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Mr. Rimmer opened his mouth to answer, but then paused, seeming to give the matter greater consideration.

“I suppose I can’t say for sure. I do move about quite a bit, up and down the stairs and in and out of the rooms. And during the auction I’m needed upstairs.

” He frowned. “But the only keys to the room are in my and Mr. Winstanley’s possession. ”

“And Mr. Clerk’s.” Mr. Winstanley had removed his spectacles to clean them with a pristine handkerchief he’d pulled from his pocket.

He flicked a glance at us, arching his pale gray eyebrows.

“He holds a set of keys to every door in the house. It is his house after all. He can come and go as he likes.”

I supposed the auctioneer’s continued and determined denunciation of Mr. Clerk was understandable, both personally and professionally.

Not only had they evidently taken a disliking to each other, but the reputation of Thomas Winstanley & Sons was at stake.

And no matter how belabored his finger-pointing had become, he wasn’t wrong.

“Yes, we’ll be speaking to Mr. Clerk,” Gage assured him.

“Now, if you could call all of your staff together, we’d like to speak with them.

But first, can you think of anyone in particular who might have wished to either harm someone at the auction or perhaps undermine its success?

A rival auctioneer, for example. Or maybe a disgruntled collector or former employee. ”

Mr. Winstanley was visibly uncomfortable with this question, fidgeting once again with his spectacles and then the fall of his frock coat.

What wasn’t clear was whether this was because he disliked the idea of being the intended target for such a malicious act or because he had something to hide.

“Well, of course, there are other firms who begrudge me my success, but I cannot imagine any of them going to such lengths to sabotage me. It sounds preposterous!”

It did, at that. But then every avenue we’d considered thus far seemed preposterous.

He conferred with Mr. Rimmer. “We have no former employees living in the near vicinity, that I’m aware of.”

The assistant concurred.

“And the notion of an earnest collector—disgruntled or not—willfully risking damage to pieces of art out of spite…” He shook his head. “I can’t conceive of it.”

He was right. Anyone who was a serious enough collector that they might have taken offense at some past action would never have hazarded harming the art itself. As such, I dismissed that possibility out of hand.

“Then there’s a strong likelihood the reason for the sabotage lies in either a grudge against Lord Eldin or with one of the attendees,” I ruminated.

“But hundreds of people must have moved in and out of this house just in those three days.” More than two hundred had likely been in the building at the time of the floor collapse alone.

“I don’t suppose you kept any sort of record of who was here?

” I directed this question to Mr. Rimmer, though I suspected I already knew the answer.

After all, there had been no registration sheet, no footmen barring entrance to only those with invitations.

“I’m afraid not.” He grimaced before turning to Gage and Maclean. “Shall I gather the staff, then?”

“Yes, please,” Gage replied. “Perhaps in the back room.”

Mr. Rimmer hurried off to do so as I tapped the catalog I’d retrieved from the table downstairs against my leg. A thought stirred just as Mr. Winstanley was attempting to take his leave.

“If you require nothing else from me…”

“The catalogs.” I lifted the rumpled one I clutched in illustration.

“You must have created a list of people to whom they were sent.” It would be far from definitive.

There would be people on the list who hadn’t attended, and others who hadn’t received a catalog who had, as an invitation hadn’t been required.

But it would be a start. “May we see it?”

“Of course. I’ll have it delivered to your home,” Mr. Winstanley replied impatiently. In that moment, I suspected he would agree to just about anything to escape. “Now, if that’s all, I do have other matters to see to.”

If Gage or Maclean were ruffled by his terseness, they didn’t show it, allowing him to depart without a word.

In short order, the six other men comprising the auctioneer’s staff were arrayed before us in the small parlor off the back drawing room.

Here the coins, jewelry, weapons, and other valuable objects were still situated in their various display cases, though the space was now also cluttered with crates and boxes of items that had already been prepared for transport.

The six men ranged in age from their early twenties to a grizzled but distinguished sixty.

The oldest fellow and another in his thirties acted as clerks, while the other four took on various tasks.

I recognized the auburn-haired lad, for he’d been stationed in the parlor during the second day of the auction.

Gage and Maclean began to question them while I lingered near the doorway with Mr. Rimmer.

Maclean had spoken to most of them before, but once Gage had established the basics such as their names and positions, he began to ask them more pertinent queries, such as whether they’d witnessed anything suspicious or if they’d seen anyone entering or leaving the study.

Most of their answers were stilted and uninformative, and my thoughts began to drift to the man beside me.

As far as we knew, Mr. Rimmer and the other assistant, Mr. Fletcher, were the people with the most opportunity to tamper with the joist. Thus far, Mr. Rimmer had struck me as open and ingenuous, and I wasn’t aware of his possessing any motive to commit such an act, but I decided it would behoove me to get to know him a little better.

Then I could corroborate anything he told me later with Mr. Fletcher.

“How long have you worked for Mr. Winstanley?” I murmured, so as not to distract the others.

“Almost three years,” he replied. “Before that I was at Cambridge and then abroad in Italy for a time.”

I turned to him in interest. “Studying art?”

His eyes gleamed with the recognition that he was speaking to another true art enthusiast. “That’s where I met one of Mr. Winstanley’s sons, and we became friends. He convinced me to apply for the position which had opened at his family’s firm of art dealers and auctioneers.”

It seemed my initial assessment of Mr. Rimmer was fairly accurate.

He was a gentleman, but one from a family of limited wealth and little consequence.

Though undoubtedly there was some sort of title within his lineage, he was far removed from it.

Educated as a gentleman, he’d probably been intended for the military or the church, the usual bastions of younger sons, but his interest in art had motivated him to diverge from this path.

I wondered if his family had been affronted by his choice, or if they were far enough removed from nobility so as to not have the liberty of being offended by the notion of a profession.

For his sake, I hoped it was the latter.

I clasped my hands before me and surveyed the other men. “What of the rest of the staff? Have they been in Mr. Winstanley’s employ for long?”

He crossed his arms as he pondered the question.

“I’d say Sullivan has been with us the least amount of time, but still eighteen months or more.

Price and Bray perhaps fifteen years, and the others somewhere in between.

Except King.” He nodded at the older clerk.

“He’s worked for Mr. Winstanley for thirty-three years. Almost since the beginning.”

“What about Mr. Fletcher?” I looked for any indication of how he felt about the coworker with whom he shared a title, but he answered matter-of-factly, tilting his head in thought.

“Perhaps five? Yes. He’d already been with Mr. Winstanley for two years when I began.”

I wondered if this had caused any upset. Though it was doubtful a bruised pride had led Mr. Fletcher to sabotage the ceiling so that it collapsed with his standing over it, injuring himself in the process. However, the other employees had escaped harm.

“Do you trust them?”

As before, Mr. Rimmer considered the query before rushing to answer.

“I do,” he said, but I could hear a caveat in his voice.

He huffed a laugh in acknowledgment of the misleading nature of his response.

“I do, but admittedly I also don’t know some of them well.

For the most part they’re agreeable and hardworking, and many of them have families back in Liverpool.

So perhaps I simply want them to be trustworthy.

” His expression turned sheepish. “Or perhaps I’m overcomplicating the matter. ”

I suspected Sergeant Maclean would say so, but I appreciated the distinction, and I recognized that for Mr. Rimmer trust was not immediately given but hard-won.

“What about you? Do you have a family back in Liverpool?” He was old enough to have a wife and a young child or two, but I suspected he didn’t.

He seemed too dedicated to his work, and though I couldn’t possibly know this, I sensed he would be the type of devoted husband and father who wouldn’t want to remain apart from them long.

He smiled, revealing a dimple in his right cheek. One to match the dimple in his chin. “No. I haven’t yet met the lady to tempt me.”

Something about the tone of his voice and the way he looked at me made me flush, unaccustomed to such open admiration from men other than my husband. Though I strongly suspected that any admiration on Mr. Rimmer’s part was directed at my art rather than my person.

“You mentioned hearing rumbles about my recent portraits,” I broached carefully, having wanted to ask about this since he brought them up. He turned to me eagerly, as if anticipating something, but his shoulders slumped at my softly worded “How?”

“There is always discussion among dealers and such about new pieces,” he explained with a shrug. “Particularly if those paintings have not been commissioned.”

And therefore might earn the dealer something for the sale. I could read between the lines.

His eyebrows arched. “Word is, you haven’t accepted a new portrait commission in over a year. That you’ve turned down dozens of offers.” His dark gaze searched mine. “And yet, rumor is you’re painting more than ever.”

I didn’t confirm or deny this, slightly uncomfortable with the idea that people had been discussing such things about me without my being aware.

“Speculation is that you’re preparing an exhibition of your own.” His voice lowered. “That soon you’ll be looking for a broker.”

I knew what he was about to say, what he was about to offer, and I wasn’t certain how to respond.

Yes, it was time to begin seeking out a broker and a venue for the exhibition, something I found incredibly anxiety inducing.

One hoped for an advocate who would support one’s work with such passion and excitement.

But as had already been established, these portraits were very different from the usual artistic fare.

The thought of showing them to someone, of watching that passion and excitement possibly dwindle and die, made my chest tight.

Before Mr. Rimmer could say anything more, Gage interrupted.

“Mrs. Gage, might I have a moment?”

“Of course.” I glanced distractedly toward Mr. Rimmer before crossing the parlor. Most of the auctioneer’s other employees had been dismissed, but the red-haired fellow Mr. Rimmer had called Sullivan remained along with Sergeant Maclean.

“Mr. Sullivan here…” Gage nodded to the stiff-backed fellow “…was just reminding me of the dispute you and he both witnessed in this room on the second day of the auction.”

“Why, yes,” I replied. “I thought of it earlier but hadn’t yet had a chance to bring it up. One of the men involved was Mr. Smith.”

Maclean straightened to alertness. “The banker who was killed?”

“The same. Though he wasn’t part of the initial dispute, but rather interjected at the end.”

“Tell us about it,” Gage urged.

I looked to Mr. Sullivan, seeing that he was waiting for me to speak first. “A man named Innes was apparently impatient to join the Bannatyne Club and upset that a special meeting wouldn’t be called to vote on his membership.

He was arguing with a reverend about it until Mr. Smith stepped in.

Then he…he accused Lord Eldin of having blocked his membership while he was alive. ”

Maclean frowned. “The Bannatyne Club, huh?” The way he spoke its name made me suspect he was aware of its reputation as more than just a publication society. “And hoo did Smith factor intae the altercation?”

“He merely urged Innes to temper his outburst.”

“And hoo did Innes respond?”

“He told him to mind his own business before barreling out of the room.”

“And straight into Mrs. Gage,” Sullivan expounded when I failed to, though I suspected he wished he hadn’t when he paled at Maclean’s reaction. The sergeant’s face did rather resemble a snarling dog’s.

“He apologized,” I felt compelled to add in his defense, perhaps to mitigate Maclean’s ire.

Gage was also angry, though he concealed this better as he conferred with Maclean. “We should speak to this Mr. Innes. And the reverend involved in the quarrel as well.”

I agreed, though I had little confidence in Innes being the culprit.

For certain, he’d been angry and anxious for the vote about his membership to be called, but I couldn’t see how sabotaging the structural integrity of Lord Eldin’s home was the next logical step in either taking revenge or hastening the outcome he wanted.

No, I still believed that Mr. Smith’s death had been naught but a bit of particularly rotten luck.

Maclean scraped a hand over his shadowed jaw, turning to Mr. Sullivan. “Do ye have anything else tae add tae what Mrs. Gage has told us?”

“No, sir.”

“Then ye can go,” he told him in dismissal.

Mr. Sullivan didn’t need to be told twice, beating a hasty retreat.