Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 151, Nos. 1 & 2. Whole Nos. 916 & 917, January/February 2018

The Case of the Curious Collector by John Morgan Wilson

John Morgan Wilson is the author of eight mystery novels in the Edgar-winning Benjamin Justice series, and the coauthor, with bandleader Peter Duchin, of two mysteries starring fictional bandleader Philip Damon. This new story is an homage to Sherlock Holmes fans, particularly appropriate for this issue, which will be distributed at the Baker Street Irregulars banquet in New York, a gathering to celebrate the birthday of Sherlock Holmes (which the BSI consider to be Twelfth Night).

“They’ll pop champagne on my grave,” Roger Covington said, as if he might be grumbling about the golfing buddies he routinely accused of cheating. But it wasn’t golf that had him stirred up this time. “All three of them. Nothing would make them happier than to see me in the ground.”

K. L. Inger, of Inger, Inger & Inger, winced behind his rimless spectacles. “That’s awfully harsh, isn’t it, Roger? To say that about one’s children?”

“You know me, Inger. I speak my mind.”

Friday-afternoon sunlight slanted into the law firm’s conference room, casting its Victorian furnishings in a nostalgic glow. Already, rush-hour horns were beeping down in the street. Inger stole a glance at his Waltham pocket watch, hoping to complete the revisions to Covington’s will and trust without too much of the big man’s bombast. At seventy-seven, the investment titan bristled at any challenge to his authority.

“Family dynamics can be complicated,” the attorney said carefully.

“Complicated, hell.” Covington’s green eyes flashed in his florid face. “They’ve wanted me out of the way ever since their mother passed, God rest her soul.”

The two men huddled in Eastlake chairs at one end of a rosewood table in the Renaissance Revival style, a notary between them. Inger and his wife, the second Inger of Inger, Inger & Inger, had acquired their antiques on trips abroad, as they visited the literary settings of his favorite author, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. To Inger, each piece was infused with the spirit of his childhood hero, Sherlock Holmes, a whim Mrs. Inger affectionately indulged. How he wished she was with him now, to handle a sensitive situation like this. Bad enough that Covington had appointed him executor of his estate, Inger thought; now his prickly client was convinced his three grown children were aligned against him, and Abigail had the day off.

“Everything appears to be in order,” the tycoon growled. “Let’s get on with it.” He began jotting his name and initials as the notary guided him through the pages. “The ingrates are in town, staying at the house. That’s why I needed to rush this through. If things go their way, I’ll be dead by Monday.”

Dead by Monday?

Inger arched his snowy brows; surely, he’d misheard. Conspiracy claims were nothing new for Covington, who’d funded investigations into Super Bowls he insisted were fixed, and moon landings he believed to be faked. He’d also denounced his progeny for what he termed “unforgivable acts of betrayal.” But what he was suggesting now seemed far more sinister than how they voted or grilled a steak. The lawyer, who stood a slim five eight in his wing tips, checked to see how his gray-haired notary was holding up. Ordinarily cheerful, she hunched in petrified silence; patricide was not a subject that ordinarily popped up at Inger, Inger & Inger.

He chuckled uncomfortably. “For a moment there, I thought you might be talking about murder.”

“What else would I be talking about?” Covington turned back to the documents, pen poised in his sausage-sized fingers. “I’ve taken precautions, but they’re a crafty bunch. Sneaking glances, whispering in code, sniffing into my affairs.”

The two men had met by chance at an antiques fair early in the new millennium. Covington was there to find a special gift for his wife, apparently to smooth over an indiscretion. Inger had been helpful, which had led the mogul to engage him for estate planning — lucrative for the firm, though not without its tribulations.

“By the way,” Inger asked delicately, “are you still seeing Dr. Ziegler?”

“I don’t need a damned psychiatrist,” Covington snapped. “I’ll bet my Bentley he’s in on it with them. Pills to calm me down, pills to deal with depression, pills to help me sleep. Doping me up so I’m not thinking straight. But I outfoxed them. Stopped filling the prescriptions months ago, all but the one for shuteye. At my age a man needs a good night’s rest.”

“Are you sure that’s wise, ignoring Dr. Ziegler’s advice?”

“Best move I ever made, except for a few hostile takeovers. Got to have a clear head in a situation like this. Survival one-oh-one.”

A strained smile stretched Inger’s neat moustache. “Maybe you could postpone their visit until everyone calms down.”

“Not possible. We always gather on the anniversary of their mother’s passing. I insist on it.” Covington shook his head solemnly. “She’d weep, seeing how they turned out.”

Seven years ago, at the memorial service for Judith Covington, Inger had met her grieving children. Daphne, the oldest, was a respected naturopathic doctor. Graham was pioneering important research in soft robotics. Forrest, the youngest, was devoted to historic preservation.

“I thought they were doing rather well.”

“Ridiculous occupations.” Covington snorted. “Didn’t have the backbone for business. They might as well have spit in my face.”

“You did your best, Roger.” Inger sighed haplessly. “That’s all one can do.”

“Done!” Covington tossed the pen down and rubbed his palms together gleefully. “When my time comes, they’ll get their due.”

The notary stamped the last page, gathered up the papers, and hurried from the room. The two men stood and shook hands.

“Let’s hope that’s not too soon,” Inger said.

“Not if I can help it.” Covington winked. “If they’re going to rub out the old man, they’re going to have to work for it.”

As he rattled on, Inger felt the full burden of his sixty-eight years. He longed to be sitting with Abigail on their veranda, sipping a gin sling and hearing about her day. They’d been mulling retirement now that their daughter, the third Inger of Inger, Inger & Inger, was more than capable of running the firm. After the cocktails would come a tasty supper they’d cook together, seasoned with laughter. Then Inger would slip away with a memorable tale by Conan Doyle, to become lost in a menacing world Sherlock Holmes would make safer by the end.

“Why not put them up at a hotel?” he suggested. “That should allay your fears.”

“True,” Covington admitted. “But what would be the fun of that?”

He let out a cackle so frightful Inger’s heart nearly fibrillated. Steering him from the room, Inger mulled the sacred tenet of attorney-client confidentiality. Dr. Ziegler would want to know about his patient’s latest tirade, but state law permitted disclosure only to prevent an act by the client that the attorney believed could cause serious harm to himself or others. Covington might be distrustful, Inger conceded, with a touch of megalomania. But that didn’t make him dangerous, deluded, or incompetent to manage his affairs. If it had, Inger, Inger & Inger would be without some of its most prominent clients.

“When I’m awake, I make sure someone’s always around,” Covington said, as Inger hustled him toward a bank of elevators. “Valet, housekeeper, butler. With me for years, loyal as dogs. They usually get Sundays off, but not this weekend.”

Inger pressed the down button. “Certainly prudent, given your concerns.”

Covington leaned in, lowering his voice. “I expect the little schemers to make their move after midnight, when I’m asleep and most vulnerable.”

“Perhaps those sleeping pills aren’t the best idea, then.”

“That’s the beauty of it, Inger. I’ve fortified my bedroom, inside and out.”

Inger punched the down button again. Several times, actually.

“Surveillance cameras along the hallway,” Covington went on. “Security locks on the door and windows. Pepper spray on the nightstand.” He shrugged sheepishly. “No guard dog — Whiskers would never tolerate that.”

In one of their warmer moments, the two men had shared wallet photos of their cats. Whiskers was an old gray tom Covington had doted on since losing his wife.

Inger laid a sympathetic hand on the big man’s shoulder. “You seem to have thought of everything, Roger.”

The bell pinged, the elevator doors slid open, and Covington stepped in.

“Take care of yourself, will you?” the attorney added, studying his pained reflection as the brass-plated doors drew closed.

Deep into a balmy Sunday afternoon, Inger lounged in a shaded hammock with a leather-bound reproduction of The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes. Molly, the family’s ginger tabby, curled comfortably on his stomach. As engrossed as he was in “The Adventure of the Speckled Band,” a busy weekend with their grandchildren had taken its toll. His pale blue eyes fluttered behind his bifocals as his ringtone sounded.

“Hello?”

“Mr. Inger?” A female voice, businesslike but not unpleasant.

Inger patted down a yawn. “Yes, this is the old barrister.”

“Mr. Inger, this is Detective Aswell, Sheriff’s Department.”

He sat up as Molly sprang from his lap. His thoughts went immediately to the toddlers. “What is it, Detective? What’s wrong?”

“It involves Roger Covington. According to his daughter, Daphne, you handle her father’s estate planning.”

Inger slackened with relief. “For many years, yes.”

“I’m sorry to inform you that Mr. Covington is deceased.”

“Oh, dear.”

“He was found in bed a few hours ago, unresponsive. Apparently he makes a habit of sleeping in on Sundays. Becomes irate if he’s disturbed.”

“Yes, that sounds like Roger.”

“When the hour got late, his valet pounded on the bedroom door but got no answer. Needed an ax to break it down. I have a few questions if you’re up to it.”

“Of course.” Inger felt a twinge of anxiety. “Forgive me, Detective, but you didn’t mention a cause of death.”

“We’re looking into that, sir. According to his appointment book, you met with him Friday afternoon.”

“Half past four. We finished up about an hour later.”

“For what purpose?”

The issue of confidentiality again, Inger thought, though less thorny now. With Covington gone, the powers of disclosure had passed to his trustee and beneficiaries. As the appointed fiduciary, Inger was free to discuss Covington’s last wishes publicly, and the circumstances seemed to demand it.

“Roger recently requested changes to his will and trust. We were finalizing the paperwork. Signatures and so forth.”

“Auspicious timing, given what’s happened.”

“That’s one way of putting it,” Inger said, and began to feel queasy.

“Did Covington say or do anything on Friday that seemed out of the ordinary?”

“He—”

“Yes, Mr. Inger?”

“He was in a hurry to complete the documents, with our business handled quietly.”

“Why was that, do you know?”

Inger swallowed with difficulty. “He seemed convinced that his children were scheming against him.”

“Scheming? In what way?”

“He... he believed they were plotting to kill him.”

“He said this?”

“Explicitly.”

“Did you take him seriously?”

“I’m afraid I didn’t.” Inger clamped his eyes shut; perspiration pebbled on his forehead. “Roger was prone to suspicion.”

“Did he discuss this alleged threat in any detail?”

“Only that he expected them to attempt something this weekend, and that he’d taken precautions.”

“Yes, we noticed some of that. Until I get back to you, please don’t discuss this with anyone.”

“Mrs. Inger is a senior partner in the firm. She’d want to know.”

“I understand,” Aswell said. “But no one else, please.”

The call ended. Inger was left with the sound of bees buzzing around marigolds in a shaft of sunlight, and birds calling out from leafy perches. The pungent aroma of rosemary reached him on a playful breeze. Abigail had designed a classic cottage garden after ones they’d admired in England; he’d built the rose-bowered gateway himself. All that remained was to find purple spires for the background — violet was her favorite color, but with grandchildren about they had to be careful what they planted. Still, they’d created this peaceful spot together, which made it special. Now the joy it had brought them seemed to wane, the way the light was seeping from the day.

Inger sat very still. Covington had been a large, blustery man, getting on in years; it was possible he’d died of natural causes. But what if not?

“Oh, my,” Inger said aloud.

Conflict had always upset him, except in the hands of a clever writer like Conan Doyle, whom readers could count on to restore order in the end. Sir Arthur’s stories had soothed him as a child in a family beset with tension and turmoil. He picked up the volume he’d cast aside, unaware how tightly he clutched it to his chest.

“Oh my,” he said again, and then went looking for his wife.

While still a young man, Roger Covington had inherited an expansive hilltop home built in the late nineteenth century with family steel money. Inger had been here once before, shortly after Judith Covington’s death from cancer, to advise her widower on related legal matters. Now he was back, to distribute Covington’s estate papers and inventory his more valuable possessions. By Monday evening he’d spoken briefly with each of the beneficiaries, asking if they might meet as a group this afternoon. Not the orthodox approach, but he felt that taking their questions all at once might be less stressful, if only for him. Abigail had offered to come along, but he was determined to see this through on his own.

As he approached the property in his restored MG, a uniformed deputy opened the big gates. Inger passed through, coaxing his little roadster up the hill. Covington House soon emerged, three stories rising behind a neoclassical facade. Circling past, he was disheartened to see white paint peeling from pillars and iron grating going to rust.

Clouds were gathering as he parked further on. Nearby, in a tangle of landscape, a gloved groundskeeper ripped out towering plants abloom in regal blue, reminding Inger of challenges he faced in his own garden. But his attention quickly shifted to a broad lawn, where a lean, silver-haired man performed tai chi movements with mesmerizing balance and precision. Emery Chang, Covington’s longtime valet — Inger recalled the sleek look and exotic tattoos from his previous visit. The body art was a vestige of Chang’s troubled past: a bar fight as a young man, when he’d beaten the offender senseless; a prison stretch that left him unemployable; finally, a second chance with Covington. “I like the idea of having extra protection around,” Covington declared, but Inger had been wary.

He stepped from the car, buttoned the jacket of his gray flannel three-piece, and reached back for his briefcase. When he looked again Chang had vanished, as if he’d never been there.

From the colonnade a second deputy escorted Inger into the mansion’s cavernous entry hall, where he was met by a pudgy, wispy-haired man in an archaic butler’s uniform. The attorney recognized the Cockney croak as that of Herbert Plum, at eighty-four the oldest member of the household staff. Unable to recall their phone conversation the previous day, Plum trundled off mumbling to himself.

“Mr. Inger, right on time!”

The hearty voice came from atop a Colonial-style staircase, where a sturdy-looking black woman stood at the railing, her detective’s shield gleaming against a navy pants suit creased with perfect pleats.

“Aswell here,” she called out. “They notified me from the gate that you’d arrived.”

As she started down, Inger studied the foyer’s domed ceiling. From the cupola hung a four-tiered crystal chandelier in fountain form, dazzling with sprays of spangles and spear-shaped drops. He located the lavish fixture in a catalog Covington had provided a few years back, comparing it to its description and photo before checking it off.

As that was happening, Lois Aswell was trotting down the last few steps, greeting him with a vigorous handshake and lively brown eyes. She was younger than he’d expected; when she explained that her senior partner had moved on to a fresh case, leaving her to wrap up, he got the impression she wasn’t pleased about it.

“You brought the documents?”

From his briefcase he handed over copies of Covington’s final will and trust. She suggested he continue his inventory in the master bedroom, now that the forensics team was finished with it. Inger grimaced, though he knew he’d have to account for the room’s contents at some point.

As they climbed, she filled him in on the investigation. An autopsy indicated respiratory difficulty and cardiac arrest; toxicology tests were yet to come. “According to Emery Chang, the valet, Covington was taking a potent sleep aid each night after downing several whiskeys. The prescription was for a classification of sedative known as hypnotics. It’s a dangerous combination.”

“Goodness,” Inger said.

“Last week, Chang informed Daphne, the daughter. She warned her father of the risk, but he gave her the brush-off. By the time she alerted Dr. Ziegler, it was too late.”

“You’re thinking heart attack, then,” Inger said, sounding encouraged.

“Personally, I’m sticking with suspicious death for now.” The detective smiled tightly. “My partner feels otherwise.”

As they passed the second landing, Inger reached for the handrail and found the balusters wobbly. “This was once such an opulent home. Too showy for my taste, but still distressing to see how Roger let it go.”

“From what I understand, his wife saw to the house and staff. After her death, Covington seemed lost, and never found his way back.”

“He did seem to miss her,” Inger fretted. “Especially as the years wore on.”

Reaching the top, they turned toward the north wing, following woven hall runners bordered by oak parquetry. Lighting their way were brass hall hoops with hobnail shades of frosted glass; between the sconces hung classic Alfred Sisley landscapes. To Inger, each step took them further back in time, to the days when the Great Detective and his good friend, Dr. John Watson, ventured along foggy streets and creaking floorboards, searching for secrets at their peril.

Then reality intruded — the gaping doorway outside Covington’s bedroom, secured with yellow crime-scene tape. Inger blanched, dabbing his brow with a monogrammed handkerchief.

“We don’t have to do this if it’s too soon,” Aswell said.

“No, no. I have my responsibilities. I need to get my bearings, that’s all.”

“If you’re sure.” He nodded and she began stripping away the tape. “After Chang broke down the door, everyone in the house crowded in. So we’re not expecting much from the fingerprints and DNA samples. Prior to that, employees and family came and went up here, though no one after Chang helped Covington up to bed Saturday night.” The detective grinned. “Unless you count his cat, and a cockroach or two.”

“You’re certain — absolutely no one?”

She indicated the security cameras overhead. “My partner checked the video. Shortly after midnight, Covington opened his door to let the cat in. Otherwise, it was quiet, until Harriet Plum, the housekeeper, arrived at dawn to do some sweeping.”

“The cameras, of course. I should have thought of that.”

“His children are staying on this floor in their old bedrooms. Chang’s quarters are on the first level. The Plums live in a cottage on the grounds.”

“So it’s just Chang and the Plums? No personal chef?”

“Left last month, third to quit this year. Chang and Mrs. Plum share the cooking now.” She tilted her head toward the bedroom. “Ready?”

The attorney nodded, braced himself, and followed her inside.

The moment he stepped in, Inger’s apprehension gave way to enchantment; even the musty air was intoxicating. Covering much of the floor was an East Indian carpet of intricate design, worn thin from generations of use. Set between Tudor-inspired cabinets were Pre-Raphaelite paintings, a sumptuous mix of fallen women and Madonna types; Inger’s data mentioned that Covington had purchased them against his wife’s wishes. A marble Georgian fireplace anchored the near end of the room.

On the mantel was a framed photograph of a fair-haired young woman, her bluebottle eyes wide and expressive.

“Judith Covington,” Aswell said, noting Inger’s interest. “Taken when they were courting.”

“What a lovely smile.”

The detective’s keen eyes roamed the room. “It’s possible he was poisoned beforehand, or smothered as he slept. But if someone got in here, I’m hard-pressed to know how.”

Inger scrutinized the fireplace. “This probably sounds silly—”

“What’s that, Mr. Inger?”

“Might some creature have found a way in through the chimney? A venomous snake, for example? When you phoned Sunday, I happened to be reading about a case involving Sherlock Holmes and a speckled band—”

“Ah, the famous detective.”

“It involved a spotted viper set loose from a vent, coiled on a bell cord and poised to strike a young woman when she came to bed. Naturally, Holmes saved the day.”

“No suspicious marks were found on our victim, Mr. Inger. We examined the flue, which was closed off long ago for safety reasons. No sign of any disturbance. And no vents up here, I’m afraid.”

The attorney frowned. “That was awfully far-fetched, wasn’t it?”

“Not at all. I’ve been involved in stranger cases, believe me.”

Indeed, Inger thought; it was something Holmes might have said to Watson. Emboldened, he crossed to a windowed alcove framed by portiere curtains; within it was a kidney-shaped walnut writing desk on arched feet, bearing flourishes of the Regency period. Then on to the artwork, the cabinetry, a sparkling collection of original Waterford crystal. All highly collectible, but nothing suggesting a clue.

Disappointed, he turned to the one object he’d been avoiding: the canopied mahogany bed in which Roger Covington had drawn his last breath. Designed in the flamboyant rococo style, it was adorned with ornate floral carvings, the gold tassels of its comforter draped to the floor. Inger took solace from the linens, which were barely mussed, though not enough to dispel the gloom cast over it like a shadow.

“He died quietly,” Aswell assured him, as if reading his mind. “No sign of struggle. We disturbed things as little as possible, out of respect for the family.”

Inger nodded gratefully. He was making his notations when he heard something above, a scuttling of small feet or claws.

“Rats,” the detective explained, following the attorney’s upward gaze. “Nesting in the crawlspace. We chased them out when we looked up there, but I guess they’re back.”

Inger shuddered as the scratching became more insistent.

“Shall we move on?” she asked.

“Please,” Inger said, and this time he led the way.

While Lois Aswell left to arrange a general meeting downstairs, Inger continued his third-floor walk-through. To hasten his task, Harriet Plum, the housekeeper, had used her set of double-notched brass keys to free the old mortise locks ahead of him.

It wasn’t long before a disconcerting pattern emerged: In nearly every room, precious objects were missing. Each was small enough to be smuggled off unobserved, or if a number of people worked in collusion.

In Covington’s study, as expected, Inger found a magnificent Wooten foldout desk in black walnut, accented with gold leaf, handcrafted in the late eighteen hundreds. But a Tiffany table lamp from the same period was nowhere to be found. Also gone was an oil by American Impressionist Mary Cassatt, a portrait of a mother cradling her child; according to its documentation, Judith Covington had personally positioned it to face her husband as he worked. In its place was a common art-store print.

Inger moved to the front windows to mull his unsettling discoveries. Treasures had been removed from Covington House, that much was certain. Pilfering, or storage? And what, if anything, did it have to do with Roger Covington’s death?

Outside, raindrops began to patter against the panes. He watched a black town car wind up the drive and stop between the house and a circular fountain. A liveried driver climbed out, opening an umbrella and then a rear door. A stately woman emerged, trim in a smart skirt suit atop elevated heels, carrying herself with confidence and purpose. Two men followed less briskly, the taller man lanky and bearded, the other clean-cut and boyish, both in stylish dark suits. The Covington siblings — Daphne, Graham, and Forrest, in order of birth — familiar to Inger from years ago.

Wind gusted, pelting him with drops through an open window. Before he could pull it shut, a slender hand reached past to do it for him, giving him a fright. He spun to find himself facing Emery Chang, cloaked in his colorful tattoos.

“Good God, how did you get in so quietly?”

“I’ve been here all along, Mr. Inger, away from the light, while you examined Mr. Covington’s belongings.”

“The ones that remain, you mean?” The valet never flinched, his obsidian eyes implacable. Inger surveyed the room. “You have business here?”

“I straighten up every afternoon, when Mr. Covington has left to play golf.”

“But Mr. Covington is no longer with us.”

“One’s routine doesn’t die so easily, or one’s allegiance.”

“Admirable discipline — much like those impressive combative skills I witnessed this morning.”

“Tai chi directs one toward inner peace, Mr. Inger, not toward combat. Change can come, if it comes from within.”

“A noble sentiment, Mr. Chang. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m needed downstairs.”

As he turned to go, Chang seized his wrist. Inger had never felt a grip with such tensile strength. A draft reached his ankles from beneath the closed door, reminding him that he was alone with a violent felon.

“Some things are better kept private, Mr. Inger.”

“And sometimes discretion is not possible,” the attorney said, freeing himself but feeling no less shaken as he made his exit.

Retracing his steps through the north wing, Inger spotted a hunched, wizened woman in a housedress and orthopedic shoes coming his way. Scurrying in and out of rooms, she ignored the master bedroom and entered the room across the hall.

From the open doorway, he watched her shut windows before bustling back out.

“Mrs. Plum?”

She pulled up, squinting at him with rheumy eyes. “That would be me, yes.”

He explained that he was the attorney who’d spoken with her the day before.

“I know who you are, sir. What is it, then?”

“Just a question or two, if I may.”

“Very well, but let’s be quick. This storm’s just getting started.”

Inger asked how long she’d worked for Roger Covington — “Half my life and then some,” she replied — and what kind of employer he’d been.

“Let’s just say things was better when Mrs. Covington was with us. She made sure to keep a full staff and pay a fair wage.” The old woman smirked. “Kind enough too, to find work elsewhere for the maids, the pretty ones her husband had his eye on.”

Inger cringed. “And the children?”

“Never lifted a finger. Still don’t.”

“Yet you and Mr. Plum stayed on all these years.”

“And what choice would you think we have at our age?”

“Point taken, Mrs. Plum. Now, about Saturday night. Do you recall anything unusual in the hours before and after midnight?”

Her weak eyes dodged away. “I already answered that for the lady detective.”

Inger pressed gently. “Nothing you might have overlooked?”

“Well — there was one small matter.” Her eyes came back, along with her spunk. “I’m diligent in my housekeeping and wasn’t keen to bring it up.”

“Understandable.”

“With the visitors in, we was given Sunday chores. I got to my cleaning early, right in this hallway. Mr. Covington’s cat — Whiskers he calls him — likes to spend time up here. There’s all that fur, you see. Using a broom instead of a vacuum, so as not to disturb His Lordship, I was working over here when I saw a cockroach coming at me across the runner. I admit to a terrible disgust of those things, most especially the big ones. I let out a scream, before stomping it good and proper.”

“And Mr. Covington didn’t wake?”

“Not a peep. It was his older son, Graham, who peered out from his bedroom. This door right here, just a crack. I apologized for making such a fuss. He didn’t say a word. Just stared down at that dead bug, as revolted by it as I was.”

Thunder sounded distantly; lightning cracked like a whip.

“Not to be rude, sir, but I really must see to the other rooms.”

Inger thanked her and she hurried off. He turned in the other direction, intending to get downstairs. But as he passed the master bedroom the Regency desk caught his eye. He’d already accounted for it, so that wasn’t an issue. It was its provenance as Judith Covington’s personal desk that captivated him now, a remembrance so dear to her husband that he’d taken to using it himself. This was Inger’s chance to have a closer look.

Slipping in, he pricked up his ears for the scrambling of rats in the crawlspace. All he heard was the rain, drumming like nervous fingers against the alcove windows.

The desk was a pristine example of pre-Victorian craftsmanship: inlaid satinwood, fluted pillars, pigeonholes fitted to perfection.

Inger was smitten but stayed on task, drawing open a deep drawer on the right. Inside was a box of engraved stationary atop a pile of fading mementos: gilded social invitations, playbills and opera programs, snapshots of the three Covington children as they grew up. He was about to close up when he noticed a partition farther in — a false back, hardly surprising in a vintage desk like this. What piqued his curiosity were the three files stashed there, each labeled in Roger Covington’s distinct handwriting: Daphne, Graham, Forrest. He opened the Daphne folder to find articles heralding her considerable achievements in higher education and alternative medicine. Next, a similar compilation on Graham, who’d earned a Ph.D. in biomechanics and a professorship at the same university where Inger had taken his law degree. Then the last portfolio, detailing Forrest’s preservation efforts, including his recent attempts to place Covington House on the National Register, the latter sections underlined in red.

Out in the hall a clock chimed the late hour. Inger was returning the files to their niche when he glimpsed one more item tucked away: a packet of handwritten messages on flowery note cards, dated and inscribed by Judith Covington in the early years of her marriage. Against his better scruples, he began browsing. A common theme emerged, as she expressed her devotion to her husband while pleading for more of his time and affection. If not for me, one note ended, then at least for our children.

“Interesting reading, Mr. Inger?”

It was Forrest, standing by the canopied bed, his soft features unable to mask the quiet fury in his glare.

“I’m afraid I was snooping.” Inger replaced the packet of notes, shut the drawer, and faced the younger man squarely. “Given your calling, it must be painful for you to watch Covington House fall into decline.”

“It always hurts to see a fine old building go to ruin.”

“You’ve been taking legal steps to protect it.”

“What of it?”

“Your father couldn’t have been happy about that.”

“If my father had his way, this entire property would have been sold off for subdivisions by now.”

“If he had his way — or if he’d lived?”

The two men locked eyes.

“He was incapable of caring for this house. He’d grown distracted, irrational. The servants have been thieving for years, right under his nose.”

“You’ve noticed certain items are missing?”

“How could I not? Some were favorites of my mother.” Forrest glanced around bitterly. “I suppose I should be grateful nothing has disappeared from this room.”

“Nothing has disappeared,” Inger repeated vaguely, as if his mind had floated off.

Forrest regarded him curiously. “Yes, that’s what I said.”

Inger blinked several times before gathering himself.

“Please tell the others I’ll be down shortly,” he said, and watched the youngest Covington depart.

Moving quickly, he retrieved a file from the desk. Next, he placed three calls on his smartphone: to his wife, to the university where he’d studied law, and to Roger Covington’s accountant. No more than twenty minutes, but time was pressing.

As he descended the front stairs, thunder rumbled and lightning streaked beyond the oriel windows. Midway down, he stopped to take a call from Abigail, who confirmed one of his hunches. He thanked her profusely and said he hoped to be home in time for dinner, perhaps even an aperitif.

“A strong one,” he added. “It’s been quite a day, and it’s not over yet.”

“We’ll listen to some Gilbert and Sullivan,” she said. “That should restore your spirits.”

Detective Aswell was waiting on the bottom step. Inger apologized for the delay, sharing what he’d gleaned upstairs. She praised him for being so astute and cursed her oversight, wishing she’d studied the security video herself. Then she proposed an unconventional strategy in the dining room, where the others were assembled, and wondered if he was game. He assured her that he was.

The dining room was located off the serving room and the butler’s pantry, separated from the kitchen only by a plate closet. Yet as Inger entered, it struck him as a world away. Designed in the Cornwall Manor style, it was resplendent with heirlooms worthy of a fine museum. But it was the paintings that held his deepest interest: gilt-framed portraits of Covington men and women extending back to pre-Civil War slave days, their bearings stiff with privilege.

He noted a similar demeanor in the Covington children. They occupied high-backed chairs along one side of a massive pedestal table gleaming with an English Tea finish: the erect and well-tailored Daphne, looking peevish; long-limbed Graham, tugging at his beard; and baby-faced Forrest, pouty and withdrawn. Directly across sat Harriet Plum, who’d changed into a fresh house-dress; Mr. Plum, half asleep and tilting; and Emery Chang, placid but unreadable. The deputies Inger had seen earlier were stationed near the exits. Asleep on a cushioned window seat was Whiskers, his feline slumber undisturbed by all the commotion, inside and out.

Aswell stepped aside, allowing Inger front position at the head of the table.

“First,” the attorney said, “let me thank you for your patience.”

“Spare us the niceties,” Daphne shot back. “You’ve kept us waiting long enough.”

“By all means.” From his briefcase Inger withdrew copies of Roger Covington’s will and trust, stacking them neatly on the table. “Though I do want to mention a few matters pertinent to how your father died.”

“That would be Detective Aswell’s role,” Graham said. “You’re here as our father’s lawyer, not as an investigator.”

“I understand, but—”

“It’s not a request,” Daphne said. “This house belongs to us now. You’re here at our pleasure.”

“Actually, that’s not accurate.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Upon your father’s death, this house ceased to belong to anyone in the Covington family.”

The reactions around the table ranged from shocked eyes and mouths agape to more humble heads cocked with curiosity. Even Herbert Plum roused himself.

“Utter nonsense.” Daphne again, clipped and self-assured. “I’ve seen the papers that were drawn up after Mother died. The three of us are to get everything, excepting modest provisions for the help.”

“He’d threatened to cut us out,” Forrest added, “trying to bend us to his will. But he never followed through.”

“He did this time. Friday afternoon, in my office.” Inger handed the documents to Aswell, who passed them around. “Your father created a foundation in your mother’s name, to which he bequeathed Covington House and the surrounding property. It’s to become Judith Covington Park, with the house converted to a daycare center serving families in need. Everything else is to be auctioned off to fund the foundation.”

“That’s not possible,” Graham said, his voice shaky.

Inger picked up his own copy, turning to a marked page. “He instructed me to add this wording: Should any of my children wish, they may serve the foundation as volunteers, cleaning the house and tending to the grounds.”

Mrs. Plum howled. “Oh, that’s a good one, that is.”

“The bastard.” Daphne rose to her feet. “We’ll contest, you can be sure of that.”

Graham stood beside her, his eyes panicky. “What about his investments, all the money?”

“Not much left, I’m afraid. Your father lost a fortune in recent years. What is intact is in the split trust your mother created before her death, ensuring the three employees sitting here a comfortable retirement.”

“They’ve no right to anything.” Daphne’s glance slathered them with contempt. “They’re the ones who robbed him blind, plundering this house.”

“Watch your mouth, dearie,” Mrs. Plum said. “You don’t hold sway here as you once did.”

“It’s true that a number of valuables are missing,” Inger said. “But nothing was stolen.”

“That makes no sense,” Forrest said.

“While I was upstairs, my wife contacted a well-connected expert in the art and antiques trade. Your father has been selling off his possessions privately, piece by piece, to appease his debtors and keep up the pretense that he was still successful.”

“As if I wouldn’t notice,” Mrs. Plum said, “all the dusting I do.”

“Even then, he counted on you to keep quiet, beholden as you were to him. Isn’t that right, Mr. Chang?”

Chang held his chin high. “His pride wouldn’t allow him to sell things off more openly. People hold fiercely to their dignity as they grow older, whatever their circumstances. The three of us can attest to that.”

“Amen,” Mr. Plum murmured, clasping his wife’s hand.

“I realize he was intolerable at times,” Chang added. “But I witnessed his struggle for redemption at the end, and stood by him. We both believed in second chances.”

Daphne leveled her eyes on Inger. “You know full well he was unstable. Making wild assertions, turning his bedroom into a fortress. He wasn’t in his right mind when he remade that will.”

“Absolutely,” Graham said. “Grounds to overturn, no doubt about it.”

“Your father was a contentious man,” Inger conceded, “and some of his ideas seemed outlandish. But incompetent to create a valid will? I’m not so sure.”

“More to the point,” Aswell said, stepping to Inger’s side, “your father’s death testifies to his foresight, not his delusion.”

“Hogwash,” Daphne said. “The coroner concluded that he died of asphyxia and cardiac arrest. There’s not a shred of evidence that homicide was involved.”

“That was before Mr. Inger arrived.” The detective swiveled to acknowledge the attorney. “Mr. Inger?”

As Daphne and Graham edged back into their seats, Inger pulled himself up to his full height, wing tips included.

“I’m convinced Roger Covington was murdered,” he said crisply, “that a most unusual weapon was used, and that the killers sit among us.”

Inger expected at least a dramatic gasp or two — the old Basil Rathbone movies had left their mark on him in childhood — but a fraught silence pervaded.

Striving for brevity, he laid out his theory: When Forrest learned that his father was shopping Covington House to developers he alerted his older siblings, who feared its loss for their own reasons. A short time later, Emery Chang informed Daphne that his employer was mixing alcohol with a potent prescription for insomnia. She promised to intervene, knowing her father would rebuff her, and hatched a plan to hasten his death. As a trained herbalist, she was aware of a poison capable of impeding respiration and triggering heart failure, one not easily detected postmortem. Even so, Inger noted, suspicion would likely fall on Chang and Mrs. Plum, who prepared the meals.

“You’re an expert in toxins now?” Daphne asked archly.

“Only a cautious gardener,” Inger replied, “familiar with monkshood.”

He sensed a tightening along her jaw, but otherwise she retained her remarkable composure.

“Monkshood is a beautiful flower,” he continued, addressing the group, “but its sap is potentially deadly if enough is ingested or absorbed. It’s also fairly common. As I arrived today, I saw whole stalks of it being removed outside. Carefully, with gloves.”

“Our mother warned us to stay away from it,” Forrest said, growing troubled. “The groundskeepers had strict orders to clear it any time it appeared.”

“Though not so much in recent years,” Inger pointed out, “as the regular workers were let go and the place fell into neglect.”

“But we all ate from the same platters that night, and afterward our father was locked safely in his room.”

“That’s why your sister needed Graham’s help, specifically his expertise in the field of soft robotics.” As Graham began to pale, Inger opened the file he’d brought down. Selecting a passage, he read aloud: “Soft bots, as scientists refer to them, were first inspired by worms and other invertebrates. Made of pliable polymers, they were envisioned as larger bots that might be equipped with cameras and other sensors for space exploration or rescue operations at disaster sites. In time, researchers realized that arthropods with exoskeletons presented a more ideal model. Professor Covington’s contribution was to scale down these hard-bodied ‘arthrobots’ closer to their natural size of one to three inches, allowing them to maneuver into ever tighter spaces.”

Herbert Plum cupped a hand to his ear. “Arthur who?”

“Cockroaches,” Inger said. “An extraordinary if underappreciated arthropod. That wasn’t a cockroach that frightened Mrs. Plum as it raced back to Graham’s bedroom Sunday morning. It was a roach bot, slightly larger than the common pest but similar enough to fool her, given her diminished eyesight. Capable of crawling under a door and scrambling up the heavy tassels of a bed cover, to poke its poisoned beak into the sizable nostrils of a large, sedated man. A strong dose of monkshood sap, absorbed through the mucus membrane, can kill within hours. And what a brilliant means of delivery! Costly, though, wasn’t it, Graham? Not surprising that you were so disturbed that morning, seeing one of your precious prototypes destroyed.”

“Absurd.” Graham chuckled unconvincingly. “A bot like you describe — much too big to pass under a door, even in this drafty old house.”

“On the contrary. As you know better than anyone, cockroaches are able to spread their legs and compress their bodies to less than a third of their standing height, yet still move at amazing speeds, disappearing into narrow crevices. Your genius was to duplicate those mechanics in a miniature bot. When I was first in your father’s bedroom, I was fixated on a possible threat from above. But the entry point that mattered wasn’t overhead, it was beneath the door. It escaped our attention, because the door was no longer there. It was the one object missing from the room, something I realized when a chance remark by Forrest sparked my thinking.”

“But Whiskers slept with our father that night,” Forrest said. “Something resembling a cockroach would have caused him to awaken and pounce.”

“Perhaps when he was younger. But look at him over by the window, sleeping through the storm.”

Detective Aswell moved around to stand behind the siblings, her eyes directed across the table. “What happened to that battered roach bot, Mrs. Plum?”

“Swept it into my dustpan and discarded of it, miss.”

“Has the trash been picked up since?”

“Not until tomorrow.”

“Then we should be able to retrieve it?”

“I can take you right to the bin.”

“Don’t touch it. We’ll leave that to the specialists.” She signaled one of the deputies, who escorted the housekeeper out. “I’ll be surprised if we don’t find two sets of DNA on the remnants, Graham’s and his father’s. And more evidence on video, once I take a closer look.”

Daphne emitted laughter so brittle it nearly cracked. “I’ve never heard such a preposterous story. A mechanical cockroach, armed with poison and sent by remote control to commit murder? You’ll be hooted right out of court.”

“Oh, shut up, Daphne.” Graham slumped over the table, head in hands. “Didn’t I warn you it was a dangerous plan?”

“But why?” Forrest looked incredulous. “You both had so much. We all did. Everything we wanted, from the day we were born.”

“Everything but what you truly needed from a father,” Inger suggested.

With that, the fire went out of Daphne’s eyes. “All he cared about was making money and chasing women,” she said vacantly. “We were afterthoughts, especially Mother. This house and everything in it belonged to her as much as him, and by rights to us. I was damned if I’d let him squander it away.”

“As for Roger’s firstborn son,” Inger said, pivoting toward Graham, “he needed funds to supplement his research grants as he sought ever greater recognition. A phone call to a well-placed source at my alma mater revealed that.”

Graham raised his head, his voice quavering. “Nothing I ever did was good enough. Nothing I achieved measured up to what he demanded of me.”

“Then Forrest wasn’t in on it?”

Graham shook his head. “All he wanted was to save this house.” He smiled miserably. “At least that’s been accomplished, hasn’t it?”

Aswell read her two suspects their Miranda rights. As she placed them in handcuffs, Daphne regained some of her patrician starch, wearing her new bracelets as if they were somber pieces of mid-Victorian mourning jewelry.

“And what have you gotten out of this, Mr. Inger?” Her voice dripped scorn. “I’m sure you’ve done quite nicely for yourself, as our father’s trusted attorney.”

Inger crossed to the bay window, where Whiskers had awakened to stare out at the abating storm. The cat rubbed up again him, tail twisting. The day’s findings had left Inger immeasurably saddened; not just the fact of murder but the human wreckage his late client had left behind. Still, the clouds had parted, and the sun had broken through. The world outside looked fresh and glistening. He envisioned happy children romping on the lawns, or engrossed in books while shaded by trees, or discovering gardens colorful with butterflies and blooms. Just nothing poisonous, like monkshood.

“I plan to donate my fee to the Judith Covington Foundation,” he replied, picking up the purring tom. “Other than that, my wife and I get Whiskers here. Your father wanted us to have him in the event of his death.”

He turned toward Daphne and Graham as they were led away.

“Honestly, that’s quite enough for me.”