“You’ve returned.”
Freddy tossed back a drink, clenching his teeth at the bite. “Aye, and contrary to his mother’s claims, Hardcastle was not at death’s door. Oh, he was having trouble breathing all right, but I’ve seen him in much worse shape. Just a few days ago, in fact.” He scowled into his drink. “But fortunate for you, he was in the mood to talk.”
Resisting the impulse to immediately demand he tell us everything, I instead addressed the anger vibrating from him and the fatigue evident in the dark shadows beneath his eyes. “I’m sorry, Freddy. It must be difficult dealing with such patients.”
He lowered his glass, having drained it, and then set it aside. “Aye, well, it was my choice to take over Paley’s practice rather than taking a position at a hospital in one of the cities, so I suppose it’s foolish to complain. But no matter,” he declared, brushing this all aside as he came to the point of why we’d been waiting for him. “Hardcastle is dead certain he saw Fräulein Bauer speaking to a straw-haired chap outside the chemist. And that he heard the chap speaking German like a native.”
Which was no guarantee he was German, but I had to allow it was indicative of it.
“But he didn’t hear what they said?”
“He claims he didn’t comprehend it, since he doesn’t speak German.”
I frowned. “Really? I could have sworn he did.”
Freddy shrugged. “That’s what he claimed.”
“But wasn’t he the one who was showing off his command of the language at that church fete some years back. The one commemorating St. Margaret’s sixtieth anniversary. Remember? It was Halloween and the vicar had pulled out some old Reformation hymns written in German in honor of Martin Luther.”
“I would have been up at Oxford. But I thought it was Eddie Metcalfe who had the ear for languages and liked to show them off.”
I pressed a hand to my brow, trying to recall the event more clearly from my sleep-addled brain.
“Whatever the case, he claims he doesn’t know what they said. But that the fellow was furious. That he looked ‘perfectly capable of murder.’” Freddy held up his hands to ward off any objections. “His words, not mine.”
“Of course, that’s what he would say,” I muttered. “It supports his objective.”
“Yes, but Hardcastle’s suppositions aside, it does tell us that whoever the man was who was seen speaking with Fräulein Bauer, he wasn’t happy,” Sidney pointed out.
“True. But that’s also not proof he killed her. A lot of people were unpleasant to Bauer.”
“Interesting you should mention that,” Freddy said. “Because I told Hardcastle the same thing, and he had something unexpected to tell me.” He leaned back, draping his arm over the back of the sofa, drawing out the moment for dramatic effect. An action that was so like the Freddy of old—the young man he’d been before the war and all that had come after—that I found I couldn’t be annoyed with him for it. “The German chap wasn’t the only person he saw speaking to Bauer.”
“Who?” I burst forth to demand.
He nodded in the direction of the door, his nose wrinkling as if he smelled something foul. “Bolingbroke. He claims he saw Bolingbroke speaking to the maid the morning of the day she was killed. Says he was driving to Askrigg when he saw them conversing on the side of the road—Bolingbroke in his motorcar and Bauer with a bicycle.”
Before I could voice my reaction to this, the door suddenly flew open.
“That’s a lie,” Grace shouted, her face twisted into an ugly sneer. “That’s a filthy lie!” She pointed a finger at Freddy. “You’ve never liked Cyril, and so you’re happy to use any excuse to smear his good name.”
“He took the coward’s way out,” Freddy stated flatly.
“He did not! Stop spreading lies, Freddy.”
“Now, hold on,” I intervened, leaping to my feet. “Let’s all just take a deep breath.” I turned to Grace, whose chest rose and fell rapidly with anger. “First of all, Freddy was only repeating what Isaac Hardcastle told him this evening.”
“Yes, but it’s obvious he believes it.” She gestured toward our brother. “You can see it plainly written on his face.”
I could not argue that, not when Freddy’s mug was viciously smug. “Well, I’m not prepared to take anything for fact based solely on one person’s word. But we do need to ask Cyril about it.”
Grace rounded on me. “You think he’s a killer?!”
“Now, I never said that,” I replied, trying to remain reasonable. “Just because he spoke with her that morning does not mean he then killed her some hours later. But maybe he’s aware of something about Fräulein Bauer the rest of us are not. Maybe he saw something.”
Her eyes narrowed, telling me all I needed to know about her trust in my motives. “Not before I speak with him first,” she snapped before turning to storm out of the room.
I stared after her, wondering if I should go after her or if doing so would make matters worse. Turning my head, I arched a single eyebrow at Freddy in impatience. “Do you know for a fact that Cyril’s injury is suspicious?”
He shot me a black look. “I saw enough of them to know the difference.”
Which while seemingly a logical conclusion, was not actually based in fact. Just because most of the injuries he had seen of that type had been caused by men trying to be sent home, it did not by necessity mean that all such injuries were sustained in that craven effort.
“Have you heard from your friend?” I asked Sidney, not caring if Freddy knew we’d asked someone in London to look into the matter for us.
A tendril of dark hair had tumbled forward over his forehead, escaping the efforts of his pomade to restrain it. “Not yet, but I’ll telephone him again tomorrow to see what he’s uncovered so far.”
My gaze swept over the shadowy corners of the room. “It’s late. There’s nothing more to be gained by continuing this discussion tonight. And I’m sure Rachel is waiting for you,” I told Freddy.
Contrary to his instructions, she had doubtless been listening for his motorcar to return, and even now lay in bed waiting to hear the cottage door open and his footsteps climb the stairs. I knew I would be.
“Aye.” He pulled the collar of his coat up around his neck as he rose. “There will probably be a couple of inches of snow on the ground by morning.”
“Ruthie’s first?”
He glanced over his shoulder, his mouth softening as if he’d just thought of this. “Aye.” His gaze shifted to Sidney. “Tell Father not to hold the search for me. I’ll join in later to help.”
I smiled at his retreating back, contented to hear him thinking of Ruth, of Rachel.
* * *
Late the following afternoon, I returned to our bedchamber after a leisurely soak in the bath to find Sidney sprawled across our bed. We’d spent a long, tiring, cold day on horseback, searching one swathe of the hills and dales that constituted Father’s property. There had been little shelter from the slicing wind, except for the handful of field barns we’d flushed, looking for signs of human disturbance.
My cheeks felt raw, and my muscles and joints had only just loosened from the cramped positions they’d been braced in all day to stave off the chill. I’d been reminded of muscles I’d forgotten I possessed. Apparently I’d grown soft in the year that had passed since the end of the war, unaccustomed to such harsh conditions and strenuous activity.
For Sidney’s part, he hadn’t complained. Likely because he’d suffered much worse during the winters in the trenches. After all, what was one afternoon spent on horseback, knowing there would be a soft bed, hot bath, and warm food at the end of it compared to weeks in the muddy, confined trenches and dugouts, with little but their own clothing to shield them from the cold, their meals from a tin can, and a bit of watery lukewarm tea if one was lucky.
All the same, I could see the fatigue written in the lines bracketing his eyes and mouth, and the dead weight of his muscles as he lay splayed across the c
ounterpane.
His eyes opened to thin slits to look up at me as I moved closer to stand over him, gazing down at him fondly. I lifted my hand to play with the dark curl that had fallen over his brow. “If you hurry, you might be able to beat Tim to the bath.”
But even as I said the words, the sound of sturdy footsteps could be heard striding past our door and down the corridor in that direction. I offered him a sympathetic smile.
“No matter,” he replied drowsily. “It just gives me an excuse to lie here longer.”
Hugging my Chinese blue dressing gown tighter around me, I sat down on the end of the bed next to his hip. Not only had it been an exhausting day, but also a thoroughly fruitless one. We had uncovered no sign of the German mystery man, and I could only hope the other villagers had no better luck.
I frowned, for it puzzled me that several people had reported seeing the man, but no one knew where he was staying. It was almost as if he appeared and disappeared at will, but I knew that wasn’t possible. He must be taking shelter somewhere.
“I spoke to Babbage.”
My gaze dipped to Sidney in interest. Somehow in the weariness of the day I’d forgotten he was going to telephone his friend about Cyril, but apparently he had not.
Sidney lifted his arms, cradling his hands behind his head. “He hasn’t yet been able to view Bolingbroke’s army medical records or learn any details about the precise nature of his injury, but he did confirm he was honorably discharged, and he was able to locate the incident report. It involved a motorcar.”
I reared back slightly in astonishment. “That doesn’t sound like a typical Blighty wound.”
“No, it doesn’t.”
And yet it appeared Cyril had done little to defend himself or discourage the belief of men like Freddy that he’d injured his hand purposely. I wondered if that had something to do with the nature of the crash. Though, I knew how serious vehicle smashups could be. The chief’s son had died in a motorcar collision in France at the start of the war—the same crash that had cost C part of his leg.
“There’s more,” Sidney declared in solemn tones, breaking into my thoughts. The grim look in his eyes told me I was not going to like what he had to say next. “He worked for Military Intelligence.”
I lurched forward. “What? Babbage was certain?”
Sidney nodded.
My hand crushed the silk at the collar of my dressing gown where I clutched it. “Army, not Naval Intelligence?” I wanted to verify.
“Yes. Though given what we know about Ardmore, I’m not certain the distinction matters.”
He was right. I pushed to my feet, pacing back and forth before the bed as my mind wrangled with all the possible implications of this information. When exactly had Cyril been injured? Where had he been stationed? Did he have anything to do with the bomb that had killed Brigadier General Bishop and his staff? Was his presence in Hawes merely a coincidence or something more? After all, he had been unknown in these parts until he’d arrived to assist his uncle in converting part of the mill to provide electricity for the village. Or so he claimed. Was Fenrick truly his uncle?
Sidney pushed himself upright. “It doesn’t necessarily mean he’s up to no good, but . . .”
“It is suspect,” I finished for him. I came to a stop, inhaling and exhaling a deep breath so that I could think calmly, rationally, rather than putting the cart before the horse. “All right, what do we know for certain? Freddy said he served with the Northumberland Fusiliers, is that true?”
“Yes, so he must have been an intelligence officer attached to their regiment.”
“Grace told me she met Cyril at Mrs. Wild’s garden party during the summer of 1918, which usually takes place in June when her roses bloom. So presumably he was injured some months before that.” Which meant that feasibly he could have still been in France in April 1918 when Bishop’s temporary HQ exploded, but it wasn’t certain.
“Except the date of his honorable discharge was the thirtieth of April. Which means he must have suffered his injury some months earlier.”
The wheels of the military never moved swiftly in such matters.
I felt my shoulders lower in relief. “Then he couldn’t have placed that bomb.”
I thought back to that crude partially submerged shelter, trying to envision the men gathered around General Bishop, but their faces wouldn’t come into focus. I wanted to believe I would have recognized Cyril had he been there, but the truth was, I wasn’t sure.
In any case, just because he couldn’t have had anything to do with that bombing didn’t mean he was entirely innocent of Ardmore’s influence, or that his presence here—and his courtship of Grace—wasn’t suspect.
My heart surged in my chest at the thought of Grace. She had been seated in the drawing room when we returned from the day’s searching, so if she’d gone to Cyril to speak with him about Freddy’s accusations, then she’d returned unharmed. Part of me wanted to caution her not to be alone with Cyril again until we’d had time to uncover the truth, but the other part of me realized that would only drive her into his arms quicker. No, it was best to remain quiet about our suspicions. At least, until we knew more.
“Cyril will likely be at Fräulein Bauer’s funeral tomorrow.” Which was to be just a simple graveside service. “We should question him after.”
Sidney’s expression was dubious. “You’ll have to find a way of separating Grace from him.”
I glanced toward the door. “Leave that to me.”
CHAPTER 27
At least the sun decided to shine. That was about all I could say in praise of Fräulein Bauer’s graveside service. Vicar Redmayne, it appeared, had been determined to make a point, and had not even bothered to speak with Tante Ilse to learn more about the young maid. Instead the service was all about reckoning and righteousness, relying much too heavily on Revelation.
Only Mrs. Redmayne and Isaac Hardcastle seemed to show any appreciation for the vicar’s message, while the rest of us stood silently, allowing his words to drone over us. Even Mr. Metcalfe, who had surprised me by attending, seemed to grow vexed at the vicar’s chosen texts, harrumphing loudly with each new quoted verse, rattling the man. When at last he lost all patience with the clergyman, snarling, “Oh, let the poor girl lie in peace already,” I wanted to cheer, grateful for his interference. After that, Redmayne wrapped up the service rather rapidly.
Metcalfe was also the first person outside the family to approach Tante Ilse to offer his condolences. Though I couldn’t hear what was said, I could gauge by its effect on my great-aunt that it had been compassionate and heartfelt. I supposed that while most of us in attendance were well-versed in the language of loss, he was the most fluent. I was struck by the sadness that seemed etched into the very lines of his face when he turned to depart. His eyes trailed over the gravestones as he walked away, perhaps thinking of all the loved ones buried there, or perhaps thinking of the three grandsons that were not. Who were instead buried somewhere in France—where they had fought—along with Rob.
This reminder that Rob was not here, resting where he ought to be, struck me sharply, and was all the more agonizing for its unexpectedness. I stood stunned, struggling to breathe evenly as the pain washed over me. Though I had turned away and I thought had not uttered a sound, Sidney still somehow knew something was wrong, for I felt his arm settle around me, offering me what support I would accept. He tried to pass me his handkerchief, but I shook my head, sniffing back the tears and then dabbing lightly at the corner of my eyes to wipe away any that threatened.
While settling myself, I took the opportunity to allow my gaze to travel over the surrounding fields. The newer section of the church’s graveyard was set a slight distance from the church, and was bordered by nothing but sheep pastures and dry stone walls. As such, there wasn’t much more than a few lone trees to conceal anyone’s approach or shield them from prying eyes. Given this fact, it would have been the height of folly for the mystery man to come her
e today, but I had still thought he might risk it. It appeared I was wrong.
It was while I was studying a figure that had emerged from the rear of one of the shops on Market Place, which backed up to the graveyard, that Isaac Hardcastle approached us. Gone was his easygoing manner from that day Mother and I had paid him and Mrs. Hardcastle a call, to be replaced with something harder, something much more self-important. If this was the type of man he became when given any sort of power, then it was not a good look on him.
“I heard your family had no more luck than we did locating the German yesterday.” He narrowed his eyes. “Or is that just a ruse?”
“Why would you suggest that?” I countered. “We have more reason than anyone to want to speak with him.”
“Then you’re not trying to prevent justice? Or pass the blame onto someone else?” He edged a step closer, but halted when Sidney crowded even closer to my side. “Isn’t that what your brother’s questions were really about the other night?”
“His questions were in aid of us trying to get to the truth. Yes, Fräulein Bauer was seen speaking to a strange man by more than one person.” I tilted my head, scrutinizing him. “A man that thus far only you have claimed to hear spoke German, and as such he must be a person of interest. But that’s far from proof that he had anything to do with her murder.”
“He’s a Kraut,” he spat. “What more proof do you need?”
I shook my head. “That is not a legally sound argument, and you know that as well we do.”
“Then you are defending him!”
My hands clenched together inside the muff I held before me as I struggled to retain control of my temper. “No, I simply refuse to accuse anyone until the facts prove otherwise.”
His eyes flicked up and down over me as if examining me like an insect. “Maybe you should be the one being questioned. After all, you conveniently found a note telling you where to find her.”
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