Antonia brought the mare around, then glanced at Sebastian.
He handed the gray’s reins to the inspector, then grasped Antonia about the waist and hoisted her up.
She slid her feet into the stirrups and settled her skirt.
Sebastian retrieved his reins from Crawford. He met Crawford’s eyes, then glanced at Sir Humphrey. “We need Connell Boyne alive.”
“Because of that business with the gunpowder?” the inspector asked.
Sebastian nodded. “You’ve both seen my authority.”
“Oh, you’ll get no argument from me.” Crawford looked at Sir Humphrey. “I’d prefer him alive, too. I like all my loose ends neatly tied off, even when they aren’t, strictly speaking, mine.”
“Apropos of loose ends”—Sebastian looked to where the other men were emerging from the stable one by one, each leading a saddled horse—“we agree that most of the male guests could have killed Lady Ennis, but I’ve always wondered about which man she, dressed as she was, would have allowed into her room at that time of night without her being very much on her guard. If she had no other lover among the guests, then aside from myself, the only other man of the company I could imagine her inviting in without a qualm would be her brother-in-law. As far as she knew, she had nothing to fear from Connell. To my mind, he should be at the top of your list of suspects for her murder, but we’ll never have any proof short of a confession.” He focused on Crawford. “Unless you learned anything from the staff?”
Crawford shook his head. “Not a thing. None of them were in that part of the house at that time.”
Sebastian nodded. “That was to be expected. However, there’s something that’s been nagging at me about Connell’s alibi for Ennis’s murder. You told Lady Antonia and me that it was difficult to see how Connell could have stabbed Ennis late enough to meet the doctor’s timetable, then got to the end of the library in time to be seen sitting there by Parrish and Featherstonehaugh without also being seen going into the library by them.” Sebastian paused as Worthington, Filbury, and Wilson, now mounted and looking intent and grim, walked their horses up and reined in to wait for the others.
Featherstonehaugh had already walked his horse out; he brought his gelding to join the other three and swung up to the saddle.
Sebastian looked at Hadley. “Featherstonehaugh, on the evening that Ennis was murdered, when you and Parrish came upon Boyne reading in the library, how long was it between the time you set eyes on Boyne in the chair at the end of the library and the clocks striking ten?”
Hadley met Sebastian’s gaze, then he frowned, and his expression grew distant. “More than one minute. Two? Probably.” He refocused on Sebastian. “We came into the library and saw Boyne at the end. Parrish and I exchanged glances, then we ambled down the room—it’s a long room—and then started chatting with Boyne. So all in all, I would say between two and three minutes passed before the clocks struck. I doubt it was longer.”
Sebastian looked at the inspector. “When you considered Connell’s alibi, did you take into account the second door into the library—the one in the corridor wall directly opposite the billiards room door?”
Crawford’s expression drained. “What?”
Sebastian went on, “It’s not a concealed door, but it fits so well into the paneling it would be easy to miss seeing it. Connell would have known about that door. It’s at the end of the library where he was found sitting, and it’s only a few paces from the study door. He didn’t need to go around into the front hall to enter the library through the main door. If Connell left the study at the same time as Featherstonehaugh and Parrish left the dining room, they wouldn’t have seen him, and he would have been in that chair when they entered the library.”
“Good God.” Crawford’s expression was a medley of surprise, chagrin, and delight. “Damn—that’s how he did it.”
“Indeed.” Sebastian gathered his reins and mounted. He settled in the saddle. “But there’s something else that seemed contrived.” He looked at Worthington, Filbury, and Wilson. “Did Connell read much?”
“Good God, no!” came from all three throats.
Then all three looked struck.
After a moment, Worthington slowly said, “I’ve never seen him with a book in his hand in all the time I’ve known him. And I’ve known him for a good ten years, ever since coming on the town.”
“Well, that’s that thread tied off.” Crawford glanced around, noted McGibbin and Parrish trotting up, gathered his reins, and mounted. “Connell Boyne is our murderer.”
“If you want a rationale for how and why he killed Cecilia,” Antonia coolly said, “we’ve told you she was worried—even fearful—on that last night. She’d started to suspect something of what was behind Ennis’s murder. I think she turned to Connell. He was Ennis’s brother, and she trusted him—why wouldn’t she? Her husband had. I think she might well have asked Connell to come to her room. When he did, she poured out her suspicions.” Antonia looked at Filbury and Wilson. “Possibly, courtesy of that conversation you two had with her in the conservatory, she misinterpreted your concerns and suspected one or both of you. But Connell couldn’t have Cecilia raising such concerns with the inspector or Sir Humphrey.”
“So he killed her.” Sir Humphrey’s tone suggested there was no longer any question about that. The magistrate heaved himself into the saddle.
“All in cold blood.” Crawford shook his head. “This is a bad business all around.”
Sir Humphrey settled in his saddle and looked over the assembled company. “Right, then. We’re all here.” He swung his horse’s head toward the stable arch. “So let’s get after the blighter.”
They clattered out of the stable yard and set course for Canterbury. When they reached the fields, Sir Humphrey directed them to spread out, and they galloped steadily on in pursuit of Connell Boyne.
* * *
Antonia galloped on, holding the mare in position in the grim line between Sebastian and Hadley. The ground was damp, soft enough to hold tracks, and the inspector, Filbury, and Sebastian were all exceedingly good at picking them out.
That said, the afternoon light was waning, fading by degrees, and an autumnal mist was springing up, hanging low over the fields. Consequently, Sir Humphrey had ordered them to spread out in case Boyne swerved abruptly. The pace they were maintaining was moving them through the fields quickly, yet with little chance of missing any sudden diversion Boyne might have made.
They were still well within the estate when a riderless horse came galloping toward them.
Wilson—who had an excellent seat and hands and rode with instinctive confidence—diverted to intercept the beast, and Worthington and Parrish broke from the line and followed.
“Everyone else keep riding!” Sir Humphrey bellowed.
They did, all now peering ahead into the gathering gloom.
Three minutes later, Wilson, Worthington, and Parrish rejoined the line, with Wilson leading the other horse.
“Is it Boyne’s?” the inspector called.
“We think so,” Parrish replied. “It’s from the Hall stables, and other than us, who else had a horse out?”
They all digested that.
Riding on Sebastian’s other side, Sir Humphrey turned to him. “Any chance you more than winged him?”
Sebastian shook his head. “If I’d wounded him more severely, it would have slowed him down before he barreled out of the depths of the house. And the cavern where I shot him was just back from the shore—he’d covered a fair distance on foot in a reasonable time when he emerged, yet he made it to the stable, got on a horse, and rode off…” He paused, then grimaced. “It’s possible the effort and the blood loss have caught up with him, and he’s fallen off.”
Sir Humphrey grunted. He settled back in his saddle and called to the company to keep their eyes peeled for a body on the ground.
Antonia hesitated, then leaned forward and called across Sebastian to Sir Humphrey, “Connell might have met someone with
a carriage and turned the horse loose.”
Sebastian grimaced.
Sir Humphrey looked disgusted. “That puts a different complexion on things.” He raised his voice again. “Damn it—let’s pick up the pace. We don’t want to lose the beggar.”
Sebastian and the inspector pulled a little ahead. Filbury joined them, all three keeping their gazes trained down, following the tracks imprinted on the grassy ground.
The group forged on. Connell hadn’t leapt fences but had left gates swinging wide; although he’d detoured to go through the gates, he invariably returned to his northwesterly course. It became increasingly clear that he was making for the northwest corner of the estate. Antonia remembered the dense coppice that occupied that area. If one wanted to rendezvous with someone coming from elsewhere and be sure no one on the estate would see, that coppice was perfect in structure, location, and isolation.
Sure enough, Connell’s horse’s tracks led directly to the entrance to the narrow path meandering to the clearing in the center of the large coppice.
They all drew rein, dismounted, and tied their mounts to trees along the edge of the coppice.
Sebastian, Filbury, and Crawford were crouched just inside the edge of the trees, examining the surface of the path. They rose as, together with all the others, Antonia joined them.
The inspector met Sir Humphrey’s gaze and tipped his head along the path. “He’s gone striding in. No sign he’s staggering.” He’d kept his voice just above a whisper, but then looked down the path and humphed. “Chances are he’s well on his way, but we’d better check.”
The path was only wide enough for one. Crawford led the way, with Sir Humphrey at his heels, with Sebastian, Antonia’s hand again in his, behind the magistrate. The others followed Antonia in single file.
When they’d visited the coppice earlier in the day, by standing in his stirrups on the tall gray, Sebastian had been able to see through the largely bare branches into the clearing, but only well enough to discern that there was no building hidden within it. At ground level, the density of trunks and saplings restricted their view. It wasn’t until, behind Sir Humphrey, Sebastian stepped into the clearing itself—obviously created to allow more effective access to the trees in the center of the unusually large coppice—that he could fully observe the enclosed space.
It was larger than he’d expected. Large enough that four trees had been allowed to grow in a clump in the clearing’s center.
Connell Boyne was sitting on the ground, facing away from them, with his back against one of the central trees.
Crawford had checked at the sight of him. Now, he went forward cautiously. “Connell Boyne!”
Boyne didn’t react.
Sebastian’s imagination immediately provided a reason for Boyne’s stillness, but he held the thought at bay and followed Sir Humphrey as, still moving slowly, the group split into two. Half followed Crawford clockwise around the trees, while the rest, including Sebastian and Antonia, followed Sir Humphrey in an anticlockwise direction.
Crawford was the first to look down on their quarry. The inspector’s features set. Boyne sat slumped with his legs stretched out before him.
Sir Humphrey joined the inspector several paces back from Boyne’s boots. The magistrate grimaced.
Sebastian and Antonia came up beside Sir Humphrey.
It was transparently clear that Connell Boyne was dead.
Quite aside from the bloody furrow above his left elbow that Mrs. Parrish had described, there was now a gaping, still sluggishly seeping hole in the left side of his chest.
Sebastian eased out a slow breath.
Antonia tightened her grip on his hand, and he squeezed her fingers.
All the other men joined them. Everyone stood silently looking down on what remained of Connell Boyne.
Then Antonia murmured, “He came here to meet someone—a meeting arranged beforehand. Connell expected to leave—to get away—with whoever he met—that’s why he let his horse go.” The other men glanced at her curiously; they didn’t know anything about the motives behind the murders, about Connell’s involvement in a serious plot.
“Yes.” His expression like stone, Crawford nodded. “But whoever he met killed him instead.”
A breeze stirred the last of the autumn leaves still clinging to the branches, setting up a dry, rustling susurration. The mist was thickening, lending a ghostly aura to the scene.
Sebastian stirred. “Dead men can’t talk.”
He glanced at Antonia, then at Sir Humphrey and Crawford. “Lady Antonia and I have to return to London.”
Chapter 15
In what felt like an omen, the city’s bells were tolling ten o’clock when Sebastian drew his grays to a stamping halt outside St. Ives House.
Wilkins leapt down to the pavement, rushed up the steps and plied the knocker, then returned to assist Beccy to the ground before running to hold the horses’ heads.
Sebastian stepped down, surrendered the reins to the young groom in St. Ives livery who came pelting up the area steps, then went to the phaeton’s side and handed Antonia down.
“Beccy.” Safely on the pavement, Antonia turned to her maid. “We’ll be spending the night at St. Ives House. The marquess and I have business to attend to which is likely to keep us out very late—you don’t need to wait up.”
Beccy bobbed a curtsy. “Yes, miss.” As she straightened, she asked, “Should I unpack your things?”
“Just what I need for the night.” Antonia glanced at Sebastian.
He briefly met her gaze, then looked over Beccy’s head at Wilkins, who nodded. Despite the rush of leaving Pressingstoke Hall, Sebastian had found time to instruct Wilkins to tell the St. Ives housekeeper to put Antonia in the room next to his.
He reached for her arm, linked it with his, and turned her along the street. “Let’s see if fortune has elected to favor us, and Drake’s at home.”
He—and, he felt sure, Antonia, too—fervently hoped Drake had returned from Ireland. To him, her, Sir Humphrey, and Inspector Crawford, the manner of Connell Boyne’s slaying had underscored the seriousness of the plot in which Boyne had—clearly—played his part. That, and ten hundredweight of gunpowder, tended to focus the mind wonderfully.
After finding Boyne dead, with Sir Humphrey’s and Crawford’s blessings, Sebastian and Antonia had immediately left the coppice and ridden hell for leather back to the house. They’d flung themselves into a flurry of packing, dallied only long enough for Antonia to farewell her friends and assure them that Hadley would explain all when he returned, then she and Sebastian had climbed into the phaeton, and he’d driven them back to town in record time.
Wolverstone House was a hundred yards farther along the north side of Grosvenor Square. Sebastian escorted Antonia up the steps, then wielded the knocker.
Light could be seen through the transom window; when the butler, Hamilton, opened the door, they saw the front hall was fully lit.
Hamilton recognized them instantly; before they could say anything, he bowed. “Lord Earith. My lady.” He smoothly stepped back and waved them inside.
Surmising that Drake had mentioned they might arrive, with his hand at Antonia’s back, Sebastian ushered her inside. Immediately Hamilton closed the door, Sebastian asked, “I take it the marquess is at home.”
“Indeed, sir.” Hamilton reached for Antonia’s cloak. “He arrived not fifteen minutes ago and is presently bathing. He said you might call, and that if you did, the matter would be urgent.” He relieved Antonia of her bonnet as well, then accepted the greatcoat Sebastian shrugged off. “I will inform his lordship of your arrival immediately.”
“Thank you. Please confirm that the matter is, indeed, urgent. Oh, and Hamilton?”
“Yes, my lord?”
“Is there any chance of something to eat? We’ve driven direct from the Kent coast and haven’t eaten since an early lunch.”
Hamilton looked pleased; the man was known to thrive on domestic challe
nges. “Of course, my lord. If you and Lady Antonia will make yourselves comfortable in the drawing room, I will arrange for a suitable repast to be served momentarily.”
Antonia added her thanks to Sebastian’s, and they walked into the long, formal drawing room.
A cheery fire was crackling in the grate. Antonia led the way to one of the matching pair of sofas facing each other across the Aubusson rug spread before the fireplace and sank onto the silk damask with a sigh.
Sebastian followed and sat beside her. After a moment, he reached across, closed his hand about one of hers, then raised her fingers to his lips and pressed a kiss to her knuckles.
Then he lowered their linked hands to rest on his thigh, sat back, closed his eyes, and let the peace and stability, the tranquility of the house—and of her—wrap about him.
Ten minutes later—all of which they’d spent in blissful silence—Hamilton came to summon them to the smaller dining room, the one the family used. The table could seat twelve, and given the size of the current ducal couple’s family, that was sometimes only just enough. Three places had been set at one end, with a plethora of dishes already arrayed before them.
Hamilton sat Antonia in the seat to the right of the carver, leaving Sebastian to claim the place beside her.
“The marquess requests that you make a start without him. He, too, hasn’t yet dined and will join you as soon as he’s able.” Hamilton lifted the lid of a tureen. “I can recommend the oyster soup.” A savory aroma emerged, carried on the steam.
Antonia nodded eagerly. Sebastian’s mouth watered.
After serving them, being experienced in the ways of his masters, Hamilton filled their wine glasses, then retreated.
They were supping second servings of the delicious soup, when the door opened, and Drake entered.
Antonia lowered her soup spoon and blinked. “Good Lord.”
Resplendent in a dark, multihued, silk-velvet dressing gown thrown over a shirt and soft trousers, Drake shut the door carefully, then strolled slowly forward. He waved languidly. “Pray excuse my déshabillé, Antonia.”