The Lady By His Side

by Stephanie Laurens

  They halted at two cottages, and Sebastian used his title as license to search the associated sheds and barns—to no avail.

  After searching two more haysheds, they reached the estate’s southern boundary and swung east toward the coast. They came upon three abandoned huts and an isolated ruin of a cottage, but none of the structures held barrels of anything.

  Eventually, with the sun sliding down the western sky and the clouds massing more thickly overhead, they reached the coast just north of the next village. The tide was out, and the increasingly brisk wind set narrow white crests rearing on the gray-green waves. A bridle path meandered along the edge of the cliffs; they turned their horses’ heads to the north and cantered along the path, scanning both the sands below and the nearby fields.

  Again, they turned aside to search cottages, barns, and sheds; again, they found nothing. The sands at the base of the cliffs along which they rode remained smooth and unmarred.

  Drawing rein at a point he judged to be level with Pressingstoke Hall, Sebastian studied the pale sands. “It looks like the tide comes up high enough to wash away any signs of activity on the beach.” He looked northward along the cliffs. “If tomorrow we find nothing on the northern half of the estate, we’ll try riding along the beach. There’ll be caves in the cliffs, but whether we’ll come upon the right one, much less that there’ll be anything there to find…who knows?”

  Beside him on her chestnut, Antonia shrugged. “If we find nothing tomorrow, it’ll be worth a try.”

  While they continued northward, keeping to the bridle path, Sebastian pondered the likelihood of caves and how best to address that. They spotted two more haysheds and turned aside to search them, but there was nothing to be found amid the tightly packed bales.

  The day was closing in. He halted the gray above a steep dip where the bridle path dropped to cross a tiny lane that led all the way down to the sands. On the other side of the lane, there was a scattering of cottages built on a narrow rocky shelf that jutted out from the base of the cliff.

  Folding his hands on the pommel, he revisited their strategy. “Gunpowder. Here.” He could still hear Ennis’s strained voice gasping the words. “What precisely did Ennis mean? Was the gunpowder already here—or was it going to be brought here sometime in the future?” He glanced at Antonia; she had halted the chestnut alongside the gray. “Is gunpowder here now? Or is it on its way here, or was it here last week or earlier, but even when Ennis died, had it already been moved on? Or did Ennis mean something else entirely by the word ‘here’?”

  She met his eyes, then shook her head and looked out at the pristine, wave-washed sands. “There’s no way we can tell and no benefit in speculating. All we can do is what we’re doing—searching everywhere we can think of to at least confirm that the gunpowder is, as far as we can tell, not in Ennis’s house or on his estate. At least, not at this time.”

  He thought through her words, then grimly nodded. “You’re right. And if we find no trace here in the next few days, we’ll take what we know back to London and hope Drake’s returned so he can decide where next to search—or what next to do.”

  The chestnut shifted. Acting instinctively, she settled the horse, then said, “Would it be better to leave and go back to London immediately?” She met his gaze. “Even if Drake’s not back, you or your father—or Drake’s—could find out who to contact in the Home Office.”

  He considered that, then slowly shook his head. “Crawford and Sir Humphrey will hold those at the house party at Pressingstoke Hall as long as they can in the hope of identifying the murderer. Crawford is thorough—there’s a good chance he’ll flush the beggar out. If he does, then assuming we don’t find the gunpowder ourselves, learning the identity of the murderer and all he knows of the plot will be our best route to locating the stuff.”

  Elucidating his thoughts aloud confirmed their logic. He glanced at her, saw her agreement in the set of her features, smiled faintly, and turned the gray’s head for the house. “It’s starting to get dark. We’d better get back.”

  She nodded and wheeled the chestnut. “And tomorrow we’ll search the northern half of the estate—assuming we don’t ride in and discover that Sir Humphrey and the inspector have the murderer by the collar.”

  Chapter 12

  They clattered into the stable yard with the shadows deepening and discovered Inspector Crawford seated on the mounting block.

  He rose and stretched, then waited while Sebastian dismounted, lifted Antonia down, and the stable lads gathered their reins. As the boys led the horses away, Sebastian and Antonia turned to the inspector.

  Crawford tipped his head toward the house. “My lord, my lady—if you would walk with me a little way, I’d like to pick your brains.”

  Antonia shot Sebastian a questioning look, but when he just took her hand and wound her arm in his, she fell in beside him.

  With Crawford pacing on Sebastian’s other side, they strolled to a point halfway back to the house where the rising slope and a stand of trees combined to screen them from the windows.

  Crawford halted and faced them. “I take it your search wasn’t successful.”

  “No.” Sebastian’s reply was colored by his frustration. “But we’ve yet to search the northern half of the estate. We’ll do that tomorrow. If we find nothing…we might well have to rely on the murderer for further information.”

  Crawford’s brows rose. “Do you think he’ll talk?”

  “Eventually.”

  Crawford eyed Sebastian’s face for a second, then plainly decided to let that subject go.

  “Did you find the money?” Antonia asked. “The three hundred pounds.”

  “No.” Crawford glanced at Sebastian. “The search went well enough—we searched all the gents’ rooms and those of the visiting staff, and none of them the wiser, but came up empty-handed.” Crawford looked at Antonia. “So we used your suggestion to get the gents to turn out their pockets, but no one was carrying any roll of banknotes.”

  Sebastian grimaced. “It was worth a try.” He paused, then in a more pensive tone added, “So where has the money gone?”

  His expression tending grim, Crawford nodded. “I’ve been wondering how much gunpowder is worth.”

  “But if the money’s been handed over”—Antonia met Sebastian’s eyes—“doesn’t that mean the gunpowder is here—somewhere near?”

  Sebastian’s expression hardened, and he nodded. “Or at least it was. And that line of thinking confirms that the murderer—who must have taken the money from Ennis—is also the person involved in this plot. The person dealing with the gunpowder.” He focused on the inspector. “Are you any closer to identifying the murderer?”

  Crawford sighed. “That was why I was waiting for you two. I wanted to discuss with you both”—the inspector included Antonia with his gaze—“the matter of alibis. All the guests have alibis of sorts for Ennis’s murder, but only a few guests have alibis for her ladyship’s murder. Yet the simple truth is that, other than the pair of you and the Featherstonehaughs, none of the other guests can have any reasonable alibi for the second murder—they were all in their beds in their separate rooms, all supposedly alone. So we’re back to focusing on who had the chance—the opportunity—to murder Lord Ennis. Sir Humphrey suggested I run the gentlemen’s alibis past the pair of you in the hope you’ll see something neither of us have.”

  Sebastian nodded and settled to listen.

  Crawford tugged his notebook from his pocket. “If we assume that the murders were committed by the same person—and, please God, that’s true—then the one thing we can take from her ladyship’s murder is that the murderer is a man. So we’re concentrating on the alibis of the men—and that the ladies all had solid alibis for Lord Ennis’s murder only underscores that our approach is correct. The murderer must be one of the male guests.” Crawford glanced at Sebastian.

  Again, Sebastian nodded. “That conclusion seems inescapable. I can’t see Cecilia, dressed as
she was, opening her door and admitting a male servant. Whoever strangled her was a gentleman she knew—ergo, one of the male guests.”

  “Indeed.” Crawford flicked open his notebook. He leafed through several pages, then tapped his finger on an entry. “Here we are—the alibis of the male guests for the time of Lord Ennis’s murder. To remind you, my lord, other than yourself and Lord Ennis, there are seven male guests to account for, and the period in question is quite short—from roughly half past nine to ten o’clock. For argument’s sake, let’s say that Ennis left the dining room at nine thirty and, as he’d intimated, went straight to his study. We have no reports from anyone of seeing him anywhere else. So Ennis was in his study by, say, nine thirty-two. Next, McGibbin, Worthington, Filbury, and Wilson left the dining room for the billiards room. According to McGibbin, that was at nine forty.

  “McGibbin and Worthington went straight to the billiards room—passing the study on the way. According to the pair of them, the study door was closed. They stayed in the billiards room, chatting and waiting for the other two. According to McGibbin and Worthington, neither of them left the billiards room until the ruckus when you found Ennis dead.”

  The inspector paused to turn over a page. “Filbury and Wilson, however, did not go directly to the billiards room. They parted from McGibbin and Worthington in the front hall—and this is where things get interesting.

  “According to Filbury and Wilson, they paused to chat near the gun room. They saw Boyne—who we’ll come to in a moment—go into the library, but they don’t think he saw them, and Boyne said he didn’t. Filbury and Wilson then went out through the door onto the rear terrace and so down onto the lawn. There, they smoked cheroots, but they didn’t remain together. Wilson says he went off to wander through the rose garden—apparently the design of such places is of interest to him—while Filbury says he ambled slowly around the lawns to the western side of the house. As you’re no doubt aware, my lord, there’s a small porch and an external door to the billiards room—Filbury, and later Wilson, entered the billiards room through that door, joining Worthington and McGibbin. Of necessity, both Filbury and Wilson passed Ennis’s study window, but apparently neither noticed whether it was open or not. Neither of them heard anything, either.” Crawford humphed. “Worthington, McGibbin, Filbury, and Wilson then started their game of billiards, and it was some time later—between five and ten minutes, they all say—that you raised the alarm.”

  Crawford glanced up. “So that’s those four.” He turned another page and went on, “The next gentleman to leave the dining room, virtually on the earlier four’s heels, was Boyne. He says he went into the library, to the far end, sat in an armchair, and settled to read a book. Filbury and Wilson saw him enter the room, more or less at the time he says he did. Later, Parrish and Featherstonehaugh came into the library and saw him in the armchair at the far end, reading. They joined him and spoke with him for several minutes before the alarm was raised. According to Boyne, he remained in the chair in the library the whole time.”

  Sebastian shifted his weight. His eyes narrowed, his gaze distant, he said, “I left the dining room a minute or so after Boyne. I didn’t see him, but if he’d gone into the library, I wouldn’t have. I did glimpse Filbury and Wilson strolling down the passage alongside the gun room—they looked to be heading for the door to the rear terrace, which fits with what they said.” He paused, then frowned. “When Filbury and Wilson went out onto the rear terrace, they should have been able to see Boyne walking down the library—if they happened to glance that way and the curtains hadn’t been drawn.” Sebastian met Crawford’s eyes. “You might ask Filbury and Wilson if they noticed Boyne in the library.”

  Crawford nodded and made a note in the back of his notebook.

  “I paused in the front hall and checked the time,” Sebastian went on. “It was just coming up to nine forty-five. I didn’t want to get caught in any conversation with the other guests—I didn’t want to have to excuse myself at ten o’clock and indirectly call attention to my meeting with Ennis. So I went out of the front door and onto the front terrace—the stretch that runs beside the drawing room. There was no one in the drawing room—the ladies were in the music room—so I knew no one would spot me and come to chat. I waited on the terrace. It was quiet outside…and, now I think of it, I heard the billiards room door open and shut twice—that must have been Filbury and Wilson returning, one after the other. That was only a few minutes before I returned inside. I waited until nine fifty-eight, then went in via the front door. I walked down the front hall, into the side corridor, and so to the study.”

  He paused, letting the memories roll through his mind. “While I was in the front hall, I remember hearing the ladies in the music room, and then Blanchard walked out through the servants’ door, pushing the tea trolley. He saw me and nodded, then went on to the music room. I turned into the corridor leading to the study. The clocks started to whirr…but underneath that, I remember hearing the murmur of men’s voices as I walked along the corridor—that must have been Boyne, Featherstonehaugh, and Parrish in the library. Then the clocks chimed the hour. I reached the study door—which was ajar—as the last chime was fading. I heard the clink of billiard balls—the door to the billiards room is at the end of that corridor, and the door was open, but from where I stood outside the study door, I couldn’t see anyone in the billiards room.”

  Crawford had been scribbling madly. He paused and looked at what he’d written. “That’s a good bit more detail than you mentioned before, but it all fits with where everyone else says they were.” He flicked back to his earlier notes. “The only others to account for are Parrish and Featherstonehaugh, who had remained in the dining room. Parrish says they finally got up from the table at about five minutes to ten and ambled into the library. They saw Boyne sitting in an armchair at the far end of the room and walked down and started chatting. They were still chatting when all hell broke loose—and that fits with what you said.”

  Antonia looked from the inspector to Sebastian, then back again. “So where does that leave us?” The inspector was starting to look a trifle worn down.

  Crawford scratched his temple with the end of his pencil, then sighed. “If we discard any notion of conspiracy and agree this is all just one man, one murderer with no help from anyone else, then there are three men who might have done it—three who were out of sight of any others for long enough during the critical time. But even for those three, it would have been tight. Very tight.” Crawford glanced at Sebastian. “I had another chat with the doctor. Sound man—ex-army. I asked how long he thought Ennis might have hung on after he was stabbed and fell. The doctor’s estimate was five minutes—seven at the very outside.”

  Sebastian narrowed his eyes. “That leaves us with Filbury, Wilson, and Boyne as potential candidates for the role of murderer.”

  Crawford nodded. “Either Filbury or Wilson could have doubled back, returned through that rear terrace door near the gun room, then gone to the study. There was a decent window of time for either of them to have done that, when none of you others were in the front hall. Then they stabbed Ennis, left through the study window, and joined the others in the billiards room—and that’s the one scenario that gives a purpose to that open window.” He shuffled through his notes. “Boyne…he had time to come out of the library and go to the study, but it’s harder to see how he could have returned to the library in time. Even going out through the window and in again through that rear terrace door, he would have had to avoid crossing paths with Wilson and Filbury as they headed to the billiards room, or being seen by Featherstonehaugh and Parrish as they left the dining room.” Crawford shook his head. “It’s difficult to see how he might have managed it, time-wise.”

  Sebastian grimaced. “All three are Anglo-Irish, and all three spend a good part of their time in Ireland. There’s also that snippet of conversation we overheard in the conservatory—Filbury and Wilson asking about conditions on Ennis’s Irish estate.
”

  “Sir Humphrey and I tried to ask them about that.” Crawford’s expression hardened. “Let’s just say, both were evasive. They certainly didn’t want to reveal, much less discuss, whatever the matter giving rise to that conversation was.”

  Antonia studied Sebastian’s frowning expression and the inspector’s puzzled face. She cleared her throat. “I hesitate to mention it, but there’s one other possible candidate for the role of murderer—someone from outside who came to the house in secret. Ennis was expecting him”—she looked at Sebastian—“perhaps as a part of his revelations to you. Ennis opened the window and let this man in. Having learned that Ennis was preparing to speak to the authorities, the man killed Ennis, then escaped via the window.”

  Crawford shot her a glum, distinctly unhappy look.

  “No.” Still frowning, Sebastian shook his head. “It can’t have been that.”

  Crawford perked up. “Why not?”

  “Because while that neatly accounts for Ennis’s murder, a mysterious man from outside the house party can’t account for Cecilia’s murder.” Sebastian grimaced and met Crawford’s gaze. “Not unless you’re willing to entertain the possibility of two different murderers.”

  Crawford groaned. “Heaven help us—no.” He closed his notebook and tucked it back inside his coat. “One murderer is bad enough. No need to imagine a second.”

  Sebastian grunted. “I agree.”

  Antonia had been picturing where all the men had been, like a play on a stage with characters moving here and there. “Of our three men who might be guilty, Connell Boyne was out of sight of anyone else for the longest period of time.”

  Crawford nodded. “True. But he’s also the one it’s hardest to see being able to stab Ennis in the study late enough to fit the doctor’s timetable, then get back to where he was seen several minutes before Lord Earith here raised the alarm.” The inspector grimaced. “He’s Ennis’s brother, too—not that that makes him any less likely as the murderer, sad to say.”