"There is nothing more deceptive than an obvious fact."
***
The first room turned up nothing. The second room, same story. Grundy made all the right noises. Sighs of concern. Frowns of disappointment. He even marked something in a little ledger he carried around, the picture of a diligent steward doing an unpleasant job.
Anyone else would have bought the act completely.
I wasn't anyone else.
I saw the way his eyes kept drifting toward the end of the corridor. Lyra's room was down there. His tongue darted out to wet his lips. Once. Then again a minute later. His hands had a slight tremor when he thought nobody was watching. He kept checking the position of the sun through the narrow windows.
Getting nervous, Grundy? Starting to wonder if your plan is too simple? Too obvious? Good. Nervous criminals make mistakes. They rush. They improvise. And when they improvise, they leave openings.
We were halfway through the third search when I noticed movement near the administrative wing.
A kitchen boy emerged from a side door. Couldn't have been more than fourteen. All gangly limbs and nervous energy. He carried a small stack of leather-bound ledgers and moved with the careful steps of someone following orders they didn't dare question.
He was heading toward the courtyard. Toward the stone incinerator where the household burned refuse and worn-out materials.
The ledgers in his arms looked old but not damaged. The leather covers were worn smooth from daily handling. The kind of wear that came from constant use.
Well, well. Spring cleaning, Grundy? Getting rid of the evidence while everyone's distracted by your little theft investigation? You really did think this through.
Just not quite far enough.
I glanced around the group. Father stood near the doorway, maintaining diplomatic distance. Lord Blackwood watched with the stern authority of a judge who'd already decided the verdict. Leo had positioned himself near the room's single window. Probably thought the dramatic lighting made him look heroic.
It kind of does, actually. Damn protagonist charisma.
But Thomas stood with the other servants in the corridor. His eyes kept moving toward the administrative wing. His jaw was set. He was already connecting dots.
Perfect.
I waited until the boy was halfway across the courtyard before making my move. Too soon and I'd draw attention. Too late and the evidence would be ash.
I stepped away from the main group and wandered toward where Mira stood with several other servants.
"Mira," I called out. I pitched my voice just loud enough to carry to the nearby servants without reaching the nobles. "That's strange."
The maid turned toward me. Her expression was cautious but polite. She'd learned through experience that my observations were usually confused at best. "Young Master?"
I pointed toward the kitchen boy. He was feeding the ledgers into the incinerator one by one. Each book disappeared into the flames with a soft whoosh.
"Why would anyone burn account ledgers? I thought Father said financial records must be kept for seven years. For tax purposes or something?" I let my voice go confused. Genuinely puzzled. "Is Steward Grundy making a mistake?"
The question came out in my usual tone of dim incompetence. A simple observation from a dim-witted noble who didn't understand the implications of what he was seeing.
But I made sure my voice carried just far enough for Thomas to hear.
Mira followed my gaze. Her brow furrowed as she watched the boy work. "Those do look like ledgers," she agreed. Her voice was uncertain. "But I'm sure the steward knows what he's doing. Perhaps they're old records that are no longer needed?"
Oh, sweet summer child. Your faith in authority figures is almost touching.
Thomas had heard. I saw his entire body go rigid.
His head snapped toward the courtyard. He watched the kitchen boy feed another ledger into the flames. His face went through a series of expressions. Confusion. Realization. Then a kind of cold fury that spoke to years of resentment finally finding a target.
There we go. Now you're not just wondering about drinking habits and petty theft. Now you're wondering about embezzlement. Fraud. Exactly how deep this rabbit hole goes.
Now you're asking yourself what kind of man burns financial records in the middle of the day while everyone's distracted by a theft investigation.
Thomas took a step toward the courtyard. Several other servants noticed the change in him. They followed his gaze toward the incinerator where evidence was literally going up in smoke.
A murmur ran through their ranks. Nothing loud enough to draw noble attention. But significant.
"Thomas?" Martha's voice carried concern. Her hand reached out to touch his arm.
The footman's jaw worked for a moment. His eyes stayed fixed on the burning ledgers.
"I need to check something," he said. He was already moving toward the courtyard with long strides.
Go get him, Thomas. You've wanted to catch someone important doing something wrong your entire life. Here's your chance.
The search continued. Room after room of nervous servants and meager possessions being pawed through by guards who didn't care about the lives they were disrupting.
Lyra's room was getting closer.
In the courtyard, Thomas had reached the kitchen boy. I couldn't hear what they were saying, but I could see the boy's face go pale. Could see Thomas grab one of the ledgers before it could be fed to the flames.
Evidence secured. Or at least some of it.
Grundy hadn't noticed yet. He was too busy directing the search, too focused on his endgame to realize his carefully constructed plan was developing cracks.
That's the problem with complex schemes, Grundy. They work great until someone starts pulling threads.
And once one thread comes loose, the whole thing unravels.