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Gage gestured for Maclean to join us near the hearth. “You’ve been part of the investigation at Picardy Place, then?” he queried as he took a seat next to me on the sofa, allowing Maclean to sit in the adjacent wingback chair. “We read the article this morning in the Caledonian Mercury .”

“Aye, weel.” Maclean rubbed a finger under his nose. “The papers have been kent tae jump tae conclusions.”

Gage and I turned to look at each other.

“What do you mean?” I asked carefully, seeing no reason why Maclean would wish to diminish the validity of the article.

Maclean scrutinized us both, as if trying to come to an important decision.

Or perhaps he was merely struggling to overcome the awkwardness between us where once upon a time there had been none.

After all, he must have already determined to confide in us if he was here.

Unless he’d planned only to ask us questions about the incident.

But then why the veiled comment about the press? And why the sudden reticence to speak?

Gage and I waited patiently for him to continue, though I could tell that my husband was as aware of the tension in the air as I was, for his leg lightly jostled up and down, vibrating the cushion beneath me.

Maclean finally exhaled a long juddering breath before glancing significantly toward the door.

“What I’m aboot to tell ye is sensitive, ye ken?

” His mouth compressed into a taut line, accepting our silence as acquiescence.

“Ye read aboot the knot in the joist, aye? Weel, while that is true in a sense, evidence is also beginnin’ tae mount that the beam was tampered wi’, compromisin’ the integrity o’ the structure. ”

“Tampered with how?” Gage asked as the unsettling knowledge that what Bonnie Brock had told me was correct resonated through me.

“The beam was sawed from the existin’ knot tae nearly the other side. A sliver was left connected, presumably in the hopes that it would crack under pressure and cause the floor tae collapse.”

I pressed my hand to my mouth. “Dear God.”

Even though this was not the first time I’d heard the allegation, having it confirmed struck me sharply in the solar plexus anew.

Maclean’s gaze, when it fastened on me, was not without compassion, though as a rule his features did not reveal much in the way of emotion.

“But that’s…that’s madness!” Gage stammered. “The culprit—whoever he is—might have killed dozens of people!”

“Aye,” Maclean stated patiently in his bass rumble, allowing us a few more moments to come to terms with this revelation, believing it was the first time we’d heard it. I didn’t dare tell him Bonnie Brock had stolen a march on him, so to speak.

“But how certain are you?” I asked, finally finding my voice.

He grimaced. “I’m here, are’na I?”

I supposed that was answer enough. Gage seemed to agree.

“What can we do to help?” he queried, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees. But this appeared to bother his injured arm, and so he sat upright again.

A soft rap on the door preceded Jeffers’s entrance with the tea tray. We paused until he’d set it on the sideboard and bowed in retreat once again. I stood to pour while Maclean continued.

“As ye ken, there were a number o’ privileged people in the room, and that does tend tae make the nobs take more o’ an interest.”

There was an edge to his tone. One I couldn’t fault him for.

Gage and I had noted the partiality of justice.

Those with wealth and influence tended to have it swing in their favor when they’d been the ones wronged, while it looked the other way when the opposite was true.

It was the reason I’d shifted the focus of my portraits, the reason I was pursuing this exhibition.

“Especially when the high-rankin’ officials who’ve been informed o’ the facts begin clamorin’ for answers,” Maclean continued rancorously.

“I see. Which is why you’ve come to us.”

Gage sounded terse, and I glanced over my shoulder to see that his posture was stiff with affront. Across from him, Maclean began to withdraw behind his granite features. I hastened to finish preparing their tea before their pride allowed the discussion to dissolve into a quarrel.

“It’s been suggested that yer assistance might prove beneficial in this instance,” Maclean replied crisply, clearly quoting one of those officials or perhaps his own superintendent.

“And I suppose this time we’re above suspicion since we’re among the victims.”

This was obviously a reference to the brief time a year earlier when we’d been considered suspects in the murder of the publisher who’d printed The King of Grassmarket , the book about Bonnie Brock.

Given the circumstances, our inclusion on the list of possible suspects was justifiable.

However, Maclean’s uncharitable remarks about me had not been, though he’d apologized.

Regardless, that was all in the past and needed to be put firmly behind us if we were to move forward.

“Here we are,” I declared blithely, moving first toward Maclean. “Now, you’ll have to tell me if my memory has failed me, but I do believe I recall correctly from the times we met at Mrs. Duffy’s Tea Room that you only take one lump of sugar in your tea.”

He gingerly accepted the saucer I passed into his large hands. I’d also made sure to add a selection of Mrs. Grady’s biscuits and small cakes. “Aye. Thank ye.”

Then I turned to Gage to pass him his tea, arching my brows in gentle scolding. “Darling.”

He frowned in response but remained silent.

“What else have you uncovered so far?” I asked Maclean as I returned to the sideboard to fix my own cup of tea.

“Other than the tampered joist, that is.” It was certainly an unusual turn to find myself being the one forced to wheedle information rather than Gage.

Normally, he was the interrogator, for he had charm in spades, and I had a habit of saying the wrong thing.

Though, admittedly, sometimes my gracelessness and abruptness had its usefulness.

“Weel, it appears the culprit, or culprits, gained access tae the house in the hours after the auctioneer and most o’ his staff had left for the day.”

“Did they not have a guard at the house?” Gage queried in disbelief.

Maclean seemed to share his disapproval. “Nay. Winstanley claimed the house and each individual room containin’ any auction items was locked, and that had always proved more than adequate in the past.” He scowled. “Didna like us suggestin’ otherwise.”

“Perhaps one of his employees is involved?” Gage proposed as I rejoined them. “Either as a central party or even a witless accomplice who was bribed.”

“I admit, that ’twas my first thought also. But the truth is, I dinna think it would have been all that difficult tae break intae the house wi’oot bein’ caught.” He turned to me just as I was taking a sip of tea. “Kincaid and his men no doubt could’ve done it.”

This was unfortunate timing for such a statement, for I nearly choked on the hot beverage.

“No’ that I’m accusin’ them,” he hastened to add, clearly recalling as I had that Bonnie Brock was at the center of our last disagreement. “Can’t see what would be in it for him, especially since nothin’ was stolen.”

“You’re certain?” Gage asked, patting my back.

I waved him off, for his thumps were not helping.

Maclean eyed me in concern as I continued to cough, though less vociferously. “So the auctioneer claims. But perhaps ye could take a look.”

Given my reputation as an artist, it made some sense that he was making the request of me.

After all, I’d uncovered art forgeries in the past. There was also the fact we were familiar with the auction and its content, though I suddenly realized I’d lost my auction catalog among the rubble when the floor had collapsed, but the auctioneer, no doubt, had one to spare.

At least, I hoped that was why Maclean was still looking at me, and not because I’d given away the other reason for my reaction to his Bonnie Brock comment.

That the rogue had paid us a visit just the day before to apprise me of the developments at Picardy Place.

“Of course,” I replied hoarsely.

“It would be good to examine the entire scene and speak with Mr. Winstanley and his staff, and anyone else involved,” Gage chimed in to say, but then checked himself. “That is…if they know. And if you’re officially asking for our assistance?”

The two men squared off, each scrutinizing the other, though this time I knew better than to interrupt.

For all that Maclean was a great hulk of a man, that wasn’t the only reason he excelled at his job.

He was also intelligent. And part of that intelligence was in accepting when it was best to defer to another’s expertise.

Whatever passed unspoken between them appeared to be satisfactory to both, for Gage’s shoulders relaxed even before Maclean spoke. “Aye. They ken. Could hardly keep it from them or Mr. Clerk. And aye. I’d like yer help.” His gaze shifted to me. “If ye’re up for it.”

I nodded.

“Then if you’ve the time noo…?”

I took one last sip of my tea before setting it aside, my recent fatigue forgotten at the prospect of answers. “I’ll just fetch my redingote.”