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T he Theatre Royale had once been a grand theater, a jewel where many an esteemed thespian had walked across the stage. Now, years after audiences had filled the upholstered seats and applauded as the performers took their final bows, the plush burgundy curtains had faded over time, the boards were dulled from age and lack of care, and the once-dazzling crystal chandelier in the aging yet still elegant lobby now bore massive cobwebs. As Macie positioned her camera to capture the barren feel of the stage, she pulled in a low breath and released it on a sigh. The quiet seemed almost oppressive. She might actually welcome the sight of a specter or two, if only to liven up the place.

A dull ache pounded against her temples. She pressed her fingertips to her forehead, as if that might ease the low throb and drown out the chaos of her own thoughts.

Both Nell and Finn had wandered off to explore various parts of the theater. Since the three of them had arrived, Nell had seemed unusually quiet. That had certainly not been the case as they’d traveled in Finn’s carriage to the theater. While Finn took the reins, Nell had excitedly discussed the letter in the rosewood box, interrupted only by the lurch of the coach over a few particularly large bumps in the road. She saw the discovery as an exciting revelation, a vital clue that could explain Professor Smythson’s motives for his frantic search in the library.

A sudden jolt stirred her, and she looked down to see that one foot of the tripod had slipped into a crevice on the marble floor. Drat the luck . She crouched low to reposition the leg. As she adjusted the camera, she spotted Finn as he entered through the side door. His brisk steps closed the distance between them.

“You look weary, Macie. Ye might consider putting this off to another day.”

“I’ll be fine,” Macie replied. “Working with my camera energizes me.”

“Ye’re headstrong, lass.” He flashed a little grin. “Like me.”

The warmth in his smile was just the elixir she needed. “You like that, do you?”

“More that ye know, Macie.” He traced the curve of her face with his fingertip, looking as if he might kiss her. “Ye’re just—”

Displaying utterly atrocious timing, Nell strolled the door, interrupting Finn’s gravel-edged words. She cut a direct path to the stage. “I do hate to be the bearer of bad news, but I suspect that unpleasant Mr. Neville is in the vicinity.”

Macie felt the dull throb in her temples begin anew. “He’s here?”

“A coach bearing a monogram on the door is outside the theater, waiting at the curb,” Nell said. “I believe I saw that carriage at Bennington Manor when the old man approached you.”

“Bloody hell,” Finn said, his voice turning gruff. “I’ll have a word with the gent.”

Macie shook her head. “Not quite yet,” she said. “I’ll speak to him. After all, I can’t have him think he can intimidate me.”

As they headed to the lobby, Finn stayed close by. Seeing no sign of Mr. Neville, they stepped outside.

The coach was nowhere to be seen. Macie’s shoulders relaxed as tension eased from her body.

“The weasel must’ve thought better of it,” Finn said.

Macie rubbed the back of her neck, easing out a sudden tension. “If he did follow us, I simply cannot understand what the man could possibly think to accomplish.”

“It’s possible I was mistaken,” Nell said.

“I find that unlikely,” Macie said. “You have a keen memory for details.”

“Perhaps not as keen as I’d thought. In any case, now I can take a peek at the dressing rooms. I have an idea for a photograph that might prove interesting.”

“An excellent idea,” Macie said as they reentered the building. As Nell headed toward the massive spiral staircase, Macie headed to the stage with Finn.

She’d scarcely had time to adjust her camera lens when a scream rang out. The terror in the piercing cry sent a chill along her spine.

“Nell!”

They darted from the theater, coming upon Nell by the stairs. She stood motionless as if frozen by fear.

“Thank heaven,” Macie rushed to her side. “We heard you scream.”

“I didn’t mean to frighten you,” Nell murmured. “It’s... it is awful.”

“What’s happened?” Finn said, his tone firm yet gentle. “Tell us what you’ve seen.”

Nell pointed to the lobby where patrons had once obtained refreshments. “He’s there.”

“Stay here.” Finn cut a path to the bar. His gaze fixed on the floor behind the counter. “Good God.”

Macie rushed to see what had left Finn stunned. “Oh, no.” The horror of the sight slammed into her. “This cannot be happening.”

A man lay in the shadows, an ebony cane topped with brass at his side.

Mr. Neville .

A bitter taste rose in the back of her throat. Macie pressed a hand to her mouth. She struggled against the instinct to flee.

Finn dropped to the floor and examined the man for signs of life. He slowly shook his head.

“I’m sorry, Macie. He’s gone.”

Dear Lord.

Macie’s pulse thundered in her ears. Emotion welled in her throat. “Perhaps his heart gave out.”

“That is a possibility,” Finn said, doubt clear in his tone. “Macie, Nell, look away. This is not a fit sight for yer eyes.”

“I need to see this,” Macie said, holding her voice calm despite the quivering of her hands. “I need to know what has happened.”

Finn came to his feet. “I will summon the authorities. But not until after we’ve left this place. Not until ye’re home behind a heavy door with a solid bolt.”

“Do you think... someone did this to him?” Nell asked, her voice quaking.

Finn’s expression was grim. “There’s blood on the cane. Most likely his.”

“It’s happened,” Macie murmured. “Again.”

Finn caught her hand in his. Warm and strong and reassuring. “I need to get the two of ye away from here.”

“Wait. Do you see it? There’s something there,” Nell said. “Something near his right hand.”

Crouching down, Finn retrieved a small, torn piece of stationery that lay behind the counter. “This scrap?”

“Yes,” Nell said as he brought it to her. As she examined the ragged paper, she appeared to steel herself. “How very peculiar.”

“What is it?” Macie asked. “What have you found?”

“I’m not entirely certain.” Nell stared down at the scrap, her eyes widening. When she spoke, she kept her voice to a near whisper. “Mr. Caldwell, we must leave this place. Now.”

*

“My dear, are ye feeling unwell?” Mrs. Johnstone’s eyes betrayed her concern as she strolled into the parlor of Macie’s townhouse.

Macie straightened her spine and forced a small smile. “I’m a bit weary. Nothing more serious than that.”

Mrs. Johnstone went to the sideboard and poured two cups of tea. “Ah, my dear, I know how upset ye must be.”

“I’m not destined for a career on the stage, now am I?”

“This is all so very troubling. I’m more than a bit shaken myself. I was not even there to witness the horrible sight.” Mrs. Johnstone placed the cup on the table beside Macie. “This may help to calm yer nerves.”

Macie inhaled the rich aroma of the oolong as she pulled in low breaths. She had to compose herself. She’d be of no use to anyone, not even herself, if she could not calm her own fear.

“It does seem rather like a bad dream, doesn’t it?”

“Indeed,” Mrs. Johnstone perched upon a wing chair. “So, what has the inspector determined about Mr. Neville’s death?”

“They have assumed natural causes.” Macie sighed. “While Inspector Bradley took meticulous notes on what we’d all witnessed, he seemed to have already reached the conclusion that Mr. Neville had suffered a spasm of the heart.”

“A rather convenient deduction,” Mrs. Johnstone said with a frown. “Less possibility for scandal, I’d say.”

“Indeed. At this time, the detectives have established no connection between his death and Professor Smythson’s murder.” Macie pressed her fingertips to her temples. “It’s baffling to me that they cannot see the similarity. When Professor Smythson collapsed, the physicians believed he had suffered a heart attack. But later, they noticed the signs of poison.”

Mrs. Johnstone’s brow furrowed. “I understand that Finn spotted a tear in Mr. Neville’s coat.”

Macie nodded. “Someone might have rummaged through his pockets. Finn also noticed blood on the man’s walking stick. It simply doesn’t make sense.” Macie stared down at the painted flowers on the teacup, gathering her thoughts. “And then, there is the matter of the scrap of paper Nell spotted near Mr. Neville’s hand. It’s quite small and rather ragged, but I do recognize my grandfather’s handwriting.”

Mrs. Johnstone nodded with interest. “Might I have a look?”

“Of course.” Macie went to her desk, retrieving the scrap of paper she’d carefully stored in the drawer.

Mrs. Johnstone took her spectacles from her pocket and examined the ragged-edged remains of what might have been a letter. “This does look rather like the writing in yer grandfather’s journals. Pity all that is left is this snippet.”

“I believe Mr. Neville had been clutching a letter and someone tore it from his hand,” Macie explained.

“Indeed. This scrap might have been left behind.” Mrs. Johnstone held the paper up to the window. “I can make out the name of a Grecian goddess. Aphrodite. And another word.” She hesitated. “Deceived.”

“The inspector did not find that word nearly as troubling as I did. As the paper was not discovered on Mr. Neville’s person, he dismissed the find as coincidental.” Macie pulled in a breath. “Why, he didn’t even collect it as evidence.”

“How very frustrating,” Mrs. Johnstone returned the paper to Macie.

Macie placed the scrap back into the drawer. “Even if Inspector Bradley’s theory is correct—even if Mr. Neville’s heart gave out—the detectives have not yet deduced a motive for Professor Smythson’s murder.”

“With any luck, Finn and Logan will find some answers as they make their own inquiries. Logan has a way of tracking down the sources he needs.”

“I do hope so,” Macie let out a long slow breath.

I can no longer protect you.

Mr. Neville’s anguished statement played in her thoughts. A chill trickled along her nape. Why had the man followed them to the theater?

Andrew would’ve trusted me to help you.

Mr. Neville had referred to Grandpapa by his given name. At the time, she’d thought the elderly man had been using that familiar name to convince her that her grandfather would have wanted her to sell his papers and books to him. Had she been dreadfully mistaken?

“At this point, we have far more questions than answers,” Mrs. Johnstone said. “Only one thing is certain now. The threat is quite real. We must be especially vigilant.”

You don’t know what you have . As the memory of Mr. Neville’s low voice whispered in her thoughts, another faint chill danced over the back of Macie’s neck.

His words had been a warning.

“He said my grandfather would have wanted him to help me,” she said, staring down at her porcelain cup. “I thought he was trying to convince me to do what he wanted.”

Mrs. Johnstone offered a grim nod. “Perhaps he was telling the truth. If he knew your grandfather possessed the Renaissance letter, he might have feared someone would covet such a valuable document.”

Nell walked slowly into the room, carrying the rosewood writing box. She placed the container on a marble-topped table. “Mr. Neville might have had another reason to come after you.”

A sudden apprehension washed over Macie. “What do you mean?”

Nell pursed her lips, as though she carefully considered her words. “While taking another look at your grandfather’s research, I noticed something peculiar about this box—the bottom of the container is more shallow than the walls are deep.”

Mrs. Johnstone sat up straighter. “Ye suspected a false bottom?”

“At times, those gothic tales I’ve read have proven instructive.” Nell pointed to the corner of the lining, then tugged it toward her. “This contains a hidden compartment.”

“How very odd,” Macie said. “Grandpapa never mentioned anything of the sort to me.”

“It’s possible he modified it to construct the concealed space. In the excitement of discovering the Renaissance letter, I overlooked small flaws which hinted that the box had been altered.” Nell pursed her lips, looking as though she was considering her words carefully. “The two of you need to see this.”

She handed Macie ragged-edged pages that appeared to have been torn from one of her grandfather’s journals. “Each notation refers to a different artifact or letter,” Nell said. “I don’t understand precisely what it all means. But I have a sinking suspicion.”

“A suspicion?” Mrs. Johnstone questioned as she rose from her chair and leaned in to glance at the page. “Might I have a better look?”

“Of course,” Macie said.

While Mrs. Johnstone read over the notes, Nell placed a partially faded letter in Macie’s hand. “This was also in the false bottom,” she said. “It’s not nearly as old as the Renaissance letter. But it is rather curious that your grandfather made notations on the document.”

“How very peculiar.” Macie’s gaze swept over the letter. “That’s quite unlike his usual working methods.”

She studied the document, a missive penned in French during the time of Napoleon. Her command of the language was fair at best, but she could decipher that it had been written by someone on an expedition near Rome. As she took in each of her grandfather’s jottings, the significance of the letter grew clearer.

“Macie, my dear,” Mrs. Johnstone said, looking up from the journal pages. “It would appear yer grandfather had grave doubts about a number of his acquisitions.”

A dull ache settled into the pit of Macie’s stomach. “Doubts?”

“If I am interpreting his notes correctly, it would seem he questioned their authenticity.” Mrs. Johnstone’s mouth settled into a terse line. “If I may be blunt, he believed they were frauds.”

Macie swallowed hard against a sudden, bitter lump in her throat. She handed the century-old letter to Mrs. Johnstone. “And he’d found the proof.”