“What happened then?”

“We tried to force the door, me and the two footmen, but it wouldn’t budge. We were thinking of breaking a window and putting someone through when one of the maids told us the scullery boy could pick locks. We got him up here, and he managed to open the door. We rushed in…” Mellon’s eyes were drawn to the bloodstained floor. “…and we found the master there, dead. Quite dead.”

His voice quavered on the last words. Christian gave him a moment to compose himself.

He glanced at Letitia; her face was chalk white. “I realize this is distressing”-he addressed the comment more to her than Mellon, then returned his gaze to the butler-“but if you could describe how Randall was lying-on his back, or on his face?”

All color drained from Mellon’s countenance. “On his back, my lord.” His jaw worked. “There wasn’t much of his face left to speak of.”

Letitia made a small choked sound and turned away; hand at her throat, she stared out of the window. Hermione had paled but was less distressed.

Tamping down a disconcertingly strong urge to suspend the interview to spare Letitia, who would certainly not thank him, Christian forged on. “So it would seem Randall was facing the fire, and his attacker. I understand there were two glasses of brandy on the side table-had they been drunk?”

Mellon rallied at the change of subject. “Both had been sipped, but neither drained.”

“Where, exactly, was the key?”

Mellon looked toward the door, and pointed. “There, on the floor-by that knot in the wood.”

Hermione shifted. Christian glanced at her, and saw she was attending avidly. He glanced at Letitia; she was attending, too, but not with the same intensity. He looked again at Hermione. Her eyes were wide; she was definitely tense. Without looking at Mellon, he said, “Put your finger on the spot.”