A Lady's Guide to Mischief and Murder. Dianne Freeman

what is the lad’s name?”

      “His name is Michael, ma’am,” he said, following us up the stairs. “Michael O’Brien.”

      “Thank you. It feels rather cold to continue referring to him as the footman.” George had already reached the second-floor landing and turned left into a hallway. I hurried to catch up with him.

      “It’s the last door on the left, sir.” Crocker spoke at my shoulder. George gave me one more warning look before pushing the door open and stepping inside. I followed.

      The two small windows near the ceiling did little to illuminate the room, which was just large enough to hold a cabinet, two beds, one bedside table, a cane-backed chair, and a trunk at the end of the bed nearest to the door. The bedside lamp was dark. It would have been gloomy even without the smell of death, and vomit, and the body lying in the bed. Perhaps I should have allowed George to coddle me this time.

      He’d pulled the straight-backed chair next to the bed and bent forward, examining the boy’s eyes. He glanced up when I walked in and gave me a look that said, I warned you. I squared my shoulders and advanced to his side.

      “What are you looking for?” I asked.

      He shrugged. “Signs of what might have killed him.”

      “He obviously had some sort of stomach distress.”

      George wrinkled his nose and nodded in agreement before turning back to the body and lifting Michael O’Brien’s hand. “I was annoyed when Crocker said the room had been cleaned, but as I can still smell the aftermath, I can only be relieved that he did so.”