The air in the downstairs hall smelled of pine polish, damp coats, and cold ash from the drawing room fireplace.

The heavy oak door to the study was slightly open.

I slipped inside and pressed the latch shut behind me until it gave a faint brass click.

Mr.

Winslow’s dark mahogany desk sat by the bay window overlooking the gravel drive.

It was a massive piece of furniture with polished brass handles shaped like lions holding iron rings in their teeth.

I knelt on the cold edge of the Persian rug and reached for the bottom right handle.