Mother Gibbs blinked. “Bertha’s Sam was lost at sea-that’s why she’s been so set against Sid going with the others. If something’s happened to him because he wasn’t running in Dennis’s harness like all the others do…” She exhaled gustily; her gaze grew distant. “She’ll be beside herself, our Bertha.”
Penny wished she could offer some heartening platitudes, but when it came to this man-the murderer who’d walked among them for the past weeks-she couldn’t believe enough to even hope.
She looked up to hear Charles commit the stable hands from both the Hall and the Abbey to the search, then he glanced at her.
“We need to get back.”
She nodded and rose, her hand still resting over Mother Gibbs’s. As before, the three Gibbs brothers had behaved throughout as if she wasn’t there. She looked down at the old woman, met her old eyes, squeezed her hand, then went to join Charles.
He ushered her out of the house. They strode back to the Pelican Inn in record time. Charles paused only to speak with the grooms, spreading the word, then they were galloping back to the Hall even faster than they’d left it.
The news sobered everyone. Only Nicholas was game to suggest, “It could just be a coincidence.”
The others all looked at him; although no one argued, none of them agreed. Penny knew what she hoped, but the sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach doused her usual confidence.
As Charles had called off the patrols, the Hall’s grooms and stable lads joined in the search, spreading out to scout through the Hall’s acres. Immediately after luncheon, one of the Abbey’s grooms arrived bearing a missive from Dalziel. Charles took it and sent the groom back with orders for the Abbey staff to search the riverbanks from river mouth to the castle ruins.
He watched the groom ride off, then, hefting Dalziel’s packet, walked inside.
Penny was waiting in the front hall; he waved her to the library and followed. The other three were there. All watched as he walked to the desk, picked up the letter knife, and slit the packet open.
Without bothering to sit, he spread out the sheets and read. Reaching the end of the second sheet, he glanced at their expectant faces. “Carmichael has no links with anyone suspicious, and he lost a brother and two cousins in the wars. Three friends have confirmed he’s been dallying with a view to getting leg-shackled to Imogen Cranfield for more than six months. Altogether, I think that puts him lowest on our list of three.”
Looking again at the second sheet, he came around the desk and sat. “Fothergill…they’re still checking but have turned up nothing suggestive yet. The family’s large-they’re having trouble tracking down the right branch. As for Gerond, Dalziel reports that some of his inquiries have started to meet with Gallic shrugs…interesting. They’re pressing as hard as they can but have nothing definite yet.”
Jack nodded, jaw firming. “So Gerond goes to the top of our list, Forthergill is an outside chance, and Carmichael is unlikely.”
“That,” Charles said, refolding the letter, “sums it up.”
“Tell me again,” Gervase said, “what we know about Gerond.”
Charles obliged. Jack asked, and Nicholas confirmed that his attacker had sworn in fluent French.
“Dalziel confirmed that Gerond has strong links with rabidly patriotic groups among the French.” Gervase’s lips thinned. “Those boxes-the pill- and snuffboxes. They might not rate all that highly to us, but if some ranked as French national treasures, that might account for someone like Gerond throwing in his hand with the new regime, even if to avenge old crimes.”
Jack leaned forward, clasped hands between his knees. “He’s of the right age, and he’s seen some action, hasn’t he?”
Charles nodded. “Some, but all on our side.”
“Whoever this is, he’s definitely had training, and some experience.”
Penny sat on the chaise and listened as they discussed the characteristics and traits they felt the killer possessed; from there, they progressed to formulating plans to draw him into the open, into their grasp. It was clear Jack and Gervase, and even more Nicholas, had focused on Gerond as their man; to them, the evidence pointed that way. Charles, however…he was usually quick to act on instinct, yet in this he hung back, refraining from distinguishing between Gerond and Fothergill.
Consulting her own feelings, she had to admit that, to her, all fingers pointed to Gerond. It was Charles’s quiet resistance to focusing solely on Gerond that emphasized the point she and the others were missing, but that Charles was not. Would not.
Charles had been a successful spy in France for years because he was, superficially, French; the French had always seen him as one of their own. What if their man was, in essence, a Charles-in-reverse?
The notion was chilling, but as she watched Charles steer their plans in such a way that they didn’t preclude the enemy’s being Fothergill, she realized just how real the possibility was.
They were still in the throes of tossing around possible plans when the clatter of an approaching rider silenced them. They all listened, then Charles rose and went to the window overlooking the forecourt.
“A fisherman, presumably with a message from Dennis. This doesn’t look good.”
He headed for the door. Jack rose and followed him; the others remained in the library.
Charles went down the front steps as the fisherman slid to the ground. The man was plainly relieved to see him.
“M’lord.” The man ducked his head, nodded to Jack behind him, then faced him. “Dennis Gibbs sent me. His cousin Sid…” The man swallowed, then went on, “They found him on the cliffs by Tywardreath. Throat slit. A bad business-the lad weren’t no more’n eighteen. There were things-a knife, cloak, and other stuff-scattered about. Dennis said as you’d want to take a look.”
Grim-faced, Charles nodded. He clapped the man on the shoulder. “Go around to the kitchen. I’ll send for you once I’m ready.”
The man ducked his head and went, following the groom who’d appeared to take his horse.
Jack stepped down beside Charles; they both watched the man walk away, head and shoulders bowed. “A bad business, right enough.” Jack glanced at Charles. “You’re going?”
Charles turned back into the house. “Yes, but you’re staying.”
Jack followed him back to the library. He told the others the news. Penny paled, but said nothing. Nicholas blanched; some of his recovered strength seemed to drain from him.
“You shouldn’t go alone-there might be more we can do when we see the site.” Gervase stood, joining Jack and Charles. “I know the area well enough, and the locals will accept me.”
Jack hesitated, then nodded curtly. “Agreed. You two go-I’ll hold the fort here.”
Charles looked across the room, met Penny’s eyes. “We’ll be back before dusk or send word-if there’s any scent to follow, that’ll be our priority.”
Penny nodded, watched him turn and stride out, Gervase at his heels. Jack watched them, too, then sighed, and came back to his chair. He smiled, resigned yet charming. “Just think of me as your watchdog.”
They were still in the library, Nicholas at the desk dealing with estate matters, Jack sprawled in an armchair with a book, Penny frowning at the household accounts she’d fetched, Jack having declared he’d be much happier if both she and Nicholas remained in the same room, when the knocker sounded on the front door.
All three of them looked up. A second later, Norris’s stately footsteps trod over the tiles; they heard the door open.
A rumble of male voices reached them-one Norris’s, the other lighter. Straining her ears, Penny couldn’t place the speaker. They hadn’t heard any horse on the drive; whoever it was had walked to the door.