"So you got to the bottom, to where the man was, and…?"
"He'd been turned over and his skull had been bashed in with a rock."
Amanda stared. "Between the time you saw him from the top and reaching him at the bottom?"
Martin nodded. "Someone had been there in between and whoever it was had made sure he was dead. The rock was covering his face. I still wasn't sure… so I picked up the rock."
"And that's when the villagers found you."
He* nodded. "I lifted the rock and saw… then I heard them coming and looked up, and there they were, crowding in…" He refocused and shook his head. "I must have been in shock. I know that now, but then… nothing like that had ever happened in my life. I'd just learned Sarah had died, that people assumed I'd… and then that. I don't know what I said, truth to tell, although I do know that later I insisted I hadn't done it."
Amanda frowned. "You said the villagers had seen a gentleman they thought was you throw the old man over the edge."
Martin waved at the forge. "The blacksmith was working-the back of the forge was open. He happened to glance up and see two men-old Buxton and a young gentleman he mistook for me-struggling on the Edge. He saw the man push Buxton over. He downed tools, doused what he was working on, then rounded up some others and raced for the spot."
Amanda fitted the information together like a jigsaw in her mind. "So… Buxton goes out walking-he goes up to Froggatt Edge. Is that likely?"
"Many walk up there. It's a popular spot."
"Very well-he goes up and walks. You come to his house, then set off for the Edge, quite coincidentally, to locate him. But someone else who also wanted to find Buxton is before you. While you're climbing up, he struggles with Buxton and pushes him off. The blacksmith sees, douses his work and rushes off to get help. Then, not sure Buxton is dead, the murderer pelts down by the other path to finish him off. Meanwhile, you reach the top, look around, and see Buxton, lying facedown. You couldn't see that other path from the top, could you?"
His face impassive, Martin shook his head.
"You decide to go back down and check for life. You go down by the first path. Could you see the spot where Buxton fell from that path?"
"No."
"While you're on the way down, the murderer reaches Buxton, turns him over and bashes him dead. Then he runs away. Could he have done that without being seen by you or the villagers?"
Martin hesitated. "It would have been dicey, but yes. The ground's so uneven near the base of the cliffs, he could have got out of sight of both me and the villagers without having to go far. Later… once the villagers found me, no one was watching for anyone else."
Amanda nodded. "So then you get to the body, and the villagers find you there. That's how it happened."
Martin eyed her calm, determined-stubborn-expresssion. "You seem remarkably sanguine about murder."
She met his eyes. "I'm remarkably unsanguine about you being wrongfully accused of murder." She held his gaze, then continued, "But you worked all that out years ago."
He didn't deny it. She let the moment stretch, then asked, "So… how do we go about proving the truth?"
"I don't know that it's possible. There wasn't a shred of evidence at the time. If there had been, even in shock, I would have waved it."
Amanda remembered Lady Osbaldestone's words. "Things happened very quickly. It's possible something was overlooked, or only came to light later." When he said nothing, she urged, "It can't hurt to ask."
It could, but it wouldn't be him, or her, who might be hurt. Martin didn't say the words; he knew the time had come. He had to choose-her, or that other he was protecting. She hadn't begged, but if he resisted, she would do even that; she was committed to his resurrection because the future she envisioned for them hinged on that.
It was a future he now coveted more than anything else in life. He looked into her cornflower blue eyes, then lifted his gaze, looking up the valley to Hathersage. His father's and grandfather's and great-grandfather's house. Now his.
Now theirs. If he would…
He drew in a breath, exhaled, and reached for her hand. "Let's see if we can find Conlan."
She jumped off the rock, looked her query.
"The blacksmith who thought he saw me pitch old Buxton over Froggatt Edge."
Chapter 20
"Da's in the cottage out back, m'lord." The blacksmith set aside his bellows; his demeanor was eager as he waved them in. "He'll be right pleased to see you. That old matter's weighed heavy on his mind these last years. If you don't mind going through? He's not too steady on his pins, these days."
"We'll do that, Dan. I remember the way. You won't want to leave that." With a nod, Martin indicated the glowing shoe Dan had been working.
"Aye-well, you've the right of it, there."
As they crossed the yard behind the forge, Martin looked up, slowed. Amanda followed his gaze to the escarpment. Froggatt Edge was clearly visible, yet could anyone be sure who it was they saw at such a distance?
"Country eyes are notoriously sharp," Martin murmured.
"Hmm." Amanda matched his stride as they headed for the cottage flanking the cobbled yard.
Martin knocked on the door. A buxom young woman opened it. When he gave his name and asked to see Conlan, the woman's eyes grew round.
"Oh, heavens!" She bobbed a curtsy. "My lord, I-" She glanced back into the room behind her.
"Who is it, Betsy?"
Martin raised his brows. Flustered, wiping her hands on her apron, Betsy backed and waved them in.
"It's Dexter, Conlan."
An old man in the armchair by the hearth squinted, blinked, then his face cleared. "Yer lordship? Be it really you?"
"Indeed. It's me."
"Praise be!" Conlan struggled to his feet and bowed. "Welcome home, m'lord-and I thank the Lord I can finally tell you. It wasn't you I saw."
"How can you be so certain?" Martin asked, once they'd all sat and Betsy had closed the door. "I can understand you being unsure if it was me or not, but how can you be certain it wasn't me? There's no way even you could have distinguished features at that distance."
"Aye, you're right there, but it wasn't features that told me." Conlan sat back in his chair, gathered his resources. "Let me tell it like it was, then you'll see how it happened."
Martin nodded the permission Conlan waited for.
"I saw the figures on the Edge, wrestling, fighting, then I saw the young gen'leman shove old Buxton over. I knew it was Buxton 'cause of that yellow-striped waistcoat of his. I ran and fetched Simmons and Tucker, and Morrissey, too. Others joined us as we ran to the cliff. Tucker asked who'd thrown Buxton over. I said'twas a young gen'leman looked like you. Well-you were the only young gen'leman we had round about, and we all knew what you looked like, even from a distance. And I'll still take my oath on it-the gen'leman who threw Buxton over looked just like you. At the time, that's all I said-all I really knew, clear in my mind. And then we found you, and it fitted. You'd done it. Even though you said otherwise, what was we to think with you standing there with the rock in your hand and Buxton dead at your feet?
"So we hiked you to your Da, and he acted swift-that was a shock, I can tell you. We never expected he'd up and send you away like that. But it was done… we all went home." He nodded to the window. "I sat right here, and heard the carriage rumble past as they took you south."
Conlan sighed. "I tried to sleep but there was something nagging at me. Wouldn't let me go, kept forcing me to see it all again and again in my mind, see the gen'leman force Buxton to the lip and over. Buxton was no fool-he hadn't been walking close to the lip. The other had to force him back, and o' course he didn't go easily… that's when it all came clear and I knew we'd got it wrong."