A heavy dark-wood desk topped with green leather took center stage, the chair positioned behind it equally imposing. Shelves stuffed with leather-bound volumes, their spines glinting with dull-gold lettering, covered the walls. Evrain doubted that any of the musty tomes had been removed from their resting places in decades. The room smelled of wax polish and old paper. A cream blind covered the single window, muting the early morning light. Evrain was grateful for the lack of brightness. His head pounded with the persistent headache that had plagued him almost continually since his grandmother’s death a month earlier. A month during which the police had failed to find a single clue as to who might have been Agatha’s murderer. Not that their lack of progress surprised Evrain. Having discussed it frequently with Gregory, they were both convinced that Symeon Malus was behind Agatha’s death. Gregory had related the conversation he’d had with Agatha on the night of her death. Evrain only wished she’d called him straight away.
