The Wild Baron (Baron 1)

“No, it wasn’t, Roland. You did what was proper. Tell me about this young curate.”

“He was there at the corner. He was dressed like a curate. He looked ascetic, if you know what I mean—which is odd, since his cheeks weren’t sunken and he wasn’t thin like ascetics are supposed to be. I never questioned that he was who he said. He

handed me a packet. I brought it back, but I didn’t disturb the bishop. He had told me he wasn’t to be bothered unless Oxford was falling into the sea. Well a simple packet wasn’t a dire matter, so I didn’t take it up. Oh, my poor master. I let him die. It’s all my fault.”

“No,” Rohan said from the doorway. “No, it isn’t, unless you struck him with that andiron.”

“His name is Roland,” Susannah said. “Roland, do you still have that packet of papers the young curate gave you?”

“Why, yes, I do. I put them next to the salver on the table in the entryway.”

“Perhaps we should look at them,” Rohan said.

Roland leapt from his chair, as if thankful for something useful to do that would lessen his guilt. When he returned, he handed the packet to Rohan, never looking at Susannah.

“Look at this,” Rohan said finally. “Blank pages, the entire lot of them, all blank.”

“Oh, God, if only I’d looked, I would have known that something was very wrong. But I didn’t look. I just whistled after I’d set the packet on the table, made myself some tea in the kitchen, and didn’t think a single odd thought.”

“Don’t blame yourself, Roland,” Jubilee Balantyne said in a voice smoother than a rock in a creek bed. “Obviously the man who killed your master came in when he saw you leave. However, it isn’t your fault. You did what you were supposed to do. You performed a service requested of you. Now, tell me about this young curate. He had to be in on the scheme, you see. It was his job to get you away from the house.”

Roland rose slowly to his feet. He really was lovely. Had he been wearing a gown, Susannah would have believed him a beautiful young woman.

“My lord, I don’t know,” Roland whimpered and burst into tears, covering his face in his hands. Rohan shot Susannah a harassed look.

She frowned at him.

“I’m sorry, Roland, take your time,” Rohan said. His voice, if not gentle, was at least a bit more restrained. “This is naturally quite a shock to you. But surely you want us to find who did this to your master. Please think. That’s it. Focus your memory on meeting that man who was dressed as a curate.”

Roland was obviously thinking. He began to pace. He looked, Susannah thought, like a very beautiful actor from a play of the last century.

Susannah said nothing, merely waited. Phillip was standing beside the open door, his arms crossed over his chest. As for the magistrate, he was saying not a word, just sitting next to Rohan, watching the young man and his perambulations.

“He was young,” Roland said suddenly, “not much older than I am. He had a lot of hair, black hair, and it was too long for a curate. I remember thinking he should get it cut. He was taller than I, but not much. He was very fit, not lean but muscular. I’ve never seen a curate built like he was. Oh, God, I killed my master.”

“Roland, you’re doing fine,” Susannah said, “but you must continue to hold yourself together. What you tell us will help find the man who did this awful thing.”

Jubilee Balantyne cleared his throat, winked at Susannah, and said, “Did he tell you his name?”

Roland shook his head. “No, my lord. He was pleasant, spoke a moment about the weather, asked me how long I’d lived in Oxford. What did I think of Bishop Roundtree? Oh, God! I see it all now. He was keeping me away from the bishop while his accomplice was murdering him. Oh, God!”

“That is true,” said Jubilee Balantyne. “But you had no way of knowing it was a ruse. Come now, do pull yourself together, as Lady Mountvale told you to do. Did you notice anything at all unusual about the young man, anything distinctive?”

Roland was shaking his head, wringing his hands, his periwig crooked, but it didn’t matter to him, for he was too upset to speak.

“Think, man!”

“Yes, yes, I remember now. He was wearing this ring on his left hand. Bishop Roundtree has one identical to it. I started to ask him where he got it, then he gave me the packet and there was no time.”

“Tell us about this ring.”

“Better than that,” Balantyne said. “Let me go fetch the bishop’s. You’re certain it was identical?” Roland nodded. Susannah didn’t envy him his task. He was back very soon, standing in the doorway, frowning.

“He isn’t wearing a ring.”

Roland jumped to his feet. “No, my lord, the bishop always wore that ring, always. I asked him once about it, and he became so angry at my impertinence I thought he would strike me. Of course he didn’t. He never struck me. Well, he did just one time, but that was because it pleased him to do it.”

“Then the man who killed him took it. None of us noticed this before. One of the bishop’s fingers was cut off, likely the one upon which he wore that ring. Evidently his killer couldn’t simply pull it off, thus the mutilation.”