Learning to Waltz (30 page)

They arrived in Exeter late the next afternoon and checked into the White Hart. The master had behaved almost normal on the drive, as near as Grady could recall what that meant. He was cheerful and talkative. Maybe too talkative. If Grady had not known better, he might have thought he’d drunk more than just an ale with breakfast.

Mr. Haverfield drummed his fingers on the mantelpiece in his private parlor and gazed thoughtfully into the fire—yesterday’s stormy weather had left much cooler temperatures in its wake. Grady hefted a trunk and headed into the bedchamber to begin unpacking.

“By the way,” the master called after him. And when he reappeared in the doorway, “You won’t be needing much here, Grady. I’m cutting you loose tomorrow.”

Grady’s jaw dropped. Mr. Haverfield was still looking at the fire. Grady lurched toward him, ready to plead for his job, if he could make his mouth work.

“I want you to take the phaeton and the horses and start north. I’m going to—” He looked up. “Why, Grady, whatever is the matter?”

He was so relieved, he felt faint. Yes, he’d thought about leaving, but he didn’t mean it. “I’m sorry, Mr. Haverfield. I thought you meant—that is—I know I’ve set up your back, sir, spoken out more than I should, but I—well, I thought you was turning me off, sir.”

“Heavens, no. Sit down, man, before you fall over.” Having pressed Grady into a chair, he continued. “I’ve been quite incredibly aggravating, and if you’ve shown any disrespect, it’s no more than I deserve. But before I leave Devon, I must go to Lydford—no, sit down. It will just be a quick visit, and then I’ll travel post back to Whately. I’ll be there before you are, with any luck at all.”

Grady felt unable to object as he otherwise would, and probably should. Now, when it was so nearly over, this damned pilgrimage threatened one last time to swallow the master whole—and Grady would not even be there to pull him out of its maw. This mania that had overtaken him yesterday could not be expected to last, and poking around in that infernal woman’s home town seemed a sure way to hasten its demise.

“I can see what you’re thinking, Grady, and I laud your self-control. I assure you I will survive without you.”

Grady opened his mouth to object but closed it again.

Mr. Haverfield gave him a sympathetic smile. “No, I’m afraid it would do no good.”

Late afternoon sunshine glanced through the clouds as Evan dismounted with a grimace in the stableyard at the Castle Inn. Lydford seemed unaccountably busy, and he was lucky to get a room at all. There were no private parlors to be had. A harried maid led him up the stairs to a drab little chamber at the far end of the corridor.

“Ye’ll be wantin’ dinner, sir?”

“Yes, but not immediately, I think. Tell me—do you know where I’ll find the Carlington estate?”

The girl’s eyes opened wide. “Well o’ course, sir. It’s just up the road Morehampton way, a mile or maybe a bit less.
Everybody
knows it
now
. ”

It was Evan’s turn to show surprise. “Why is that?”

“Oh!” She looked as though she’d like nothing more than to keep chatting, but an impatient call from downstairs recalled her to duty. She bobbed a quick curtsy and ran off down the hall.

Evan poured water from the cracked pitcher into the chipped ewer, the first decorated with pink rosebuds, the other with a pastoral scene of cows and stone walls and a young couple flirting by a stile. He rinsed his face and combed his hair. What he wanted was a bath, but it could wait until evening. He had brought only such clothing as he could carry on horseback, so his unpacking took all of a few minutes. Then he set out on foot “out Morehampton way.”

It had been many years since he’d spent a full day in the saddle, and he had enjoyed it. His hired mounts had been willing enough, the moors intriguing, and the company—well, solitude was still his safest bet. But his legs felt stiff and his backside bruised, and they would probably be worse tomorrow. It felt good to walk.

The traffic, both wheeled and pedestrian, continued heavy as he headed out from the center of town. The road was lined on both sides by the ubiquitous dry stone walls, and by springtime flowers that grew up alongside or sprang from the crevices. Evan frowned. Why were there so many people, and what on earth had the maid at the inn been talking about?

The crowd made it a simple matter to find what he was looking for, though he would have preferred having the place to himself. Not all passersby stopped at the house, but nearly all slowed down to point and talk in whispers and shouts and all gradations of volume in between. They’d apparently been collecting here for some time—the road surface, and as much as he could see of the drive, showed a confused mess of wheel tracks, foot- and hoofprints, and other, more malodorous evidence of equine activity.

When questioned, two matrons confirmed this was indeed the Carlington estate, though he’d had little doubt. It wore just the aura of neglect he’d imagined. The stone wall was in disrepair, the gateposts crumbling, the gates themselves rusted and certainly unusable. The drive had once been graveled, but many a year had passed since the surface had been refurbished.

A tarnished sign on one gatepost read “Greenwood Hall,” but it was laughably out of date. Though the house was well-situated on a slight elevation, the moors that formed such an arresting backdrop had long ago reclaimed whatever wood or lawns might have originally adorned the approach. Where the ground supported anything at all, it was only the rough grasses and gorse of the hills beyond. Beautiful in their own way, of course, but they did nothing to enhance the façade of Greenwood Hall.

The house was built of local stone. Though not especially large, its dimensions were pleasing. Several windows had been filled in, no doubt to reduce the taxes, and this had apparently been done at different times, for different materials had been used in different windows. The result was a hodgepodge. And this was on the
front
of the house. No telling what the back looked like.

Even from the road, damage to mortar and roof and chimneys was evident. The place hardly looked livable.

The gathering of the curious had the advantage that he could linger without being conspicuous. By the time he was ready to turn back toward town, most of the others were already headed home to chores or dinner or whatever evening activities awaited them. A disinterested farmer and his dog herded a flock of sheep back to the fold, the jackdaws flew down to evaluate the day’s leavings, and the light grew dim.

Whoever said that dusk falls had it wrong in this case, Evan thought; it seemed rather to rise from the earth. The ground where he stood was deep in shadow while the sun still shone on Deborah’s roof and the hills behind it. He took a last look, thinking of all Deborah had said and not said, trying to imagine a childhood spent within those crumbling walls. He shook his head and started walking.

He had not gone a hundred yards before a gig came up alongside, driven by a young man of twenty or so.

“Evening, sir,” said he. “Care for a ride into town?”

“Much appreciated. Thank you.” Dusk had now fallen—no, risen—with a vengeance.

Evan hauled himself up into the rather extraordinary vehicle. It had once been a gig, but evidently its owner had larger ambitions. Somewhere he had obtained a set of wheels from a high-perch phaeton, which raised the height several inches above the expected. Then the body had been painted the color of claret, and the wheels picked out in dark blue and yellow. Tasteful enough. It would hardly be noticed in London, but here in Lydford it was quite out of the common way.

At a guess, the youth driving it
was
the owner, for he himself was tricked out in similar fashion. His otherwise ordinary outfit had been embellished with a checked silk waistcoat in vibrant greens and blues, a cravat with which he’d attempted a complicated knot, perhaps meant to be a Mathematical, and a very high-crowned hat. The scion of one or another family of local gentry, Evan supposed, doing what he could with a modest allowance. Certainly the horses pulling the contraption were nothing special.

“I expect you’re in town for the inquest tomorrow. Nothing like a killing to bring in the curious.”

“I confess to the curiosity. Something to do with the Carlingtons, I gather?”

The young man looked surprised. “Well of course! I figured you to be a solicitor or maybe a newspaper man—but then you’d know all about it, surely. And,” he continued in some awe, “you’d not be wearing a coat like that, much less those boots you’ve got on. Are they Hobys?”

Evan was amused. “They are. And no, I’m just a friend of the family, passing through.”

“Didn’t know they had any friends, quite honestly. Must be queer to come visiting and find all this going on. I’m sorry if—”

“Don’t be. Actually I’m just a friend of a friend. I’ve no reason to mourn.”

“Well, I’m glad to hear it ’cause you won’t find much grieving going on here. They aren’t much liked, sorry to say.”

Evan introduced himself. His handshake was reciprocated warmly. “Tell you the truth, I’m not clear on what’s happened.”

Geoffrey Radnor was only too happy to fill him in. “Old Mr. Carlington took a spill on Sunday an’ broke his neck. That’s no particular surprise, mind you. Everyone knew it was bound to happen sometime, the way he abused his horses.”

He was glad it was the father. “That hardly sounds like murder.”

“You wouldn’t think so. But the son, now, keeps telling anyone who’ll listen that his mother must’ve killed him.”

Evan frowned. “How would she have done that?” From the information he’d gleaned from Deborah, he could easily imagine why she might want to.

Radnor shrugged. “Don’t know. But you can bet I’ll be at the inquest tomorrow to hear what he has to say.”

“You and the rest of Lydford, I’ll be bound.”

Radnor grinned. “Hell yes. This is the most exciting thing to happen around here since—well, since I can remember.”

They arrived at the inn and Radnor turned his gig into the bustling yard. “Sorry, sir, I should have asked where you was staying.”

“Oh, here at the Castle. It seems to be a popular place this evening.” Any of the inn guests desirous of an early bedtime—like himself, say—would be out of luck. Sleep would be an impossibility in all the uproar of horses and carriages coming and going and voices in the tap room.

Radnor was hailed by some friends and diffidently invited Evan to join them. “Unless of course you’ve friends of your own, or we’re too rackety for you?”

“Oh no. I’d be delighted.”

Radnor beamed. Evan liked the lad. He was open and friendly, yet knew his manners, and notwithstanding his penchant for high style, he was unaffected and down-to-earth. That waistcoat of his drew guffaws from the table, which he received good-naturedly. “You’re all jealous, that’s what.” The barmaid came by with ale and the promise of Evan’s dinner.

He found he was ravenous. He’d had next to nothing since a very early breakfast. So he was quite happy to eat and listen to the various conversations circulating around the room. No one was talking about anything except the “murder.” Natural enough, he supposed.

And Radnor was right in his assessment of the town’s frame of mind. One red-faced gentleman was congratulating himself that
he
had recently sold Carlington the horse that killed him failing to clear a hedge. Evan did not hear whether or not the horse had survived the event.

“I wouldn’t sell either of ’em any horse of mine,” replied another fellow. “Be more humane just to shoot the poor beast. That stable’s full of ruined mouths and mean tempers. Decent grooms don’t last a month.”

“Not likely you’d get paid, anyway. Did you ever get what he owed you, Charlton?”

“Not more ’n a farthing or two. But it’s worth it to get rid of the scoundrel.”

“You sure won’t get anything out of the estate, either.”

No, Radnor had not exaggerated. Evan profoundly hoped people would not talk about
him
that way after his death. More likely they’d shake their heads in wonder at his stupidity: “Fool went stark staring mad ’cause a woman rejected him. Can you believe such a thing? Never was the same again.” Well, stupid was better than wicked. Surely Deborah’s father had had
some
good points?

“He treated his son all right, didn’t he?”

Headshakes all around the table. Young Robert Carlington must be a few years older than these lads but near enough to be familiar to them. “If you call it ‘all right’ to give a boy a gun but no instruction or etiquette on how to use it. He used to go up on the moor and practice on the sheep, for God’s sake.”

“Gave him a horse, too, when he was ’bout ten. Too big and much too spirited. That one ran away with him and got shot for his pains.”

“Well, I’d ’ve run away too.”

“That’s exactly the point, Mick. You put a stupid, mean ten-year-old on that stallion of yours, what would you expect him to do?”

“His father beat him too. M’brother said he used to show up at school—when he showed up at all—with black-and-blue marks all over. Just laughed about it like he was proud, like his dad could take on Gentleman Jackson himself ’cause he could beat up his own son.”