“He came up from the river.” Charles waved at the path behind him. “His footprints are clear, definite—he knew what he was doing, where he was going. There’s a rowboat drifting—he probably stole it from somewhere along the other side.”

Dalziel exhaled. “I doubt there’s anything left for us here, but in case anyone knows anything, we’ll speak with all the guests.”

Christian had appeared from the other direction; he and Charles nodded, and headed back to the front of the house.

Gervase and Dalziel reentered Lady Hardesty’s room to find Robert Hardesty standing just inside the door, staring at his dead wife. His face was blank, empty; the expression in his eyes, when he looked their way, was lost.

Dalziel inclined his head and stepped past; at the door, he glanced back at Gervase. “I’ll speak with the butler.”

Pausing before Robert Hardesty, Gervase nodded. He caught Robert’s bewildered gaze, and spoke calmly, soothingly. “The doctor’s been sent for—he’ll be here soon. He’ll know what to do.”

Dumbly, Robert nodded. He glanced again at the bed; his composure wavered, threatened to crack. “But who…?” He looked at Gervase, stricken and frightened. “People might think it was me. But I didn’t—”

“We know it wasn’t you. She was killed by a man—a London gentleman—we understand she was acquainted with. She was seen with him for a short time yesterday afternoon. The man is a known killer and a traitor—we believe he killed her so she couldn’t identify him.”

Robert Hardesty stared at him; Gervase couldn’t tell how much of his words he was taking in.

Then Robert turned and looked again at the bed. “My sisters, and my aunt, were right. They said she, all her London connections, weren’t…good. I should have listened.”

Gervase gripped his shoulder. “When it comes to women, sometimes even young girls see more clearly than we.” His sisters certainly had. He took Robert by the arm. “Come and have some brandy. It’ll help.”

Without resistance, Robert let Gervase lead him from the room.

It took them over two hours to interview all the guests at Helston Grange. All of them were accounted for; none of them was their villain, or at first blush knew anything of him.

Dalziel and Gervase handled the interviews while Christian spoke with the staff and Charles roamed outside, speaking with the gardeners, grooms and stable hands.

When they finally met up on the front steps, their expressions were unrelentingly grim.

“Our man never stayed here,” Dalziel replied in answer to Charles’s arched brow. “However, two of her ladyship’s bosom-bows are certain she had a long-standing liaison with some gentleman of the ton, one that predates her marriage by some years. They believe the liaison continued, although very much more sporadically, after her marriage. The lady was free with her favors and had many other lovers, but the only lover she treated with absolute discretion, to the extent of not sharing his name or any detail of him with these two friends, was this old flame.” He paused, then went on, “They believe he’d come down here, and that she’d been seeing him over this summer, but neither knows anything more.”

Christian shifted. “Her maid, who’s a local, thinks much the same—that despite the other lovers, including some of the men currently here, there was some man she knew from her past who she was seeing again clandestinely. According to the maid, he never came to the house.”

Charles grimaced. “One of the gardeners thinks she and some London gentleman—tall, dark-haired, our usual suspect—have been using one of the old garden sheds down by the river for assignations.”

“Which,” Gervase said, “confirms that our man wasn’t one of the guests, but very likely was this old flame.”

“And,” Charles went on, resignation filling his voice, “there’s a horse missing. A nice chestnut gelding, plus a good saddle and tack.”

They fell silent, then Dalziel quietly cursed. “The blackguard’s escaped. He’s gone.”

For one instant, they all toyed with the notion of giving chase, then remembered in how many directions a man on a horse could have gone.

His face set, an impassive mask, Dalziel stepped down from the porch. “All that’s left is for us to go home.”

Epilogue

Gervase Aubrey Simon Tregarth, 6th Earl of Crowhurst, married Madeline Henrietta Gascoigne, of the Treleaver Park Gascoignes, in the church at Ruan Minor just over four weeks later.

The church with its strange serpentine stone was packed, people standing in the aisles and overflowing down the steps to fill the churchyard, all gathered to witness the joining not just of the two major local families but also two people who were widely known and admired. Those inside the church were mostly local gentry; the only outsiders were Gervase’s colleagues and their wives, Madeline’s godmother and a few far-flung relatives. The day was one the people of the peninsula weren’t about to miss, and intended to celebrate; the formalities were observed, but a relaxed, joyous air pervaded all.

A stir went up when Madeline’s carriage halted before the lych-gate. Delighted exclamations rippled through the crowd when she stepped down in a cloud of silk and lace. Radiant, on Harry’s arm she walked into the church and down the aisle to the strains of the organ.

Harry gave her away; he placed her hand in Gervase’s, then stepped back to sit with Edmond and Ben. Charles and Gervase’s cousin stood alongside him, while Penny and Belinda had followed Madeline down the aisle.

The service was short, uncluttered, direct. When the vicar named them man and wife, Madeline beamed, put back her veil and stepped into Gervase’s arms. He smiled, kissed her, too briefly but they knew their roles. Turning, arm in arm, their faces serene, showing their joy, they walked slowly up the aisle accepting the congratulations of all who leaned close to kiss their cheeks and shake their hands.

Around them, the organ pealed in joyful celebration, almost it seemed in triumph. Certainly there was an element of that in the tenor of many of the congratulatory messages; it seemed plain that to everyone theirs was a union not just to be applauded but celebrated as an example that all was well in this corner of the world.

Tags: Stephanie Laurens Bastion Club Historical
Source: readsnovelonline.net