“Went out an hour ago,” Dobbins told me. “Lookin’ like a thundercloud, he was. But so he’s been for days now.” I knew the stablemaster was not talking about Zeus.
He cupped his hands to give me a leg up. As I arranged my skirts, I clamped my teeth over my tongue to keep from asking in which direction Exmere rode. The daughter of the regiment would not have been so circumspect, but for the sake of survival I had banished her.
“Rode toward the village, he did,” Dobbins offered. “But over the moor, not by the road. He nodded at a track leading south, roughly paralleling the road. I had explored it before and found it a charming ride.
But why had Dobbins offered the information? Had Exmere asked him to? Or was the stablemaster sympathetic to lost causes?
In that moment all my good intentions whipped away on the wind. If Exmere had ridden south, I was not about to turn Bess north. I set out, fairly confident that Dobbins would not be running to the earl with the news that I had followed Exmere onto the moor. At least I fervently hoped he would not.
As I rode, I kept the sound of the sea to my right, as the track tended to fade in and out, and getting lost on the moor could be lethal. The afternoon was crisp and clear, with no sign of the mists that rolled off the water on their own erratic schedule. I settled down to enjoying the gentle roll of the land, the barren hills and the small clusters of trees in the valleys, the lovely colors of the moorland, and the occasional rivulet wending its way to the sea, framed in green bracken waving softly in the breeze. At last my uneasiness about blatantly following Robert faded, and I realized what a perfect day it was. Ideal, in fact. I was riding cross-country in North Devon with the vast blue expanse of the sea several hundred yards to my right and all the flora and fauna of Exmoor around me. I was safe in England, Napoleon was defeated, and I was beginning a new life in a place of great peace and beauty. How very selfish of me to want more.
I reined Bess in as we topped a hill and paused to enjoy the view, which seemed to encompass every pastel color known to man. And then I saw the slow swoop of hawks circling, circling . . .
Not hawks. Bess sidled as she felt the shiver that stabbed through me. Vultures. It had been months, but circling vultures were a sight one never forgets. Only one thing interests vultures . . .
Oh dear God, Exmere was out there!
I kicked Bess to the gallop, setting a break-neck pace I knew was reckless, but vultures meant just one thing: something dead or dying. A sheep, I told myself. A pony. Maybe only a rabbit . . .
I slowed Bess as we forded a rocky stream several feet wide, and then we were off again, forging our way up yet another hill, plunging down the other side in a near skid. Fool! I slowed Bess to a walk as we carefully picked our way around an area strewn with rocks and made our way around the next rise of land, following bracken that waved above an almost invisible trickle of water. The vultures were nearly overhead now, the ragged outline of their wings silhouetted against the sky. We came out from behind the hill, and there was Zeus, tied to a bush. Exmere?
Forcing back a surge of panic, I surveyed the scene with care. There had to be some other explanation for the slow-circling carrion birds above than Robert meeting disaster. My searching eyes paused, shifted back to a standing stone as high as a man. My heartrate surged. For there, just peeping out from behind the giant rock was a glimpse of green jacket, leather breeches, and black boots. Not prone, thank God, but bent at an angle as if he were kneeling on the ground.
With a whoosh of relief I set Bess forward. Robert, hearing my approach, unfolded from the ground and stood looking at me, hands on his hips. “Go home, Penny,” he said coldly. “This is not sight you wish to see.”
I continued to ride forward.
“Devil it, Penny. Go home!”
I dismounted, leading Bess as I walked toward him. “I have seen death before, Exmere.” Putting Bess between us so he could not seize my arm, I continued forward and took a look.
And instantly regretted it. “Good God,” I whispered.
“Just so.” Exmere’s lips curled into a grim I-warned-you. “It’s Sal,” he added. “From The Cat and Sole.”
I closed my eyes, put my knuckles to my lips, and leaned my head against Bess. Sal, covered in blood from head to toe, her face smeared with it, her blouse and skirt dark red among a few patches of their original white and blue. “How long?” I asked, knowing Robert must be as knowledgeable about bodies as was I.
“Since last night, I would guess.”
I forced myself to another look and had to agree. Blood had congealed, turning dark, the body was stiff. The murder had not happened this morning. Exmere had not killed her just before I rode up.
And how could I even think such a thought? Not Robert, my Robert. Although who knew what anger rang through him if Hycliffe had warned him off as thoroughly as he had warned me.
No! He would never attack Sal, the friendly barmaid.
Yet someone had. Very likely the same madman who had killed Mary Perkins and shoved Nell Ridgeway into the sea. For a madman it had to be. There was no other explanation.
“Penny,” Robert said, “I need you to go home and tell the others what has happened. “Have Hunt bring Thomas Ridgeway, who is magistrate here. He’ll need to see this before we move the body.”
“Of course.”
He leaped forward to give me a leg up. Horribly embarrassed that my blood surged at his touch in spite of the horrifying circumstances, I turned Bess’s head away rather abruptly.
“Penny,” Robert called after me. “Do you carry a pistol?”
“Always.”
“Loaded?”
I reined Bess in and gave him a look. “I spent the last five years with an army at war. Do you suppose I ever travel with an empty pistol?”
He sketched a salute and waved me on my way.
I had a long ride to contemplate just how thoroughly I had ignored my resolution to avoid Exmere at all costs. How my eager anticipation of a few private moments on the moor had turned to horror. And for my part, justifiably so. I was an incurable hoyden to think for even one moment of myself when Sal lay dead from what appeared to be a merciless beating. And, yes, I had seen beatings before. Both of soldiers on each other and of soldiers on their wives or lemans.
My thoughts also kept flitting over to the other men of my acquaintance, wondering which one might love too strongly, or conversely, which might indulge in overweening hate. What soul-shattering event had driven someone to madness? Surely there had to be a reason for such heinous crimes.
I did not care for the whispers insinuating themselves through my mind. Everywhere my thoughts turned. I found moments of darkness, past events that might have set a man off. Hycliffe, Robert, Kenrick, David, Thomas Ridgeway, senior and junior. I could see motives for any or all. Hycliffe had suffered the ignominy of losing his wife to another man. Robert had seen the atrocities of war practiced by the Spanish guerrilleros against the French and by the French in return, atrocities that had driven more than one man mad. David suffered frustration on a daily basis. Kenrick? Though raised in the lap of luxury, he might possibly resent that he was not the heir. Or that Robert and Huntley were so carelessly handsome and charming, while he had to rely on his sharp tongue to be noticed. The Ridgeways? They suffered the enmity of their nearest neighbor and the stigma of being related to the man who caused the rift between the families. But to kill a child or sister . . .?
Then again, the madman could be someone I had never met, some wild hermit of the moor, a lost soul not truly responsible for his actions.
But my suspicions remained, a darkness I could not shake off. Someone I knew—someone I had met since coming to Moorhead Manor—was guilty of three murders. Possibly with more to come.
Chapter Seventeen
That night at dinner Lord Hycliffe made several attempts to introduce neutral topics of conversation. None produced more than a timid response from Lady Emmaline and glum silence from the rest of us. Naturally, w
e would not discuss Sal’s death at table, but to act as if nothing had happened . . . After all, Exmere, Kenrick, and Huntley had returned from taking Sal’s body to the village with but a scant half hour to change for dinner.
In truth, I supposed the earl was merely fulfilling the role of master of the house—maintaining high standards of etiquette, no matter what the circumstances. But I could not be comfortable with what seemed like indifference to murder and to the grief of Sal’s family and friends.
Yet I sympathized with the pain of Lord Hycliffe’s loss and the great humiliation that went with it. Though grief for the dead was painful, perhaps the pain of rejection was nearly as intense, as it sparked a hundred what if’s, might-have-been’s, and what did I do wrong’s. His wife had disappeared into nothingness. A constant sorrow. A constant thorn in his side. Or perhaps simply a constant anger. A great weight to carry—one I could not possibly fathom. So I would put all criticisms aside and accept him as he was. A peer of the realm. My employer. And Robert’s father.
After dinner, as the gentlemen joined the ladies in the drawing room, I heard Kenrick declare in his customary sarcastic drawl, “At least there’ll be no nonsense from Aylworth about burial in unhallowed ground. The mawworm can scarce claim she beat herself to death.”
“Kenrick!” Though faint, Lady Emmaline’s admonishment pierced the room’s heavy atmosphere.
“Apologies, chère maman.” He swooped in, brushing a kiss across her cheek. “Gallows humor sometimes helps when all else fails.”
At last the dam burst, and we spoke of our fears. Of violence on the moor and the light Sal’s death shed on the deaths of Nell Ridgeway and Mary Perkins. Somewhere between solid facts and wild suppositions we were all agreed on one thing: a killer was among us and no female was safe.
“Surely we are safe inside the house,” Vanessa protested.
“Of course,” Huntley scoffed, giving her the disgusted look only a younger brother can manage.
“No!” Robert declared so forcefully we all stared.
“Come now, Rob,” Kenrick chided. “You’re frightening the females.”
“Exactly. They should be frightened. Until this madman is found, they should suspect every last one of us.”
“Exmere!” Lady Emmaline exclaimed.
“Boy’s right,” the earl said in the decisive tone of a judge issuing a verdict from the high bench. “Every female in the area is at risk. “Miss Ballantyne, you in particular are vulnerable. No more lonely walks or rides. Take a groom if none of our young gentlemen are available for escort. Vanessa, I shall mount a footman outside your door around the clock. Emmaline, have your maid set up a truckle in your room—as much for her sake as yours. She’s a taking little thing, as I recall.
Vanessa and I exchanged a glance. What about Alice? She too was at risk but we dared not mention her by name. Then again, perhaps an earl was too lofty to know the name of Nell Ridgeway’s maid, even if she had been a frequent visitor to Moorhead Manor.
“Your maid, too,” Lord Hycliffe said to Vanessa. “Keep her close.”
He knew. Of course he knew. The Earl of Hycliffe knew everything.
“And, Penny . . .” He turned back to me. “I will have a bar installed on your door. Do not fail to use it.”
“Yes, my lord.”
“Not exactly a festive All Hallow’s Eve,” Huntley muttered.
Was it? I did a quick reckoning in my head. Yes, indeed, tomorrow was November first, All Saint’s Day. Before following the ladies upstairs to bed, I sent up a fervent prayer for the souls of Mary, Nell, and Sal. And for the living who must cope with something even more inexplicable than the violence of war.
Some weeks ago, shortly after my arrival at Moorhead Manor, I discovered the so-called “morning room” was always deserted in the afternoon. A charming room, inviting even when the sun did not shine through its east-facing windows, I had adopted it as my own private haven for reading, writing letters, or simply allowing my thoughts to wander from reality to fantasy and back again. Today, unfortunately, reality was too grim to allow for flights of fantasy. Nor could I bring myself to write about our troubles in North Devon. And concentrating on a book was out of the question. So I sat on the gold brocade sofa, full of sloth, hands in my lap, my thoughts circling and dipping as endlessly as the vultures above poor Sal’s body.
Until I felt a presence and looked up, straight into Exmere’s azure eyes. “Flee, dear girl,” he said with only the faintest touch of the sardonic. “We are alone. I could be here to ravish and strangle you.”
“And I could be carrying a primed pistol in my reticule.”
His lips twitched. “Which you undoubtedly are.” I nodded. Without a by-your-leave he sat on the opposite end of the sofa, which was a small one, putting him only inches from me. “You will heed Hycliffe’s warning about not riding out alone,” he told me. “You have only to ask and I will be happy to escort you wherever you wish.”
I opened my eyes wide. “But who will protect me from you, my lord?”
“Robert.”
“My question stands.”
“A problem, a veritable problem, I must admit. Though it’s not murder you need fear from me.”
I fixed my gaze on the Aubusson carpet, swallowed hard, and struggled for a change of subject. And then, there it was, a question long buried under houseguests, my accident, and three murders.
“There is something I’ve been meaning to ask,” I said. “As a child, did you play in the cave under the hill?”
Robert had been reaching out to me, his fingers almost touching my face. His hand dropped. He stared. “Cave under the hill?” he repeated.
“Behind the folly,” I said. “I accidently triggered the opening one misty morning, but I dared not go inside for fear it would close behind me. And then the guests came, and so much else has happened, I never thought of it ’til now.” Noting his complete shock, my voice trailed away as I added, “I assumed you and Huntley and Kenrick must have found it a wondrous place to play when you were children.” I did not mention that I had returned to the folly twice, each time failing to find the opening.
Robert was on his feet, hauling me up to join him. “Show me,” he commanded.
I was about to run upstairs for my cloak when he ordered a footman to bring it down, his own greatcoat as well, before snapping an order to Allard to find a lantern. While we waited, I explained that I had discovered the passage by accident and was not at all certain I could duplicate my action. It was as if he hadn’t heard me. When the footman returned, he snatched up my cloak and put it around my shoulders himself before moving off at a fast pace, dragging me behind him. Through the green baize door, across the kitchen, past the pungent odors of the kitchen garden, and through the wooden door into the walled formal gardens. It seemed as if we scarcely drew breath before we came to a halt before the white marble bench at the rear of the open-sided folly. “Well?” he demanded. “Where were you? What did you do?”
Red stained my cheeks as I thought back to exactly what I’d done just before discovering the opening. I had kneed Kenrick Blythe where it would hurt the most, followed by a sharp slap to his face and an order to go away.
“Penny?”
“I had a slight altercation with Mr. Blythe. He departed rather abruptly, and I sat down hard on the bench, falling backwards—”
“You what?” he asked on a rather ominous note.
“I boxed his ears and told him to go. He went and I collapsed onto the bench. Believe me, opening secret passages was the last thing I was thinking of.”
“Kenrick forced himself on you?”
“Rather, I would say he was a bit overeager,” I countered.
A re-enactment, if you please. Show me what happened.”
The wave of mortification that swept through me was abruptly quashed by a frisson of mischief. I could do this—and perhaps enjoy it. Far more than I had the original.
“We were seated on the bench,” I said, sitting
where I had sat that day. “Kenrick was next to me.” Robert took his place beside me. “He was flirting a bit too much, and I decided to leave. He followed me up and kissed me.”
“Like this,” Robert murmured, and swept me into his arms, his lips coming down hard on mine. It’s fortunate we had not followed the original event exactly for if we were standing, I doubt my legs would have held me up. When he finally pulled away by not more than half an inch, he said, “Isn’t this where you’re supposed to slap my face?”
“Mm-m.”
“We have misinterpreted the script. We need to repeat the scene standing up.” And with that he pulled me up and proceeded to kiss me senseless. “And now you box my— Is that all you did?” Robert demanded suddenly.
I shook my head, blushing furiously.
Robert let out a roar of laughter. “Oh, well done, my girl. No wonder you survived so well in the army.” His laughter died, and he turned a shrewd gaze to the pristine marble wall. “So now that you have topped crippling poor Kenrick by boxing his ears, you fall back on the bench . . .”
I dropped onto the bench, wincing as I fell backwards against the ungiving marble . . . and of course nothing happened. Robert pushed me aside, rather unceremoniously, and began to push every protuberance he could find. Prodding, twisting, all to no avail.
“I saw it,” I insisted. “It’s there, really it is.”
He stood up, casting a baleful eye on the carvings that ran along the top of the bench. “You said the opening was here, at this end?”
“Yes.”
Suddenly, he lunged forward, throwing his weight against the back of the bench. A loud creak, a crunch of stone and stucco, and there it was. A narrow entrance into the hill behind the garden. Robert swore, then took up the lantern. “Stay here,” he ordered. “Guard the entrance, don’t let it close.” I stood with my back against the bit of wall that had become a door as he plunged into the pitch blackness. For some time I could see the light of the bobbing lantern, and then he must have turned a corner, for suddenly it was gone. I was determined not to call out to him, not to reveal my fear. The cave needed to be explored, but the waiting wasn’t easy. Who knew what dangers might lurk in such a cavern? A cave-in and a massive amount of bats being but two of my fears.
Mists of Moorhead Manor Page 14
