by Nancy Butler
Bryce saw the bewildered expression on the Runner’s face and shot him an apologetic grin. “You get used to it after a while, Mr. Fletch,” he assured him. “It actually almost grows on you.”
Lovelace continued, undeterred. “The man in the woods resembled Mr. Bryce—at least from the nose up. Because you see, I just now recalled that the murderer had a beard. A short, dark beard. I cannot think how I could have forgotten such a thing.”
“That, Miss Wellesley,” Mr. Fletch responded briskly, “is why we perform reenactments. They stir the memory something fierce. So tell me, what did you do next?”
“I ran away,” she stated.
“Pretend, Lovelace,” Jemima piped in quickly. She had a vision of them all chasing after the girl as she hightailed it at a hobbling run across the west lawn.
With a great deal of huffing and puffing, Lovelace ran slowly in place. “I fell into a rabbit hole then.”
“Very large rabbits hereabouts,” Troy drawled.
“But if you please, Mr. Fletch,” she said, “I’d rather not reenact that. Acting it the once was hard enough on my ankle.”
“Of course, miss. You may sit down now. And I must say, you did very well.”
As Lovelace limped back to the sofa, her audience gave her a smattering of applause. She performed a curtsy, and then pinched Troy on his arm, so that he would sit up and make room for her on the sofa.
“But I’m the corpse,” he protested as he shifted to one side.
“So,” Mr. Fletch said, as he paced across the room. “We have seen the murder through this young lady’s eyes. Two men, an argument, a scuffle, and then a knife thrust. Mr. Bryce finds Miss Wellesley, takes her to the inn, speaks to the landlord for…how long?”
“Five minutes at the most,” Bryce replied.
“And when they return to the scene of the murder, and meet up with Lady Jemima, the corpse has already been disposed of. Now, even if our murderer was a behemoth, I doubt he had the strength to remove a man’s body and carry it overland. Earlier today, Sir Walter took me to the clearing where the murder took place, and afterward I found hoofprints in the lane where it curves around the wheat field.”
“I never took Rufus into the lane that day, except quite near the inn,” Bryce said. “But there are others who sometimes use that lane, tinkers and farmworkers. The butcher’s boy.”
“So I’ve been told. But there was also an interesting bit of evidence left on the rail fence.”
Jemima closed her eyes and winced. She had a fair idea of the evidence a bloodied corpse left behind.
“Ah,” Mr. Fletch said. “I see Lady Jemima anticipates me.”
Her eyes met the Runner’s. “It was all over my folding stool and my gown. The blood, that is.” Her glance shifted to Lovelace. “Miss Wellesley has a deal of fortitude to have witnessed such a grisly crime and not fainted dead away. I can’t say I’d have had the strength to flee, after such a thing.”
Bryce bent and whispered, “But you excel at fleeing, Lady J. I have your own word on it.”
She chose to ignore this. “But tell us, Mr. Fletch, how did the murderer carry off the body?”
He nodded toward Bryce. “If the man was built along similar lines to our host, he could have moved the victim a short distance.”
Troy leapt up from the couch with an eager expression on his face. “Want to try, Bryce? Carry me around the room?”
“Oh, sit down, Troy,” Bryce muttered. “I already carried you half across the stable yard…in case you have forgotten your intemperate arrival here.”
Troy sat down and winked at Lovelace. “I was completely jug-bit.”
“Mr. Bryce has made my point for me,” the Runner said with a scowl at the unrepentant poet. “If the murderer had a horse waiting in the lane, he had only to carry the body, what?…twenty or thirty feet.”
With a shock of recollection, Jemima had a vision of the peddler she had seen as she crossed the wheat field. Just after the murder it would have been. She toyed with the idea of mentioning this occurrence to the Runner. But then Bryce had just pointed out that local tradesmen often used the lane. Just another case of the maiden lady starting at shadows, she thought with a small scowl.
“It’s a bad business,” Sir Walter grumbled. “Two strangers having at each other in our quiet little burg. I’d never have brought you in, Mr. Fletch, if I hadn’t thought it was Lord Troy who had been killed.”
The Runner said, “But as I am here, Sir Walter, I think I can be of assistance. Now we know that our unknown corpse was carrying the items which had been stolen from Lord Troy’s room at the Iron Duke. The landlord cannot say with any certainty if there were strangers lurking around the inn that morning—a great many people were coming and going, and all because of a mill that was being held in Barcroft.
“Best fight I ever saw,” Troy reminisced softly.
“But someone took Lord Troy’s things and we have no reason to think it was anyone other than the unidentified victim.”
“But why break into Troy’s room?” Jemima asked as she shifted away from Bryce, who was leaning against the window frame with his long legs canted perilously near her hip. “Why was he singled out?”
Mr. Fletch gave her a nod of approval. “That is a pertinent question, Lady Jemima. Why indeed? And I have a theory. A man called Sir Richard Hastings was staying in the room beside your brother’s. I believe the thief entered the wrong room. Sir Richard is a retired naval officer, but he is still active in government circles. He is rumored to be involved in rooting out a spy network which operates on this coast. I wager a member of the Admiralty would be a more likely target for a French thief than a poet.”
“See!” Lovelace crowed to Troy. “I was right about the spies. Now you shall write a poem about spies and foul murderers, and Papa can turn it into a stage play. And I can play… I can play myself.” She twinkled at him.
“I never write about politics and such,” the poet said darkly. “Not enough pith.” Lovelace looked forlorn until Troy said, “But I will write something for you, Sheba. How about, ‘Little Lame Lovelace, or the Fortitudinous Foundling’?”
“Oh, yes,” she breathed.
Mr. Fletch coughed pointedly to regain everyone’s attention. “There is one problem with my theory. If the dead man was part of a spy network, why then did his compatriot in the woods murder him?”
“Why do you assume they were compatriots?” Bryce asked in a matter-of-fact voice.
“It stands to reason. The two men clearly knew each other. ‘Tis unlikely that two strangers would be arguing in such a manner. Miss Wellesley overhead enough of their exchange for us to conjecture that they were in league.”
“Do you think she is in any danger now, Mr. Fletch?” Jemima asked intently.
The Runner nodded slowly. “I do not wish to frighten Miss Wellesley. But this man has done murder once; I doubt he would shrink from it a second time. Especially since the young lady was the only witness to his crime.”
Lovelace gave a small whimper. Troy took up her hand and began to pat it reassuringly.
Jemima turned to gaze up at Bryce. “I thought you were being overly cautious, insisting she stay here. But it appears I was wrong.”
At the moment, Bryce looked like his thoughts were a million miles away. He moved forward into the room. “No one will come to any harm if they stay within the confines of the estate,” he said a bit brusquely. “Mr. Fletch, have you had a chance to speak with Sir Richard? In light of his connection with the Admiralty, he might be able to tell you what the thief was looking for.”
“Papers!”
Bryce looked down at Lovelace, thinking she had again ventured a solution. But she was sitting subdued and pale and quite silent.
“It was papers he was after,” Jemima repeated, her eyes on Bryce. “That was why Terry’s notebook was ripped up. The man took the poems, thinking they were some sort of naval documents.”
“Don’t be daft, Jemima,” Troy utt
ered. “Who could mistake poetry for perishing naval documents?”
“No, wait—” Mr. Fletch held up one hand. “The thief might have thought they were written in code. It’s not an uncommon practice. Messages are sent using phrases from newspapers or books, and the recipient deciphers them using a decoding chart.”
“Good luck to him deciphering ‘Ode to Persephone,’ ” Troy chuckled. “It’s more than I was able to do with the blasted thing.”
“There were no papers found on the man’s body,” Mr. Fletch remarked. “So the murderer must have taken them. And if that’s the case, the dead man was killed, not for a cache of naval secrets, but for a silly bit of foolscap. Oh, sorry, Lord Troy.” He gave the poet an affable grin that did little to hide the wry twinkle in his bright eyes.
Jemima shifted forward in her chair. “I’m still confused on one point, Mr. Fletch. When the Frenchman said, ‘This is all I found,’ wasn’t he admitting to his confederate that the papers were not those he expected to find at the inn? Why would the bearded man commit murder over worthless papers?”
Mr. Fletch nodded. “A nice observation, ma’am. Perhaps he killed our Frenchman not to get his hands on the papers but rather in a fit of rage, because the thief had so badly bungled the job. Then the murderer took the pages with him to cover his tracks, never realizing that his victim was carrying your brother’s jewelry, which would allow us to trace the Frenchman back to the inn.”
There was a grim silence in the room, as everyone digested the concept of such a vengeful villain.
Mr. Fletch gazed about him with narrowed eyes, like a heron surveying a teeming pond. “Now, do you have any other questions?” he waited a moment. “No? Very well then. I must thank you all for your time. We’ve made a good start here today. All I request is that you not discuss this matter except amongst yourselves. Secrecy,” he intoned, “is paramount at this point.”
He moved forward to shake Bryce’s hand. “And thank you for the use of your home, sir. I’ll have a word with Sir Richard in Canterbury. Let’s hope he can shed some light on the matter.”
“You’re not going to stay here and guard us, Mr. Fletch?” Lovelace asked with a throb in her voice.
Bryce nearly laughed. Mr. Fletch looked barely able to guard a biscuit tin, let alone a house full of people. Though the man had a keen enough grasp on things, he had to admit. Too keen, perhaps.
Mr. Fletch gave Lovelace a tight smile. “I investigate things, miss. We Runners tend not to get involved in the watchdog end of the business. But I believe Mr. Bryce and Lord Troy will see that you come to no harm. And if the murderer has any brains, he’ll have left the district.”
“Probably gone back to France, by now,” Sir Walter muttered sourly as he rose from his chair. “Bloody frogs. Well, come along now, Mr. Fletch. You can drop me home and then have the use of my gig. I pray Hastings will be able to put an end to this sorry business.”
Mr. Fletch turned in the doorway. “I’ve taken a room at the Iron Duke, so if you happen to think of anything else I might need to know, you can leave a message with the landlord.”
As Bryce escorted Sir Walter and the Runner from the room, Jemima noted that he again wore that distracted expression on his face. As though he were fretting about something. Troy sat looking thoughtful a moment, and then he jumped up from the sofa and, after a brief aside to Jemima, went striding out the door in the wake of the three men.
Lovelace turned down Jemima’s offer to sit with her in the garden, moaning that she didn’t dare go out of the house, even in daylight, with a crazed French murderer on the loose. Jemima understood totally—she wasn’t sure she cared to venture outside herself.
“I wish Mama and Papa were here,” Lovelace said mournfully as Jemima settled beside her on the sofa. “And Charlie. And even that wretch, Percival Lancaster—he is our leading man, you know. And even though he drinks like a fish and calls me a scene-stealing little harpy, he is a strapping, robust fellow. I think he would probably defend me from peril…if only because he fancies himself to be something of a hero.”
“I’m sure he would defend you,” Jemima said soothingly. “We all would, Lovelace. And I think you should know why Troy went after Mr. Fletch just now—he wants to send for another Runner to look into your parents’ whereabouts. Surely someone from Bow Street should be able to trace a large traveling coach and a prop wagon with WELLESLEY’S WANDERING MINSTRELS painted on the side.”
Lovelace looked slightly less crestfallen. “Did he really do that for me, Lady Jemima?” A fresh batch of tears welled up in her pansy brown eyes. “You and your brother are so kind.”
“Now, I think you should have a look in on the library—there are some very entertaining books in there, and you need a distraction. And if all else fails, you can always talk to the animals.”
Lovelace appeared bewildered.
“You’ll see what I mean,” Jemima said with a knowing grin, as she walked the hobbling girl to the door.
* * *
Bryce returned to the room a few minutes later and found Jemima standing at the window, gazing out over the lawn. “Looking for spies in the underbrush?” he asked as he came up beside her.
“It’s all so preposterous,” she said, turning to him. His expression was now relaxed and held a hint of amusement. “French spies and coded messages…like something from one of Lovelace’s melodramas.”
“Unfortunately those things do exist.” he said softly. “All part of warfare between civilized nations.”
Jemima bit at her lip. “In London it is easy to forget we are at war. One sees the military everywhere, of course, but the men seem like play soldiers, their uniforms merely a bit of pretty color to set off a lady’s gown.” She sighed. “I am ashamed to admit it, but I have given the war little thought. It…it has had no impact on my life until now.”
“What?” he asked as he moved closer. “Haven’t lost a dashing beau to artillery fire, Lady J?”
She shook her head crossly. “Don’t make a joke of it, Bryce. You of all people know how it feels to lose someone you love because of the war. Even if it wasn’t in a military engagement, your brother died in service to the King. But my friends in London are artists and writers and the like—they are indifferent to the war at best, and at worst, well… I fear some of them actually admire Bonaparte.”
He gave her a tolerant smile. “It’s not a crime to admire your enemy. You think Wellington doesn’t look upon Napoleon as a worthy foe?”
She lowered her head and said softly, “I think it’s time I came down from my ivory tower.”
“Bravo, Lady Jemima.” Bryce took up her hand. “Shall I fetch a ladder from the barn?”
She snatched her hand back and gave him a searing frown. “Can you never be serious?”
“I avoid it at all costs. Especially since you appear to be serious enough for the both of us, at the moment. Will it reassure you if I promise that Lovelace will come to no harm while she is here?”
“You are very cocksure of your ability to protect her.”
There was a strange light in his eyes as he replied, “I am a dangerous man to cross.”
She was about to point out that any reputation he might have in the ton as a man not to be trifled with had certainly not filtered into France. But her protest died on her lips. He did indeed look very dangerous at that moment, fierce and quietly menacing. And if half of England knew that Beecham Bryce was deadly with a pistol or a sword, then who was to say that a Kent-based clutch of spies had not also learned of it?
Bryce leaned toward her, his mouth almost brushing her ear as he added in a low tone, “Do you think I would let you remain here, if I thought there was the slightest risk?”
“No,” she said, quickly moving away from him. He was too compelling up close; even from half across the room she could feel the heat of his presence. “I think you will keep us all safe, Bryce. And perhaps we are starting at shadows. It’s possible there is no risk involved.”
“Not for Lovelace, not at the hands of spies,” he said as he closed the gap between them in three easy strides. “For you, however, there is a deal of risk.”
She looked up, startled. And then smiled wryly. “Oh, I see. More innuendo?”
Bryce wasn’t grinning. “I believe I’m beginning to weary of innuendo.”
“Amen,” Jemima murmured under her breath.
“No,” he continued, “I think it’s time for a more direct approach.”
“What, is the fox to be warned then, that the hounds are about to be loosed?”
“Mmm. Let us say that I am giving you a sporting chance. Though I’m damned if I know why.”
“You must know by now that I am not easily cozened,” she said evenly. “You’ve plied your rakish wiles on me these past three days, flung your hints and unsubtle flatteries, and I am still unmoved.”
Bryce gave her a long look through his forelock and then shook his head. “Lady Jemima, you are much greener than you appear, if you think my behavior to date has been an attempt at seduction.”
She felt herself begin to flush with embarrassment. “B-but you’ve been flirting with me…” she nearly sputtered. “At least… I thought you were.”
“I flirt with Lovelace. Idle, meaningless words. I wouldn’t waste my time flirting with you, Jem.”
Jemima didn’t know whether to be outraged at the insult inherent in his words, or gut-wrenchingly disappointed that he didn’t desire her after all.
But then he added in a deep, provocative whisper, “There is nothing idle or meaningless about what I say to you.” He compounded the effect of his words by leaning forward and slowly brushing his chin over her cheek.
She had never felt anything so remarkable—the slight rasp of his skin against the soft planes of her face left a shivery trail of fire. His husky voice had held a promise of sensual pleasures and earthly delights. Jemima had to fight off her inclination to walk up to him and lay her head against his chest. It would be so easy to raise her lips to his and so rewarding to feel that steely mouth soften into tender passion. But not here in this room where a gruesome murder had been acted out. Not now, when her fears for Lovelace were so close to the surface.