“I’m fine, thank you. Much better now that I have rested,” she replied, giving Bertie a gentle smile as she approached the fire and savoured the delicious aroma coming from the pots.
“Good to see you back, my dear,” Bertie said gently, nodding at her with almost fatherly pride.
Francesca gave him a ghost of a smile in return and nodded kindly at Pie as she moved to stand before the kitchen window. From her position she could see the well, and the location of Madeline’s murder. She shuddered to think what she would have done if she hadn’t bumped into Simon outside of the kitchen door and had instead run to the well. She would have fallen over Madeline’s body.
“What did you find out about her?” Francesca asked, aware of the silence that fell over the room at her question.
Simon could feel Pie’s look and Bertie’s anxious shuffling beside her. Although he couldn’t see any reason to lie, he didn’t see any need for Francesca to know just how bad her friend’s life had got.
“She had an acquaintance who was a brute,” he replied cautiously, trying his hardest to sound as casual as possible. He could only hope she wouldn’t sense his hesitation and demand to know what he wasn’t telling her.
“Mr Lindsay?”
Simon’s brows shot skyward. “How did you know?”
“Something about the way she behaved when he had left the other night,” Francesca replied. She had thought long and hard about Madeline’s defensive anger. At the time she had misread the banging of the pots and pans as temper; disgust with Francesca for her rudeness. But now that she came to think about it, although she may not have acknowledged it at the time, she had seen the fear in Madeline’s eyes when Mr Lindsay had departed. “She was scared of him.”
“She had good reason to be. He was a bully. From what we can gather she appeared in his life with debts, and left those debts with him when she suddenly disappeared a few months ago.”
“Had she been to debtors’ jail?” Her heart lurched at the thought of her friend being confined in such squalid conditions.
“Yes. We don’t know if they had any prior acquaintance prior to her going to jail, but our friend Mr Lindsay paid for her release. There are a few weeks we cannot explain, but we do know she reappeared in time to accompany you here.”
“Do you think Mr Lindsay sent her here because he wants the house?”
Simon nodded slowly. “I think that may very well be the case.” He was pleased that Francesca had set aside her grief and was intelligent enough to be able to think carefully through the facts in search of the truth.
“The other day when I was attacked by Charlie and Tom,” she turned to meet Simon’s direct gaze, pleading with him not to keep secrets for once, or lie to her, “They thought I was her, didn’t they?”
“I think so. They may have been paid by Mr Lindsay to frighten her into carrying out hte task she was here to do, I don’t know. But given your hair colouring at the time, it was easy for them to mistake you for Madeline.”
“They weren’t trying to molest me or anything, they were trying to take me with them,” Francesca declared softly.
“I think they may have been paid by Mr Lindsay to get her back. When they failed, they tacked a warning to the kitchen door that was intended for her.”
“The harbinger of death,” Francesca sighed, looking at him sadly. “It was a forewarning that her life was at risk if she didn’t co-operate.”
“I think so, yes.” Simon was more than happy to keep discussing the events with her. She was so calm and controlled though, that it was slightly unnerving to see her so detached from everything. It was as though she had closed off, and simply refused to acknowledge the grief.
“But why? What would he need to send her here for?”
She had clearly been giving this a lot of thought and had the intelligence to read the situation for what it was. For some reason, it made him want to be as honest with her as possible.
“She may have been sent to Thistledown to find something only we don’t know what. There has certainly been someone searching various parts of this house whenever the opportunity arises. Was it Madeline?” Simon sighed and shook his head. “I think we may have to consider that she was sent here to find Thistledown’s deeds of ownership.”
“But why does he want Thistledown Manor so desperately? It seems a lot of trouble to purchase an almost derelict house in the middle of nowhere.”
“I don’t know, sweetheart, that is something we need to find out,” Simon sighed, watching Bertie spoon broth into bowls for them all. “We do know now though that the tin mine across the valley was sold by your uncle several months before he died. The owner is someone from London who himself died shortly after the purchase. My associate is trying to locate the inheritor as we speak, but I think we can be fairly certain that it isn’t Mr Lindsay.” He didn’t add that the sale of the tin mine could have coincided with Francesca’s uncle’s strange behaviour during her last visit to Thistledown. Had he been trying to protect her from threat by selling it? Lost in thought, he began to slice the loaf of bread they had purchased yesterday and motioned for her to take a seat beside him. She made no protest at being ordered around in her own home, merely sat down and did as she was told, savouring the warm meaty flavour of the broth with a soft moan.
They ate in companionable silence, each lost in their own thoughts, feelings and suspicions. When the bowls were cleared away, Francesca stared down at the scarred table top, aware of Simon’s close scrutiny. She looked at him and waited.
“When you disturbed the intruder in your bedroom yesterday,” he began, reluctantly to bring forward fearful memories, “Did he seem familiar to you at all?”
“No, he is definitely someone I haven’t seen before.”
“Was he local?”
“I don’t know, I’m sorry. I don’t think so.”
“What was he doing in your room?”
“He was searching through the drawer of the table beside my bed.”
“So he may have been looking for something small, like deeds or something equally small?”
Francesca paused and considered that for a moment. She hadn’t thought about what the man might have been looking for, she was still struggling with the notion that he had invaded her house in the first place.
“It must have been, otherwise why would he have been looking in what is probably the smallest drawer in my bedroom?”
“What could it be?”
“Do you think that Mr Lindsay is after Thistledown Manor at all?”
“I think he is, yes. For some reason he considers it valuable. Until we find out what he is after, don’t take any chances and certainly don’t run out into the night again,” he warned darkly. “I take it the deeds are in a safe place?”
“You mean not in my bedside table?” Francesca asked ruefully. “They are with my solicitors in London.”
“Do you have any valuable items that you are aware of? Any items of jewellery, the odd valuable painting, or anything of the kind?” Pie asked hopefully.
Francesca shook her head. “Sorry.”
Simon nodded, grateful that at least one problem had been solved relatively easily. He had awoken a few times in the night in the strong grip of fear at the thought of what could have happened to her if he hadn’t arrived home when he did. Although he hadn’t said anything to her, she didn’t need to know, but Madeline was still warm when she was found, indicating that the murderer had only just left. That left Simon to face the very real possibility that the man Francesca had found in her bedroom, was the same person who had killed Madeline.
“Have you finished the inventory now?” Simon asked, several minutes later.
Francesca nodded and looked at him.
“Would you mind if I took a look at your lists?”
“Of course not,” Francesca said, pushing away from the table and leaving the room. She could have told him where he could find it and left him to go and collect it, but she had the strong urge to
get away from his close scrutiny, even if it was only for a few brief minutes.
Collecting the large roll of papers, she dropped them onto the table before him before resuming her seat. She couldn’t see what use they could be. They had no idea what the man had been looking for and, as far as she could tell, there was nothing on the lists that stood out as unusual in any way. The only items that were listed were various ornaments, pots and paraphernalia that people usually accumulated throughout their lifetime.
Simon threw the lists onto the table in disgust moments later. Shaking his head, he bit back a curse of frustration. It seemed that everything had been building steadily toward the macabre events of last night. Now that Madeline had died, everything had gone quiet again. Maybe it was just his wayward imagination and in reality nothing had changed, but something wasn’t right. It made him feel unsettled and on edge.
Or maybe it is your libido objecting to the prolonged abstinence, a small voice warned. It galled him to have to seriously consider the possibility that the woman seated beside him had, over the last few weeks, become an intrinsic part of his life. Could he leave her behind when the time came? Was it possible that he could return to his life of darkness and death without a backward glance? He wasn’t sure. He liked to think nobody had such control over his emotions to make him reconsider what he wanted out of life, but in all conscience he couldn’t dismiss his growing need to keep Francesca safe from harm, and not just from the imminent threat of Lindsay and the spy smugglers.
There was still the possibility of her greedy family appearing out of the undergrowth to threaten her fledgling independence. Could he really leave her to face them alone? Bertie clearly had her best interests at heart and seemed to have taken up where her uncle had left off in considering her one of his own, but Bertie was old and certainly no match for kith and kin.
Francesca needed someone to stand beside her when the front door was opened to her relatives. Someone who would fight her corner, and defend her from the worst of their scorn. If he was brutally honest, a small part of him wanted that loving protector to be him. The thought of her belonging to someone else, seeking comfort in someone else’s arms made him want to punch something.
He tried to remind himself that he was a battle-scarred warrior, only there to complete his latest mission. Ready to move on as soon as he was given new orders. But the harsh truth was that he was more than a man used to living in the shadows. He wanted more from life than the meagre scraps he had so readily accepted as his due.
“How well do you know this house, Francesca?” Pie asked, breaking the silence with something akin to relief.
Francesca stared at him. “Reasonably well, I suppose,” she replied hesitantly.
“Are there any hidden corridors, secret doors, that kind of thing?” Pie asked, flicking a glance at Simon. “Most places of this age and size have at least one secret room hidden somewhere.”
Francesca frowned and looked at Bertie, who merely shrugged and shook his head.
“I’ve never been aware of anything and that’s a fact,” Bertie replied. “But it isn’t altogether impossible.”
“Then I suggest we all start searching.”
Hours later they all sat around the table, dusty, dirty and more than a little dishevelled. “The only place we haven’t checked in the cellars.”
“I don’t like it down there,” Francesca sighed, thinking of the vast amount of cobwebs that littered practically everywhere.
“I’ll go,” Simon sighed, spying Archie returning to the stable yard with his empty cart. At least someone had managed to achieve something over the course of the day, even if it was to dispose of a body. Shaking his head, he swiped a candle off the dresser and descended the stairs.
Darkness immediately embraced him and although he knew he shouldn’t be alarmed, he felt the small hairs on the back of his neck lift anyway and wondered why. He paused at the base of the steps to give his eyes a few moments to adjust to the gloom before slowly wandering around room after empty room. There were no trap doors, no false walls, nothing. Just to satisfy his wayward imagination, he undertook another thorough search of the cavernous rooms, returning to the stairs moments later with a shake of his head.
Maybe he was being overly suspicious of absolutely everything because Francesca was the one under threat. He hadn’t said anything to her, but all of the men were aware that Madeline’s murder carried a stark warning to them all. Mr Lindsay was undoubtedly behind the ordering of Madeline’s murder, if he hadn’t carried out the grisly act himself. In proving to be so vengeful, he was making it clear to everyone that he wasn’t averse to killing to get what he wanted. He had made his desire for Thistledown perfectly clear. Nothing, and nobody, would stand in his way. Unfortunately, the only person now standing between him and his goal was the one woman Simon simply had to protect at all costs.
Francesca.
Returning to the warmth and light of the kitchen, Simon placed his candle on the table and resumed his seat, shaking cobwebs out of his hair as he sat.
“Ew, don’t do that,” Francesca scolded, brushing the thin white flecks off her dress in disgust.
Simon merely grinned at her unrepentantly and wondered what she would do if he draped one over her hair. She would probably lambast him so loudly and so fluently that his ears would ring. Still, it would be good to get a reaction off her and lighten the atmosphere for a while. In the past day they had gone from anger, to fear, to grief, to misery, to cautious consideration, to confusion. He didn’t think there were many more emotions they could fit into the day, except laughter that seemed a very long way away, and desire, which was completely off the list if he hoped to retain his sanity.
“It’s best you don’t go down there,” he warned, smiling when she rolled her eyes.
“What now?”
“Pie and I have to go out for a while. Now Archie is back I am sure he will welcome something to eat and the chance to rest for a while.” Simon pushed away from the table, strangely reluctant to leave her, even if it was in the dutiful care of one of the Star Elite’s finest men. “I’ll be back as soon as I can,” he assured her, sensing her hesitation. “Meantime, try to stick to the sitting room, the kitchen and your bedroom.” He didn’t need to brief Archie to know that the place would be kept secure, and Francesca’s bedroom searched thoroughly before she took occupancy for the night. “Both of you,” he warned, including Bertie in his hard stare.
“You can rely on us,” Bertie replied proudly, clearly intending to follow his orders to the last detail.
“I’ll see you then,” Simon said, following Pie into the main hallway that ran through the house. They intended to sneak out through the burnt out part of the house, and use the copse of trees to camouflage their movements.
Simon had spent several days learning the layout of the area around them and was fairly certain he knew which places to avoid. He was as sure-footed as a mountain goat when he led the winding path around the moorland, bringing them out at the brow of the hill the tin mine sat on.
They lay in silence for several moments, taking note of the layout of the mine and its assembled buildings. From their vantage point they could see the solitary candle burning brightly in the window. Once or twice shadows appeared indicating movement in the room beyond, but it was too dark to see anyone in any detail.
Simon studied the area, nodding silently toward the guard that had begun his now familiar route around the tin mine. Together they watched the man pass, before turning their attention to the buildings below them.
“I wish we could get in there.”
“I’ve been – once,” Simon replied softly. “Nothing much inside that is out of the ordinary. There is just the problem of how they get there.”
“What do you mean?” Pie asked, watching the guard double back and head toward them again. Simon waited until the man had passed, and frowned at the uncharacteristic behaviour. The guard usually passed, circuited the brow of the hill to the left, fol
lowing the winding path down the side of the hill, appearing in the yard of the tin mine minutes later. It was unusual for him to retrace his steps. His hackles rose, and his instincts screamed at him to move, mere seconds before the guard suddenly spun on his heel and stared at them.
The knife in his throat silenced any noise he was going to make and he slumped to the floor with a dull thud. Pie immediately lunged into action, dragging his lifeless body out of sight and over the brow of the hill. He returned to Simon’s side moments later, wiping his blade on a thick tuft of grass.
“That was close,” he muttered ruefully, glancing toward the mine and the mysteries it contained. “Do you want to venture closer?”
“Not tonight,” Simon replied, studying the scene before him. It was no different to the scene he had witnessed most nights since his arrival in the village.
“Do you know, I have yet to see a single person enter or leave,” Pie said when they were far enough away not to be overheard.
“That’s because you won’t. I don’t know how they are getting in or out but they aren’t doing it above -,” he paused and frowned, considering what he was about to say carefully. “Shit! I missed it,” he spat, stunned by the depth of his own stupidity.
“What?” Pie demanded, automatically scanning the area around them for signs of threat.
“Tunnels,” Simon announced flatly. “They are using the tin mine’s tunnels.”
“To do what? Forge the papers? Or hold the spies until they adopt their new identities and are ready to move on?” Pie asked, enthralled by the idea.
“Either. Both. I don’t know, but it all makes perfect sense. The tin mines run deep enough that anything or anyone can be stored without being seen above ground. I don’t know which way the mines run, but it isn’t impossible for them to run close enough to the village to be entered from there.”
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