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A moment of silence followed this pronouncement, such was our surprise. In my case, it was startlement that I’d been correct about the floor collapse possibly being a diversion. In Sergeant Maclean’s, it was incredulity followed by anger.

“You said you’d taken inventory and nothin’ was missin’,” he charged.

“We did,” Mr. Winstanley snapped. “But after I learned that Mr. Sullivan’s cousin works for Brade Cranston and that he’d been seen consulting with the knave, I ordered them to check the collection again.

That’s when I discovered that my assistants…

” he turned his head to scowl at the men “…had not done quite the thorough job I’d believed. ”

Mr. Rimmer appeared somewhat abashed, though from the glint in his eye I suspected it was more from mortification at being reprimanded in front of others. Mr. Fletcher, on the other hand, was still openly defiant, his nostrils flaring in resentment, though he didn’t speak.

“Apparently, Sullivan helped check the coins and other miscellaneous articles of virtu in the back parlor,” Mr. Winstanley continued in a sharp voice. “And while the appropriate number of items were accounted for, their quality was not inspected.”

“Meaning?” Gage prodded. I could tell he was growing irritated at the auctioneer’s failure to state things plainly.

He stiffened, his chin lifting as if someone was holding a knife to his throat. “Some of Lord Eldin’s most valuable coins were replaced with counterfeits.”

My husband and Maclean both turned to me, I supposed expecting me to take the reins of the questioning. While it was true I had some experience in uncovering art forgeries, those were of paintings, not coins. I knew next to nothing about that.

“You’re confident they weren’t counterfeit before?” I queried. “When you initially put the collection on display.”

Mr. Winstanley recoiled. “Absolutely not.” Despite his taking offense, I knew enough of his firm’s workings and his personnel to suspect he couldn’t actually state this fact with any certainty. Not when it had been one of his assistants who possessed the expertise to evaluate them.

As such, I turned to Mr. Rimmer and Mr. Fletcher to hear their answers, risking insulting the auctioneer further. A flash of dark amusement lit Mr. Fletcher’s eyes as he turned to his colleague, Mr. Rimmer, who appeared momentarily nonplussed.

“I…” His gaze flicked toward his employer nervously. “I’m quite confident they were authentic when I placed them in the case. Since they were among the rarest and most valuable, I took considerable time assessing them.”

I nodded, trusting this answer. “Where were they displayed?”

Mr. Rimmer led us into the back parlor which adjoined the room where the auction had taken place.

The display cases were still arranged about the room, but one near the wall opposite the rear drawing room now had a smaller wooden glass-fronted case sitting on top of it. It was toward this that he pointed.

“Here. This smaller case—or rather one very much like it—contained the four coins in question, and it was placed inside this larger locked case.”

I recalled seeing it on the second day of the auction before Mr. Innes distracted me.

“Then the thief somehow got into the locked cabinet, extracted the entire smaller case, and replaced it with a similar case containing the counterfeits?” I summarized, gazing down at the imitations nestled in silky fabric.

To my untrained eye, they appeared legitimate, but I knew that meant nothing.

The average person had no hope of identifying even a mediocrely forged painting, while I could often detect them within seconds.

“That’s what we suspect,” Mr. Rimmer replied.

“It wouldn’t be hard,” Gage ruminated. “This smaller case would fit under a coat or within the folds of a skirt if carried carefully.”

“Which is also how they probably smuggled the counterfeit coins and case into the auction,” I said.

“Sullivan must have swapped them during the chaos of the floor collapse,” Mr. Winstanley stated with utmost conviction. “When no one’s attention was on the coins, but rather the calamity unfolding.”

It was no less than I’d surmised the evening before when I’d speculated the floor collapse might have been a diversion, drawing everyone’s attention away from the real target. But there was a problem with this theory given the new information that had come to light.

“Perhaps,” I conceded. “But Mr. Sullivan worked here. He might have accessed the case at any time. Why would he go to the trouble of breaking into the house to damage the joist to cause the floor to collapse just so he had a diversion to steal the coins?” I shook my head.

“It’s unnecessarily convoluted and fraught with complications. ”

“Yes, but if it had happened at any other time, I would have known it was one of my employees,” Mr. Winstanley retorted.

“ If it was noticed.” I glanced at Mr. Rimmer. “After all, I doubt you had your employees inspect the inventory every day. Not once it was situated inside the locked cases. And you must have had other people entering the house from time to time. Mr. Clerk. The footmen he hired. Various tradesmen.”

Mr. Winstanley sneered, acknowledging this point.

“Even if it did happen as you said, during the floor collapse, any number of other people might have taken advantage of the situation. A bidder, a guest, someone who simply walked in off the street. After all, I don’t recall anyone checking invitations or barring people entrance.

The auction was open to all.” I also recalled how Maclean had told us that a carpenter strolling by had heard the screams from inside when the floor collapsed and had walked in without anyone taking notice, offering his assistance to break down the doors.

Of course, the likelihood of a random thief from off the street choosing that moment to nab something was even slimmer than Sullivan’s potential guilt.

“How did they access the locked case?” Gage asked. “Obviously it wasn’t broken.”

Or someone would have noticed sooner.

“They must have picked it,” Mr. Fletcher remarked, speaking up for the first time since we’d interrupted his shouting match with Mr. Winstanley. “Either that or they had a key,” he added with a sly glance toward his employer, stirring the pot.

“If they picked it, then they were a dab hand at it,” Maclean remarked gruffly.

“No’ just anyone would be able tae open it quickly.

’Specially wi’ such an uproar aroond ’em, and the potential o’ bein’ caught at any moment.

” His gaze lifted to meet mine, and I could tell we were both thinking of the specialized criminals in Bonnie Brock’s employ—chief among them being lockpicks.

Though they couldn’t all work for him. There must be a fair number within the city who did not.

“I don’t think picking the lock was even necessary.

” Gage had leaned down to examine the mechanism and the wood surrounding it and now straightened.

“I’ve seen these cabinets before. They’re fairly popular.

” He turned to look at Maclean and then Mr. Winstanley.

“And if you have a key to one of them, they can often open others.”

Mr. Winstanley stiffened.

“You mean the keys aren’t tailored specifically to each case?” I asked for clarification.

Gage’s countenance was grim. “Not like they should be.”

“Then anyone wi’ a key tae a similar cabinet might o’ gained access,” Maclean grumbled.

“In theory.”

“Well, I didn’t know that,” the auctioneer growled. “I use similar cases in Liverpool, and the man who lent these to me said they were the most secure of their kind.”

“Obviously he lied,” Mr. Fletcher interjected unhelpfully, earning him a ferocious scowl from his employer. That is until he added, “Maybe he should be the one held accountable for the theft.”

Then Mr. Winstanley’s sour expression transformed to one of speculation. “Excellent point.”

Mr. Rimmer observed all of this with a frown.

“Has anything else been found to be missing or…replaced?” I asked him, hoping to direct them back to matters more pertinent to our investigation.

“No.” His dark gaze flickered toward Mr. Winstanley. “But we still have some inventory to examine.”

Gage had moved along the cases, scrutinizing the contents of the adjoining ones. “What were the coins that were taken?”

Mr. Rimmer named a silver Roman coin and three Greek ones—one of Athens, another of Massenae, and a third.

“Will you write that down for me, along with a description of each. And make a copy for Sergeant Maclean,” Gage added, peering over his shoulder at the policeman.

As Mr. Rimmer hurried off to do this, Maclean insisted on calling together Mr. Winstanley’s other employees and questioning them on the matter.

Most of them swore they knew nothing about it, and little enough about Mr. Sullivan, who was a relatively recent hire.

However, Mr. King—the older clerk who had worked faithfully for the auctioneer for thirty-three years—insisted that Mr. Sullivan was at his side, helping to guide to safety those bidders still standing on the portion of the floor that had not collapsed in the rear drawing room.

“Then ye’re prepared to testify that at no point followin’ the collapse was Mr. Sullivan no’ wi’in yer sight?” Maclean pressed.

“Well, not in the immediate aftermath,” Mr. King said.

“There was too much debris.” It still coated every surface in a fine layer despite dusters having obviously been swiped across the room’s contents and a broom taken to the floor—probably several times in the past few days.

“But it was no more than a minute or two before I reached him standing in that doorway.” He pointed toward the opposite wall.

“Leaving this room all but unattended,” Mr. Winstanley griped.