hands, feeling its weight and balance. Stepping back, he gave it a slow, measured swing—not in the way one would normally swing a cricket bat, but downward from overhead.
“Could one of those have done the job, do you think?” she asked.
“It’s heavy enough, and the shape of the edge and the toe—this bottom part here—is right to have caused those particular fractures.” Will smoothed a hand thoughtfully along the blade of the bat as he carried it back to the rack and replaced it. Turning toward the desk, he said, “From what I know of Philip Munro, I wouldn’t have expected him to be quite this fastidious.”
It was, Nell saw as she approached it, an austerely tidy desk. A square-shaped crystal inkwell stood in the center of the desktop, a flawless slab of dark-stained oak buffed to a silken sheen. In a neat row next to it were a steel pen, a mechanical pencil, and a letter opener. Aside from that, there were just three stacks of papers lined up precisely along the bottom edge; no scrawled notes, no scrap paper, no blotter, no calendar, no letters, nothing one would normally expect to see scattered across a working desktop.
Standing across the desk from Will, Nell said, “Those papers must be what he was working on when he died.”
He lifted the top sheet of the middle stack and frowned, then the next, and the next, and the next, looking ever more puzzled.
“What is it?” Nell asked.
“The first page is a legal description of a piece of land in Chestnut Hill. Must be from his deed to the property he was going to build on. The two below it are stock certificates. Then come another few pages from the deed, a page from a letter someone wrote him, another page from the deed... It’s all out of order.” He riffled through the piles to either side. “These, too.”
“May I?” Nell held out her hand.
Will handed the middle stack across to her, but the bottom sheet remained on the desk. When he went to lift it, it was stuck. He peeled it up by a corner, causing it to rip, a layer of it adhering to the wood, which was whitish in that area. “Looks as if there was some dampness under there.”
He lifted the stack to the right, while Nell circled the desk and picked up the other one. The bottom sheets of both were likewise stuck to the desk amid a hazy water stain.
“If I had to guess,” Nell said, “I’d say some water spilled here, or a drink of some kind.” Sniffing the shred of paper in her hand, she said, “Water, I suspect, and the wood wasn’t dried thoroughly enough before the papers were set back down.”
Will said, “If it was water, perhaps it wasn’t a spill. Perhaps someone was simply cleaning up.”
“Washing a fine oak desk with water?” Nell shook her head resolutely. “It would be worth a maid’s job to do such a thing. One dusts wood furniture, then oils or waxes. And this desk must have been very well cared for, because it’s in perfect condition—except for these.” She pointed out a smattering of dents and nicks in the section that had been marred by water.
“Yes, well, someone was also a bit careless in drying up this spill—or whatever it was.”
“Careless or perhaps just in full chisel to set things right and be gone,” Nell said.
Will crossed to the corner sink, a reminder that this room was originally intended as a bedroom. He lit the gas sconce on the wall above it, and inspected it closely. “No sign of blood, but there’s nothing easier to clean than a sink.
“No blood here, either, that I can see,” Nell said as she scrutinized the front of the desk and the tufted leather chair tucked into it. Pulling the chair out, she crouched down and examined the carpet, an Aubusson in autumnal shades of garnet and amber. “The rug is ever so slightly wet,” she said as she ran her hand across it.
Nell followed the damp spots across the room and around the table that held the architectural plans; the trail ended at the middle bay window. She pushed the
“Could one of those have done the job, do you think?” she asked.
“It’s heavy enough, and the shape of the edge and the toe—this bottom part here—is right to have caused those particular fractures.” Will smoothed a hand thoughtfully along the blade of the bat as he carried it back to the rack and replaced it. Turning toward the desk, he said, “From what I know of Philip Munro, I wouldn’t have expected him to be quite this fastidious.”
It was, Nell saw as she approached it, an austerely tidy desk. A square-shaped crystal inkwell stood in the center of the desktop, a flawless slab of dark-stained oak buffed to a silken sheen. In a neat row next to it were a steel pen, a mechanical pencil, and a letter opener. Aside from that, there were just three stacks of papers lined up precisely along the bottom edge; no scrawled notes, no scrap paper, no blotter, no calendar, no letters, nothing one would normally expect to see scattered across a working desktop.
Standing across the desk from Will, Nell said, “Those papers must be what he was working on when he died.”
He lifted the top sheet of the middle stack and frowned, then the next, and the next, and the next, looking ever more puzzled.
“What is it?” Nell asked.
“The first page is a legal description of a piece of land in Chestnut Hill. Must be from his deed to the property he was going to build on. The two below it are stock certificates. Then come another few pages from the deed, a page from a letter someone wrote him, another page from the deed... It’s all out of order.” He riffled through the piles to either side. “These, too.”
“May I?” Nell held out her hand.
Will handed the middle stack across to her, but the bottom sheet remained on the desk. When he went to lift it, it was stuck. He peeled it up by a corner, causing it to rip, a layer of it adhering to the wood, which was whitish in that area. “Looks as if there was some dampness under there.”
He lifted the stack to the right, while Nell circled the desk and picked up the other one. The bottom sheets of both were likewise stuck to the desk amid a hazy water stain.
“If I had to guess,” Nell said, “I’d say some water spilled here, or a drink of some kind.” Sniffing the shred of paper in her hand, she said, “Water, I suspect, and the wood wasn’t dried thoroughly enough before the papers were set back down.”
Will said, “If it was water, perhaps it wasn’t a spill. Perhaps someone was simply cleaning up.”
“Washing a fine oak desk with water?” Nell shook her head resolutely. “It would be worth a maid’s job to do such a thing. One dusts wood furniture, then oils or waxes. And this desk must have been very well cared for, because it’s in perfect condition—except for these.” She pointed out a smattering of dents and nicks in the section that had been marred by water.
“Yes, well, someone was also a bit careless in drying up this spill—or whatever it was.”
“Careless or perhaps just in full chisel to set things right and be gone,” Nell said.
Will crossed to the corner sink, a reminder that this room was originally intended as a bedroom. He lit the gas sconce on the wall above it, and inspected it closely. “No sign of blood, but there’s nothing easier to clean than a sink.
“No blood here, either, that I can see,” Nell said as she scrutinized the front of the desk and the tufted leather chair tucked into it. Pulling the chair out, she crouched down and examined the carpet, an Aubusson in autumnal shades of garnet and amber. “The rug is ever so slightly wet,” she said as she ran her hand across it.
Nell followed the damp spots across the room and around the table that held the architectural plans; the trail ended at the middle bay window. She pushed the
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