"I can link the Lord Mayor to Sheridan, and Sheridan to the Fenians. Without that"—she waved at the open carpetbag with the corner of envelope peeking clear—"it's all very tidy, don't you think? It almost solves itself."
"There are," Sebastien said dryly, "more easy ones than not."
"What are you going to do?" Mr. Priest, at Garrett's elbow. He extended a hand to help her to her feet, and she accepted.
She twisted her skirts in her fists, feeling more bitterness than wrath or despair. "Mister Priest," she said, "will you obtain for me a list of names?"
* * *
Garrett had expected Mr. Priest to temporize, stall, or otherwise attempt in some way to protect whatever familiar friends he had among the Fenians. Instead, he was at his desk within minutes, writing meticulously with a steel-nibbed pen on a torn half-sheet. The scritch-scritch of his writing complemented the clacking of Sebastien's needles; the wampyr had resumed his knitting, this time in the corner by the door.
Neither sound helped Garrett's uneasy concentration as she paced and attempted to distract herself with a book. She flipped pages almost at random, pausing only at the engraved chapter headers. These she tilted so the light caught on the fibers of the paper, studying them to see if she could make out the indentations caused by the pressure of the plates. She had no attention for the actual pictures.
This killing had turned out to be barely a mystery. Garrett was perfectly confident that Colm Sheridan, in the person of Emmett Goodwood, had been murdered because he meant to expose the Fenian organization and in so doing save and free himself. Almost painfully simple.
But there was still the problem of identifying and capturing the man behind the murder, and of course proving the crimes of the Fenians themselves. If they could manage any of those things.
It was rarely a question who was in charge of organized crime or revolutionary conspiracies. The issue was proving it, and while Garrett could arrest anybody she chose, doing it without proof of a crime would only give Finn's Boys another martyr.
And there was no guarantee she'd get the right man. The paddereen might mean nothing at all. It might, she was forced to admit, not even be linked to the crime.
The orange cat miaowed at the kitchen door to be let out into the garden. Garrett heard Consuela, Sebastien's cook, open it for him and cluck. A click, the clamor of outraged birds, and then silence followed.
She shut the book with a snap. Mr. Priest started, blotting his page, but Sebastien did not so much as drop a stitch. "The envelope," she said. "The dustman comes to that neighborhood on Fridays. The Colonial Police don't have it. The son—unless he's concealing it—doesn't have it."
"So a servant took it away," Sebastien said over the clatter of his needles. He reached the end of a row, and bent in concentration as he reversed. The cabling, Garrett must admit, looked tricky, though she could not herself knit. "Or the killer did."
"Or they're one and the same," she said. "It seems I'll need to have the murder squad round up the servants again, for questioning."
"As soon as I'm done with my list I'll take a message," Mr. Priest said. He had lowered his head again and was writing intently. "Forty-one names. I'm better than half done."
It was less than a quarter-hour before he finished, but to Garrett it felt like eight times the duration. Finally, he set the pen down, stood, and came to Garrett to hand her the list, with an odd little bow. She glanced along it and frowned.
It ran onto the back, and a second half-sheet. "Well," she said with a sigh, "it's a start. And it will give the redcoats something to do."
"Redcoats." She suspected, if they hadn't been indoors, Mr. Priest would have turned his head and spat.
* * *
When Garrett arrived at the Duke's house, she found herself anticipated. Seamus Gallagher—Richard's butler—was there to greet her and help her off with her coat. She kept her carpetbag. "We received your note, Crown
Investigator," he said. "The Duke is out, but I've sent a message."
"Did he say where he was going?" She allowed him to usher her into the study, expecting the headshake before it happened. Seamus was always
discreet. That, and his unfailing efficiency, had ensured his employment with the Duke for longer than Garrett had known either of them.
Seamus hesitated as he was leaving, his hand upon the door. "Can I make