When Falcons Fall (18 page)

L
ater that afternoon as the sunlight deepened to a rich golden hue and rooks swooped in to nest in the dense branches of the churchyard’s ancient elms and yews, Hero walked up the hill to Ayleswick’s sprawling vicarage and asked to see the Reverend’s wife.

“My dear Lady Devlin,” exclaimed Agnes Underwood some minutes later, hurrying into the parlor where Hero had been left waiting by the awestruck young housemaid. “My most sincere apologies for not coming sooner. But Bella—silly girl that she is—didn’t have the sense to interrupt when I was speaking to the butcher just now.”

“I do hope you didn’t break off your discussion with him on my account,” said Hero, gently disengaging her hands from Mrs. Underwood’s tenacious grip.

“Oh, it’s nothing, nothing, believe me. Please have a seat, Lady Devlin. I’ve already sent Bella for tea and cakes, so it shan’t be but a moment.” Her hostess settled on an uncomfortable-looking settee and clasped her hands in her lap. “Is there something I can do for you?”

“Actually, I was hoping you could tell me more about the two young women who died in the village some ten or fifteen years ago.”

The smile slid off Agnes Underwood’s face. “The young women . . .” She pursed her lips and pulled her chin back against her neck like a turtle drawing into its shell. “Whatever for?”

“You said that at the time of their deaths it was believed the women committed suicide.”

The vicar’s wife clicked her tongue against the roof of her mouth with disdain. “There is no greater sin against God than to take one’s own life.”

It was a sentiment that Hero had never been able to understand. How was it worse to take one’s own life than to steal the life of another? At least someone committing suicide had the permission of his or her victim. But she kept that thought to herself, saying simply, “Tell me about them.”

“Well . . . the first was Sybil Moss. Her father is a cottager on Lord Seaton’s estate.
Quite
the flighty little thing, she was. Beautiful, of course.” Agnes Underwood sniffed contemptuously. She was the kind of woman who considered beauty an outward sign of frivolity and actually saw her own plain features as a mark of her innate superiority. “Gave her notions far above her station, I’m afraid.”

“How old was she?”

“Fifteen or sixteen, I believe.”

“Was she seeing anyone in particular?”

“In particular?” Agnes huffed a scornful laugh. “As to that, I couldn’t say. But she certainly had half the men in the parish trotting after her like dogs after a bitch in heat. And not only the young ones, either, if you know what I mean.”

“Oh?” said Hero encouragingly.

The vicar’s wife leaned forward and dropped her voice. “It was
quite
the disgusting spectacle. Why, even Lord Seaton was falling all over himself, sniffing around the Moss cottage and—”

She broke off as the young housemaid, Bella, staggered in under a heavy silver tray loaded with teapot, cups and saucers, and plates of small cakes and biscuits.

Hero waited until the tea was poured and Mrs. Underwood passed her a cup before saying casually, “So why did Sybil kill herself?”

The vicar’s wife looked up from stirring her own tea, one arched eyebrow cocked. “Why do you think? Got herself in the family way, of course.”

“And she killed herself over it?” said Hero incredulously. An unmarried gentlewoman who found herself with child faced endless shame and social ruin, while for a housemaid it could mean instant dismissal followed either by a descent into prostitution or slow starvation and a wretched death. But the consequences were typically not so dire for a simple cottager’s daughter. “Did her father turn her out the house?”

Agnes Underwood shrugged. “Who knows? One assumes so. I mean, why else would she throw herself off the cliffs of Northcott Gorge?”

“There was never any suggestion at the time that someone might have pushed her?”

“Good heavens, no. What makes you ask such a thing?”

“It is possible, isn’t it?”

“No. I mean, who would want to push her?”

“The man who got her with child, perhaps?”

Agnes Underwood fingered her teacup, her features pinched and twitching with the turbulence of her thoughts. But she remained silent.

Hero said, “Nothing came out at the inquest?”

“Of course not. The verdict was felo-de-se, although the Reverend was able to argue successfully that the girl wasn’t in her right mind when she committed the act. He’s very compassionate, you know—some might say
too
much so. If you ask me, she should have been buried at the crossroads, naked and with a stake driven through her heart. Wicked, wicked thing.”

It was with effort that Hero kept the distaste provoked by her hostess’s remarks off her face. “And the other girl?”

“That was the blacksmith’s daughter, Hannah. Hannah Grant. Drowned herself in the millpond, she did.”

“Was she likewise with child?”

“I assume so.”

“Surely there was an autopsy?”

“No. There was no need. It was quite obvious that the silly girl had drowned, so why waste parish funds? The old Squire was very careful about such things. Parish rates are quite high enough already.”

“So it is possible she could have been murdered as well.”

Agnes Underwood gave another of those humorless laughs. “
Dear
Lady Devlin, what a thing to suggest.”

“If she wasn’t known to be with child, then why was she thought to have killed herself?”

“Love sickness, the silly chit.”

“She was in love? With whom?”

“Who knows? Kept it a secret. Probably some married man, I’m afraid. She was as pretty and flighty as Sybil, so it was no surprise when she came to a similarly bad end.”

Hero took a slow sip of her tea. She suspected that any attractive young woman who laughed and enjoyed the attentions of men would be condemned as “flighty” by the vicar’s wife. “Precisely when did these deaths occur?”

Mrs. Underwood screwed up her face with thought. “Well . . . let’s see. It was before Maplethorpe burned, so it must have been ’ninety-six or ’ninety-seven.”

“Had any other young women died under similar circumstances before that?”

“Well, there was Marie Baldwyn. Threw herself off the roof of Maplethorpe Hall, she did. But that was before my time. And I believe the family succeeded in convincing the coroner’s jury that she had simply slipped and fallen to her death.”

“What about in the years since then?”

“Good heavens, no. Two were quite enough, thank you. Three, if you count Marie Baldwyn.”

“Four if you count Emma Chandler,” said Hero. “Whoever killed her also tried to pass that death off as a suicide.”

The vicar’s wife looked vaguely affronted. “Surely you don’t mean to suggest that there’s any sort of connection? It’s been years!”

“So it has.” Hero took another sip of her tea and smiled. “I had a second purpose in visiting you this evening. I was wondering: Do you have a copy of
Debrett’s Peerage
?”

Agnes Underwood settled back on her seat, obviously too relieved by the shift in topic to be puzzled by it. “Why, yes.”

“May I borrow it? As well as any histories of seventeenth – and eighteenth-century Scotland and Wales the vicar might have?”

“Of course.” She waited expectantly to have the request explained to her.

But Hero simply smiled, said, “Thank you,” and left it at that.

Later that evening, Hero sent Jules Calhoun up to the Grange with a message for Archie Rawlins.

Then she settled down beside her sleeping son and opened the vicar’s books in search of Guinevere Stuart Gordon.

Saturday, 7 August

S
ebastian left for Tenbury early the next morning, after having stopped the night at an old, half-timbered inn on the edge of Little Stretton. The day had dawned cool and misty, with heavy white clouds that hugged the tops of the trees and obscured the upper heights of the Long Mynd. He made the drive in easy stages, resting his horses along the way.

A middling-sized, ancient market town surrounded by orchards of apples, damson plums, and pears, Tenbury lay on the southern banks of the River Teme where the counties of Worcestershire, Herefordshire, and Shropshire all came together. In the spring, when the fruit trees bloomed, the town could be lovely, with clouds of colorful, piercingly sweet petals that billowed through the narrow old streets. But on this wet, dismal morning, Tenbury seemed brooding, somber.

Miss Rowena LaMont’s Academy for Young Ladies lay on a quiet street of stern, gray stone houses with steeply pitched slate roofs, its garden hidden by a high wall topped with spikes.

“Ain’t the most cheery-lookin’ place, is it?” said Tom.

Sebastian stared up at that bleak, silent facade and found himself remembering twelve-year-old Emma’s drawing of the school engulfed in hellish flames. “Perhaps it looks better in the sunshine,” he said, and handed the boy the reins.

Miss Rowena LaMont proved to be as prim and forbidding-looking as her house. A tall, thin woman somewhere in her late fifties, she had unusually pronounced cheekbones and a small, tight mouth. Her dark blue gown was both fashionable and finely made, but cut high at the neck, its severity relieved only by a thin band of good lace at the collar.

She received him in a comfortable parlor as elegant as her gown. Around them, the house was quiet, with most of the students presumably home for the summer holidays.

“Lord Devlin,” she said, sinking into a curtsy. “How do you do? Please sit down and tell me how I may help you.”

He knew by the avaricious gleam in her eyes that she thought him the parent of a prospective student. He took the comfortable seat she indicated and said bluntly, “I’m here because I’m hoping you can answer some questions about Miss Emma Chandler.”

Avarice receded behind a frozen facade of bristly caution. “Emma? I’m sorry to disappoint you, my lord, but Miss Chandler is no longer a student at the academy.”

“I know. You have heard, I assume, that she was murdered earlier this week in Shropshire?”

The headmistress’s expression never altered. “I read about it in this morning’s papers, yes. I gather there was some initial confusion as to her proper identity.”

“It must have come as a sad shock to you.”

Miss Rowena LaMont obviously had any shock she may have experienced well under control, and Sebastian found himself doubting she’d felt even the slightest twinge of sadness. She regarded him steadily. “Surely you aren’t suggesting her death is in any way connected to her time at the academy?”

He gave her a reassuring smile. “Of course not. But the local magistrate has asked for my assistance in the investigation, and we were hoping you might be able to tell us more about her. At the moment, the circumstances surrounding her death remain a complete mystery.”

Miss LaMont pursed her lips and plucked at her high collar with a nervous thumb and forefinger. “I’m sorry, but surely you can appreciate my position? The privacy of our students—both present and past—must always be respected.”

“I understand,” said Sebastian with a smile, rising to his feet. “I had assumed you would prefer to speak with me. But I see now I should have had Bow Street send one of their Runners to interview you. My apologies for—”

“Wait!” Miss Rowena’s eyes widened in alarm. The last thing the mistress of a school for young ladies wanted was for it to be known that her premises had been visited by Bow Street Runners. “Please, my lord, do sit down.” She folded her hands in her lap. “Now, what would you like to know?”

Sebastian settled back into his seat. “How long was Miss Chandler a student here?”

“Fourteen years. She came to us at the age of seven.”

The thought of Emma spending two-thirds of her short life in these bleak, cold surroundings struck him as profoundly sad and troubling. But all he said was, “Tell me about her.”

Miss LaMont gave a tight little smile. “What is it the Jesuits say? ‘Give me a child to the age of seven, and I will give you the man’—or, in this case, the woman? I’m afraid Emma’s character was essentially formed by the time she came to us.”

“Where had she lived, before?”

“Some farm family. Foster parents, of course. But she should have been removed from them much, much sooner. She was a wild thing when she arrived, with the manners and speech of a country bumpkin. Needless to say, we took care of
that
in short order, although I’m afraid she never quite fit in with the other students.”

“Why not?”

“Why? Because of who she was, of course.”

Which she was never allowed to forget,
he thought. Aloud, he said, “So who was she?”

Miss LaMont lowered her voice, as if what she was about to say was too shocking to be expressed aloud. “A natural child.”

“Of whom?”

“As to that, I fear I cannot say.”

“Yet she obviously came from a wealthy family.”

“Oh, yes. Her bloodline must always demand respect, even if the stain of illegitimacy remains indelible.”

Sebastian studied the schoolmistress’s self-satisfied, supercilious expression. If Rowena LaMont considered Emma Chandler’s bloodline worthy of respect, then the girl must have been of gentle birth. The by-blow of a mere merchant or tradesman, no matter how wealthy, would never be considered possessed of superior blood.

“Had she any close friends amongst the other students?”

“Oh, no. I always took care to discourage the formation of any schoolgirl attachments in that direction. My students’ parents would hardly thank me for allowing their daughters to form such a connection, now, would they?”

“But she was friendly with Georgina Seaton.”

Miss Lamont stiffened. “She was, yes. But then, girls of Georgina’s age do sometimes have a tendency toward willfulness. If Emma hadn’t been leaving the academy, I would have taken more forceful steps to end the friendship. But as it was . . .” She shrugged.

Sebastian found he liked the absent Georgina Seaton, although he had never met the girl. It couldn’t have been easy for her to befriend someone so obviously marked as an outcast by the school’s headmistress.

He said, “Did you know that Miss Seaton’s brother, Crispin, had formed an attachment to Miss Chandler?”

Rowena LaMont’s small pale eyes grew narrow and flinty. “I was aware of his interest, yes.”

“Did you by chance inform Lady Seaton of that interest?”

“If I had thought it serious, I would not have hesitated to notify her ladyship. But the boy is only—what? Twenty-one? Twenty-two? Young gentlemen of that age tumble in and out of love with startling rapidity and frequency. I saw no need to trouble her ladyship with something that would inevitably blow over.”

“Had you had any communication with Emma since she left the school?”

“No. Why would I?”

Emma Chandler had shared this woman’s table and parlor for fourteen years, yet she found his question strange?

Something of his thoughts must have shown on his face, for she said, “To coddle the fruits of sin is to condone the act that created them, and I believe we must never be lured into such errors by the temptations of misplaced kindness.” She smoothed one hand down over her fine skirt. “Emma Chandler could with justice have been consigned to a short, brutal existence in a parish workhouse. Instead, she was given a life of rare comfort and privilege. Yet far from being grateful or suitably humble, she was angry, resentful, and willful.”

Sebastian found his hands tightening on the arms of his chair, so that he had to deliberately relax them. “Can you think of anyone who might have wanted to cause her harm?”

Miss LaMont gave a forced, mirthless laugh. “Good heavens, no.”

“Do you have any idea what might have taken her to Ayleswick?”

“No idea whatsoever.” She glanced pointedly at the small gold watch she wore pinned to her bodice. “And now you really must excuse me, my lord; I have duties to which I must attend.”

“Of course.” He rose to his feet. “If you could furnish me with the name and direction of her family?”

She rose with him. “Sorry, but that’s quite out of the question.”

He gave her a smile that showed his teeth. “Well, if you’d rather deal with Bow Street . . .”

She pursed her lips, her nostrils flaring with indignation. He thought for a moment that she still meant to refuse him. Then she said, “Wait here,” and swept from the room.

She reappeared a moment later to slam a folded piece of paper down on the rosewood table beside the door. “You didn’t receive this from me. And if you try to claim otherwise, I shall give you the lie to your face. Good day, my lord. One of the maids will show you out.”

After she had gone, Sebastian went to unfold the slip of paper and stare down at what she had written.
Lord Heyworth. Pleasant Park, Herefordshire.

He folded the paper again and put it in his pocket.

He was tempted to start for Herefordshire that afternoon. But one look at his tired horses told him the chestnuts had gone as far as they should in one day.

“Did ye find out who she was?” asked Tom as Sebastian leapt up to take the reins.

“Not exactly. But I now have a very good idea of where to look.”