“Nothing unusual in that,” Flash said matter-of-factly. “Servants have to be very careful about whose bread they’re seen buttering.”
“I will,” Caroline said. “So it seems that Aunt Eleanor met someone away from Scrilady Hall.”
“Or she was going for a walk and was abducted by a stranger,” North said. “But more likely, by someone she knew. Someone she liked, someone she trusted.”
“Lots of possibilities,” Flash agreed. “As I said. However, I now know lots of bully boys in Goonbell and Mount Hawke and Trevellas. I’ll start nosing about, all subtle like, you know. The captain says I’m a quiet one with big ears, when it suits me to be so.” He leaned toward the bed, his hands clasped between his knees. “Miss Caroline, do you think young Bennett Penrose could have killed your aunt?”
This was serious, dead serious. “I don’t know. When I first met him I just saw him as a sulky little boy with a nasty mouth and no spine, although he’s not a boy at all. He’s really twenty-eight. I just don’t know, Flash. When Mr. Brogan read her will, I know Bennett was furious at how things had been left. He was accusing Mr. Brogan of fakery, of being Aunt Eleanor’s lover, of cooking up evil plots and vile things. To answer your question, I think he could, yes. His is not an admirable character.”
“That’s a good start, Flash. Find out where Mr. Bennett Penrose was when Eleanor Penrose was killed. If he was here in the area, then he goes to the head of the list and I will take great personal pleasure in sticking my face in his.”
“If she was killed because of money,” Caroline said, “then I should be on that list.”
“You would be,” North said coolly, “if you’d been in the neighborhood, but you weren’t. I already mentioned that to you, but you were a bit under the weather at the time, as I recall.” He rose. “Now, Caroline, I will speak personally to Polgrain and make certain he delivers you a dinner that won’t frighten off your guests unless it’s covered with a napkin. I’m sorry this happened, not surprised, but sorry.”
She managed to smile despite the headache that was growing stronger by the moment. “It’s all right, North. I find I’m looking forward to what your men will do next. I admire ingenuity and they’ve lots of it.” She sighed. “I just wish there weren’t malice in there as well.”
“I say,” Flash said. “What is that huge tome? The Nightingale family Bible, my lord
?”
North was frowning at the massive tome. “No. What is it, Caroline?”
“It’s your ancestors’ writings on the belief that King Mark lived and died here at Mount Hawke and not at Fowey. I just started it. The first notes are by the fifth Baron Hawke, Donniger George Nightingale, who was also the first Viscount Chilton. He wrote his opinions back in the beginning of the last century. That would make him your great-grandfather, wouldn’t it?”
“Yes, he was the first Viscount Chilton.” North picked up the heavy volume and began paging through it. “I had no idea Great-Grandfather was such a lover of myth. He’s written nearly half of this, and it’s all in journal entries, something like a diary. Listen to this: ‘Over near the abandoned Wheal Weffel, my young dairymaid Barney found a piece of gold jewelry wrapped in a faded and crumbling piece of brilliant gold cloth. He brought it to me, holding it as carefully as a father would his baby boy. It was a gold armlet, very, very old, and on it was etched REX. It belonged to King Mark, of that I’m certain. I will keep it safe for all eternity, and when I find his burial place here on Nightingale land, I will reunite it with that blessed noble king.”’ North looked up. “Very interesting. Where the devil is this gold armlet that Great-Grandfather planned to keep for all eternity? I’ve never heard about it, never seen it.”
“A dairymaid named Barney?” Flash said, laughing. “And your great-grandfather likened the boy’s reverence to a father holding his baby boy? That sounds rather odd, my lord. However, I would like to see that gold armlet. I wonder how much I could sell it for in London.”
Caroline laughed. “A goodly amount, I’d say. Oh yes, now there’s a maid named Timmy. This is a house of men, and evidently it’s been that way for many, many years. You’re safe, Flash, you don’t have to worry about being poisoned or terrified out of your wits on a dark night; you’re the right sex.”
She turned back to North, who was frowning over that huge book that his great-grandfather had filled with an alarming number of pages. She said, “If you’re interested, I’ll give you reports.”
“I remember now,” North said slowly, staring down at that huge book. “My father spoke of this when I was a small boy. He told me stories of King Mark to send me off to sleep at night, stories of how if men couldn’t trust their beloved nephews, probably their best friends and their brothers as well, then civilization would crumble.” He riffled through the rest of the pages. “It appears that my father wrote only an odd dozen pages. Tell me if he says anything earth-shattering, Caroline.”
She nodded.
“I should prefer believing King Arthur was buried here,” Flash said, peering over North’s shoulder at the thick tome. “He was surely a more dashing fellow, more famous, what with old Merlin, and his Round Table and all. Just think, the Holy Grail could be buried on Nightingale land.”
“You’re right,” Caroline said. “King Arthur is much more romantic. Not all that many people even know about poor old King Mark. What is this, North? You’re looking skeptical. You’re young enough to be converted. Perhaps in your doddering years you, too, will write about poor old Mark and how he’s buried twenty feet beneath the apple trees down the east slope.” She’d looked briefly through the immense number of journal entries, the philosophic meanderings, the occasional map and offered proof of King Mark’s presence here, and had seen immediately that no women had penned a word or offered an idea about Arthur or anyone else. Of course, not many women were given credit for ever having an idea. Or, in the case of the Nightingales, the misogyny obviously went deeper, it had to go deeper, witness the aversion in which Coombe, Tregeagle, and Polgrain held her. As there were no portraits of a single woman she’d seen here at Mount Hawke, there were no writings either. Why? What the devil had happened? Of course it had something to do with betrayal. By North’s great-grandmother? Goodness, if that were true, the Nightingale men had very, very long memories.
She looked up to see Flash studying her closely. “Do I still have the shadow of the pilchard head on my chin?”
“Oh no, Miss Caroline. Actually, I was thinking that the captain’s wife, Lady Victoria, would enjoy meeting you. She gives the captain, er, Sir Rafael, fits, makes him yowl with rage, and he quite enjoys it.”
“I should like to meet her,” she said with little enthusiasm. She had more on her plate now than a vicar had on his collection plate in a church full of converts.
“Caroline,” North said. “Flash will get on with it now and I’ll see that your stomach doesn’t shrivel into dust. I won’t be long.”
It wasn’t Coombe or Polgrain or Tregeagle who delivered her dinner. It was North himself and it was obvious that he had overseen the preparation. There was enough baked pork for a good dozen feasters and at least a half-dozen other dishes, all covered with highly polished silver domes.
“Eat,” he said, and sat down in his chair beside her bed. He waited until she’d forked some of the delicious flaky pork into her mouth before he said, “Rafael Carstairs was a ship captain, a spy, really, for our war office, doing all the harm he could to Napoleon on the seas. When he came home after it became known who he really was and what he was really doing, he was asked to destroy a revived Hellfire club. You know the sort of thing—young men debauching to their hearts’ content. He did destroy the club and was then knighted. He’s an identical twin, and his brother is Baron Drago, and therein lies a tale for a long winter night. As for Rafael, however, Flash still calls him Captain. He’s helping me with the tin mines here at Mount Hawke. Wheal David in particular needs many repairs. There’s flooding from God knows where and I don’t know what equipment I need to buy to stop it or where the flooding is even coming from. It’s strange; it’s very near to one of yours: Wheal Kitty, which is running smoothly as a damned carriage with new wheels.”
“I’ve only spoken to my manager once, but he seems competent. His name is Mr. Peetree. Why don’t you speak to him and see what he has to say?” North nodded and she forked down another bite of the most delicious buttery boiled potatoes. But she wondered about her own tin mines. Mr. Peetree had told her everything was dandy, but on the other hand, she was a female and thus perhaps he didn’t believe her capable of understanding any problems the mines might be having. She frowned, resolving to speak to Mr. Peetree again.
“What are you frowning about? Does your head hurt?”
“Oh no, I was just remembering that I’m a female.”