So deep were the gentlemen in their ruminations that Lady Halliday passed almost out of their sight. Crump became aware of his surroundings barely in time to avoid colliding with a tall rhododendron plant. City-bred and born, the Runner wasn’t certain he approved of so much vegetation. He preferred his posies by the dozen, purchased from some pretty flower-girl. They passed by Sir Wesley’s hothouse. Amanda was waiting by the garden gate.
She gestured for Crump to precede her along the narrow pathway. He noted with sympathy that she was very pale.
In single file, they entered the garden. Where Crump had found the more orderly vegetation behind them distasteful, this unfettered disarray struck him as obscene. He eyed the toppled statue, the freely flowing fountain, the overgrown vegetation, and felt an eerie chill creep along his spine.
Hubert contemplated the grotesque, misshapen dwarf plants with artistic appreciation. “If this place isn’t haunted, it should be. I wouldn’t be at all surprised to find a headless specter lurking in the shrubbery.”
Amanda shuddered. “I don’t know why everyone must go on about ghosts! At any rate, I see no sign of Ned.”
“Since we’ve come this far we might as well make certain.” Lord Dorset inspected the pristine fountain as if he expected to find his cousin hiding there. Since he was fascinated by the fountain, and Hubert equally fascinated by the hideous dwarf plants; and since Lady Halliday had collapsed onto a cracked marble bench, further investigations were left to Crump.
He followed the winding gravel pathway to the little temple that stood at the garden’s far end. The door opened easily at his touch. Crump paused as his eyes adjusted to the dimmer light. Overturned furniture, smashed windows— Even the tall wall mirrors were shattered, shards of tarnished glass still hanging in the frames. Debris crunched underfoot.
One of the mirrors caught his attention. The frame seemed to be hanging slightly ajar. Crump moved closer, raised his hand to the cracked glass. The mirror swung away from the wall, revealing a dark passageway.
Cautiously, Crump stepped across the threshold — and almost tripped over a body, sprawled on the floor. Coagulated blood smeared Ned’s face, his jacket. A dueling pistol lay beneath his out-flung hand.
A somber group had gathered in the Castle’s Great Hall. Amanda sat on the stately settee, with Livvy by her side; Hubert leaned against the antique French commode. Crump stood, thumbs tucked in his waistcoat, contemplating the assorted weaponry on the walls.
“Oh!” sobbed Amanda. “This is all my fault. But I feared Ned was playing fast and loose with my affections, and said the most dreadful things. I will never forgive myself.”
“Nonsense.” Livvy patted her hand. “You couldn’t have known—”
“But I
should
have known. When I think of all the things he said to me about those dreadful battles— Had I been more understanding, Ned might not have shot himself!” Amanda buried her face in her handkerchief. Livvy and Crump exchanged a helpless glance.
“May I point out that we don’t know that Ned
did
shoot himself?” drawled Hubert. “I suggest we wait to hear what he has to say.”
Amanda revealed one watery eye. “Do you think we might? The physician held out so little hope that he permitted Ned to be brought here to the Castle instead of being taken to the Hall. Even though I would have nursed him as ably as anyone!”
“No one doubts that,” soothed Livvy. “But Ned will feel more comfortable among his family. You are welcome to visit whenever you wish.”
“May I? You are too kind.” Amanda lowered the handkerchief further, but then teared up again when her gaze lit on Crump. “But Bow Street will take my poor Ned away as soon as he shows signs of coming to himself. They are set on arresting someone
even if they
shouldn’t
, and then I will never see him again. If I was Ned, I might prefer
not
to make a recover if all that was left to me was gaol!”
High flights! thought Crump. Bow Street wasn’t generally so quick off the mark. In point of fact, Crump wasn’t convinced that Ned was his guilty party. Nor was he convinced that Ned was not. Ned
had
been in possession of the second dueling pistol. Or so they were meant to think.
Lady Bligh entered the room. She looked exhausted, but that may have merely been the effect of green hair combined with a jonquil gown. The parrot perched on her forearm. Weaving round her ankles was the orange tomcat.
Behind her trailed Sir John and Dickon. Young Austen brought up the rear. He was the sole member of the party who looked his normal cheerful self.
“What news?” Livvy asked.
Dulcie sat down on a tall carved chair. “Very little, alas. It grows late, Lady Halliday. Your family will be wondering if you have come to harm.”
“My family,” responded Amanda, “will be wishing that I had! Pray don’t keep us in suspense. What did the doctor say?”
“Ned’s wound is serious. That, combined with exposure— Time alone will tell.” Dulcie raised her arm. Bluebeard muttered and hopped to the back of her chair.
Amanda’s pretty face crumpled. Crump moved to her side. “You’ll do neither Lieutenant Sutcliffe or yourself any good going on like this, my lady. I’ll see you safely back to Halliday Hall.”
“Safely!” hiccoughed Amanda. “As if I cared for that. Why can’t I stay with Ned? Then, when he awakens, I could be at his bedside.”
“
If
he awakens,” Lord Dorset said, harshly. “The medic is uncertain whether Ned will
waken at all, let alone today.”
Unsteadily, Amanda rose to her feet. Dulcie added, more kindly, “My dear, there’s nothing to be done. Go home and get some rest. I promise we will let you know as soon as there is any change.”
“Thank you,” whispered Amanda. She allowed Crump to take her arm and lead her from the room.
Livvy studied her clenched hands, and forced them to relax. Then she stole a glance at her husband, whose expression was grim. He had not during the past moments displayed any special kindness to Lady Halliday. If anything he had been unnecessarily severe.
Alas, liking had little to do with anything when a man took an itch to toss up a woman’s skirts. Dickon knew a great deal about women’s skirts and the tossing up thereof. “Poor Amanda,” Livvy ventured, “seemed at her wit’s end.”
“She hadn’t far to go,” said Austen, leaning against his great-aunt’s chair.
“That is quite enough, young man.” Dulcie pinched his arm. “Go and sit with Ned.”
Austen hesitated. Bluebeard cocked his bright head. “Hoist the mizzen?” he inquired.
“Be off with the pair of you!” Dulcie repeated. Austen extended his arm. Bluebeard hopped on and climbed up to his shoulder. In the doorway, they passed Jael, whose somber expression was in marked contrast with her scarlet skirts and bright, multicolored shawl.
Sir John chose the chair nearest Dulcie, and sank into it with a sigh. The sigh turned into a sneeze. The sneeze turned into several. “A hot posset for you, I think,” said Dulcie, regarding him with a critical eye. Dickon moved to stand in front of one ornately carved fireplace. Casanova rubbed against Livvy’s ankles; then, when she ignored this invitation, stretched out on her feet.
“Now that our little pitcher has left us—” Hubert watched Jael wander around the room. “I assume Austen
has
left and is not lurking in the corridor? I will take your word for it, dear aunt — I hope we are going to discuss the matter uppermost in all our minds. Did Ned shoot himself, or did someone do it for him? And why should Lady Halliday hold herself to blame?”
Dickon turned away from the fireplace, his handsome features grave. “That last question, at least, is easily enough answered. Contrary to what we were led to believe, Ned wasn’t with Lady Halliday on the morning Connor died. Also, he knew, because she told him, that Connor had made an attempt on her virtue.”
“Fascinating!” breathed Hubert. “I see I have vastly underrated the richness
of village life. One almost hesitates to ask, coz, but how did
you
learn this?”
“She told me, though she didn’t mean to.” Dickon’s gaze rested on his wife, who refused to meet his eyes. “I called at the Hall; she mistook me for my cousin and let the cat out of the bag. I suppose Ned could have shot Connor and then, deep in remorse, himself. Although how he came into possession of pistols that once belonged to Cade, I can’t begin to guess.”
Jael glanced up from the Minoan snake goddess with which she had paused to commune. “Lady Halliday and Ned had a rare set-to last night. I don’t know what was said, but she flew into the boughs. After she left, he went into Lady Margaret’s Garden. I didn’t wait to see him leave.”
Dulcie reached for her bag of knitting. “A pity you didn’t go after him.”
Jael said softly, “So it is.”
Hubert strolled across the stone floor toward his
inamorata
. “That brings me to my next question. Ned was a crack shot. Why then did he make a shambles of shooting himself?”
“Under the circumstances a man’s hand might be none too steady,” Jael retorted. “Would yours be, do you think, were you bent on blowing off your own head?”
“Ah, my treasure, I am not so irresolute.” Hubert grasped her wrist. “Nor, I think, are you.”
“God’s bones! You think—”
“
I
think,” Livvy interrupted, “that it is unconscionable for you to engage in speculation while poor Ned lies upstairs. What does it matter if he did or didn’t kill Connor Halliday, or even if he shot himself? We don’t know whether he will survive.”
“It matters a great deal,” Dulcie responded dryly. “The difference between imprisonment and freedom, as Lady Halliday so rightly pointed out. Pray don’t do yourself a damage, Lavender. Ned is not in the best of health, but neither is he at death’s door.”
“But you said—”
“What would you have had me say? If Ned didn’t shoot himself, then someone wished him dead. Does that someone learn his effort failed, he may try again. And we already know that Lady Halliday can’t be trusted to keep a quiet tongue in her head.”
Livvy stared at the Baroness, bewildered. “Why would someone wish to harm Ned?”
Dulcie retrieved her knitting needles. “We may assume that Ned knows or saw something he should not. He wasn’t with Amanda at the Hall when Connor died, remember; we don’t know
where
he was. If Ned had witnessed murder done, he would hardly have kept silent, so it can’t be that.”
Manfully, Sir John struggled to stifle a sneeze. “And you accused me of clutching at straws! Dulcie, it won’t wash.”
“No?” Lady Bligh attached another skein of scarlet yarn. “Have you already forgotten the information with which you were presented this morning, John? Due to the efforts of my nephews, I might add.”
“Oho!” said Hubert. “So the fellow was induced to talk?”
“For a certain reimbursement,” Dulcie replied.
Livvy glanced from one of them to the other. “
What
fellow?” she asked.
“Allow me!” interjected Hubert. “A fellow who dwells in a village some few miles away. Sir John, you look piqued. You could hardly expect our friend to come forward of his own accord to confide in Bow Street. He believed he was harboring a gentleman of the highway.”
This statement reminded the Chief Magistrate of some of Hubert’s own past activities. And so he said.
“Am I never to be allowed to live down that little lapse?” Hubert mourned. “You should be grateful that my experience has enabled me to sniff out other mischief of that sort. Not that this
was
mischief of that sort, but our friend thought it might be. A natural conclusion on his part, since he was paid handsomely to keep his mouth shut.”
Sir John suspected that the vexatious Humbug was himself embarked on further mischief. For verification, he applied to Lord Dorset. That gentleman, who was pondering how he might make a candid confession of his sentiments to a lady who could no longer trust herself alone in his presence, looked blank.
“Coz!” cried Hubert. “Do you wish Sir John to think I am again playing at highwayman?”
It was a tempting notion. Dickon set it aside. “Good God, what next? I promise Humbug hasn’t been.
This
mysterious gentleman was described as a tall muscular individual with a gentry way of talking and, more to the point, red hair. He appeared periodically, left his gear, and set out again on the roan. After a day or two he would return, leave the horse, and be off again to wherever he’d come from.”
A sneeze escaped Sir John, and then another. He wheezed, “You’re sure it was the same horse?”
Hubert paused politely until the paroxysm passed. “The description matches, down to its habit of throwing a shoe. Why are you so reluctant to draw the obvious conclusion, Sir John?”
Because the obvious conclusion, unfortunately, offered no explanation for the recent actions of either Gypsy Joe or Ned. Sir John applied his handkerchief to his nose. “It appears that Cade Halliday has
not
been long absent from Greenwood,” he said, through its folds.
“The horse was last taken from our informant almost two weeks ago. That circumstance was what convinced him to, er, blow the gaff. He believes his mysterious visitor has met with an accident — a fatal accident, Sir John — and will therefore be unable to come back and break his neck.” Only Hubert, standing beside Jael, heard her sharp expulsion of breath.
“Much as I would like to think otherwise,” Lord Dorset uttered abruptly, “there seems little doubt Ned is somehow involved in all this.”
“Dickon!” Livvy protested. “How can you say so?”
Impatiently, the Earl regarded his wife. “You’d say as much yourself if you hadn’t taken so many damned queer notions into your head.”
This, from the gentleman she adored with utter abandon and infinite reservations, was the final straw. Livvy burst into tears. “
Now
what?” Lord Dorset inquired roughly, as he put an arm around his weeping wife.
“Why pretend it matters?” Livvy struggled unsuccessfully to free herself. “Everyone knows where your affections lie.”