Page 69 of Who Cries for the Lost

“I think you do, yes.”

She settled back, her forearms resting on the carved arms of her chair. “Well, I don’t.”

He pushed away from the doorway to wander the shadowy recesses of the room. “Who would want to kill her?”

“I have no idea.”

He paused on the far side of the table, his gaze hard on her face. “She’s not really your sister, is she?”

Sibil hesitated a moment, then shook her head.

“So who is she?”

“An actress. Too old to be some rich man’s mistress and never good enough on the boards to succeed once her looks began to fade.”

“How did she end up here?”

Sibil twitched one shoulder in a casual shrug. “It was something to do.”

“Spying for the Bourbons, you mean?”

Her expression didn’t alter. “I never said that.”

“No, you didn’t. So what was her real name?”

“I’ve no idea. She used to call herself Astrid Burns, but I suspect that was only a stage name.”

“When was the last time you saw her?”

“Earlier this evening.”

“You were open when she was killed?” Most shops were required to close on Sundays. But such things were rarely enforced in places like St. Giles.

“We were, yes.”

“But no one saw anything?”

“Business was slow; people were out in the streets, but all anyone seems to want to think about is either Napoléon or the bodies they keep pulling from the river. I don’t know why we even bothered to open.”

“Had Astrid quarreled with anyone recently?”

“No.”

“Noticed anyone following her?”

“No.”

“She didn’t say anything to you at all about being nervous or afraid?”

“No. I keep telling you, I have no idea who killed her or why.”

“You don’t seem overly saddened by her death.”

Sibil stared back at him, her eyes wide and dry. “I told you she wasn’t actually my sister.”

“Yet you knew her.” He let his gaze drift around the room with its richly paneled walls and ancient sandstone fire surround. “So tell me this: Did you know Hamilton Evans?”

“Who?”