I join you?"
"Thank you, Don Sebastien. If you must, you may." She shook her gore-daubed skirts and knocked the worst of the mire from her boots before she crossed the threshold; it didn't help. Wet cloth still clung to her knees when she crouched. "Well."
Don Sebastien reached up and pulled a taper from the sconce upon the wall, keeping the drip shield at its base. He set it alight with a silver lighter, drawn from his coat pocket, and dropped to one knee facing Garrett, tilting the candle to give her light. Shadows scrolled about them. "More candle-spatters," she said. "Beeswax, and a good quantity of it, too."
"Do you maintain your good opinion of the housekeeper?"
She lifted her chin and glanced around, hair moving against the nape of her neck. Don Sebastien's eyes were on the scrollworked secretary beside the door. Garrett reached out and ran a kid-gloved fingertip along its edges. She examined the results in the glow of the taper, which was of good enough quality not to drip even when he angled it. "Even the back is clean," she said. "And a family of some means, if they were spending so on candles. And that candle does not drip like this." She drew out a penknife and flaked a few dribs of wax into a glassine envelope.
"Your reputation does not do you justice," Don Sebastien said, and stood, offering Garrett his assistance. "The intruder's light, do you think?"
"If there was an intruder." His flesh was cool even through her glove. "Don Sebastien, you were too long in the rain."
"I am always cold," he answered, and released her lightly once her balance was sure. "The trail appears to lead this way. Shall we have a look upstairs, Crown Investigator?"
"By all means. Lead on, Lucifer." Light-bearer.
He laughed and held the candle high. "I have been called worse. You have noticed the angle of the drippings?"
"Of course," she answered. "They fell from the candle of someone leaving the house."
"Indeed." They entered the front room. He stood aside again, to allow her to precede him up the sweeping stair.
Very pretty. For a hobbyist. Does he think because a Crown Investigator is also a woman, she needs an expatriate Spaniard as her shadow to solve a murder? And then, since he was only looking at the back of her rain-wet head, she allowed herself a little, mocking smile. Perhaps he's just hoping to catch a glimpse of your ankles. "There is more wax up the stair runner."
"And on the banister."
"And across the landing—interesting. The droplets crisscross the hall." She bent again, gesturing for the light. Don Sebastien was beside her as silently as a cat in his patent-leather boots, dabs of mud