Owen found a clearing near the path and tied his horse to a tree. It would be easier, not to mention safer, to explore the area on foot. He retrieved a long stick and tested the ground with each step. Even though the meadow had not been under the care of a gamekeeper for quite some time, the last thing he wanted was to trigger a trap. Hannah’s experience earlier in the day reminded him just how dangerous his line of work could be.
Judging by the moon’s location, he’d been in the meadow a couple of hours. He was about to head for home, but as he turned to leave, a distant flash caught his eye.
His heart thudded at the sight, and he crouched low.
After several seconds, he saw it again. It looked like moonlight reflecting off metal, perhaps a blade or a gun barrel.
He crept closer stealthily, as if tracking a rabbit or a fox. He double-checked his person to make sure he would not give away his presence. It was an intricate dance of advancing and checking for traps, all while keeping the flash in sight.
He licked his lips, and despite the cool air, perspiration began to dot his brow. He sensed that weeks of watching and waiting were about to pay off. He flexed his fingers on the stock of his rifle as he inched closer.
The hiss of whispers met his ears.
Satisfaction spread through him, hot and fast. He had done it. He’d located at least some of those trespassing on the meadow. If this were Bancroft Park property, he would have retreated and returned with Whitten. It was dangerous to confront a poacher alone. But Kirtley Meadow was his charge. He could not expect a Bancroft Park employee to help him now.
He squeezed his eyes shut and breathed a prayer for safety. A prayer for wisdom. The last thing he wanted was bloodshed of any sort.
Blood roared in his ears, and he inched closer toward the muffled voices. He pivoted. Two youths and one man huddled around something on the ground.
He took advantage of their distraction and stood to his full height.
He cocked his rifle, shouldered it, and pointed it right at the man. “Do not move.”
The perpetrators jerked up their heads. The whites of their eyes shone bright.
Owen held his gun steady. “Boys, I suggest you run out now before I change my mind.”
The boys hesitated and Owen spoke louder. “Get out of here. And mark my words, I had better never see you in these woods again.”
Without another word, the boys looked at each other and took off running into the forest depths.
Owen fixed his stare on the man. He was not interested in ruining the lives of two youths, who more than likely were students at the school. He was more interested in bringing to justice a man taking advantage of them.
Gun aimed, Owen stepped closer to the man. “Hands up.”
The man slid his hands in the air. “’Tis not what you think.”
“It’s exactly what I think.” Owen drew nearer, and at the man’s foot was a fox, limp and lifeless. A rifle was on the ground next to him. Now that Owen was close, he recognized the man from the school. He’d never met him, and he didn’t know his name, but bittersweet satisfaction coursed through him. He’d been right.
He glanced around to make sure he was alone. “Get on the ground. Facedown. Put your hands behind your back.”
At first the man hesitated, and Owen steadied his rifle. “It’s my job to shoot trespassers on sight. I’d take advantage of this moment of generosity.”
The man dropped to the ground. Owen stepped closer, careful to avoid the poacher’s arms and hands, and pressed a heavy boot on his back. Gun pointed downward, he retrieved a length of rope and quickly and skillfully bound the man’s hands and then his feet, giving him just enough slack to take small steps. He jerked the man to his feet. “I think the magistrate will be very interested to meet you.”
“Have you heard?”
Annabelle whirled from her post, surprised at the sudden interruption. Jane stood in the threshold, chest heaving.
Annabelle glanced back at her young charges and tightened her shawl against her shoulders to ward off the early morning chill. The girls were supposed to be in their time of quiet reflection, but every girl’s eyes were fixed on their guest.
“Go about your reading, girls. I will be right back.”
Annabelle stepped into the hallway. “What is it?”
“Oh my dear, everyone is aflutter. The talk is all over the school, and it is quite shocking. Mr. Hemstead, whom we believed to be involved with Margaret, has been arrested for poaching!”
Annabelle jerked her head back and closed the door to her students. “What?”
“It’s true. He was apprehended by Mr. Locke last night. Apparently Mr. Locke caught him in the act. He threatened Mr. Hemstead with a gun, bound him with a rope, and took him to the village lockup, which is where he is now, waiting to meet with the magistrate. It is all so shocking! Mr. Langsby has already left for town to see if he can be of any assistance in the matter, but the situation is looking dire for Mr. Hemstead. With his father being so prominent in the area, I can only imagine what a stir this will cause.”
Annabelle brushed her hair from her face as she contemplated what she had just been told.
Jane grabbed her hand as if to recapture Annabelle’s attention. “All of this excitement as of late is just too much to bear! First yesterday with Hannah and now this. Poor Mr. Locke has had quite an eventful week.”
Annabelle ran her fingers through her shawl’s fringe. Part of her was happy for Owen’s success. Another part of her worried for his safety. It sounded like dangerous business.
Jane whirled back around. “Oh, and I almost forgot this part. Mr. Hemstead was paying some of the boys here at the school to help him poach. Can you imagine? I don’t know all of the details, of course, but Louise was in the main hall when the magistrate called on Mr. Langsby this morning. She said old Langsby’s face turned all red and she had never seen him so angry. Apparently Mr. Locke and Mr. Langsby had suspected something of the sort, but Mr. Locke would not reveal the names of the boys involved.”
Annabelle thought of the day, several weeks ago now, when Owen delivered the boy to her uncle. “At least no one got hurt,” she muttered, more to herself. And then, as she thought of her friend, her shoulders sagged. “Does Cros—I mean, Margaret—know of this?”
“I don’t know. I have not seen her. But I wouldn’t concern yourself about it too much. If anything, this is a positive development. She will be disappointed, I am sure, but at least Mr. Hemstead’s true nature was revealed before any serious damage could be done.”
Annabelle nodded. “I suppose you are right.”
“I must go. I will let you know if I hear anything else.”
Jane withdrew, and Annabelle returned to her students. She tried to focus on the task at hand and concentrate on the girls’ questions and reading, but the sounds of shouts and hurried footsteps in the hall distracted her.
The rest of the day, Annabelle kept her eye open for Crosley.
But she was nowhere to be found.
Chapter Thirty-Six
Thick fog hugged the grounds of Bancroft Park as evening began its descent, and a chill blanketed all. Autumn had definitely made its presence known, and Owen filled his lungs with the crisp air. He had dreaded this event since he first learned of it, for today Mr. Thorley and Mr. Bartrell arrived.
Owen stood with the rest of the staff, prepared to meet their guests and master. Normally Owen’s presence was not required whenever a guest arrived, but he had a special interest in this particular event. He needed to see Bartrell and Thorley for himself.
When the carriage finally drew to a stop, Owen braced himself. Treadwell was the first to emerge from the carriage. He jumped down with the energy of a youth and directed his attention to Owen.
“My good man.” He grinned and reached out to shake Owen’s hand. “I hear we have a hero in our midst.”
Owen was in no mood to discuss the poachers, not when Thorley and Bartrell were so close.
/> Treadwell slapped his other hand on Owen’s shoulder. “I received a letter from the magistrate while in London. He told me you single-handedly delivered the man responsible for the poaching here in the Park, not to mention Farley’s property.”
Owen tried to focus on the conversation at hand, but his gaze fixed on the other two men exiting the carriage.
“You don’t seem very pleased with yourself.” Treadwell motioned for Owen to walk to the side where their conversation would not be overheard. “I’m told the magistrate arrested another man as a result of Hemstead’s confession. He said there was evidence that the game was being sold as far away as Chichester. Chichester! My hares and rabbits, in Chichester.”
Owen’s jaw twitched as he watched Thorley hop down from the carriage and turn to assess the main house. “Let’s hope this sends a message to any other locals thinking of stepping foot on land that does not belong to them.”
“Indeed. And do you know if poaching is down at Walmsly Hall as well? Are you to get your Kirtley Meadow?”
“I met with Mr. Farley just yesterday. He intends to wait to ensure the poaching is indeed under control before he will make the sale official, so we will see. It will take quite some work to return the game stock to the levels it has been in the past, but it can be done.”
“Well then, I am happy for you.” Treadwell turned, as if he was preparing to rejoin the group, and then stopped. “And Hannah? How is she? I heard she suffered an injury.”
Owen nodded as they walked back to the others. “She did. She stepped on a trap. But she is on the mend and has returned to school.”
“Good. Ah, our guests.” Treadwell extended his hand in greeting as Thorley and Bartrell stood outside the carriage, waiting for the footmen to retrieve their belongings. Treadwell turned to Owen. “Locke here will see to your weapons and ensure they are sufficiently cleaned and prepared for the hunt.”
Owen’s stomach clenched as he bowed in the direction of the gentlemen. He needed to remember his place. He was the gamekeeper. He was not the social equal of these two men.
Thorley tilted his head. “I know you.”
Owen raised his eyebrows but said nothing. He forced his lips into a straight line.
“Yes.” Thorley took a step closer and pointed his finger at Owen. “You were with Treadwell in London at Wilhurst House.”
Owen nodded. “I was.”
Thorley lifted his chin, as if to establish his social dominance, and paused several seconds. Then he turned back to Treadwell. “Let’s move inside. I’ve grown quite tired of the carriage and could fancy something to drink.”
Owen turned to leave, and something—or rather, someone—caught his eye. The footmen were retrieving the trunks from the carriage, but one footman he did not recognize.
He squinted to see in the fading light.
The footman quickly removed his hat, combed his fingers through a shock of thick, blond-almost-white hair, and replaced his hat before returning to his task.
It was the Wilhurst House footman the carriage driver had pointed out to him the day after McAlister’s murder.
Miss Crosley’s brother.
Owen muttered as he quieted the dogs. They were eager to be off, but the hunting party was late.
He was hardly surprised. He adjusted the satchel of extra ammunition and the basket of food and drink that had been sent down from the main house.
Whitten whistled at one of the dogs before he faced Owen. “What’s got you so riled this morning?”
“Hmm?” Owen jerked his head up from the rifle he was checking. “Nothing.”
Whitten huffed. “You’re as cross as the day is long. I’d think a man who broke that stubborn ring of poachers would be in better spirits.”
Owen checked his hunting knife and tied it to his saddle. “Nah. It’s not sitting right with me.”
“Why? The magistrate said he got a full confession from Hemstead, didn’t he? Even got the name of another man he was working with.”
Owen shrugged and patted his horse’s neck, then stepped around the animal to get to the cart. “Don’t forget who Hemstead’s father is. One of the most powerful men in the county. Of course the magistrate is eager to accept his confession and not ask anything else.”
Whitten ran his hand over his whiskered chin. “What is it you are suspicious of, then?”
Owen whistled to a hunting dog that had wandered from the pack. “I’m not sure the poaching is behind us. I wouldn’t be surprised to learn others are involved.”
“And what of the boys?”
“The magistrate has left it up to Langsby to handle their punishment.”
Whitten whistled low under his breath. “That’s a stroke of luck for those boys, isn’t it?” He tied a pack to the back of his saddle. “So I guess you’ll be buying Kirtley Meadow, then?”
Owen snapped his head around. “Where did you hear about that?”
“Bah. You know how news travels.” Whitten moved to the cart and adjusted the hunting rifles. “And it’s a good thing, says I. Your father was fit to be tied when old man Treadwell lost that bit of land. It would make him proud to know it was in the Locke family and out of the hands of the Farleys.”
Owen ignored his friend’s candor and returned to his horse. At the moment he did not find a great deal of satisfaction in apprehending Hemstead. Not even the prospect of owning Kirtley Meadow could placate him.
He’d not slept well the previous night. What frustrated him the most was not knowing if the men knew of Annabelle’s presence at the school. His instinct screamed that they were aware, but he could not be sure.
When the hunting party finally arrived from the main house, rain drizzled down from the foggy heavens. In addition to Thorley and Bartrell, a group of Treadwell’s friends from Guildford were also present.
Owen had avoided Thorley and Bartrell as much as possible. Just the memory of the bruising on Miss Thorley’s cheek incited his anger, and he employed every ounce of self-control to keep from executing his own form of justice.
Complete avoidance was not possible, however.
It was Thorley’s turn to shoot. Owen was behind him with a loaded rifle waiting to exchange the spent gun when Thorley was ready.
Thorley’s words were flat and low as he sat in the brush, scanning the landscape, waiting for the pheasant to make its appearance. “You were the man who spoke with my sister after we arrived home from the Baldwin ball, are you not?”
Owen checked the lock on the rifle in his hand. “Yes, I spoke with her.”
Thorley lowered his weapon, pulled a flask from his hunting jacket, and took a swig. He extended it to Owen in an offering. Owen refused, and Thorley returned it to his jacket with a shrug.
Owen was not sure what the significance of the question was. It was probably an innocent observation, but he would have thought that Thorley had been too inebriated to notice his presence.
“Tell me, are you very familiar with this area?” Thorley’s eyes still scanned the horizon.
“I am.”
“Then surely you have heard of Fellsworth School.”
The name sent fire through Owen’s veins. His daughter was there. Miss Thorley was there. His mind raced to map the implications. “I know it.”
He waited in uncomfortable silence. It was as if the man was toying with him, feeding him leading questions and then pulling back. Owen glanced over at Whitten, who was assisting Bartrell with reloading his weapon.
Thorley ran his fingers through hair the same color as his sister’s. “If you are familiar with the school, then perhaps you know my uncle, Edmund Langsby.”
“I do.”
“Is the school far from here?”
Owen tightened his grip on the stock. “Not too far.”
“That’s good to hear.” Thorley eased back and pulled a snuffbox from his tan waistcoat. “I intend to pay a visit before I leave. I’ve never met him, and now that I am in such proximity, I think it only mannerly. Don’t
you agree?” He slid Owen a sideways glance.
Owen was not a self-conscious man. Not much made him nervous. But the younger man was sly, devious, and shifty.
Thorley took his shot—a sloppy one that failed to hit its target and alarmed the pheasant. He cursed under his breath at the bad aim and handed his gun back to Owen. “I’ve also heard a report that another one of my relatives is at Fellsworth School.”
Owen’s jaw twitched as he adjusted the dog whistle hanging at his neck.
“Perhaps you have seen her. My sister. Miss Annabelle Thorley. Do you recall her?”
Owen bit his tongue and set about reloading the weapon to help Thorley prepare for his next shot, keenly aware of Thorley’s gaze on him as he completed his task.
“You surprise me by saying nothing. From what I was told, you played a tremendous role in my sister’s presence here in Fellsworth.”
Owen ceased his work and met Thorley’s gaze fully. He would not be intimidated, especially by a man as weak as Thorley, nor would he apologize. Owen stood to his full height and extended the weapon back to Thorley. “Your sister is a strong woman who makes her own decisions.”
“So you do not deny that you assisted her?” Thorley jerked the weapon away from Owen.
“I don’t deny it at all.” Owen picked up his own rifle. “In fact, I admire your sister’s bravery and would offer my assistance again in a heartbeat.”
“How noble of you. Does Treadwell know of your actions, I wonder?” A grin slid across Thorley’s face, and he reached over to pat one of the hunting hounds near him. “Oh, and there is one other thing. It’s quite amusing, really. I am sure it is a rumor, but you know how these things are. I’ve been told that you fancy yourself in love with my sister.”
Owen eyed the man, waiting for Thorley’s point.
“If that is the case, perhaps I should inform you that Annabelle is an engaged woman. She will marry Cecil Bartrell very soon. So if you have a care for your position here, you’d do well to remember who your employer’s friends are.”
A Stranger at Fellsworth Page 25