When Falcons Fall

by C. S. Harris

  “She has family here?” asked Sebastian, treading carefully along a slippery stretch of the footpath deep in the shadow of the trees and still muddy from a recent rain.

  Rawlins shook his head. “She was on a sketching expedition through Shropshire. You should see her drawings and watercolors; they’re quite out of the common.”

  “How old did you say she was?”

  “She told me she met Captain Chance when she was twenty, and was married seven years. So I suppose that would make her twenty-seven or twenty-eight. He died of fever in an American prison just six months ago.”

  “Tragic. Who is traveling with her?”

  “Well, she had her maid with her.”

  “That’s it?”

  “Yes.”

  It was highly unusual for a gentlewoman—even a widow—to travel without a male relative. Sebastian said, “I take it you spoke with her?”

  “Several times. She asked if she could sketch the Grange and I said yes. The original part of the house dates back to the thirteenth century, you know.”

  “And did she sketch it?”

  “She did, yes. On Saturday.”

  “When was the last time anyone saw her?”

  Rawlins drew up at the edge of the water meadow and turned to give him a blank look. “I don’t rightly know. I suppose that’s one of the first things I should find out, isn’t it?”

  Sebastian narrowed his eyes against the strengthening morning sun as he studied the clump of trees on the far side of the meadow. “It would help.”

  A broad, flat area of grassland that lay beside the river, the water meadow was kept irrigated when necessary by a carefully controlled series of sluice gates, channels, and field ridges. The latest crop of hay had recently been harvested, leaving the grass shorn close and the air smelling sweetly of new growth and the cool waters of the slow-moving river. Only a loud buzzing of flies near a far stand of alders hinted at the presence of death.

  They crossed the clearing to where a belligerent-looking middle-aged man introduced by Rawlins as Constable Nash stood beside the young widow’s body, his massive arms crossed at his chest. Sebastian remembered what Rawlins had said, that the constable was convinced the woman had killed herself. Constable Nash obviously did not appreciate having his judgment questioned by the new justice of the peace.

  What was left of Emma Chance lay at his feet, her head propped against a low log, her bare hands folded at her heart as if she were already in her tomb. Even in death, she was beautiful, her features dainty, her skin flawless, her neck long and graceful, her hair a rich dark brown. A fashionable spencer and hat rested nearby, the fingers of one fine gray glove peeking out from beneath its brim. An empty bottle of laudanum, its cork stopper carefully replaced, was at her side.

  “It’s suicide, I tell ye,” said the constable. “Plain as plain can be. She done took off her hat and that fancy little coat thing, laid down, drank the laudanum, and killed herself.”

  Rather than answer, Sebastian hunkered down beside the woman’s small, delicate body. Her gown was plain but of good quality and fashionable, its soft, subdued gray appropriate for a widow who’d been in mourning for more than six months. He could see no signs of violence of any kind, although that didn’t mean there were none.

  Yanking off one of his gloves, he touched the back of his hand to her cheek. She was utterly cold.

  “When was she found?” he asked.

  The young Squire cast one quick look at the dead woman, then stared pointedly away, toward the slowly moving waters of the river. “Just after dawn. One of the lads staying at Northcott Abbey was out early looking for birds and happened upon her.”

  Sebastian shifted his gaze to the surrounding grass. The close-cropped stalks were visibly crushed in places, but the ground was slightly elevated here and too hard and dry to show the footprints of those who had trod it. And he found himself staring at the dead woman’s feet, just visible beneath the hem of her gown. She wore half boots made of fine soft kid, relatively clean except for some dust on the toes.

  He rested one forearm on his thigh as he felt a slow, familiar anger begin to build within him. For a beautiful young widow to be so overcome by a vortex of grief, desperation, or guilt as to take her own life was tragic. But for someone to steal that life away without her consent was an abomination.

  He said, “Is there another path she could have taken to get here besides the one we followed?”

  “Well . . . I suppose she could have come along the riverbank. But it’s awfully muddy at the moment.”

  “Then you were right,” said Sebastian. “She was murdered.”

  “What?” bellowed the constable, his features twisting with outraged incredulity. “What’re ye talkin’ about? Why, the laudanum she took is right there.”

  Sebastian shook his head. “Easy enough to kill a woman and leave an empty bottle of laudanum at her side.”

  Rawlins swatted at a fly crawling across his eyes. “But how can you tell she was murdered?”

  “Look at her feet.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Look at your own feet.”

  The Squire stared down at his serviceable brown-topped boots, their soles heavily caked with muck from the path through the woods. “There’s no mud on her shoes! That means she couldn’t have walked down here by herself. Is that what you’re saying?”

  Sebastian nodded. Judging from the stiffness of the body, he suspected she’d been dead a good twelve hours or more, but he was no expert. If they’d been in London, he’d have asked to have her remains sent to Paul Gibson, a former regimental surgeon who was a genius at teasing out the secrets of the dead.

  But they weren’t in London.

  “Do you have a doctor capable of performing an autopsy?” he asked.

  The Squire swiped at the fly again. “Dr. Higginbottom’s done them in the past. I’ll get one of the men from the village to help Nash carry her there.”

  “Is he any good?”

  “I suppose so. Although I don’t actually know for certain.” The younger man’s lips parted, his eyes widening as a new thought seemed to hit him. “Oh, Lord, I can’t believe this. Why would anyone from around here want to kill a stranger?”

  “Where was she from?”

  Rawlins shook his head. “I don’t believe I ever heard her say.”

  “I take it she was staying at the Blue Boar?”

  Rawlins nodded. “It’s the only place hereabouts suitable for a woman of quality.”

  Sebastian rose to his feet. “Perhaps the innkeeper will be able to tell us more about her.”

  The keeper of the Blue Boar was a gnarled little man named Martin McBroom. He had bushy side-whiskers and a full head of ginger hair that curled exuberantly and was slowly fading to white. Peering over the top rim of a pair of thick spectacles perched on the end of a bulbous nose, he shifted his watery gaze from Sebastian to the young Squire and back again.

  “You’re saying it was Mrs. Chance they found down by the river?” His voice rose to a high-pitched squeak. “Oh, bless us. The poor lady. The poor, poor lady.”

  “Where was she from, Mr. McBroom?” asked Rawlins, resting both forearms on the carefully polished counter between them. “Do you know?”

  The innkeeper scratched his side-whiskers. “Said she was from London, though I don’t think she came from there direct. You’ll need to be asking that girl she brought with her—Peg is her name. And a sly, worthless thing she is, if you ask me.”

  “Is Peg here now?” asked Sebastian.

  “Haven’t seen her about, although I suppose she could be in the lady’s chamber.”

  “We’ll need to take a look at it, Mr. McBroom,” said Rawlins. “Her room, I mean.”

  “Oh, I don’t think I can let you do that.” The innkeeper drew his chin back against his neck
and shook his head. “Wouldn’t be proper, it wouldn’t.”

  Rawlins leaned into his forearms. “Mr. McBroom, she’s dead. Not only that, but we don’t know anything about her. Unless we find something in her room to tell us, we won’t even know whom to notify about what’s happened.”

  “Well . . .” The innkeeper pursed his lips and made a sucking sound. “I suppose you are justice of the peace now.”

  The red in Archie Rawlins’s cheeks deepened considerably. “I am, yes.”

  “Still don’t seem right, to be letting strange men go through her room. Put their hands on her things.”

  The Squire straightened with a jerk. “Mr. McBroom!”

  “If it would make you feel better,” said Sebastian, volunteering his absent wife without a second thought, “we could ask Lady Devlin for her assistance.”

  The young justice of the peace looked horrified at the thought of involving a real viscountess in a murder investigation. But the innkeeper peeled off his glasses to rub his eyes and said, “That would be better—her being a gentlewoman herself and all. But it still don’t seem right, us poking about in her things.”

  “It’s not right,” said Sebastian. “But the fault for that lies with whoever murdered her.”

  Chapter 4

  Hero Devlin sat on a rustic stone bench at the edge of the broad village green, an open notebook balanced on one knee, her six-month-old son, Simon, on a rug spread on the grass at her feet.

  The strengthening sun had burned off the morning mist, and she was grateful for the dappled shade cast by the spreading chestnut tree beside them. The air was sweet and clean and filled with cheerful birdsong, and she found herself smiling. For the moment, Simon was content to play with his toes and chatter happily at these fascinating appendages, which left his mother free to draw up the outline for a new article she was planning.

  She’d been born Miss Hero Jarvis, daughter of Charles, Lord Jarvis, the ruthlessly brilliant King’s cousin who loomed as the acknowledged power behind the Hanovers’ wobbly dynasty. Standing nearly six feet tall and possessing an education typically given only to sons, Hero was in her own way as ruthless as her father. But her radical philosophies were of the kind that gave Jarvis fits.

  There’d been a time not so long ago when she’d been determined never to become any man’s wife, determined to dedicate her life to challenging the brutal social injustices that characterized their society. A chance encounter with a certain handsome, dangerous viscount had altered her attitudes toward marriage. But her passionate dedication to her cause had never wavered.

  For the past year she had made the study of London’s poor her special project. Now, a summer spent traveling between Devlin’s manor down in Hampshire and several of Jarvis’s estates had stimulated an interest in the effects of the enclosure movement on England’s poor. She was focused on scribbling a series of questions to investigate when she became aware of Devlin walking toward her, the morning sun glazing his fine-boned face with a rich golden light.

  “That didn’t take long,” she said as he drew nearer.

  He shook his head. “It’s only just begun, I’m afraid.”

  She felt the earlier surge of carefree joy seeping out of the day. “So the young Squire was right? It was murder?”

  “Yes.”

  “Dear God.”

  He bent to pick up their son, the somber lines of his face relaxing into a smile as Simon squealed with delight. For a moment, he held the child close. Then he looked over at her. “You’re working?”

  It was one of the things she loved about him, that he respected the work she did. That he respected her—her mind, her talents, her opinions. “Just jotting down ideas.” She closed her notebook. “Why?”

  “I need your help.”

  Emma Chance had occupied a corner chamber overlooking both the village green and the high street. Low ceilinged, with walls papered in a cheery floral pattern, it was furnished with a heavy, old-fashioned oak-framed bed hung with blue linen; a single chair; a washstand and nightstool behind a carved screen; and a clothespress so ancient it looked as if it might be original to the inn. At the foot of the bed rested a new-looking trunk and a pair of tapestry slippers; a lightweight hooded cloak and a sprigged dressing gown hung from hooks near the door.

  Although he knew it was something that had to be done, Sebastian still found himself hesitating at the chamber door. The sense of intruding on a private space was strong, and he couldn’t help thinking that just yesterday, Emma Chance had left this room expecting to return to it in a few minutes or at most a few hours. She could never have imagined strangers coming here after her death to inspect her most private possessions, to analyze everything in a desperate search for clues as to exactly who she was and who could have wanted to kill her. And he found himself grateful that Hero had been able to leave Simon with his nurse, Claire, and come here with them. McBroom was right; her presence did, somehow, make what they were doing feel like less of a violation . . . although he acknowledged that could simply be a sop to his own conscience.

  “How long was she planning to stay?” Hero asked the glowering innkeeper as she went to throw open the doors of the clothespress.

  Rather than come into the room, Mr. McBroom stayed in the hall, his hands tucked up under his armpits. “Said she wanted the room for a week—maybe a bit more.”

  “She wasn’t traveling with much,” said Hero, studying the two spare dresses in the clothespress: a sturdy gray carriage dress trimmed with black piping, and a simple black morning gown. The drawers below held two nightdresses, a pair of soft leather shoes, clean undergarments, and several pairs of black stockings.

  “And?” asked Sebastian. This was the other reason he was glad to have Hero with them: As a woman, she could evaluate Emma Chance’s possessions in a way he never could.

  “The carriage dress is nicely made and looks quite new—as if it’s only been worn once or twice. The other things are also nice, but with the exception of the black stockings they’re not new. The morning gown is an older muslin dress she probably dyed black when her husband died. How long did you say she’d been widowed?”

  “Six months,” said Rawlins. He’d positioned himself just inside the door, his hands thrust into the pockets of his coat and his shoulders hunched. He was obviously feeling as awkward and out of place as Sebastian.

  “How sad,” said Hero. She moved to study the array of objects spread across the top of the bedside table and washstand: a small embroidered silk sewing kit that opened to reveal dainty scissors, a thimble, thread, and buttons; a simple wood-and-silk fan painted with blowsy pink roses; a silver hairbrush and comb; a toothbrush and tooth powder; a half-empty bottle of rose water; a bar of rose-scented soap. . . .

  “She obviously liked roses,” said Hero, studying the rose-encircled initials on the back of the hairbrush: EC. “This is new too.”

  “So is the trunk,” said Sebastian. He watched his wife walk to the center of the room, then frown and turn in a slow circle. “What is it?”

  “You said you found a spencer, a hat, and gloves lying beside her. What about her reticule?”

  Sebastian looked at Archie Rawlins.

  Both men shook their heads.

  “So where is it?” said Hero.

  “Perhaps it’s in the trunk,” suggested the Squire, going to throw open the lid. But the trunk was empty except for an assortment of pencils and charcoals, a small paint box, and a sketchbook.

  “Ah,” said Rawlins. “I wondered where that was.”

  He laid the sketchbook on the counterpane and opened it to reveal a pencil sketch of Mr. Martin McBroom hunched behind his counter, his spectacles perched on the end of his nose, his chin pulled back in a heavy scowl.

  “Why, it’s me!” said the innkeeper, venturing closer. “It’s good. Don’t you think it’s good?” he asked, glancing around at the oth
ers.

  “It is. Very.” Sebastian flipped the page. The next portrait was of Archie Rawlins, looking wide-eyed and eager but a touch unsure of himself. Emma Chance had been more than simply adept at capturing her subjects’ likenesses; she’d also possessed a rare gift for discerning and conveying the subtle nuances of personality and character.

  “And that’s me,” said Rawlins with a soft, breathy laugh. “When did she do it?” He began turning the pages. “Look; there’s the vicar. And that’s Reuben Dickie and . . .” He broke off, his hand stilling at the sight of a full-length drawing of a man.

  Most of the other portraits had been sketches only, usually showing a head and shoulders or, at most, the upper torso. But this was a full-length, careful rendering in charcoal of a man turned as if to look back at the artist, his wavy dark hair cut low across his forehead, his nose long and slightly arched, his gently molded lips and cleft chin painfully familiar.

  “Good heavens,” said Hero. “It’s Napoléon.”

  Chapter 5

  Archie Rawlins shook his head. “No. But it is his younger brother Lucien—Lucien Bonaparte. He’s here, you know; he and his family are staying out at Northcott Abbey.”

  Hero stared at him. “Napoléon’s brother is here?”

  Rawlins nodded. “Has been for more than two years now. Well, not in Ayleswick-on-Teme all that time, but in the area.”

  Sebastian studied the Corsican’s swarthy, handsome features, so much like those of his more famous brother in his prime. Lucien Bonaparte had been captured with his entire family off the coast of Italy in late 1810. He claimed to have been fleeing from his brother’s wrath, although there were those in London who suspected that Lucien’s planned voyage to America had less to do with fraternal rivalries and more to do with the Emperor’s desire to fan the flames of war between Britain and the fledgling United States. They could never quite get over the fact that, as president of the Council of Five Hundred, Lucien had played a vital role in elevating Napoléon to power.