When Falcons Fall

by C. S. Harris

  “Love sickness, the silly chit.”

  “She was in love? With whom?”

  “Who knows? Kept it a secret. Probably some married man, I’m afraid. She was as pretty and flighty as Sybil, so it was no surprise when she came to a similarly bad end.”

  Hero took a slow sip of her tea. She suspected that any attractive young woman who laughed and enjoyed the attentions of men would be condemned as “flighty” by the vicar’s wife. “Precisely when did these deaths occur?”

  Mrs. Underwood screwed up her face with thought. “Well . . . let’s see. It was before Maplethorpe burned, so it must have been ’ninety-six or ’ninety-seven.”

  “Had any other young women died under similar circumstances before that?”

  “Well, there was Marie Baldwyn. Threw herself off the roof of Maplethorpe Hall, she did. But that was before my time. And I believe the family succeeded in convincing the coroner’s jury that she had simply slipped and fallen to her death.”

  “What about in the years since then?”

  “Good heavens, no. Two were quite enough, thank you. Three, if you count Marie Baldwyn.”

  “Four if you count Emma Chandler,” said Hero. “Whoever killed her also tried to pass that death off as a suicide.”

  The vicar’s wife looked vaguely affronted. “Surely you don’t mean to suggest that there’s any sort of connection? It’s been years!”

  “So it has.” Hero took another sip of her tea and smiled. “I had a second purpose in visiting you this evening. I was wondering: Do you have a copy of Debrett’s Peerage?”

  Agnes Underwood settled back on her seat, obviously too relieved by the shift in topic to be puzzled by it. “Why, yes.”

  “May I borrow it? As well as any histories of seventeenth – and eighteenth-century Scotland and Wales the vicar might have?”

  “Of course.” She waited expectantly to have the request explained to her.

  But Hero simply smiled, said, “Thank you,” and left it at that.

  Later that evening, Hero sent Jules Calhoun up to the Grange with a message for Archie Rawlins.

  Then she settled down beside her sleeping son and opened the vicar’s books in search of Guinevere Stuart Gordon.

  Chapter 31

  Saturday, 7 August

  S ebastian left for Tenbury early the next morning, after having stopped the night at an old, half-timbered inn on the edge of Little Stretton. The day had dawned cool and misty, with heavy white clouds that hugged the tops of the trees and obscured the upper heights of the Long Mynd. He made the drive in easy stages, resting his horses along the way.

  A middling-sized, ancient market town surrounded by orchards of apples, damson plums, and pears, Tenbury lay on the southern banks of the River Teme where the counties of Worcestershire, Herefordshire, and Shropshire all came together. In the spring, when the fruit trees bloomed, the town could be lovely, with clouds of colorful, piercingly sweet petals that billowed through the narrow old streets. But on this wet, dismal morning, Tenbury seemed brooding, somber.

  Miss Rowena LaMont’s Academy for Young Ladies lay on a quiet street of stern, gray stone houses with steeply pitched slate roofs, its garden hidden by a high wall topped with spikes.

  “Ain’t the most cheery-lookin’ place, is it?” said Tom.

  Sebastian stared up at that bleak, silent facade and found himself remembering twelve-year-old Emma’s drawing of the school engulfed in hellish flames. “Perhaps it looks better in the sunshine,” he said, and handed the boy the reins.

  Miss Rowena LaMont proved to be as prim and forbidding-looking as her house. A tall, thin woman somewhere in her late fifties, she had unusually pronounced cheekbones and a small, tight mouth. Her dark blue gown was both fashionable and finely made, but cut high at the neck, its severity relieved only by a thin band of good lace at the collar.

  She received him in a comfortable parlor as elegant as her gown. Around them, the house was quiet, with most of the students presumably home for the summer holidays.

  “Lord Devlin,” she said, sinking into a curtsy. “How do you do? Please sit down and tell me how I may help you.”

  He knew by the avaricious gleam in her eyes that she thought him the parent of a prospective student. He took the comfortable seat she indicated and said bluntly, “I’m here because I’m hoping you can answer some questions about Miss Emma Chandler.”

  Avarice receded behind a frozen facade of bristly caution. “Emma? I’m sorry to disappoint you, my lord, but Miss Chandler is no longer a student at the academy.”

  “I know. You have heard, I assume, that she was murdered earlier this week in Shropshire?”

  The headmistress’s expression never altered. “I read about it in this morning’s papers, yes. I gather there was some initial confusion as to her proper identity.”

  “It must have come as a sad shock to you.”

  Miss Rowena LaMont obviously had any shock she may have experienced well under control, and Sebastian found himself doubting she’d felt even the slightest twinge of sadness. She regarded him steadily. “Surely you aren’t suggesting her death is in any way connected to her time at the academy?”

  He gave her a reassuring smile. “Of course not. But the local magistrate has asked for my assistance in the investigation, and we were hoping you might be able to tell us more about her. At the moment, the circumstances surrounding her death remain a complete mystery.”

  Miss LaMont pursed her lips and plucked at her high collar with a nervous thumb and forefinger. “I’m sorry, but surely you can appreciate my position? The privacy of our students—both present and past—must always be respected.”

  “I understand,” said Sebastian with a smile, rising to his feet. “I had assumed you would prefer to speak with me. But I see now I should have had Bow Street send one of their Runners to interview you. My apologies for—”

  “Wait!” Miss Rowena’s eyes widened in alarm. The last thing the mistress of a school for young ladies wanted was for it to be known that her premises had been visited by Bow Street Runners. “Please, my lord, do sit down.” She folded her hands in her lap. “Now, what would you like to know?”

  Sebastian settled back into his seat. “How long was Miss Chandler a student here?”

  “Fourteen years. She came to us at the age of seven.”

  The thought of Emma spending two-thirds of her short life in these bleak, cold surroundings struck him as profoundly sad and troubling. But all he said was, “Tell me about her.”

  Miss LaMont gave a tight little smile. “What is it the Jesuits say? ‘Give me a child to the age of seven, and I will give you the man’—or, in this case, the woman? I’m afraid Emma’s character was essentially formed by the time she came to us.”

  “Where had she lived, before?”

  “Some farm family. Foster parents, of course. But she should have been removed from them much, much sooner. She was a wild thing when she arrived, with the manners and speech of a country bumpkin. Needless to say, we took care of that in short order, although I’m afraid she never quite fit in with the other students.”

  “Why not?”

  “Why? Because of who she was, of course.”

  Which she was never allowed to forget, he thought. Aloud, he said, “So who was she?”

  Miss LaMont lowered her voice, as if what she was about to say was too shocking to be expressed aloud. “A natural child.”

  “Of whom?”

  “As to that, I fear I cannot say.”

  “Yet she obviously came from a wealthy family.”

  “Oh, yes. Her bloodline must always demand respect, even if the stain of illegitimacy remains indelible.”

  Sebastian studied the schoolmistress’s self-satisfied, supercilious expression. If Rowena LaMont considered Emma Chandler’s bloodline worthy of respect, then the girl must
have been of gentle birth. The by-blow of a mere merchant or tradesman, no matter how wealthy, would never be considered possessed of superior blood.

  “Had she any close friends amongst the other students?”

  “Oh, no. I always took care to discourage the formation of any schoolgirl attachments in that direction. My students’ parents would hardly thank me for allowing their daughters to form such a connection, now, would they?”

  “But she was friendly with Georgina Seaton.”

  Miss Lamont stiffened. “She was, yes. But then, girls of Georgina’s age do sometimes have a tendency toward willfulness. If Emma hadn’t been leaving the academy, I would have taken more forceful steps to end the friendship. But as it was . . .” She shrugged.

  Sebastian found he liked the absent Georgina Seaton, although he had never met the girl. It couldn’t have been easy for her to befriend someone so obviously marked as an outcast by the school’s headmistress.

  He said, “Did you know that Miss Seaton’s brother, Crispin, had formed an attachment to Miss Chandler?”

  Rowena LaMont’s small pale eyes grew narrow and flinty. “I was aware of his interest, yes.”

  “Did you by chance inform Lady Seaton of that interest?”

  “If I had thought it serious, I would not have hesitated to notify her ladyship. But the boy is only—what? Twenty-one? Twenty-two? Young gentlemen of that age tumble in and out of love with startling rapidity and frequency. I saw no need to trouble her ladyship with something that would inevitably blow over.”

  “Had you had any communication with Emma since she left the school?”

  “No. Why would I?”

  Emma Chandler had shared this woman’s table and parlor for fourteen years, yet she found his question strange?

  Something of his thoughts must have shown on his face, for she said, “To coddle the fruits of sin is to condone the act that created them, and I believe we must never be lured into such errors by the temptations of misplaced kindness.” She smoothed one hand down over her fine skirt. “Emma Chandler could with justice have been consigned to a short, brutal existence in a parish workhouse. Instead, she was given a life of rare comfort and privilege. Yet far from being grateful or suitably humble, she was angry, resentful, and willful.”

  Sebastian found his hands tightening on the arms of his chair, so that he had to deliberately relax them. “Can you think of anyone who might have wanted to cause her harm?”

  Miss LaMont gave a forced, mirthless laugh. “Good heavens, no.”

  “Do you have any idea what might have taken her to Ayleswick?”

  “No idea whatsoever.” She glanced pointedly at the small gold watch she wore pinned to her bodice. “And now you really must excuse me, my lord; I have duties to which I must attend.”

  “Of course.” He rose to his feet. “If you could furnish me with the name and direction of her family?”

  She rose with him. “Sorry, but that’s quite out of the question.”

  He gave her a smile that showed his teeth. “Well, if you’d rather deal with Bow Street . . .”

  She pursed her lips, her nostrils flaring with indignation. He thought for a moment that she still meant to refuse him. Then she said, “Wait here,” and swept from the room.

  She reappeared a moment later to slam a folded piece of paper down on the rosewood table beside the door. “You didn’t receive this from me. And if you try to claim otherwise, I shall give you the lie to your face. Good day, my lord. One of the maids will show you out.”

  After she had gone, Sebastian went to unfold the slip of paper and stare down at what she had written. Lord Heyworth. Pleasant Park, Herefordshire.

  He folded the paper again and put it in his pocket.

  He was tempted to start for Herefordshire that afternoon. But one look at his tired horses told him the chestnuts had gone as far as they should in one day.

  “Did ye find out who she was?” asked Tom as Sebastian leapt up to take the reins.

  “Not exactly. But I now have a very good idea of where to look.”

  Chapter 32

  Shortly after breakfast, Hero hired a pretty little gray mare from Martin McBroom’s stables and, accompanied at a respectful distance by a groom, rode out to the Moss family’s cottage on the far edge of Lord Seaton’s estate.

  It was one of half a dozen such cottages in a row, all neatly whitewashed and newly thatched, each with its own croft and toft. The young Baron—or at any rate his sober, middle-aged steward—obviously took good care of the estate’s tenants.

  She reined in before the open front door of one of the middle cottages, where a towheaded child of four or five who’d been playing in the dirt beside the step looked up at her in openmouthed awe. “Good morning,” said Hero with a smile, dismounting without her groom’s assistance. “Is your mother or father around?”

  The child gaped at Hero a moment, then pushed to her feet and darted inside, screaming, “Mumma, Mumma! Come quick!”

  A slim, pleasant-looking woman appeared in the doorway, her flaxen hair in striking contrast to her still smooth, sunlit skin, the child now balanced on one hip and sucking her thumb.

  “Mrs. Moss?” asked Hero. If this was Sybil’s mother, she must be in at least her mid-forties by now, and she was still startlingly beautiful.

  “Aye, milady,” said the woman, sinking into a deep curtsy.

  Hero found herself hesitating as she looked into the woman’s faintly smiling but puzzled face. How do you tell a mother you want to reopen the wounds of the past? she thought. How do you gracefully bring up the death of one of her children? How do you ask her to confront, in daylight and before a stranger’s eyes, a pain normally kept tucked out of sight and revisited only in solitude during the darkest hours of the night?

  “I need to talk to you about the death of your daughter Sybil,” Hero said bluntly, and watched the smile fade from the older woman’s soft blue eyes, leaving them stark and hurting.

  “She was my firstborn,” said the woman who introduced herself as Anne Moss. They were seated beside the cottage’s cold hearth, a nearby casement window thrown open to the cool summer breeze. She held the little fair-haired girl in her lap and kept touching the child’s cheek, her arm, her leg, as if to reassure herself of this living child’s presence. “She was so pretty, my Sybil. As pretty as any angel in one of those Popish holy pictures.”

  Hero wondered where the cottager’s wife had seen such an image but kept the thought to herself.

  “Barely sixteen, she was. She’d always been such a good child. But you know what girls of that age are like—willful and feeling their oats.”

  Hero found she could picture Sybil Moss quite clearly: a younger version of her mother, beautiful and nubile and joyously aware of her ability to turn heads and attract men. Lots of men. She would know she was desirable, know that her youth and beauty gave her a special kind of power—fleeting, perhaps, but rare and valuable.

  “Is it true she was with child?” Hero asked, because she suspected the mother would not voluntarily betray her daughter’s condition.

  A faint line of color appeared high along her cheekbones. “She was. But she didn’t kill herself over it. I don’t care what that high-and-mighty coroner from Ludlow said. She didn’t throw herself off the cliffs of the gorge because she was with child. She was happy about the baby.”

  “Do you know who the father was?”

  Anne Moss shook her head. “She wouldn’t say. It was something she hugged to herself, a secret. But it was a secret she was proud of; I’m sure of that. She weren’t ashamed of it.”

  “How did your husband feel about it?”

  Anne Moss hesitated, then lifted the little girl off her lap and said, “There now, Lizzy; run along and play.”

  She watched the child dart out the door, and sighed. “To be frank, I don’t think John was
surprised. She was so very pretty, our Sybil. He was hoping she’d take up with one of the more prosperous farmers hereabouts, someone who could give her a good life. But . . .”

  “But?” prompted Hero when the woman lapsed into silence.

  “I worried. She was so pretty—prettier than I ever was, and she knew it. Gave her grand ideas, I’m afraid.”

  “Who do you think was the babe’s father?”

  Anne Moss brought up one hand to rub her forehead. “I don’t know. But she let slip a thing or two, enough to make me think he was a gentleman. Someone she should’ve known better than to go lying with.”

  “You mean, someone like Lord Seaton? Or perhaps the old Squire?”

  Sybil Moss’s mother nodded, her lips pressed into a pained line. “I even wondered about Major Weston or maybe—God forgive me—the vicar himself. Man of God he might be, but it never stopped him from having an eye for the pretty ones.”

  Was it a coincidence, Hero wondered, that Sybil Moss’s mother had named four of the seven men on Emma Chandler’s mysterious list? Somehow, she doubted it. “What about Samuel Atwater?”

  The older woman’s face lightened with unexpected amusement. “Oh, no chance of that. Samuel Atwater’s never had eyes for anyone but Lady Seaton. He’d marry her tomorrow, if she’d agree to it.”

  Hero remembered the steward’s quiet, intense focus on the pretty, petite dowager, and wondered why she hadn’t figured that out for herself. “Tell me what happened the day Sybil died.”

  Anne Moss stared down at the cold ashes on the hearth beside them, her face drawn and suddenly much older looking, her fingers plucking at the cloth of her apron. “It was Midsummer’s Eve,” she said, as if that explained much, as indeed it did.

  The pagan origins of the rites of the summer solstice might be lost in the darkness of millennia past, but the date was still an important one in country villages. It was a time of drinking and dancing, when bonfires were lit along the fields so that their herb-scented smoke might drift across the crops to ward off evil sprits and ensure a successful harvest. Young girls decked themselves in garlands of golden calendula and marigolds and Saint-John’s-wort, symbols of the sun and the light and life it gave.