"And why should she?"

Grenville looked grim. "Unless she did the deed herself."

"Then why scream and draw attention to herself and the blood on her glove? Why not quietly walk away and dispose of the glove somewhere?"

"Perhaps she never meant to kill him. Perhaps there was a quarrel, she shoved the knife in, then realized what she'd done in her anger. Horrified, she began screaming."

I wandered around the desk again. "He was sitting down when he was killed, or the killer took the time to arrange his body so. He was a healthy young man. Would he not be able to deflect a blow from a woman? Even one crazed with anger?"

"Not if he were taken by surprise."

"As you were," I finished for him. "This is different. It was pitch dark when you were stabbed. You did not have a chance to defend yourself."

"No, I didn't."

I remembered fighting to save Grenville's life, remembered him lying in the dark on cold stone cobbles, his breath so very shallow. I had watched him, fearing every breath he drew would be his last. But Grenville's constitution was strong, and he'd recovered.

The incident had happened over a month ago, but the wound still pained him, I knew. It had made him a bit more nervous as well, though he strove to hide it.

"The circumstances here are entirely different," I said. "A brightly lit room, a hundred guests outside, a strong man facing his attacker. In addition, if Imogene Harper indeed killed him, how did she obtain Brandon's knife? I refuse to believe Brandon handed it to her and told her to kill Turner with it."

"She might have stolen it," Grenville suggested. "Or Brandon might have left it lying somewhere. Or it might be her knife, and Brandon lied to protect her."

"No, I do believe the knife belonged to Colonel Brandon. Such knives were common in the army-they are utilitarian and handy to have."