. . .Can you bring it to me now, Mrs. Dove?” Somehow Reginald had managed to keep his voice even. The housekeeper was not the one to blame here. His anger should not be directed at her.

She nodded and scurried from the room.

Three weeks wasted! He stood clenching and unclenching his fists, awaiting the woman’s return.

“Here y’ are, sir,” she said a few minutes later, handing over the bundled-up material. “Will there be anything else, sir?”

“No, Mrs. Dove, thank you.” With his normal stoic composure, he watched her mount the steps on her way out, though inwardly he trembled in anticipation of examining the garment. When the door clicked shut, he shook out the folds of the stained and creased cloak, measured it against his own frame then carefully laid it on his desk.

Mrs. Dove had been right: the cloak belonged to a man. A man even taller than himself, for when he. . . Read More