But given that was the case...
After several minutes of wrestling with the issue, Kit said, “Boys, I want you to think very carefully over all you heard the man say. As he is driving Miss Buckleberry toward her home, is there any chance at all that he might actually be doing what he said and fetching Miss Buckleberry to her dying father’s side?”
He glanced over his shoulder to see the boys exchanging a long glance. Kit faced forward and waited.
Eventually, Ollie said, “The man said as he’d been staying next door to the vicarage, but we know he’s been living in the city and his rooming house is off the Butts. We saw him yesterday, parading around with his boards, so how could he have been staying at this village?”
“And that’s not all he lied about,” Ned piped up. “He told Miss Buckleberry his name was Mr. Hillary—I heard her call him that. But when we were following him to learn where he lived, we heard other people call him Nunsworth. So he lied about that, too. Why would he do that if he wasn’t up to no good?”
“And,” Ollie said, in the tone of one sealing an argument with irrefutable logic, “why’s he been watching Miss Buckleberry, all secret-like, for the past week?”
Kit stared ahead, digesting all that.
From beside him, Smiggs growled, “Those are three good questions, and it doesn’t sound as if this Hillary bloke would have any good answers.”
“No,” Kit conceded. To the boys, he called, “You’re right. Hillary or Nunsworth or whoever he is has to be a villain.”
And the situation was shaping up to be as bad as Kit’s instincts were insisting.
Given the boys’ information, he couldn’t see how the man could be genuine, but at this point, he really didn’t care. It was more important that Sylvia and Jack came out of the incident safely; if it turned out Kit and the boys had made fools of themselves over nothing, so be it.
Kit chafed as the horses plodded up the long incline; he knew both incline and pace would only get worse closer to the top of the hill and resigned himself to frustration. They were roughly halfway to Saltford; he didn’t dare push his horses too hard.
The thought drew his attention to the relative speeds of a gig pulled by a single horse versus a well-sprung curricle with two top-notch carriage horses in the traces. Estimating the difference distracted him as they toiled up Durley Hill.
Even with the additional weight of Smiggs, given the quality of Kit’s horses and curricle, they would be faster over any distance than Hillary’s gig could possibly be.
Despite this interminably slow stage, the distance between them and the gig had to be closing.
They could—and would—reach Sylvia and Jack in time.
* * *
Sylvia was clutching the side of Hillary’s gig with a white-knuckled grip when the first roofs of Saltford came into view. She felt rattled to her back teeth, but as she’d urged Hillary to get her to her father’s side as fast as he could, she could hardly fault him for taking her at her word.
Although she’d questioned him further, he’d sworn he didn’t know anything more to tell her. She’d spent the drive imagining the worst.
But she would know all soon.
Scanning ahead, she knew just where to look to spot the top of the church tower, away to the left of the main road. Seeing it made her stomach clench even tighter. Her father couldn’t be dying—her mind simply refused to accept that.
Hillary had to slow his horse as they approached the village proper, but instead of turning left along the lane that led to the church, he drove straight on.
Surprised, Sylvia stared back at the lane, then rounded on Hillary. “You’ve missed the turn!”
“Ah, sorry.” Hillary didn’t lift his gaze from his horse nor did he slow the beast. “I should have said. There’s been subsidence after the recent rains—a huge pothole opened up in the lane. I have to go around via the Shallows.”
Sylvia sank back against the seat. “Oh.” She knew the alternative route he spoke of; the lane known as the Shallows started just beyond the other side of the village and looped back along the banks of the river, ultimately connecting with the end of the lane that led to the church.
Inwardly grimacing, she told herself that going via the Shallows wouldn’t be that much longer—especially if the pothole was close to the highway and she had to walk most of the length of the lane.
As Hillary’s gig rattled along what had become the village street, she sat woodenly beside him, feeling hollow inside as she waited to learn the terrible truth in a way that would force her to believe it.
Doctor Moreton would be at the vicarage. He was an old friend of her father’s and could be counted on to tell her as much as he knew without any roundaboutation. How could her father, who had seemed in his usual robust health only three weeks ago, have faded so quickly?
She saw several villagers who, recognizing her, waved and smiled...
Presumably, they hadn’t yet heard. She forced herself to raise a hand in return, but she couldn’t manage a smile.