Chapter 37
Chapter Thirty-Seven
MORRIGAN
The enormous house on Huntly Street had been locked since the day after Sir Rupert’s arrest. The servants were dismissed.
His clerk and his henchmen had disappeared.
Morrigan followed Madame Laborde out of the carriage.
A frigid wind was whipping up the icy waters of the River Ness, and she promised the driver that they wouldn’t be long.
The two Mackintosh fighters walked them to the door.
“The key is here somewhere.” The artist searched the bottom of a large quilted bag she used for carrying her supplies around.
Morrigan had come along in hopes of finding her father’s letter.
Aidan said it didn’t matter. She agreed.
Still, the opportunity had presented itself when Madame Laborde mentioned that she wished to go back to the house and collect the rest of her things.
Sir Rupert never returned to Huntly Street after the arrest. He’d had no chance to secure his papers or give them to someone else.
That meant her father’s letter could still be here.
“I found it.” The key slid into the old lock, and the Mackintosh men went inside the house ahead of the women.
All was quiet inside. And cold. No fires had been lit inside these walls for three days. The windows rattled in their sills and a whistling moan came from the chimney in the drawing room.
“I’ll go upstairs for my things.” The artist pointed out a door to the right. “That is his study. I believe that would be the place to look.”
One of the escorts walked into the study and looked around. She waited in the hall until he made sure no one was inside. He nodded to her that she could go in.
The study was furnished with a large table, a secretary’s desk by a window, and chairs.
Bookcases lined two walls. A cabinet with diamond-shaped openings for maps and scrolls stood empty.
She pushed some papers around on the desk and opened drawers.
Nothing caught her attention, and she began to wonder if his clerk had been here, after all.
Or perhaps he had another office. Niall told her that in Glasgow, Burney had taken over offices in the City Chambers in the Saltmarket.
Morrigan recalled what Wemys told her. Burney kept secrets on everyone.
All his spies and agents. All the people who worked for him.
And anyone else he could use or manipulate.
Looking around the room, she tried to think how he would keep this information close at hand.
Perhaps there was a ledger that would lead her elsewhere.
As she stood thinking, she heard Madam Laborde call from upstairs that she needed help carrying a trunk downstairs. Footsteps moved away down the hall.
The volumes on the bookshelves were different sizes, and, from the coating of dust, many appeared to have been here for quite some time. She pulled out books that seemed to have been moved more recently. Working steadily, she went through them and looked behind the rows. Nothing.
As she was sliding items on the bookshelves of an inner wall, the wooden case moved slightly. She pulled at it, and the entire case began to swing toward her. A hidden closet. Of course. Searc said this house belonged to an old smuggler.
The bookcase groaned a little but swung open smoothly.
Morrigan peered in. Shelves lined the opposite wall, and they were filled with books and ledgers and packets of papers tied with black ribbon and stacked neatly in rows.
A metal cash box sat on a small desk and a large leather satchel filled with ledgers and papers was propped open beside it.
She stepped into the space and reached for the bag. She didn’t get far. The keen edge of a knife pressed against her throat. She tried to twist to deliver a blow to the man standing behind her, but the jerk of his fist in her hair and bite of the blade stopped her.
“Mrs. Grant. How gratifying to find you here.”
Sir Rupert Burney stood behind her. The bookcase swung shut.