So! he thought. We have only the desk and the body. He stood up and walked toward the desk.

It was a thin piece of deal, without drawers but with sturdy legs. On top of it were an empty glass, with the stain of some drink on its lip; a new candle, which had never been lighted; a small brown unmarked bottle made of glass, with a rubber stopper; and a smooth piece of paper, the suicide note.

“A suicide, on the face of it,” said Jenkins.

Lenox thought for a moment. He would mention what he had seen (or rather, seen the absence of) in a few moments. He wanted to be unencumbered by Jenkins’s awe or embarrassment (who could predict which) while he looked at the desk.

“Indeed,” he muttered. “Indeed…”

He leaned over the desk on his fists and read the note.

It is too much. Sorry, James, I am sorry.

The note was unsigned.

“Is James her fiance?” Lenox said.

“Yes.”

“He’s in service here?”

“Yes.”

Lenox thought for a moment and nodded. He would take the glass and the bottle home to examine.

But before anything else, he thought wearily, it was time to disillusion the young detective.

“Jenkins,” he said, “you think this is a suicide?”

“It seems clear enough, sir.”

“I need you to fetch James for us. But don’t bring him into this room. Find a table somewhere.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And Jenkins-had it occurred to you that there should be a pen on this desk? Something that crossed my mind.”

The inspector frowned. “A pen?” he said.

“To write the note.”

“Perhaps it’s in a pocket?”

“Maids’ uniforms don’t have pockets, a relic of the time when their omission was thought to make stealing more difficult.”

Jenkins looked at the body. “And nowhere in the room?”

“No,” said Lenox, trying to make his voice kind.

“But she could easily have carried the note around with her.”