Sword and Song (27 page)

The maid shrieked and leapt up. And while she was swearing and complaining and condemning all gentlemen to their own cleaning up, I was staring at the prints and pondering on their significance
with equal intensity.

Hugh and I had gone straight from the window to the door. We’d not come anywhere near this side of the room. These prints had been made by someone else entirely. Someone who’d also
been out in the gardens last night.

The murderer?

I looked down from the bridge into the canal; the water was a muddy brown, as if my fall had stirred up all the silt at the bottom. I shivered. It was one of those days when
clouds chase each other across the sky and warm sunshine is followed by chill shade.

There were a few patches of dried mud on the bridge, bearing fragments of footprints, too slight to be informative. Two darker spots were almost certainly Heron’s blood. The path beyond
the bridge, leading into the wood, had patches of obdurate mud on it, suggesting that in wet weather it was a mire. I remembered Heron jumping over one of those patches –the murderer must
have trodden in one and trailed the mud back into the house.

I sat down on a fallen tree at the edge of the wood, with a magnificent view of the old house, looking across the rather too formal gardens to the odd corner turrets and the small windows.
Efforts to modernise the house had left it lopsided. Those big doors on to the terrace in the drawing and dining rooms certainly made the rooms lighter but were entirely out of character. It was an
amazingly old-fashioned place and I couldn’t blame Alyson for wanting to pull it down and start again.

The murderer had been out in the mud and trailed it back in. But that meant he’d boldly walked into a room full of gentlemen, any one of whom could have noticed him. But of course, if he
was a servant, not one of them would have seen him. Even if he was not, the gentlemen had probably all been so drunk they would not have noticed a bull trampling through the room. Except possibly
Alyson. But it was still a huge risk to take.

Had he sneaked in later, after all the gentlemen had gone to bed? Surely the window would have been locked? It had still been open well after midnight when Hugh and I dragged Heron back in but
Alyson had called Crompton, and the butler might well have seized the opportunity to lock up. After all, one of the guests had just been attacked in the grounds – it would be logical to
secure the house against any marauders still wandering about.

I needed to talk to Crompton. Fowler was patently procrastinating on the matter.

I realised I’d been watching, without really seeing, a figure make its sedate way through the gardens, dropping out of sight for a moment behind the fountain then coming into view again.
The slim figure of a woman in a gown of pale green billowing slightly in the breeze. Fair hair was piled up on her head except for two or three small ringlets; the lappets of that appalling cap
danced about her neck. She was glancing from side to side as if sight-seeing, but I knew that purposeful walk all too well.

Esther was coming to talk with me.

Her gown – her expensive, hand-embroidered, voluminous gown with dozens of yards of expensive material in it – swished against the upright of the narrow bridge; the trailing material
caught briefly on a splinter then came free. Esther stood over me, as I stumbled to my feet.

“I’ve come to apologise,” she said.

Startled, I began to protest but she shook her head.

“I was unforgivably rude at breakfast. I was worried. I had been hearing ridiculous speculation about what had happened, and Catherine told me you had instructed her to lock the door and
barricade it. And then,” she said with smiling severity, “you had the audacity to be well and uninjured!”

I smiled back, then hesitated. “I remember when you wouldn’t have needed to ask what had happened – you would have been there.”

“And you would have been trying to persuade me to retreat to somewhere safe, and let you take care of the matter.”

I grimaced. “I don’t claim to be consistent!”

She lifted a hand, smoothed the cloth of my coat. Her hand was warm and heavy on my chest. I looked down into her sombre face, raised my own hand to touch hers.

“Charles,” she said patiently, “I am trying to reassure the ladies and gentlemen that marrying you will not cause society to collapse in chaos!” Her tone was playful but
when she raised her grey eyes to mine, I saw an obstinate steely determination. “Putting my breeches away and abjuring expeditions like last night’s is a small price to pay.”

“I think it too high a price,” I said on impulse and went recklessly on. “And what must I do? A gentleman does not earn his living. Am I to put aside my music and sit at home
all day managing your estates? Because I tell you now, Esther, I cannot do it! I will ruin you and myself at the same time. I have not the least idea of the workings of estates, and to ask me to
give up music is like tearing out part of my soul.”

I stopped, breathing heavily. Esther stood, her pale hair touched by sunshine, her face set and hard. “We will marry, Charles,” she said. “Only I can break the betrothal. And I
will not.”

I watched her walk away, sedately, calmly, back across the bridge and up the long central walk of the formal gardens. Lizzie Ord, accompanied by a severe-looking middle-aged maid, was peering
into the dry fountain; she waved at Esther and the two women met, overshadowed by the statue of the nymph. So different. Esther with hair of light gold, Lizzie with dancing brown ringlets. Esther
in green as pale as the nymph herself might have worn, Lizzie in delicate blue with darker blue flounces. Esther calm and grave, Lizzie excited and chattering.

I did not want Esther on the terms she offered. I wanted the woman I’d fallen in love with – the cool, collected woman who didn’t care a fig for what anyone else said, who
adopted or rejected the conventions of society according to whether she found them convenient, not according to the dictates of other people. And I thought that no amount of conventional behaviour
would reconcile society to our marriage.

But Esther is as obstinate as Heron. It must be something in the upbringing the gentry give their children.

I pushed through the brambles and wild roses at the foot of the trees in an effort to find Heron’s sword. I had visions of him demanding I pay for a replacement if I couldn’t find
it. I snagged my clothes on thorns, stained my fingers with red blackberry juice. I kicked over a fallen branch and disturbed a nest of ants. At last I caught a bright glint among the bushes and
brushed away a layer of dead leaves and broken twigs. Heron’s sword had been driven almost to the hilt into the soft earth; I pulled it free.

Damp soil and mud dulled the weapon, but it seemed undamaged – no nick in the edge. I lifted the blade to peer along it, in case the light caught a scratch. It was slim and elegant and
felt lighter in my hands than Fischer’s had. And yet Alyson had been willing to pay highly for the old thing. Still, I was no judge of the matter.

I was hardly halfway up the formal gardens when I saw Hugh, magnificent in a dark plum coat and pale lilac waistcoat, hurrying down the path towards me.

“Where have you been?” He was out of breath. “No, never mind. There’s the devil to pay. They’ve found the book!”

“Good God,” I said blankly. “Oh, you mean the substitute book. The one the murderer took. Where?”

“Crompton had it! Devil take it, Charles, the butler ambushed you and Heron!”

Alyson had braved the servants’ quarters. When Hugh and I ran into the passageway that led to the cellar and the butler’s pantry, the servants were standing in
doorways – the hall, the kitchen, the scullery – all looking black as thunder. One or two moved back quickly when they saw the sword I held.

We heard Alyson twenty yards away. He was shouting at the top of his voice, cursing, demolishing Crompton’s character, threatening transportation or hanging. The door to the butler’s
pantry was wide open; I caught a glimpse of a chair and table, a coat hung on a hook. Crompton was in shirtsleeves and waistcoat, an impressive man, strongly built and towering at least six inches
over the slight Alyson. But he looked red-faced and dull-eyed, defeated.

On the table behind him was a brown paper wrapping, opened to show a book.

I strode in. “Alyson, what’s going on?”

He stopped in mid-rant, stared at me. His gaze flickered to the sword. I had the impression he’d been expecting me – he looked resigned.

“Demsey tells me you think Crompton stole a book.”

Alyson gestured towards the table. “Not
a
book.
The
book.” His face was flushed and excited. “The one Heron chose as the substitute for last night’s trap!
The villain seized it from you, did he not? He ran off with it. And today I find it in Crompton’s pantry!”

I looked Crompton up and down. “He wasn’t one of the two who attacked us last night. Much too tall and heavily built. The two villains were slender and only of medium height –
indeed, one was quite short.”

“Then he’s their accomplice!” Alyson began to pace the room, ignoring the pale-faced butler and the other servants at their cautious distance. “There must be a servant
helping these villains. Who else could have left the notes for you?”

“That’s true,” Hugh said.

I looked at Crompton. He shook his head almost imperceptibly.

“How did you know the book was here?” I asked Alyson.

“Pure chance!” His face glowed. “I couldn’t help you last night, Pattinson, but I thought there must still be something I could do. It was obvious a servant must be in on
the plot.” I heard mutters of resentment at that from outside. “So I thought I’d check their quarters. And by pure good luck, I found it the first place I looked!”

“How fortunate,” I said. “But I repeat – Crompton was not one of our attackers last night. Anyone could have put the book here.”

“The room’s locked every night.”

“But opened every morning?”

Crompton found his voice, said hoarsely, “Yes, sir.”

“It’s gone midday,” I said. “There’s been plenty of time for someone to slip the book in here.”

Alyson was plainly unwilling to give up his theory. “But why should they?”

“Once the attackers discovered the book was not the one they wanted,” I pointed out, “they had to get rid of it. It obviously wouldn’t be long before someone decided to
search the house for it. By putting it in someone else’s room, they divert suspicion away from themselves, lead us off on the wrong track altogether.”

Alyson’s eyes were alight with laughter. “My God, Pattinson, you’re well versed in this game of deceit, I see!”

“It’s not a game,” I said. “Two people are dead.”

Alyson tried to look sombre but his mouth still quirked with amusement. “Of course, of course. Are you saying then, Pattinson, that we can draw no conclusion at all from finding the book
here?”

“None at all,” I said, then added, “Except that Crompton is therefore probably the least likely person to be our murderer.”

“Could be a double-bluff,” Alyson said wickedly, clearly unaware of the way Crompton’s cheeks paled again.

“I don’t think our attacker is that clever,” I said.

Alyson grinned. “Nonsense, Pattinson.” He swept up the book into his arms. “What do you say to a bet? I’ll wager you fifty pounds that the fellow gets away with
it!”

I didn’t have fifty pounds. Fifty pounds was around my average income for the year.

“I don’t like to take your money,” I said.

He crowed with laughter. “Don’t spoil the fun, my dear fellow! Let’s set a date. It’s now August; let’s say that if the fellow’s still not caught by the end
of the year, we’ll assume he has escaped for ever and I’ve won. No, no – ” He lifted a hand to forestall me. “You can’t back out of a bet, you know, not the done
thing at all! Well, I shall go off and give the matter some serious thought. Maybe I can come up with some clue that will lead us to the truth.”

“Even if by so doing you lose your bet?”

He grinned. “Even so. My dear Pattinson, I would not miss this for the world!”

“Patt
er
son.”

He nodded and went off whistling.

“Pompous, ignorant, conceited ass,” Hugh said, after having first made sure Alyson had disappeared through the door into the family part of the house. “Betting on something as
serious as this!”

I closed the door; Hugh stood by it to make sure the other servants did not eavesdrop. Crompton sank down into a chair and buried his face in his hands.

“What happened?” I asked.

He looked up at me, his face strained. He cleared his throat. “Mr Alyson accosted me in the hall, sir, and insisted I accompany him to this room.” He looked round as if it all seemed
rather alien to him. “He lifted the cushions in this chair and showed me the parcel. I don’t know how it got here,” he insisted.

“I know how it got here,” Hugh said, grimly. “Someone put it here.”

“You didn’t see anyone acting suspiciously?”

“No, sir.”

I hesitated. “Crompton, I must ask you. Is there anyone with a grudge against you? Anyone who might want to get you into trouble?”

He went very still. He lifted his head, met my gaze and said in a clear calm voice. “No, sir.”

I thought him a fool, but I could not deny there was a great deal at stake. A conviction for theft could get him transported, but his other activities might land him on the gallows.

“Well,” I said. “If anything occurs to you, you will of course let me know?”

“Of course, sir.”

I took a risk. “Heron’s manservant, Fowler, will get a message to me if necessary.”