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Chapter

Sixteen

ROSALYND QUESTIONS THE WALSH HOUSE STAFF

A fter searching Walsh’s quarters and finding much more than I expected, it was time to question the staff. Of course, I would need to start with the butler. Nothing happened in that house he did not know about. Approaching him, I asked, “Would it be possible to have a few words with you, Mr. Anstruther?" I asked. "And afterward, Lord Walsh’s valet?"

A flicker of hesitation crossed his face—gone almost before I could mark it.

"Of course, milady. Shall we speak in the library?"

The house seemed to absorb sound as I followed him down the corridor, the thick carpets swallowing my footsteps. Every room we passed felt emptied of life, stripped bare by fear and suspicion. Walsh’s death had left more than grief behind; it had sown seeds of uncertainty that were already taking root.

Anstruther closed the library door behind us, the click of the latch unnervingly final.

He stood at attention, hands folded before him, a picture of proper dignity.

"I know these are difficult days, Mr. Anstruther," I began gently. "But anything you might recall could help resolve matters quietly."

He inclined his head. "I will assist where I can, milady."

"Tell me," I said, "did Lord Walsh have any... unpleasant encounters in the days leading up to the ball?"

A pause. Too long.

"There were visitors," he admitted finally. “Some men of business. Others, gentlemen of quality, if you take my meaning. Per Lord Walsh’s orders, they were admitted to the small sitting room.”

“And did Lord Walsh meet with them willingly?"

Another pause, deeper now.

"He was … reluctant," Anstruther said carefully. “But he did agree to talk to most of them. Not all, though. Some were denied entry.”

"Who were these men?"

He provided me with several names. Some I recognized; others I did not. “There were raised voices on more than one occasion."

“Did you perhaps note what the discussions were about?”

“I did not hear the entire discussions. But I did catch several words.”

“Of course.” He was reluctant to admit he’d eavesdropped, like any good butler would. “And what were those words?”

“Thief, card sharp, swindler.”

None of his visitors had a good opinion of Walsh, that was certain.

“Anything else you can think of, Mr. Anstruther?”

“Not at the moment, milady.”

“If you think of anything else, could you please send word to Rosehaven House?”

“Of course, milady.”

"Thank you, Mr. Anstruther. I would like to speak with Lord Walsh’s valet now, if I may."

He hesitated but finally dipped his head and rang a bell.

Moments later, a thin, nervous-looking young man entered the room. His livery hung loosely on his frame, and he twisted his hands with visible anxiety.

"This is Phipps," Anstruther said shortly. "Lord Walsh’s valet."

I smiled warmly. "Thank you for seeing me, Mr. Phipps. I know this must be a difficult time."

Phipps swallowed hard. "Yes, milady."

"I would only like to ask a few questions. You were close to Lord Walsh—you saw him daily. Did you notice any changes in him recently?"

Phipps shifted on his feet. "He was ... troubled, milady. Jumpier than usual. Locked his chambers more often. Kept looking over his shoulder."

"Was there anyone he argued with?"

The young man hesitated. "Not in front of me, no. But …”

He darted a glance toward Anstruther.

“You must tell Lady Rosalynd what you know, Phipps.”

“Yes, of course.” Phipps turned back to me

"But?" I prompted gently.

Phipps licked his lips. "The night before the ball, someone came to the house. Late. After midnight."

"Did you see who it was?"

"No, milady. I only heard the shouting. Lord Walsh's voice and another man’s. Angry. Real angry. I heard something about payment."

My heart quickened. "Payment for what?"

"I don't know, milady. I swear it. But afterward, Lord Walsh looked like he’d seen a ghost."

“Did you know about this visitor, Mr. Anstruther?”

“No. I’m sorry to say I was suffering from a toothache. But one of the footmen would have opened the door. Once I find out who, I’ll have a word with him.”

As I turned back to Phipps, he appeared ready to collapse. Miserable did not begin to describe him.

I offered him a reassuring smile. "You’ve been most helpful. Thank you."

After dismissing Phipps, I lingered in the library alone, pretending to examine a volume of Dryden’s poetry. But my mind raced as I considered the implications of everything I’d learned. Someone had confronted Walsh the night before his death over money. A large debt? A failed scheme? The pieces were beginning to shift, but the picture they formed remained maddeningly incomplete.

Maybe the study held some answers. Once I arrived there, I carefully inspected the desk. I ran my fingers along the edge of it. An elegant piece, though softened by years of use. I bent closer, inspecting its details with a practiced eye. On the underside of the top drawer, something had been scratched into the wood.

Curious, I tugged the drawer open and slipped my hand beneath the lip. My fingers brushed against something dry and crumpled. Heart pounding, I carefully drew it out.

It was a torn scrap of ledger paper. The ink had smudged, but several words remained legible—and damning:

"Transfer — E.L. Bank — to account #9431"

A hidden transaction, maybe of concealed funds. A trail Walsh had deliberately tried to erase.

I folded the fragment and slipped it into my reticule, my thoughts already racing. Steele would need to locate that bank. Trace the account. Maybe we’d find funds there.

After securing Julia’s permission to take the ledgers and documents I’d retrieved from the safe, I bid her farewell. One of Rosehaven’s footmen would deliver them to Steele with a note.

I was willing to wager that something in those pages had sparked the fire that led to Walsh’s murder.

And I had just caught the scent.