Chapter Six

I gasped and turned instinctively, my body moving on its own to get away, and I ran directly into the major. His arm came around me, steadying me.

For just a moment, we stood still. I was trying to gather my composure, and I assumed the major was taking in the state of the room.

"When the woman at the desk said she hadn't checked out, I… I didn't even think she might be…" I whispered into his chest. The words trailed off as I realized why he had been so impatient to get into the room. "You knew?"

"I suspected," he admitted. "Why don't you wait outside?"

"No," I said, taking a deep breath. "I'm all right."

But I didn't move away, and he didn't release me as I continued to lean against him, my eyes closed. I was certain that if I stepped back, I would do something embarrassing like fall or be sick. If I had just a moment to collect myself, I could overcome it.

"You don't need to see this," he said. "Wait outside, and I'll do a quick search."

I shook my head. "I'm all right," I said again. I drew in one more deep breath then forced myself to look up at him. "Really."

He studied me, as though to determine if I was telling the truth, and my chin tipped up a bit with determination. I wasn't going to be left out of this, no matter how unpleasant it was.

At last he gave a little nod. I'd passed muster, it seemed.

I stepped back, out of his arms, and turned to face the scene once again. Major Ramsey's warm hand rested against my back for just a moment, as if to be certain I wasn't going to fall to pieces, and I appreciated the gesture.

It was even worse than my first glance had told me.

The person on the bed was a woman, but it was difficult to tell from the state of her face. She had clearly been killed by being struck repeatedly with some heavy object. There was blood everywhere: splattered on the walls, seeping across the bedclothes, dripping down to puddle in the rug beneath the bed.

I was determined to be stoic, but it was quite the worst thing I'd ever seen, and I had to clench my teeth against the rising nausea at the sight and the stench of blood in the air.

"Don't touch anything," the major said. It was an unnecessary directive; I had absolutely no intention of touching anything.

He moved past me toward the bed. Quite out of the blue, I had a sudden flash of what had happened to us in Sunderland. Of his lying there on the floor of that dimly lit cave, shot, covered in blood. Of the absolute terror I had felt. I was almost dizzy remembering it, and I reached out a hand and steadied myself against the wall for just a moment, pushing the memories away.

Then, summoning all my resolve, I followed him farther into the room and forced myself to look at the figure on the bed. Almost immediately, I had to look away again.

I focused instead on the major. I watched him as he surveyed the woman's injuries with an expressionless face. His eyes moved over the scene with a calm efficiency I couldn't possibly hope to emulate.

"She hasn't been dead long," he said.

I would take his word for it.

He moved next to the window, drawing back the blood-splattered curtain. "Unlatched," he said. "They probably came in and out this way."

He looked back at me, his eyes moving over my face, and then nodded toward the wall behind me. "Check the desk and bureau, will you?" I knew he was giving me a task to take my mind off things, but I was relieved and not insulted.

I nodded, turning toward the wall where the bureau rested. There was an inferior painting to one side and a small writing desk beneath it.

My legs felt rubbery as I moved to the wall, and my hands were shaking as I reached out to open the desk drawer. This was not the sort of reaction I ought to be having. I ought to be brave and unaffected. But I couldn't seem to pull myself together. The body behind me on the bed felt like a weight pressing down on me, and I was short of breath.

I had been in dangerous situations before this. I had faced death more than once. So why did this particular scene feel like almost too much to bear?

I clenched my teeth and concentrated on my task. There was nothing in the drawer but some hotel stationery. I sifted through it, but it was all unused.

I moved to the bureau. I didn't look behind me to see what Major Ramsey was doing, but I heard movement and the light shifting of fabric. I assumed he was searching the bed.

There were a few clothes hanging in the bureau. I concentrated on examining them, thinking of nothing but getting through this without embarrassing myself.

There was nothing. Everything was in order, but there was not so much as a spare receipt or loose coins in any of the pockets.

I had forced myself to focus to such a degree that I jumped when the major appeared at my side.

"Anything?" he asked.

"No." The single word came out sounding hoarse and breathless.

His eyes were on my face again. I tried to keep my expression as bland as his, but I doubted I was successful.

"Come along," he said, taking my elbow. "There's nothing else to be done here."

"The… police?" I asked.

"She'll be discovered soon enough. We don't want to be here when she is."

I didn't have the energy to argue with him, even if I'd wanted to.

He opened the door and looked out before hustling me into the hallway and leading me back toward the lift, his grip on my elbow reassuring.

My legs were still trembling, and my head felt a bit foggy as the door closed behind us.

Inside the lift, he turned to face me. "I know that was hard, but I need you to behave as normally as possible until we're out of the hotel. Can you do that?"

"Of course," I said, my slight irritation at the question doing much to rouse me from my stupor.

He nodded, and I wondered if it had been his intention.

The lift door opened, and we stepped out into the lobby. It was disorienting to be back in that bright, cheery space after what we had just seen. I thought we would leave directly, but the major walked back toward the front desk instead.

"We knocked, but there was no answer," he told the girl at the front desk. "If you see her, will you tell her to please telephone John Grey? She has the number."

"Yes, of course," she said.

He didn't let go of my arm as we left the building and began walking down the street. A short distance from the hotel, he stopped and pulled me into the shadowy doorway of a vacant building.

He turned to face me then, still holding on to my arms. "Take slow, deep breaths."

"I'm fine," I said, though, in truth, I felt wretched, and it was taking all my resolve to keep from being sick as I had the first time we'd come across a body.

"I'm sorry you had to see that," he said.

"I don't know if I'll ever grow used to it, to seeing the ugliness of murder," I said, tears threatening to overflow despite my best efforts to repress them.

"You don't need to grow used to it," he said.

"This is so useless," I said, wiping my eyes. "I thought I was past this."

"Look at me," he said, and the gentleness in his voice was almost enough to push me into full-fledged crying. I managed to push back the tears, though, and looked up at him.

"There's no reason for you to feel as though you can't be upset at what we've just seen."

"This job…"

"This job does not require you to remain stoic in the face of unexpected violence."

I said nothing, and he raised his brows slightly. "Understood?"

I sighed, a bit of the weight in my chest lifting, and nodded. "Understood."

"Good."

I was still looking up into those clear violet-blue eyes, and I felt the wall between us waver.

Then he turned and nodded toward the tea shop across the street.

"Come along. I'll get you some tea."

"Oh, that's not necessary," I said, as he took my arm and began leading me in that direction. All things considered, I would much rather return home and have a good cry.

He didn't release my arm, nor did he break stride. "You're pale and trembling. I'm not going to leave you until you're feeling better."

I was feeling just better enough to be slightly incensed at this high-handedness, but not better enough to argue with him.

"Besides, we need to discuss what we're going to do next," he said, mollifying me.

We went into the tea shop and found an empty table. A moment later the waitress came, and the major ordered a pot of tea and a plate of scones and biscuits.

"I don't want anything to eat," I said.

"It doesn't matter if you want it. You'll feel better if you eat a bit of something."

I doubted it. My stomach felt sick, and every time I thought of the horrific way that woman had been killed, of the way her face had been… obliterated, my nausea welled up again.

"Why… why was she killed?" I whispered. "Do you think she had the object and refused to tell them where it was until they… made her?"

"No. This wasn't torture. If I had to guess, I'd say she was unlucky enough to be in the room when they broke in. Perhaps they were afraid she would raise the cry. Or that she might identify them."

"It was so… brutal."

"Convenience. She was killed with a heavy bronze statuette, presumably part of the room's décor. It was on the floor on the other side of the bed."

I shuddered.

"Despite the way it looked, it was probably quick," he said. "The first blow or two would have knocked her unconscious."

I knew he meant this as a comfort of sorts, but my vision swam a little at the words. Thankfully, I was spared having to formulate a reply by the appearance of the waitress with our tea.

"There's something else," Major Ramsey said when she had gone.

"What is it?"

He looked a bit reluctant, as though he was debating on whether to share it with me. But he had mentioned it, so it was too late to turn back now.

He reached into his pocket and took something out, setting it on the table between us. "This was in the ashtray on the table by the bed."

It was a scrap of paper no bigger than a matchbox with ragged edges, as though from a letter or other document that had been torn up. It had also been mostly burned. The edges were blackened so thoroughly they were crumbling into ash, and even the middle of the scrap had been darkened by flame. Gingerly, I picked it up. It was dry and fragile-feeling beneath my fingers, but I could still read the words written on the center of the scrap in dark ink: with Lazaro.

There had been other words, of course, but these were all that were legible.

I looked up at the major. "Then he is involved."

"It appears there is some connection, yes," he said, as he poured a cup of tea.

"Do you suppose the thieves saw this?"

He began to spoon a liberal amount of sugar into the cup. "I doubt it. It was beneath a good deal of ash and several cigarette butts. It seems to have escaped their notice."

Leave it to Major Ramsey to have thought of sifting through the ashtray.

"Then we have a lead they don't have," I said.

"Perhaps." He pushed the cup of tea toward me. "The sugar is good for shock. We may as well lean into your natural inclinations when it's useful."

I managed a smile. I handed him back the slip of paper and took a sip of the tea. It did taste wonderful. I took a second deep sip.

"They've already been to his flat," I mused. "Perhaps he does have what they're looking for and they missed it. There might be time for us to discover what it is."

"It's possible." He pushed the plate of biscuits toward me. "And now one of these."

I didn't argue, though I found it a bit irritating how he was refusing to discuss the clue with me.

"You need to eat something, too," I said, taking a bite of the biscuit.

"I'm not hungry."

"I believe that doesn't matter," I said archly. "You're clearly not eating enough." I remembered how his sister had chided him for skipping breakfast.

He swore beneath his breath, but I knew him well enough now to know it was good-natured.

I pointed at the plate. "If you please."

With an expression of supreme annoyance, he picked up a scone and took a bite of it.

"Is the pain constant?" I asked. I hadn't really meant to ask the question, but it had come out anyway.

He didn't pause in his chewing. "It's worse some times than others."

"I don't mean to pry. But I…" I shrugged. "I suppose it's none of my business."

"I appreciate your concern," he said. The words sounded genuine enough, but something also told me he'd had enough of this particular discussion.

I took a bite of the biscuit, and we sat quietly for a moment, the comfortable sounds of the tearoom around us.

"Your color's come back," he said as I finished the biscuit and reached for a second. Major Ramsey did not take a second scone, but at least he had eaten one of them.

I was feeling recovered enough to be embarrassed about my reaction to the body, but, in a way, it had made things better between us. He had been so kind, and I was comfortable with him again. The coolness that had existed since Sunderland seemed to have thawed, and it felt like we were on our way back to familiar footing.

"So, what now?" I asked, pushing these thoughts aside.

"They're growing more desperate, it seems. And they're obviously willing to kill in the course of their pursuit. So we need to find out what they're looking for before someone else is killed."

The words sent a chill through me.

"How are we going to do that?"

He sighed. "It seems the first step is going to be to question Nico Lazaro."

He did not sound particularly enthusiastic about this.

"Do you know him?" I asked.

"I've met him," he said, his tone giving nothing away and, consequently, making me assume that he was keeping something from me.

"Why don't you like him?" I asked.

I thought he would deny this accusation of dislike, but he surprised me by giving an honest answer. Or half of one, anyway. "You won't like him either," he said. "You'll see."

Major Ramsey was often disapproving, so I wasn't at all sure I would agree with him on Lazaro. After all, Major Ramsey would disapprove of the vast majority of my associates.

Thinking of my associates, I wondered if there was anyone I could contact who might know something about what had happened. If someone had been stealing jewelry, they would be anxious to off-load it. It might be possible for me to contact some of the fences we'd done business with in the past. There might be a lead that way.

"Feeling a bit better now?" he asked, looking at my empty cup.

"Yes. Thank you."

Our eyes met for a long moment, and then the major pushed back from the table.

"Come along, Miss McDonnell. I'll take you home."