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Leo took a tentative step into the room. It was furnished well, with a button-tufted leather sofa, a thick Oriental rug in hues of red and gold, gold-framed paintings on the walls, a few licensing certificates for his agency on display, and opulent, cut-glass shades over gas lamps. The snug touches of elegance were proof that Mr. Castelan was either doing exceedingly well in the private inquiry business, or that he came from money. By his cultured, almost aristocratic tone, Leo presumed he was an educated man too.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Castelan,” she said as she removed her gloves. A fire in the grate left no trace of chill in the air. “I must admit, I didn’t realize you had so many detectives on staff. But is Miss Brooks not in?”

“She is out on a new assignment,” Mr. Castelan replied as he came out from behind his desk. “We are a fast-moving agency, and I am always in need of skilled investigators.”

He gestured to one of the chairs positioned in front of his desk. “I hear you’d like to discuss a case you’re handling. I hope you don’t mind that Miss Brooks imparted some details?”

Leo stayed on her feet until Mr. Castelan lowered himself into one of the chairs. Only then did she settle into the opposite one, not wanting to loom over him.

“I don’t mind,” she said. “Which details did she share?”

He crossed his legs and laced his fingers over his pin-striped waistcoat. Mr. Castelan was in his early forties, perhaps, with an athletic build and short, dark auburn hair. He wasn’t conventionally handsome; his nose was short and sharp, his forehead broad, and he had reddened, chapped skin. A result, she presumed, of the cold and dry December air. However, his eyes, light gray and lively, were striking.

“Mrs. Augusta Lawlor, née Augusta Hart. Independently wealthy and newly married,” he began to recount. “She appears to be growing increasingly ill, but in truth, her husband has been poisoning her over the course of several months. He administers an overdose of some kind—laudanum, most likely—which appears to finish her off, then disappears the same day, possibly with a large amount of cash, taking with him any photographic evidence of himself.”

It was a concise summary of what Leo had explained to Connor, who must have then informed Dita.

“Did she mention the false physician as an accomplice?” Leo asked.

Mr. Castelan nodded enthusiastically. “Indeed. A truly diabolical scheme, which could be carried out several times, if the two actors were meticulous. But they weren’t, were they?”

Leo agreed. “Not in this instance.”

“The overdose was not planned,” Mr. Castelan identified. She was reluctantly impressed.

“Exactly,” Leo said. He laughed delightedly at her obvious surprise.

“Miss Spencer, I may run this agency, but I am a detective to my marrow. I can’t help it; solving puzzles is something I’ve always been drawn to. We are a lot alike, you know.”

“How so?” she asked, curious—and skeptical. He clearly wanted to make a good impression in his bid for her to join his agency.

“Your uncle is a surgeon, as was my father and grandfather. You have contacts with the police, as do I. From what I know of you—all of which is, admittedly, derived from others—you like puzzles as much as I do. More importantly, you are skilled at solving them.”

With such compliments, Leo rather felt like she was being courted by another potential suitor. Platonically, at least. It was unsettling, and yet also unpredictably…nice.

“Thank you, Mr. Castelan. Perhaps we do have some things in common. You are right that I do like puzzles. Now, getting back to the one at hand…” she said, eager to direct them back to the Lawlor case. “If the intent was to make his wife’s death appear natural due to illness, Mr. Lawlor could have waited for the arsenic to do its job. Instead, he sped things along with the opium overdose.”

The private detective nodded. “And then disappeared, rather than stay and inherit the property and holdings, as was due to him.”

Leo was about to reveal that Mr. Lawlor was now dead, discovered stabbed in Blackfriars. But she held her silence. She didn’t need to discuss every detail of the ongoing murder investigation with Mr. Castelan.

“Mrs. Lawlor claimed her late mother hired you four years ago to investigate a suitor,” Leo said.

He reached for a thin folio on his desk. “Yes. I anticipated you’d learned as much. This is the file, if you’d like to see it. To summarize, Sir Walter Priestly, an impoverished baron, had already tried his luck at courting two other heiresses before setting his sights on Miss Hart. All three women had lackluster prospects regarding marriage, and Priestly used his extraordinarily good looks and charm to woo them. Covering the fact that he was up to his ears in debt, of course.”

Leo opened the folio and took a cursory look at the typed-up report inside.

“His intent was reprehensible, but as you can see, nothing as nefarious as what this Lawlor fellow undertook,” Mr. Castelan said. “It is too bad Mrs. Hart did not have me look into him as she did Priestly.”

She closed the folio and handed it back. “Mrs. Hart passed a few years ago, or else I’m sure she would have.”

“As I always say, it pays to be suspicious,” he said. “Miss Brooks inquired if my agency has handled any cases with similar circumstances. But I’m afraid the answer is no.”

The odds had been long, Leo supposed, but she was still disappointed.

“There are many private inquiry agencies in the city, and there is the League of London Private Detectives,” she said, eyeing the framed certificate hanging on the wall marking Mr. Castelan as a member. “Have you ever heard your colleagues speaking of a scheme such as this?”

“I’m sorry, no,” Mr. Castelan said again. He cocked his head. “Are you working with Scotland Yard on this? Miss Brooks also mentioned you have a partnership of sorts with a detective inspector.”