"Not a single one," Harper said in frustration.
"Not one usable fingerprint."
"There are thousands of marks around this room, but every one of them is useless."
He shook his head.
"It looks as though Valmon Dain worked in rubber gloves all the time."
"Now that is very strange," Delbury said slowly.
Then he looked toward the body.
"Wait."
"The dead man..."
He pointed.
"He's wearing rubber gloves."
The three men stared at Lyall's covered hands.
For several moments, nobody spoke.
Each mind was searching for an explanation.
"What do you make of it, Mick?" Delbury asked finally.
Shaughnessy shook his head.
"I've never seen a case with so many false trails in my life."
"Everything appears right."
"Everything appears wrong."
"And somehow..."
He shrugged.
"Nothing makes sense at all."
But Delbury was no longer listening.
His eyes were fixed on the wall.
Five feet above the chemical bench was a small outline that seemed almost invisible.
"Look."
His voice had changed.
"What's that?"
"Up there in the wall."
"What is it?"
Harper immediately moved toward the bench.
But Delbury stopped him.
"Don't touch it."
His tone was sharp.
"It could be another one of Dain's cursed traps."
"Bring Manders here."
The valet returned a few moments later.
Delbury pointed toward the wall.
"What is that?"
Manders looked up.
The confusion on his face was genuine.
"I honestly don't know, sir."
"It looks like some kind of cupboard."
"You mean you have never noticed it before?"
"Never."
The valet stared at it.
"That is strange."
"All the years I've been coming in and out of this room, I never knew that part of the wall was anything except solid."
Delbury climbed carefully onto the bench.
With understandable caution, he reached out and slowly opened the small door.
Nothing happened.
No alarm.
No mechanism.
No hidden danger.
He breathed slightly easier.
Inside was only an empty recess.
Apart from a few loose electric cables disappearing into the wall, there was nothing there.
"Hmm."
Delbury climbed down.
"Another one of his mysteries."
He rubbed his head.
This entire place was beginning to defeat even him.
"Tell you what, Mick."
He turned to Shaughnessy.
"I think we need a new approach."
"Get the car ready."
"Our next stop is Tansy the jeweller."
"We'll either find something useful there..."
"Or we won't find anything at all."
He looked around the strange laboratory.
"This place is giving me the creeps."
Then he turned to Harper.
"You stay here and take charge."
"No information leaves this house."
"If any reporters appear..."
He paused.
"Do whatever is necessary to keep them away."
"The servants do not speak to anyone until I return."
With that, Detective Inspector Delbury followed Shaughnessy out to the waiting car.
---
Mercia Lyall opened her eyes to a beautiful morning.
Sunlight poured through her bedroom window.
The fresh air of the Northern Heights moved gently through the curtains, and a warm beam of light stretched across her pillow.
It was the kind of morning that seemed full of promise.
Bright.
Alive.
Peaceful.
And yet...
Mercia felt uneasy.
She could not explain it.
There was something wrong.
Something she could not see but somehow felt.
The cheerful wind.
The brilliant sunlight.
Everything seemed strangely unnatural.
She was awake instantly.
There was no comfortable moment between sleep and waking.
No gradual return to consciousness.
Then the telephone rang.
The sound shattered the silence of the morning.
Sharp.
Loud.
Insistent.
Mercia was out of bed almost before she realised she had moved.
She slipped into her bedroom slippers, adjusted her dressing gown, and hurried downstairs.
The telephone rang again.
It was in her father's study.
A room he rarely used.
He preferred the comfort of the lounge or the deep chairs of the smoking room.
Mercia reached the telephone.
Her heart was beating strangely.
Some instinct told her this call mattered.
She lifted the receiver.
"Yes?"
"Who is speaking?"
"Is that Mr. Lyall?"
"Mr. Willard Lyall?"
The voice on the other end hesitated.
It was rough.
Unpolished.
There was nothing refined about it.
A dry, unpleasant voice with a harsh quality that immediately made Mercia uncomfortable.
"Yes, this is Mr. Lyall's house."
She frowned slightly.
"Who is calling?"
"Mr. Lyall of Greydene, Highgate?"
"Yes."
"What is it?"
"What do you want?"
"I want to speak to Mr. Lyall."
"You are not him."
"You are a woman."
"And I need Mr. Lyall himself."
"You can leave a message with me."
"Surely you do not expect Mr. Lyall to be awake at this hour?"
"Lady..."
The man's voice became more serious.
"This is the fourth time I have called Mr. Lyall this morning."
"That is how much I expected him to be awake."
Something about the statement unsettled her.
It sounded less like a complaint.
More like a warning.
"The fourth time?"
"Why?"
"What is the matter?"
"Who are you?"
"Never mind who I am."
"Just bring Mr. Lyall to the telephone."
"Tell him the gentleman from Notting Hill needs to speak with him."
"Urgently."
Mercia frowned.
"I'm quite certain Mr. Lyall will not come down yet."
"And besides, I can take any message you wish to leave."
"Either tell me what this is about, or call again after eight o'clock."
A pause.
"Who are you?"
"I am his daughter."
The voice changed slightly.
"You're grown up?"
"I don't mean to be rude, miss."
"But are you old enough to understand when something should not be said?"
Mercia raised her eyebrows.
"I have no idea what you mean."
"But if it will reassure you, I am well into my twenties."
"So I believe I am old enough to judge what should and should not be discussed."
The man became quieter.
"Well..."
"You sound like a sensible person."
"Just tell me something."
"Is Mr. Lyall at home?"
Mercia frowned.
"Of course he is."
"I already told you he is simply not awake yet."
"Yes, miss."
"But I mean something else."
"I know Mr. Lyall does not usually rise early."
"But what I want to know is..."
"Did he go to bed at all last night?"