CHAPTER 3
THE BLUE STUDY
Romy reached the Blue Study doorway before anyone else understood why the photographer had screamed.
He had stumbled backward into the corridor and hit the wall hard enough to knock one of Celeste’s framed concept boards crooked. His camera swung from its strap.
“What happened?” Leo said.
The photographer pointed.
Romy looked into the room.
Sebastian Pryce lay on the floor beside the writing desk.
For one terrible instant, everything around him looked normal.
Blue walls shone softly in the lamps. Lacquered tables reflected pinpricks of light.
The carefully matched books remained stacked beside the fireplace.
Celeste’s silk panel hung over the mantel exactly where it had hung less than an hour earlier.
Only Sebastian was wrong.
He lay partly on his side, one arm bent under him, the other extended toward the desk. His face was turned away. His black notebook rested several feet from his hand.
Romy stopped at the threshold.
Every part of her wanted to go to him.
She did not move.
“Sebastian?”
No response.
The photographer made a strangled sound.
“I think he’s dead.”
“You don’t know that.”
Romy pulled out her phone. Her thumb had already found emergency call before she consciously decided to make it.
Ellis came up behind her.
“What’s happened?”
“Sebastian is down.”
He moved toward the doorway.
Romy caught his arm.
“Don’t.”
His eyes went to hers.
“I haven’t entered.”
That was enough. Whatever brief softness had existed between them twenty minutes earlier disappeared. Ellis became very still.
“Anyone else been inside?”
“The photographer opened the door. I don’t think he crossed the threshold.”
“I didn’t,” the photographer said. “I swear. I saw him and came straight back.”
Ellis looked into the room.
“Sebastian!”
Nothing.
He took out his phone.
“I’ve got emergency response coming.”
“Already called.”
“Good.”
He turned toward the knot of guests forming at the end of the corridor.
“Everyone back.”
Nobody moved.
“Back, please. Now.”
That did it. People retreated, faster when the word dead passed through them.
Romy hated how quickly that word travelled. It seemed to generate itself.
Leo had gone pale.
“Are you all right?”
“Yes.”
“You don’t have to stay here.”
“I’m staying.”
“You’re not proving anything.”
“I know.”
That reassured her more than bravado would have.
Ellis crouched outside the doorway.
“Can you see his chest moving?”
Romy tried. Sebastian’s jacket obscured most of his torso.
“I can’t tell.”
Ellis swore under his breath.
A woman behind them said, “I feel sick.”
Frances Wynn had one hand against the wall. Her face had lost colour.
“Sit down,” Romy said.
“I’m fine.”
“You just said you feel sick.”
“I haven’t eaten enough.”
Leo moved toward her.
A trust sponsor pressed his fingers to his temple.
“Is it hot in here?”
The corridor was not hot.
Another guest said, “I’m dizzy.”
Ellis stood immediately.
“Everybody out of this corridor.”
This time nobody argued.
“Romy, move.”
She did.
They backed away from the Blue Study. Ellis pulled the door closed without crossing the threshold.
“Do not open that again.”
“What are you thinking?” Romy asked.
“I’m thinking three people feel ill within a few feet of the same room.”
The photographer stared at him.
“Gas?”
“I’m not guessing.”
He called to Adrian Holt, who had appeared on the landing.
“Get everyone out of this section of the house. Open the route to the front drive. Nobody comes back upstairs.”
Adrian looked toward the Blue Study.
“What happened?”
“Do it.”
For once, Adrian did not argue. He turned and began moving people toward the staircase.
Romy looked at Leo.
“Outside.”
“What about you?”
“Outside.”
He hesitated for half a second, then obeyed.
Romy followed.
By the time they reached the entrance hall, the preview had disintegrated.
The quartet had stopped. Champagne glasses sat abandoned. Guests who had spent the last hour arranging their faces for photographs were pulling on coats and demanding explanations from volunteers who had none.
Marcus Fenn stood near the courtyard doors.
“What happened?”
“Sebastian collapsed.”
His expression emptied.
“Is he alive?”
“I don’t know.”
Celeste stood three steps away. Her hand rose to her mouth.
“No.”
She started toward the stairs.
Ellis intercepted her.
“You can’t go up.”
“He was in my room.”
“Yes.”
“I need to see.”
“No.”
“I need to know what happened in my room.”
“Right now, you need to go outside.”
Celeste stared at him.
“He was fine.”
Nobody answered.
Her eyes found Romy.
“He was fine when you saw him.”
It was not a question.
Romy thought of Sebastian at 6:57, phone in hand, notebook tucked away, walking toward the Blue Study as though he had finally decided which question mattered.
“Yes.”
Celeste’s face tightened.
Marcus reached for her arm.
She pulled away.
“I don’t need help.”
His hand dropped.
Outside, the courtyard had become a holding area. Guests gathered under the exterior lights while volunteers distributed coats, bottled water, and conflicting information. The councillor stood near a stone urn making a phone call. Someone cried. Someone else asked whether the press should leave.
The journalists had no intention of leaving.
Romy found Leo beside the garden wall. He was breathing too fast.
She handed him a bottle of water.
“Drink.”
“I’m all right.”
“You’re allowed to not be.”
He opened the bottle.
“That was Sebastian.”
“Yes.”
“He was talking to us.”
“Yes.”
“Half an hour ago.”
Romy looked toward the house. Warm light still filled the windows. From outside, Asterleigh looked calm enough to appear staged.
The first emergency vehicle reached the drive.
Then another.
“Leo.”
He looked at her.
“Your camera. Keep it with you. Do not delete anything. Do not show anyone anything unless the police ask.”
His grip tightened on the strap.
“The picture of Marcus?”
“All of them.”
“Do you think that matters?”
“I think we don’t decide what matters.”
She had learned that during Julian Staveley’s murder investigation. Preservation came first. Understanding could wait.
Paramedics entered through the front doors with fire officers behind them. The courtyard quieted as they passed.
Ellis appeared beside Romy.
“Any symptoms?”
“No.”
“Headache?”
“No.”
“Dizziness?”
“No.”
“Nausea?”
“Not beyond the usual response to public events.”
He looked at her.
“This isn’t the moment.”
“I know.”
The remark had escaped before she could stop it.
Leo laughed once, very softly. The sound surprised all three of them.
Then Romy did too. Not because anything was funny. Because the body occasionally mistook relief for permission.
Ellis looked at Leo.
“You?”
“Fine.”
“Stay outside anyway.”
“I was planning to.”
“Good.”
Ellis turned toward the entrance.
Romy caught his sleeve.
“Ellis.”
He stopped.
“Find out if he’s alive.”
Something moved across his face.
“I will.”
He went inside.
The next fifteen minutes stretched. Nobody knew what to do, so people did small things.
A volunteer collected abandoned glasses.
Harriet Vale wrapped a cashmere throw around Celeste’s shoulders after Celeste refused a coat.
Marcus moved a bench closer to Frances Wynn and made her sit.
One of the quartet members produced ginger biscuits and passed them around as though biscuits were a recognized emergency service.
Leo accepted two.
Romy accepted one.
It tasted of ginger and cardboard.
“You told me food was allowed,” Leo said.
“Correct.”
“Even bad food?”
“Especially bad food. It builds resilience.”
His smile lasted a second.
Then the front door opened.
Two paramedics came out first.
Neither looked hurried.
Romy knew before Ellis appeared behind them.
Celeste stood.
Marcus did too.
Ellis crossed the courtyard. His gaze found Romy first, then moved across the small group.
“Sebastian Pryce has been pronounced dead.”
No one spoke.
A woman behind Romy began crying properly. Celeste closed her eyes. Marcus looked toward the house. Frances Wynn lowered her phone for once.
Romy felt the words settle.
Dead.
Again.
A man had walked past her carrying a notebook at 6:57.
At 7:36, he had become a death scene.
Ellis continued.
“We don’t yet know the cause. This is now a controlled scene. I need everyone who was in the house tonight to remain available. Officers are taking names and contact details before anyone leaves.”
A journalist called, “Is this suspicious?”
“We have not established that.”
“Was he attacked?”
“No further comment.”
“Was there gas?”
That got Ellis’s attention.
“Who told you that?”
Nobody answered.
His jaw tightened.
“Do not speculate publicly. Several people have reported symptoms, and fire officers are conducting safety checks. That is all.”
Questions came faster. He ignored them and walked toward Romy.
“Come with me.”
Leo straightened.
“Me too?”
Ellis looked at his camera.
“In a few minutes. Stay with an officer.”
Romy followed Ellis toward the side of the house, away from the journalists.
“What is it?”
“Fire team got a reading.”
Her stomach tightened.
“What kind?”
“Carbon monoxide.”
She stared at him.
“That room doesn’t have a live heating source.”
“I know.”
“No fireplace use. No gas appliance. Nothing. The hearth was inspected. The chimney is capped from use during the show.”
“I know, Romy.”
“How high?”
“High enough that they’re treating the room as hazardous.”
“And Sebastian?”
“Consistent symptoms are possible, but we wait for pathology.”
Romy looked back at the house.
“Where did it come from?”
“That is the question.”
“Not from anything Pattern House approved.”
Ellis studied her.
“I didn’t say it did.”
“No, but somebody will.”
He did not reassure her.
That frightened her.
A fire officer came onto the side terrace and removed his mask. Ellis raised a hand.
“What have you got?”
“Levels are dropping with ventilation. Highest reading was concentrated in the study and service-side zone. We’re checking adjacent spaces now.”
Romy said, “There is no approved combustion source in the Blue Study.”
The officer looked at her.
“You’re with the building?”
“Conservation consultant.”
“Any temporary heating?”
“No.”