by Cindy Anstey
“Locals are leery of strangers.” Kate returned to the subject at hand—before hands had been involved in such a thought-distracting manner. She observed the warmth seeping through her mitt and enjoyed the bumping against each other when their gaits were not in harmony. She could feel a touch of heat on her cheeks and turned to face the road, lest Matt believe she was embarrassed and let go.
Clearing her throat, Kate continued from where she had left off. Which was where exactly? She paused, listening to the echo of her last words. Ah yes. “I would expect an innkeeper to be more obliging to outsiders. Perhaps Johnny used up the man’s goodwill yesterday.”
“That could well be,” Matt said in a doubtful tone. “But it matters not; we know where Johnny spent his afternoon. It is easy to see how he was further delayed. It was either getting dark or was so already—it would have been foolish in the extreme to try for the manor on a moonless night on an unfamiliar road. Especially when he gets turned around easily enough in the daytime.”
“We have to find someone who saw him after he left the Goat.”
“Or who he was with, for they likely offered him shelter.”
Kate tried not to sigh, for if she did, Matt would certainly hear her disquiet. While Matt was ready to throttle Johnny for his wild behavior, Kate hoped that would be the worst of it. Johnny, charming Johnny might have tried to return last night, foolish though it may have been. Young men had a tendency to think themselves impervious to harm—well, at least her brothers and his friends thought so—until life smacked them upside the head. She could imagine Johnny starting out for Shackleford Park with the best of intentions to return as was expected, and then becoming confused—lost, hurt, he could be lying in a snowy ditch or under a tree with a broken leg, or worse.
“It’s as likely to be a girl,” Matt remarked.
“I beg your pardon?”
“Johnny’s spoiling for female company, what with Miss LaPierre not giving him the time of day.”
“But … I’m … I don’t entirely understand.”
“Even if Johnny was foxed last night, he would have come back this morning—a pounding head or not.”
“Yes, my thoughts exactly.”
“So what could keep him in town when he knows he should be at the manor? What could be so bewitching as to keep him from his duties? Knowing, yes, knowing that he was putting me in a bind by doing so and getting himself into deep trouble.”
Kate glanced over to see Matt nodding at the road ahead.
“Yes. That’s what happened.” His hand tightened on hers, though Kate thought he was unaware of his reaction. “Perhaps we should make a tour of places housing pretty girls.”
Kate couldn’t help herself; she snorted a laugh. “So you think…”
“That Johnny is being spectacularly dimwitted. In an amorous pique—”
“Amorous and in a pique. Quite the feat.”
Giving her a side glance, Matt continued as if she had not spoken. “Johnny, grandly out of sorts, justified to himself, somehow, that he need not return to Shackleford Park only to hie off on his half day.”
“That would still leave us with a problem.”
“And that would be?”
“Tishdale has any number of fair young women within its boundaries,” Kate said, dramatically waving her free hand about. “It could take a seven night to ferret them all out.”
“The prettiest being a lady’s maid at Shackleford Park.”
“Shackleford is not actually part of Tishdale, but it is the thought that counts.” She nodded as if impressed and then turned to Matt with a grin. “I shall tell Marie that you think her rather fine, as soon as we return.”
“I was not thinking of Marie.”
“Miss LaPierre?”
“Now you are just being coy.”
“It’s levity, Mr. Matt Harlow. Not being coy at all.” Her grin grew broader until she remembered why they were not returning to Shackleford Park immediately, and her smile disappeared, replaced by a frown. “Mr. Cryer mentioned a great many folks … Perhaps we should start with Mr. and Mrs. Adkins; they live over the apothecary and they have a pretty daughter.”
* * *
MATT WAS RELUCTANT to drop Kate’s hand; he quite enjoyed the sensation. And yet he had no choice; the woods had given way to the first few cottages on the outskirts of Tishdale, and then within steps they were strolling down the main street. Too many eyes, judging and finding faults in others—Kate’s reputation dictated a polite distance between them. Though most of the denizens of Tishdale were busy in their cozy cottages, there still were windows aplenty—best to be prudent.
Not recalling the location of the apothecary from his earlier visit, Matt followed Kate toward the first block of redbrick stores. Within moments, he could see a sign depicting a mortar and pestle swinging from the overhang. However, it was the sign ahead of it that caught Matt’s attention: two crossed axes between a bull’s head and pig’s head.
“This is Mr. Kelp’s store? The butcher Johnny was chasing down?”
Looking up first, Kate nodded and then she glanced into the storefront. “Yes, but Mr. Kelp will be readying for tomorrow … The window is empty … Oh, I do believe I see light in the back.”
“Let’s start here, then,” Matt said as he rapped on the door.
“There is no need. We already know where Johnny went after talking to Mr. Kelp. It’s after the Gambling Goat, not—Ah, Mr. Kelp. So good of you to answer your door.”
The red-haired rotund man held the door partially open, looking past Matt and addressing Kate with a congenial smile. “Not at all, my dear. Though I hope you are not here for sausages; as you can see”—he pointed to the empty bins behind him—“my stock is depleted. I’m only now getting ready for tomorrow’s opening.”
“No, indeed. I … We were hoping for a bit of information. We are looking for a fellow of Mr. Harlow, here.” She patted Matt’s arm as if to prevent confusion, though there were just the three of them standing at the door. “You might have seen him at the market in green livery.”
“Tall? Thin? Long hair? Oh yes, saw him for certain. And not just at the market. The cheeky fella called after me before I was halfway home yesterday. Wanted to know if I had any family in the area. Said I looked quite familiar. I told him not familiar enough, as I had no knowledge of him. Told him to be off. Can you imagine, coming up on a stranger like that, asking questions?” Then he turned to face Matt. “Don’t know how they be where you come from, but accosting strangers on the street don’t sit well with no one.”
Matt nodded with a tense jaw. He found the accusation unjust. The man had not been accosted; Johnny had merely called after him. Really. Folks on the coast were clannish, but nothing compared to this.
Mr. Kelp turned back toward Kate and continued. “I was hardly going to sit down with the Bible and show him my family tree. Next thing you know, the fella would be hounding my sister and her boys. They are like as any to be the ones he were thinking of. Two be working in Tishdale—one at the grocer, the other at the blacksmith. Then, I got a cousin working at the cooperage and three second cousins farming for the squire. Don’t know who he meant, don’t care. Friend or foe.”
“Indeed, thank you, Mr. Kelp.” As Kate was stepping away, she turned back as if just remembering a question. “Oh, Mr. Kelp, you don’t recall which direction Mr. Harlow’s friend took, do you?”
“Course. I watched that fella all the way to the end of the block. He was heading outta town, toward the Gambling Goat.” With that and a firm nod, Mr. Kelp closed the door. Matt heard the lock click and the marching steps of the butcher returning to the back of his shop.
“Well, there. I thought we would get no further speaking to Mr. Kelp.”
Matt sighed. “Indeed.” It would seem that Johnny’s thumping would be held off a little longer.
* * *
MR. ADKINS’S DAUGHTER was not to Matt’s taste—blond and rather insipid. He was much more drawn to lithe, dark-
haired beauties … Matt blinked, bringing his mind back to the conversation. Again they were standing in the cold, a door partially open and no information forthcoming.
The apothecary had a comfortable store … as much as Matt could see of it while looking over Kate’s shoulder and past Mr. Adkins. His daughter peeked curiously from behind the counter—but of Johnny there was no sign.
“No, my dear. I left the inn before that young fella. Couldn’t say when or where he went.”
Kate thanked the man, waved to the daughter, and started down the stairs that took them out through the back garden and into the mews running behind the line of shops. After a moment of consideration, Kate glanced at the next block of stores where Matt knew the wine merchant and bookseller to be located.
“I doubt Mr. Niven would have taken Johnny in—not the sort at all. A bit stodgy. He served with the Corps of Royal Sappers and Miners in the war, you know. A servant to one of the officers and walks around as if he held the rank … but neither Mr. Niven nor Mr. Gupta has a daughter. Still, we are here. And Mr. Cryer did say both men were at the Goat; we might as well ask if they noticed which way Johnny went and with whom.”
When a knock at the wine merchant’s door netted them no answer, Kate crossed the road to the mews that continued behind the main street shops on the other side. With short fences delineating the yards on one side and associated stables and warehouses on the other, it was no feat to find the staircases they sought. A loud knock at the door to the flat at the top of the wine merchant’s stairs brought no answer.
Fortunately, two doors up Mr. Gupta was home and welcoming. He asked them in out of the cold. He offered a cup of tea, apparently his favorite beverage … He always had a cup at his elbow. Might be his heritage, the old gentleman believed. Unfortunately, despite his great empathy for the liveried boy, Mr. Gupta had no idea where Johnny had gone. Mr. Gupta had been much occupied by a gathering of his cronies, and they had enjoyed themselves well into the night, long after Johnny had departed.
It was with an ever-increasing sense of frustration that Matt followed Kate down the stairs and they stood once more in the deserted lane. She looked in both directions, shook her head, and sighed. Leaning against the fence, she stared at the opposite wall.
“I’m starting to think two facers might be necessary,” Matt said, grumbling. “And I will give him an earful while I’m at it.”
“What if Johnny is hurt? Perhaps he has not returned because he can’t.”
“Can’t? What would prevent him? Yes, he has a terrible sense of direction. If he stayed with someone and—”
“What if he attempted to return in the dark, got lost, and then tried to cut through the woods? The Beeswangers do not use mantraps to prevent poaching, but the majority of landowners do.”
“I’m not worried about Johnny falling afoul of some terrible device. He knows enough to stay out of the woods, especially at night. As idiotic as my friend might be, he is not stupid. No, it’s his temper and temperament that will get him into trouble—always running amok. He leaps before thinking. Indeed, this behavior is the Johnny of old. Something I thought gone … Clearly, I was mistaken.”
Kate shook her head, still staring at the far wall. Then she blinked, swallowed, and her brows folded together—tighter and tighter until Matt had to ask.
“What is going on in that pretty head of yours that has caused such a look of consternation? You look perplexed and horrified at the same time.”
“What am I looking at, Matt?”
Turning his head, Matt squinted and then crossed the lane. He, too, was confused; he saw nothing to cause disquiet of any sort. A warped stable door, bits of straw, manure, wagon tracks frozen in the snowy mud. He shifted his gaze slightly to the weathered wall of a warehouse with faded lettering, loose boards, and a rusty ring.
“Not there,” Kate said, pointing lower, to a spot on the wall two feet above the ground. “There, on that hook.”
Dropping his gaze, Matt immediately saw what had caused Kate’s bewilderment and why. Caught on a protruding nail, a button and bit of cloth hung abandoned. The embossed metal button was attached to a scrap of material that had been snagged and ripped free. It was a green piece of fabric, akin to the Steeple family livery.
Matt pulled off his gloves, swallowed with apprehension, and reached over to free the button. It was filthy and dented; dirt was ground into the crevices of the crest. It took several wipes across his thigh and a bit of spit before Matt cleared it enough to discern a fish on one corner of the crest. The remainder was nearly obliterated by the dent, and he could not read the scratched and worn engraving that surrounded the crest. Still, it was enough to make Matt uneasy. The Steeples had a fish on their family crest, and the material looked remarkably similar to their livery green.
“This remnant might have come from Johnny’s coat,” Matt said as he glanced up and down the mews. “It’s hard to say for certain.” But there was nothing untoward in the vicinity: no person-sized lump of green along the wall, no scuffs in the dirt, no broken gates or fences behind the stores. No hint of Johnny whatsoever—past or present.
“This does not bode well, Matt,” Kate said in a hesitant voice.
“Not anything to be concerned about, really.” Matt shrugged with feigned nonchalance. “Johnny, or someone with a coat similar to his, must have fallen against the wall and the button caught. What surprises me is that this person left it here. Rents are much easier to repair with the original patch.”
“Matt?”
“I’m sure all is well, Kate.” Matt dropped his gaze to shrug reassuringly at her, though his smile felt forced and likely looked that way, too.
“Matt, look at your fingers.”
Doing as he was told, Matt lifted and glanced at his hand. The button sat on his palm swaddled by the green material. His fingers, however, were covered in the dirt that he had rubbed off and out of the button’s crest. His body heat and spit had melted the dirt; it no longer looked like rusty earth. No. It trickled down his fingers in a smear of red.
Blood red.
chapter 10
In which Kate is as tense as a twisted corset
“What are we going to do?” Kate asked, sounding considerably more disturbed than moments earlier.
“About what?” Matt stared, enthralled by the mess on his hand. Then he blinked, reached into his coat pocket with his clean hand and drew out a handkerchief.
“About Johnny. He is hurt. We must get help.”
Matt frowned as he encased the button and fabric in his crisp white cotton square—pressed only this morning. He wiped the red liquid off his fingers and then folded the collection into his pocket. “Help?” Matt looked down the lane again, willing his pulse to return to a normal pace. “How do we know Johnny is the one hurt? And if he is, where do we bring said help?”
“Matt, there can be no doubt—the button was covered in blood.”
“Was it? That, of course, is our first dilemma. Is the red substance blood? I believe it to be true, but if not, what could it be … red paint?” Matt puckered the corner of his mouth, considered, and then shook his head. He was finding it easier to breathe now, letting logic take precedence—forcing his emotions away. “So if we decide the button is covered in blood, is it Johnny’s? Is the button Johnny’s? We cannot say yes—”
“But—”
“Definitively. We cannot say yes definitively. The scrap might be from someone else’s coat or, even if it is Johnny’s, was he wearing it when it acquired the … the red substance?”
“Blood. Let’s just call it blood.”
“Fine. Blood.” Matt swallowed, blinked, and then shook his head, trying to clear his eyes. The lane seemed to be getting dark … and yet he knew it not to be the case. Closing his eyes, he breathed deeply, looking for calm, but his father’s face presented itself to his mind’s eye. He refused to allow Johnny to join his ranks.
When he opened his eyes, Kate stood directly in front of him. Her ex
pression was odd to say the least. He couldn’t read it, until she spoke.
“I thought Johnny was your friend. I thought you cared about him. But here we stand discussing whether or not the blood is blood.” She jabbed him with her finger. “Why are we not running for help?”
Matt nodded and then shook his head. “Because we still have no idea where Johnny is, where to send help. We are no further ahead than we were before, except that now we are disturbed.”
“Disturbed? You are disturbed?”
“Yes, of course.”
“This expression indicates disturbed?” She waved her hand in front of his face, sounding incredulous.
“Now who is arguing semantics?” Matt cleared his throat. “Let us try to be sensible.”
“Must we?”
“For Johnny’s sake, I believe we must.”
“Very well.” Kate nodded. “We have established that Johnny was wearing his livery at the Goat and, being that nothing was said about a hole in his coat or a missing button, this … this accident must have happened after he left the inn.”
“So, Johnny’s coat—for we cannot assume it was in his possession—”
“Tishdale does not harbor criminals; I think it safe to assume Johnny was in possession of his own coat. It would not have been stolen from him.”
“Indeed,” Matt agreed, “but he need not have lost his coat to a thief; he might have draped it over the shoulders of a pretty girl to keep her warm; it was a cold night. If … this is from Johnny’s coat.”
“This is ridiculous. We know next to nothing,” Kate huffed.
“Which is why we are not running off in all directions screaming for help. We could make the situation worse.”
“How could we possibly make it worse?”
“Unfortunately, many ways: perhaps Johnny sold his coat to get money to use for gambling,” Matt said.
“But he can’t; the coat is not his to sell. It belongs to the family.”