When Falcons Fall (3 page)

H
ero Devlin sat on a rustic stone bench at the edge of the broad village green, an open notebook balanced on one knee, her six-month-old son, Simon, on a rug spread on the grass at her feet.

The strengthening sun had burned off the morning mist, and she was grateful for the dappled shade cast by the spreading chestnut tree beside them. The air was sweet and clean and filled with cheerful birdsong, and she found herself smiling. For the moment, Simon was content to play with his toes and chatter happily at these fascinating appendages, which left his mother free to draw up the outline for a new article she was planning.

She’d been born Miss Hero Jarvis, daughter of Charles, Lord Jarvis, the ruthlessly brilliant King’s cousin who loomed as the acknowledged power behind the Hanovers’ wobbly dynasty. Standing nearly six feet tall and possessing an education typically given only to sons, Hero was in her own way as ruthless as her father. But her radical philosophies were of the kind that gave Jarvis fits.

There’d been a time not so long ago when she’d been determined never to become any man’s wife, determined to dedicate her life to challenging the brutal social injustices that characterized their society. A chance encounter with a certain handsome, dangerous viscount had altered her attitudes toward marriage. But her passionate dedication to her cause had never wavered.

For the past year she had made the study of London’s poor her special project. Now, a summer spent traveling between Devlin’s manor down in Hampshire and several of Jarvis’s estates had stimulated an interest in the effects of the enclosure movement on England’s poor. She was focused on scribbling a series of questions to investigate when she became aware of Devlin walking toward her, the morning sun glazing his fine-boned face with a rich golden light.

“That didn’t take long,” she said as he drew nearer.

He shook his head. “It’s only just begun, I’m afraid.”

She felt the earlier surge of carefree joy seeping out of the day. “So the young Squire was right? It was murder?”

“Yes.”

“Dear God.”

He bent to pick up their son, the somber lines of his face relaxing into a smile as Simon squealed with delight. For a moment, he held the child close. Then he looked over at her. “You’re working?”

It was one of the things she loved about him, that he respected the work she did. That he respected
her
—her mind, her talents, her opinions. “Just jotting down ideas.” She closed her notebook. “Why?”

“I need your help.”

Emma Chance had occupied a corner chamber overlooking both the village green and the high street. Low ceilinged, with walls papered in a cheery floral pattern, it was furnished with a heavy, old-fashioned oak-framed bed hung with blue linen; a single chair; a washstand and nightstool behind a carved screen; and a clothespress so ancient it looked as if it might be original to the inn. At the foot of the bed rested a new-looking trunk and a pair of tapestry slippers; a lightweight hooded cloak and a sprigged dressing gown hung from hooks near the door.

Although he knew it was something that had to be done, Sebastian still found himself hesitating at the chamber door. The sense of intruding on a private space was strong, and he couldn’t help thinking that just yesterday, Emma Chance had left this room expecting to return to it in a few minutes or at most a few hours. She could never have imagined strangers coming here after her death to inspect her most private possessions, to analyze everything in a desperate search for clues as to exactly who she was and who could have wanted to kill her. And he found himself grateful that Hero had been able to leave Simon with his nurse, Claire, and come here with them. McBroom was right; her presence did, somehow, make what they were doing feel like less of a violation . . . although he acknowledged that could simply be a sop to his own conscience.

“How long was she planning to stay?” Hero asked the glowering innkeeper as she went to throw open the doors of the clothespress.

Rather than come into the room, Mr. McBroom stayed in the hall, his hands tucked up under his armpits. “Said she wanted the room for a week—maybe a bit more.”

“She wasn’t traveling with much,” said Hero, studying the two spare dresses in the clothespress: a sturdy gray carriage dress trimmed with black piping, and a simple black morning gown. The drawers below held two nightdresses, a pair of soft leather shoes, clean undergarments, and several pairs of black stockings.

“And?” asked Sebastian. This was the other reason he was glad to have Hero with them: As a woman, she could evaluate Emma Chance’s possessions in a way he never could.

“The carriage dress is nicely made and looks quite new—as if it’s only been worn once or twice. The other things are also nice, but with the exception of the black stockings they’re not new. The morning gown is an older muslin dress she probably dyed black when her husband died. How long did you say she’d been widowed?”

“Six months,” said Rawlins. He’d positioned himself just inside the door, his hands thrust into the pockets of his coat and his shoulders hunched. He was obviously feeling as awkward and out of place as Sebastian.

“How sad,” said Hero. She moved to study the array of objects spread across the top of the bedside table and washstand: a small embroidered silk sewing kit that opened to reveal dainty scissors, a thimble, thread, and buttons; a simple wood-and-silk fan painted with blowsy pink roses; a silver hairbrush and comb; a toothbrush and tooth powder; a half-empty bottle of rose water; a bar of rose-scented soap. . . .

“She obviously liked roses,” said Hero, studying the rose-encircled initials on the back of the hairbrush: EC. “This is new too.”

“So is the trunk,” said Sebastian. He watched his wife walk to the center of the room, then frown and turn in a slow circle. “What is it?”

“You said you found a spencer, a hat, and gloves lying beside her. What about her reticule?”

Sebastian looked at Archie Rawlins.

Both men shook their heads.

“So where is it?” said Hero.

“Perhaps it’s in the trunk,” suggested the Squire, going to throw open the lid. But the trunk was empty except for an assortment of pencils and charcoals, a small paint box, and a sketchbook.

“Ah,” said Rawlins. “I wondered where that was.”

He laid the sketchbook on the counterpane and opened it to reveal a pencil sketch of Mr. Martin McBroom hunched behind his counter, his spectacles perched on the end of his nose, his chin pulled back in a heavy scowl.

“Why, it’s me!” said the innkeeper, venturing closer. “It’s good. Don’t you think it’s good?” he asked, glancing around at the others.

“It is. Very.” Sebastian flipped the page. The next portrait was of Archie Rawlins, looking wide-eyed and eager but a touch unsure of himself. Emma Chance had been more than simply adept at capturing her subjects’ likenesses; she’d also possessed a rare gift for discerning and conveying the subtle nuances of personality and character.

“And that’s me,” said Rawlins with a soft, breathy laugh. “When did she do it?” He began turning the pages. “Look; there’s the vicar. And that’s Reuben Dickie and . . .” He broke off, his hand stilling at the sight of a full-length drawing of a man.

Most of the other portraits had been sketches only, usually showing a head and shoulders or, at most, the upper torso. But this was a full-length, careful rendering in charcoal of a man turned as if to look back at the artist, his wavy dark hair cut low across his forehead, his nose long and slightly arched, his gently molded lips and cleft chin painfully familiar.

“Good heavens,” said Hero. “It’s Napoléon.”

A
rchie Rawlins shook his head. “No. But it is his younger brother Lucien—Lucien Bonaparte. He’s here, you know; he and his family are staying out at Northcott Abbey.”

Hero stared at him. “Napoléon’s brother is
here
?”

Rawlins nodded. “Has been for more than two years now. Well, not in Ayleswick-on-Teme all that time, but in the area.”

Sebastian studied the Corsican’s swarthy, handsome features, so much like those of his more famous brother in his prime. Lucien Bonaparte had been captured with his entire family off the coast of Italy in late 1810. He claimed to have been fleeing from his brother’s wrath, although there were those in London who suspected that Lucien’s planned voyage to America had less to do with fraternal rivalries and more to do with the Emperor’s desire to fan the flames of war between Britain and the fledgling United States. They could never quite get over the fact that, as president of the Council of Five Hundred, Lucien had played a vital role in elevating Napoléon to power.

“They were in Ludlow at first,” Rawlins was saying. “Then Bonaparte bought an estate just to the east of here, near Worcester. I’ve heard they’re having some repairs done on the house this summer, which is why they’re staying with Lady Seaton.” The Squire hesitated. “It was Bonaparte’s son Charles who found Emma Chance’s body this morning.”

“How old is he?”

“Ten, I believe.” Rawlins turned the page to reveal another sketch, this one of an open-faced, half-grown boy, his expression rapt as he watched an oriole take flight from a nearby tree branch. “That’s him. Crazy about birds, he is. That’s what he was doing down at the river this morning—looking for birds.”

“Poor lad. Must have been a shock,” said Hero.

Martin McBroom crinkled his nose and let out his breath in a harsh expulsion of air. “
Pssssh
. He’s a Bonaparte—nephew to the Beast himself. Ain’t no cause to go feeling sorry for him, my lady. Save your pity for the millions who’ve died because of that lot.”

Sebastian flipped quickly through the remaining pages. The book contained nothing except portraits, followed by blank pages.

He looked up. “You said Emma Chance was on a sketching trip through Shropshire?”

Rawlins nodded. “That’s right. She was drawing all the historic buildings around here—the church, the priory ruins, old houses—everything.”

“So why are there only portraits in this book?”

“I can’t imagine. I know for a fact she drew the Grange—she showed me. She must have had another sketchbook.”

Sebastian’s gaze met Hero’s. “Where is it?”

They searched the room again, so thoroughly this time that Martin McBroom finally wandered off muttering beneath his breath. After a while, Hero heard Simon howling and went to see what he was fussing about. And still Sebastian and the young justice of the peace searched.

But neither the dead woman’s second sketchbook nor her reticule was anywhere to be found.

“She must have had them with her when she was killed,” said the young justice of the peace, slumping into the worn, ladder-backed chair and scrubbing his hands down over his face.

“Probably,” agreed Sebastian. “So then the question becomes, why didn’t the killer leave them to be found with her body?”

A step in the hall brought Sebastian’s head around. A mousy, painfully thin woman appeared in the doorway, her hands twisting in her apron. She looked to be in her late twenties or early thirties, her face sharp boned, her pale gray gaze shifting uncertainly from Sebastian to Archie Rawlins and back again.

“Mr. McBroom says there’s a justice of the peace who’s wishful of speakin’ to me about Mrs. Chance?”

Rawlins scrambled to his feet. “I’m the justice of the peace. You’re Peg? Emma Chance’s abigail?”

“Yes, sir.” The abigail dropped a quick curtsy. “Peg Fletcher, sir. Only, I don’t rightly know how much I can tell you about the lady. Haven’t been with her above a week, I haven’t. She hired me in Ludlow, right before she come here.”

The young Squire glanced at Sebastian, who said, “Who recommended you to her?”

“I suppose you could say I recommended myself. I mean, I was working at the Feathers, where she was staying. Offered me a whole five pounds to come here with her and be her lady’s maid, she did. Said it was only to be for a week or two, though I wasn’t supposed to let on to nobody that she’d only just hired me.” The abigail sucked her lower lip between her teeth. “Now that she’s dead, I reckon it’s all right to tell. Ain’t it?”

“You must tell us everything you know about her,” said Rawlins.

Peg stared at him, her eyes wide in a plain, colorless face. “But I don’t know nothin’ about her. Truly, I don’t.”

Archie Rawlins threw Sebastian a helpless glance.

Sebastian said, “Did she ever talk to you about her life? Where she came from? Her family? That sort of thing?”

Peg screwed up her face in thought for a moment, then shook her head. “No, sir. I don’t recollect ever hearing her talk about nothing like that. She weren’t one to chatter the way most ladies do.”

“When did you see her last?”

“Yesterday afternoon, sir. She said she was going out sketching and probably wouldn’t be back till near sunset.”

Rawlins looked horrified. “Yet you didn’t become concerned when she never reappeared?”

The abigail took an uncertain step back. “Well, I suppose I did, a bit. I mean, I thought it peculiar. But how was I to know what was usual for her and what wasn’t? When it started gettin’ dark and she still hadn’t come back, I went to bed. I reckoned if she wanted me, she’d get me up.”

“And this morning?” said Sebastian.

Peg shrugged. “I figured she must be having a bit of a lie-in. I mean, stands to reason, don’t it, if she’d been out late?” Again she glanced from Sebastian to Archie, as if seeking approval or at least understanding for her behavior.

Sebastian studied the woman’s pale, frightened face. “You said she went out sketching yesterday afternoon. Do you know what she did yesterday morning?”

“Well, she said she was gonna draw the church. But whether she did or not, I can’t rightly say. She was always sketching.” Peg sucked in a deep breath and set her jaw. “The thing I wants to know is, now that she’s dead, how’m I to get back to Ludlow?”

“I’m afraid you won’t be able to go anywhere for a few days,” said Rawlins. “At least not until after the inquest.”

She stared at him. “But . . . how’m I to eat? Who’s gonna pay my reckoning here at the inn?” Her voice rose to a panicked pitch. “How’m I to get the five pounds what’s owed me?”

It was obvious from the expression on Archie’s face that he had never given a moment’s thought to the predicament faced by a servant left destitute and far from home by the unexpected death of a mistress. “Well . . . I suppose we can consider your claims against Mrs. Chance’s estate after the inquest. In the meanwhile, I’ll have a talk with Mr. McBroom.”

Peg looked doubtful.

Sebastian said, “Can you tell us anything at all about Emma Chance—anything that might help make sense of what happened to her?”

Peg’s eyebrows drew together in a wary frown. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“What was she like as a mistress, for instance? Was she harsh? Demanding?”

“Oh, no, she was right kind, she was. Always saying please and thank you whenever I did anything for her. And she was never one for putting on grand airs, the way some do.”

“Yet you’ve no idea where she came from?” asked Archie.

The abigail shook her head. “She was more’n a bit secretive, if you know what I mean?”

“Secretive about—what?”

“About everything. If you ask me, there was something havey-cavey about her, for all she was so nice. There’s more’n once I’ve found myself wondering if I made a mistake, agreeing to come here with her.”

“Why’s that?” asked Sebastian.

“Well, for one thing, I wouldn’t be surprised if her real name ain’t something other than what she claimed it was.”

“Good Lord,” said Archie. “What makes you think that?”

“She didn’t answer to it natural-like—I mean, not the way a body does with their own name. And there was one time I asked her somethin’ about Captain Chance, and she acted like she didn’t know who I was talking about. Weren’t till I said, ‘I mean your late husband, ma’am,’ that she twigged what I was sayin’. Acted right peculiar, she did. Mind you, I’ve no notion what her real name was. But it’s pounds to a penny that it wasn’t Emma Chance!”

“Do you think it’s possible the abigail could be right?” Rawlins asked Sebastian some half an hour later over a pint in the Blue Boar’s public room. “That Emma Chance wasn’t actually that unfortunate woman’s real name?”

Sebastian leaned forward on his bench, one hand cradling the tankard on the table before him. “It seems rather far-fetched. Yet at the same time . . . it’s an odd thing for the woman to have imagined if it weren’t true. And Peg Fletcher doesn’t strike me as particularly fanciful or imaginative.”

“No, but . . . why would anyone do that? I mean, why claim to be someone she wasn’t? The name ‘Chance’ means nothing to us here.”

“I suspect that if Peg is correct—which is still only an if, after all—then the woman’s main concern was to conceal her real name rather than to claim to be someone she was not.”

The young Squire’s cheeks darkened. “Oh, yes, of course. I should have thought of that.” He drank long and deep from his ale, then swiped the back of one hand across his foamy lips as his eyes widened with a sudden thought. “If it is true—that her name isn’t really Emma Chance—then maybe the killer knew who she really was. Maybe that’s why he murdered her. I mean, for whatever reason she was using a false name.”

Sebastian looked at him in some amusement. “Such as?”

“I don’t know.”

They drank together in thoughtful silence for a time. Then Archie said, “So how do we go about finding out if Chance is—was—her real name?”

Sebastian drained the last of his ale. “I haven’t the slightest idea.”

Archie Rawlins looked startled for a moment, then gave a soft laugh. “So what do we do?”

“You might begin by asking around town. Try to discover who saw Emma Chance yesterday afternoon, and when. In the meanwhile, I think I’ll go have a talk with the vicar.”

“Reverend Underwood? But . . . why him?”

“Because according to Peg Fletcher, her mistress spent yesterday morning sketching the church. Which means it’s a place to start.”

The young justice of the peace chewed his lip. “What if no one saw her?”

“In a village this small? Someone will have seen her—and they’ll remember it.”