by Cindy Anstey
Lifting the book to the light before closing it, Sophia noticed an imprint in the margin. It appeared as if someone had written something next to the article about monkshood and then used a rubber eraser to delete it. Shaking the book produced several pieces of rubbed paper in the crease, verifying Sophia’s suspicion. She ran her finger lightly across the indented words, wondering how to bring them back.
Another quick glance at the time encouraged her to close the book for now and bring it up to her room while she dressed. After dinner she would devise a manner to read what had been written and then erased.
With any luck, it would state by whom, and how, Stacks had been poisoned. It was highly unlikely, but Sophia hoped that there had been enough difficulties with this case for their allotment of luck to be overflowing.
It was a faint hope.
* * *
“You were quiet at dinner,” Daphne said as they strolled the upper hallway to their bedrooms. Ahead, Daphne sashayed, swinging her skirt from side to side, practicing a flirty manner. Then she stopped, turned, and fixed Sophia with a piercing gaze. “Have you made a discovery or heard from Mr. Fraser?”
Sophia frowned, trying to decide if she could share her concerns about the margin writing with her cousin. If the words erased in the poison book were of an incriminating nature, that could only mean that the killer had been in Allenton Park—in the library, to be exact.
How had this monster found the book when it took Sophia several days and the assistance of a grudgingly helpful housekeeper? It was alarming to again think that, even if for a short duration, they had shared space with a murderer.
“No, nothing to report,” Sophia said, trying to sound official. Her first order of business was to decipher the indents on the book. No need to worry anyone until she knew what it said. “I was thinking of making a time line. Would you happen to have a pencil that I could borrow?”
“Of course.” Daphne skipped to her bedroom door and disappeared for a moment. She returned quickly with a stub of a pencil—it barely resembled its original form.
Sophia stared at it, willing her amusement not to show. “Ah. Excellent, thank you.” She took the tiny piece of unfinished wood and said good night.
Pulling the book from under her mattress, Sophia carried it to the small table next to the window. As twilight was long gone, Sophia lit her lamp, opened her window for cooler air, and then sat, pencil in hand.
Holding it on its side, Sophia lightly scraped the graphite stick across the indents. She worked slowly and methodically, smiling every time the pencil caught and produced another letter.
The light had entirely gone from the sky when Sophia completed her task. And while the lamp revealed that there was a mark to read, it was too shadowed to see what it said.
Taking the book to the window to make use of the last glimmer of light, Sophia turned it this way and that, trying to catch a glimpse of what had been revealed. To no avail; it was far too dark.
Sophia lowered the book and stared out the window. The trees just beyond the lawn waved in the breeze, and she breathed in the freshness of the night air. A small light flitted across her field of vision and drew her attention. Sophia watched as it bobbed through the copse; it looked as if someone were carrying a lamp on a trek through the woods.
Sophia leaned out the window for a better view and listened. Other than the occasional snap of a branch, the woods remained still—except for the bouncing light, of course. Why was someone wandering through the park in the dark?
Had she been at home in Welford Mills, Sophia would have gone after that light—or, rather, whomever was carrying it. She would have knocked on her brother’s door, coerced Henry to join her, and raced outside into the shrubbery. But to grab Daphne for the same purpose would be irresponsible, and to go by herself was worse: reckless and dangerous. She would have to wait.
Turning with a heartfelt sigh, Sophia admitted to herself, if only for a moment, that it would have been a perfect excuse to rouse Jeremy in the middle of the night and go off on an adventure. But Jeremy was in West Ravenwood, Sophia was at Allenton Park, and this was not a game.
As soon as the sun came up, she would be off.
* * *
Jeremy sat at a table in the main room of the Unicorn and Crown, using the lamplight to scribble out a letter. He had neglected his correspondence to Bow Street for some days. Sir Elderberry would be ready to string him up by his toes if he didn’t report soon. But how could he send an update when there was nothing to say?
Still, he was his father’s son. Jeremy waxed on about the upcoming fair—it would give him the chance to observe large numbers of people all at once—and he extolled the virtues of having a partner to advance the case. But Jeremy found that thinking about Sophia was a distraction, not a help, and after spending the better part of an hour trying, unsuccessfully, to not think about Sophia, he made out a quick list of clues he was following and sealed the letter. That would have to do.
He pushed the letter to the middle of the table, planning his next move. The villain needed to be caught before anyone else died.
Jeremy could not allow his inexperience to be a boon for the murderer; the very thought was horrifying.
* * *
Sophia slept surprisingly well and awoke just as the sun was rising. She dressed in one of her wool gowns, pulled on a pair of sturdy boots, and threw a warm shawl over her shoulders—mornings were beginning to offer a slight chill to the start of the day. She retrieved the poison book that now lived beneath her mattress.
At the window, Sophia took a deep breath and flipped it open to the marked page. She stared at the pencil squiggles in the margin, frowning and squinting. They made no sense. She continued to stare until the letters blurred … and still, nothing. It was profoundly disappointing.
As a last effort, Sophia turned the book sideways and then upside down. Immediately, the poor handwriting coalesced.
Mix with distilled water and boil for two hours—It was a recipe with a warning: nausea, vomiting, diarrhea—death in two to six hours.
Sophia sat with a thump on the edge of her bed, staring at the book. Her greatest concern had been realized. The murderer had been in the house. It was horrifying; they could have been murdered in their beds, the whole family. Alarming but … fortuitous at the same time, for it provided another avenue to investigate. She must remember to tell Jeremy about the recipe when she saw him.
With a heavy sigh, Sophia placed the book on her bedside table and slipped down the stairs. Despite the hush on the family floor, the main floor was humming with busyness.
Sophia tiptoed past a footman carrying wood to the kitchen, a housemaid sweeping the main hall carpet, and another dusting the knickknacks of the drawing room. As there was no sign of Benton or Mrs. Curtis, little Marty ran to open the front door for her.
Sophia stepped out into a clear morning with a blush-tinged sky. A webbed dew threaded across the lawn and a thick mist smoked the distance.
Chasing away all thoughts of nastiness, the tranquil atmosphere of the quiet, calm morning filled Sophia with resolve and purpose. She was determined to find the path that was used last night, and find some clue as to the reason it was being used in the dead of night.
Had her exploration required her to go off the Waverley property, Sophia might—might—have asked Daphne or William or the head gardener … or Jeremy … to go with her. But as it didn’t, she felt quite comfortable plunging ahead.
And so with a wave to Mr. Quinn, who was digging under the rhododendrons by the fence, Sophia marched into the woods. The light was halved as soon as she was under the canopy of the trees, but visibility was still good. She wended around several trees, searching the dappled patches for a path that was well defined, as she would suppose a woods trek at night would be difficult otherwise. But there was no path. With a frown, Sophia scanned through the trees, looking for an opening.
As she progressed further and further into the woods, Sophia lost sight
of the manor—which was hard to do, as it was not a small building, but the bushes were thick and plentiful. And still she found no path, trail, or track. Just as she was about to admit defeat, she spied a clearing with trampled grass. The trampled grass led to a subtle trail; imprinted here and there were the markings of a boot.
Placing her boot next to one of the footprints, Sophia was surprised to see that it was similar in size to her own. Fortunately, the tread was different; she had not walked in circles and just discovered her own print.
Moving slowly so as not to lose the trail, Sophia hunkered on her heels, moving the grass gently out of the way. She was hoping to discover a piece of cloth that might have snagged on one of the shrubs or a letter dropped, unobserved, from a pocket. Actually, a large sign giving her the name of the villain, why said person was acting in a villainous manner, and where this disreputable person was going would have been even better.
But it was not to be. Sophia continued to step methodically and search for … well, she was not sure what oddity she searched for, but she would know it when she found it.
A breeze fluttered through the trees, rattling the leaves and carrying the chirps and trills of the chiffchaff and the common whitethroat through the air. The growing warmth and sweet smell of honeysuckle brought her a feeling of peace. It was hard to imagine a hostile person skulking through these lovely woods.
And as she walked, logic poked its unwelcome nose into her business. It was possible that the light-bearer of last night had no sinister intent or any connection to her investigations. One of the gardeners on his way home, perhaps. Or … yes, this was more reasonable … a poacher checking his traps. She would have to present this possibility to Jeremy—
A branch snapped.
Sophia whirled around, holding her breath as her heart threatened to pound out of her chest. She stared into the woods behind her and then slowly turned to the left and then the right.
Nothing.
Sophia breathed again, beginning with a long but quiet draw of air. She continued to stare for some time, not moving, not creating any sound.
And still the chiffchaff warbled.
With a slight giggle, Sophia acknowledged her overreaction. “Just a woods sound,” she said, not entirely sure what that meant, other than it was supposed to be reassuring. She turned back to the path, but again scanned through the dappled sunlight before continuing.
Sophia was surprised to notice an odd sort of object in the shadows—unidentifiable from where she stood. Curiosity pulled her closer until she could make out the lumpy and matted thatch of crisscrossed branches and twigs lying on the ground, half tipped into a ditch. Looking more carefully, Sophia could see that it was a long ditch—too straight edged to be natural, and too overgrown to be recent. The blanket-like thatch had fallen into the ditch and exposed a trench of mud.
But it was not just mud. As Sophia shifted her stance, a glint of white flashed and caught her attention.
Curious. It seemed rather strange. It was stark white—a color seldom seen in the wild unless it was a flower. Perhaps it was a piece of cloth, blown into the woods by the gusty summer breezes … a letter. Yes, an incriminating letter. Perhaps, a confession—
Sophia shook her head. She was getting carried away. The white object was likely nothing of interest and the chance that it had something to do with any of the murders was slim, slim, slim.
Still, it required a look-see. Orderly investigation demanded it!
Climbing over a fallen tree to the edge of the trench, Sophia looked down into the hole. It was much too deep to simply stretch her arm out to reach the white object. However, the thatch was woven tightly together, almost ladderlike, certainly man-made. Was it an animal trap? If so, it was from eons ago—the leaves were dry and brittle. Built and then forgotten?
Glancing at her gown, Sophia contemplated the messy process of retrieving the mysterious object. Her boots were already caked with mud. Threads hung from her shawl where the twigs had caught, her skirt was streaked with dirt, and the elbow of her dress was ripped. In fact, on closer inspection, she saw that her sleeve must have snagged on a branch; a square of material was missing.
“Bother, most inconvenient,” she muttered to herself. “Betty will not be best pleased to make that repair.”
Sophia huffed in frustration, glad that her mother was not here to comment—or more likely, criticize.
Throwing caution to the wind, she hunkered down, brushing the grass and leaves aside, clearing an area to kneel. After having done so, she leaned forward and caught the thatched branches. They had been woven together years earlier, if one could go by the moss hanging down in slippery ropes into the hollow below. The carpet-like cover had been draped over the trench and was still secured on one side, making the possibility of this being an animal trap even stronger.
Sophia tugged and pulled at the woven cover, using all her strength, but it did not give way.
“Excellent,” she said to … the hole. She dropped the loose end of the thatch into the trench. Now, she could use it like a ladder; she could climb down and get that white object. The thing might be of no importance, but if it was and she left it behind, she would never forgive herself.
Besides, it was odd, and she was curious.
Maneuvering her leg over the side proved to be awkward and near impossible until she hiked her skirts up to her thighs. She glanced around her and listened for a moment, but there was no one about to see her scandalous abuse of her wardrobe.
The dirt edging the trench crumbled as she slowly lowered herself, stick over stick, toward the bottom. She was thoroughly muddied by the time she had gone eight or so feet. Looking down, Sophia could no longer see that glint of white and prayed that she was not ruining her dress for nothing. She could not see the bottom, either.
Shifting, she leaned out a little farther and was rewarded with the sight of a stone—gray and rounded—only five or six feet below her. And with that thought she straightened and stepped down one more “rung.”
There was a loud snap; the branch broke and her other foot slipped. With a jerk that stung her palms, Sophia lost her handhold and dropped, grabbing at the sticks and branches above her head on her way down. Her hands managed to seize a thicker branch and she jerked to a stop.
Sophia dangled from her arms, her feet hanging uselessly in the air. The gripped branch above her head sagged, and Sophia’s heart started to pound in fear. This thatch was her lifeline—the only way back up—and that was, now, the only direction she wanted to go. She no longer cared about white or gray objects. The forest could keep its secrets, she just wanted out.
Wheeling her feet in front of her, Sophia tried to find another foothold, but each time she thought one secured, it broke or her foot slipped. She no longer cared that there was a mysterious man-made trench in the middle of the woods. It was ages old and the purpose long gone.
She should not have tried to climb down. She should not have come into the woods alone. She should have told someone—anyone—where she was going … because if she fell she would not be able to get back up.
Foolhardy and stupid … yes, just plain stup—
The branch snapped and Sophia plummeted to the bottom of the trench.
* * *
Jeremy arrived at Allenton Park at the positively indecent time of eleven in the morning. He had a duty to update Mr. Waverley about Marley’s failure to locate Mr. Tumbler. It was exactly as Jeremy had expected; the town had closed ranks and would not give the constable the whereabouts of the blacksmith.
He was not, however, expecting a gathering of men on the front lawn of the manor. Had he not spotted Mr. Waverley at the center, waving his arms about in a very dramatic fashion, Jeremy would have simply bypassed the group and proceeded to the front door.
As he approached the cluster of five or six men, Jeremy noticed that they were all dressed in brown tweeds, the sort more often worn by landed gentry. It was unusually warm attire for the summer months; tweeds
were most often used during hunting season in the fall. While the men were not carrying rifles, they still looked very much like a hunting party.
While not seeming to be aware of his presence, the gathering shifted and allowed Jeremy to step to the center. Before he could ask what they were about, Mr. Waverley turned and addressed Jeremy abruptly.
“How are your tracking skills, Fraser?” Mr. Waverley asked.
Jeremy almost laughed, until a second glance at the gentleman’s face showed that he was in earnest. “Fairly good, sir.”
“I don’t mean running around the back streets of London after a thief.”
“No, sir, you mean tracking someone or something through the woods. I was raised in the country, hunted every fall.” He didn’t think now was a wise time to mention that his skills were honed on following deer, not people. “What are we going after?”
“Sophia.”
“Miss Thompson?” Jeremy asked, his voice unusually strained. His heart began to pound, drumming in his ears. “What happened?”
“She’s disappeared. Been gone more than four hours. Was last seen going into the woods right there.” Mr. Waverley half turned, pointing to the trampled grass at the edge of the forested part of the park. “Warren insists that she would not miss breakfast and yet she has. The family is certain that something is terribly wrong. Warren was going to go out after her, but that would be foolish; he’s as likely to get lost as his daughter has done. I’ve sent William for Constable Marley, but the man is taking his time in getting here. So I’m sending out these fine gentlemen”—he glanced at the men around him—“to track her. Find her. She might have twisted her ankle or become lost.” His expression grew horrified, his conjecture implausible. “Attacked by a wild beast, or kidnapped by marauding … kidnappers. Any number of things that might have occurred.”