Five hours later, you and Uriel are equipped with strap-on headlamps and leather gloves that fit like a second skin. Oh, and you’re ransacking Sir Douglas’ study in his ancestral home near Reading.

“My vibrant halo notwithstanding, I am not as proficient at creating my own light as my brothers are,” Uriel whispers as he directs you to a bookcase stuffed with leatherbound books. “Check inside and behind all those.”

You cross the rug and carefully lift a small stepladder into place. “What am I looking for?”

“Drugs and needles.”

“Why would they still be here?”

Uriel waves a palm over the locked top drawer of the desk and pulls it open. “If Sir Douglas killed his father, then they won’t be.”

“But if someone set him up…”

“Precisely.” Uriel mutters to himself as he reads through the Post-it notes left on the desk. “Interview for new gardener. Pay Cat. Ooh, look at this. The housekeeper says all the chimneys are blocked except the one in here. Birds’ nests, she says.”

“Put the stickies down and get looking,” you remind him.

You remove the books one at a time, silently thanking whoever cleans this place that there’s no dust to disturb. You work methodically from top to bottom before moving onto the next bookcase, checking behind each book and examining them for signs of cut out pages.

There’s nothing to report until you get to the top shelf of the third bookcase. Every book’s spine is neatly lined up at the front, but after you push the first book back in, its spine is set a couple of inches back from the rest. You push the rest of the books back to match the first, encountering resistance behind the third book from the far end.

“Bingo!” you whisper.

With a suddenly shaky hand, you reach into the gap, fingers finding plastic. You pull out the little tub and peer into the gap behind it. No needles. You give the tub a shake, and the contents rattle—definitely some kind of medication—but there’s also something muffling the sound, as if a wad of paper is wedged into one side.

You turn to find Uriel spinning by the door, a panicked expression overtaking his face as he silently slides the filing cabinet drawer shut. He points to the thick curtains covering the windows. “Hide! Someone’s coming.”

Then he disappears.

Panic rises from your stomach and lodges itself in your throat. Where the hell did he go?

“I’m still here,” he whispers. “Just bloody hide! And turn that light out!”

You quickly stuff the plastic tub in your pocket and flip the switch on your headlamp, plunging the room into darkness. Leaving the stepladder behind, you duck behind the curtain, which settles stiffly around you as the door opens.

You take in a final breath, holding it until you realise whoever just came in could be here for some time. You let it out slowly, keeping your breaths quiet and shallow.

What if they see you? What if your feet are sticking out beneath the bottom of the curtain? Why did you let Uriel talk you into this?

The click of the light switch is followed by a slash of bright light through the gap in the curtains. A man hums as he moves closer.

Your heart is in your throat, pulsing like you swallowed something living—something that’s struggling to get back out.

The footsteps stop abruptly, and you listen intently for further movement, but all you hear is a desk drawer sliding open and the heavy exhale of a man collapsing into a groaning chair. For long seconds, a pen scratches away at paper, then a dial tone shrills into the air, followed by a quick succession of beeps. The phone rings three times at the other end before it picks up.

“Doug?” a sleepy voice says at the other end of the line. “When I asked you to call me back, I didn’t mean at one a.m.”

Sir Douglas’ voice sounds close. Too close. “Sorry, Shep. Couldn’t sleep.”

“You’re worried about tomorrow? I thought—”

“Of course, I’m worried.” A pause. “Who did you say was doing it again?”

“Doctor Ophelia Hazard. You have nothing to worry about, Doug. She’s very thorough and sharp as a tack. She won’t miss a thing.”

Ophelia would be surprised to learn the coroner holds her in such high esteem.

“That’s what I’m worried about.” Sir Douglas lets out a long sigh before dragging in a sharp breath. “Wait… Hazard? If it’s the same girl I’m thinking of, she went to school with Daisy. I need her number, Shep.”

Shepherd laughed through the speaker, but there wasn’t much mirth in it. “I can’t give you her number, Doug. And I promise you that whatever you have to say to her won’t make the slightest bit of difference. She’s monumentally stubborn and will only double down at the slightest interference.”

You can’t help but smile. Shepherd is certainly not as unreasonable as Ophelia painted him, and he seems to understand her perfectly well.

“Just… please.”

“No, I’m sorry. I really can’t.”

“I understand.” A few seconds later, Sir Douglas makes another call. “Howard? I need you to get a phone number for me.”

“Whose?” is the gruff response.

“Doctor Ophelia Hazard. She’s a forensic pathologist working in the southeast.”

“Gotcha.”

You’re not sure how you got comfortable enough hiding behind the curtain to scratch your nose, but you regret it the second the curtain twitches in front of you. You hold your breath. Maybe Sir Douglas is too distracted to notice. Maybe he’ll think it’s just a draught. Maybe…

The curtain sweeps aside, and Sir Douglas stares at you, his wide blue eyes showing… no surprise whatsoever. It would be more accurate to say he’s staring through you.

You suck your belly in and hold your breath, waiting for the man to say something, to demand to know what you’re doing here.

He doesn’t say a word. When the phone rings on his desk, he glances over his shoulder, pulling the curtain across your face.

You let out a breath, but your heart thumps wildly, sending blood stampeding through your ears.

“What do you have for me?” Sir Douglas says when the ringing cuts off.

Howard’s voice rumbles through the speaker as he rattles off Ophelia’s phone number.

“You’re under my shield,” Uriel whispers from right beside you, even though you can’t see him there.

You gasp in surprise.

“He can’t see or hear you, but you’re still solid matter, so try not to move again.”

“Can we go now?” you whisper.

“As soon as we hear what he has to say to Ophelia,” Uriel says. “If he thinks he can threaten her, he’s in for a rude awakening.”

You’re both quiet when the dial tone starts again. The ringing lasts forever, and just when you think it will go to voicemail, Ophelia answers. “Doctor Hazard.”

Sir Douglas doesn’t say anything.

“Hello?” Ophelia says.

Sir Douglas clears his throat and says, “Sorry. Wrong number.”

Uriel grabs your elbow, and a moment later, you’re in a glass house by the sea.

“Where—”

“My house,” he says. “We could both do with some sleep.”

“Why didn’t he say anything?”

“I think we both know the answer to that.”

You pull the medicine tub out of your pocket and twist the lid open. There are half a dozen round blue tablets sitting in the bottom, and a scrunched packet of aluminium foil wedged into the side of the tub. You poke your finger in and dig it out, handing it to Uriel. He unfolds it, finding a burnt, sticky substance on the inside.

“It’s oily,” Uriel says.

“Did they melt the tablets to inject them?” you ask. “What am I looking at?”

“I think your assessment is accurate,” he says, gesturing to a huge, comfy looking sofa. Then he bellows, “Milo!”

A moustached man in pyjamas appears in the doorway a few seconds later, a decorative, tasselled shawl around his shoulders. “You rang, m’lud.”

Uriel frowns. “Why are you wearing pyjamas?”

“Because it’s half one in the morning.” Milo’s eyes stray sideways to take you in, and he offers a smile. “Who’s this, then?”

“Call me Ed. Everyone else does. Sorry to disturb your sleep.”

“Milo wasn’t sleeping,” Uriel says. “He was fretting.”

Milo rolls his eyes. “I assume from all the shrieking that you want something? Has anyone ever told you you sound like an agitated peacock?”

“Only you. And to answer your first question… coffee,” Uriel says. “I require coffee. And perhaps cake. Do we have cake?”

Milo ambles across the room to the open plan kitchen area, a slight limp making his left leg drag. “We always have cake.”

You smile at Uriel. “You love your desserts, don’t you?”

“What’s not to love?”

Milo takes your order like he’s a butler. Is that what he is?

“Is he your butler?” you whisper.

Uriel grimaces. “We don’t talk about it.”

Well, that was cryptic.

When the refreshments arrive, you tuck in, hungry after a day of sleuthing.

“Time for bed,” Uriel says, clapping his hands together. “Ophelia told Daisy she’d meet her at the house to discuss her findings in person. I’m hoping she’ll agree to some company.”