When Falcons Fall (9 page)

Wednesday, 4 August

T
he next morning, Hero worked at coaxing Simon to eat some porridge while Sebastian sat at the table beside her and wrote a note to inform Lord Jarvis of Hannibal Pierce’s death. He and Archie had combed through the dead man’s effects, but they’d found nothing to shed any light on the two recent murders.

He was affixing a seal to the letter when Martin McBroom appeared at the parlor doorway. “Begging your ladyship’s pardon for disturbing you so early,” said the innkeeper with a jerky bow, “but I’m thinking your lordship will be wanting to see this.” He held out a folded sheet of what looked like writing parchment, of the sort a lady might use for her correspondence.

“Where did this come from?” asked Sebastian, taking it.

“Mary Beth—the chambermaid—came across it while she was cleaning Mrs. Chance’s room this morning. She said it’d fallen down behind the washstand.”

Unfolding the sheet, Sebastian found himself staring at a list of numbered names written in what he recognized as Emma Chance’s neat, flowing hand.

1. Squire Rawlins

2. Lord Seaton

3. Major Weston

4. The man at the Ship

5. Reverend Benedict Underwood

6. Reuben Dickie

7. Samuel Atwater

Two of the names—Squire Rawlins and Samuel Atwater—had a line through them, as if she had crossed them out.

Sebastian looked up to find Mr. McBroom watching him intently, his full, ruddy face glowing with curiosity. “Thank you,” said Sebastian, refolding the paper.

McBroom’s face fell with disappointment. “You’ll be showing it to the young Squire?”

“I will, yes. Thank you.”

“What is it?” asked Hero after the landlord had reluctantly taken himself off.

Sebastian handed her the paper.

She studied the list a moment, then looked up. “Men. They’re all men.”

“I hadn’t thought about it, but you’re right.” He watched Simon thrust his fist into the porridge and give a toothless grin as it squished through his fingers. “Could this be a list of men whose portraits she drew?”

“No; it’s not long enough. And the names aren’t in the right order. Here.” Setting the list aside, she carefully wiped Simon’s face and hands and passed him to Sebastian.

“You’ve porridge behind your ear,” Sebastian told his son while Hero went to retrieve Emma’s sketchbook from the chest near the window.

“I made a list myself of the people in her portraits.” Hero laid her own list on the table beside the paper found by the chambermaid.

Sebastian steadied his son on his lap and leaned forward to compare them.

1. Martin McBroom X

2. Archie Rawlins

3. Reverend Underwood

4. Reuben Dickie

5. Lucien Bonaparte X

6. Charles Bonaparte X

7. Samuel Atwater

8. Jude Lowe

9. Major Eugene Weston

10. Jenny Dalyrimple

11. Mary Beth the chambermaid X

12. Hannibal Pierce X

Sebastian said, “It looks as if she drew everyone on her list except Lord Seaton. Plus a few others who aren’t on her list.” He frowned. “I think I’ve heard of this Weston. But I can’t place him at the moment.”

Hero flipped open the sketchbook and held up a drawing of a middle-aged, mustachioed man posed before a modest brick house. He stood tall and erect, his posture hinting at a preening type of male vanity combined with a desperate attempt to draw attention away from his expanding waistline. “This is Major Weston. Recognize him?”

“No. But now I know where I heard the name. According to Reuben Dickie, Weston lives in what used to be the Dower House of Maplethorpe Hall.” He caught Simon’s hand as the baby reached for his quill. “Who is Jude Lowe?”

Hero flipped back a page. “Here. According to the chambermaid, he owns a tavern in a nearby hamlet.”

Sebastian studied the lean, handsome man. He looked younger than Weston, probably closer to thirty-four or thirty-six, with dark hair, deeply set eyes, and a cleft chin. There was something about him—some faint similarity of features, or perhaps it came simply from the way he held his head—that reminded Sebastian of Jamie Knox. Emma had drawn him standing beside a tavern’s swinging sign, its painting of a Spanish galleon flecked and worn but still clearly discernible.

“‘The man at the Ship,’” said Sebastian. “And Atwater?”

Hero turned to the portrait of an unassuming-looking middle-aged gentleman. “Here.”

Sebastian grasped both of Simon’s hands, smiling as the boy pulled himself up to a stand, tiny fat legs wobbling as he balanced his feet on Sebastian’s thighs. “So why are there ‘Xs’ behind five of the names on your list?”

“Those are the portraits that are unnamed: Martin McBroom, Lucien and Charles Bonaparte, the chambermaid, and Hannibal Pierce.”

Sebastian looked over at her. “You’re saying the only person Emma sketched and named who isn’t on her list was Jenny Dalyrimple?”

“That’s right. Jenny’s also the only named woman Emma drew.”

“How old is the current Lord Seaton?” asked Sebastian, his gaze still on the lurching, grinning child in his lap. “Any idea? Is he even of age yet?”

“Barely,” said Hero. “The chambermaid says he’s taken his sisters and the older Bonaparte girls to spend some time at an aunt’s house in the Lake District. So he isn’t here.”

“Yet his name was on Emma Chance’s list,” said Sebastian. “I wonder why.” He touched noses with the boy. “What do you think, young Master St. Cyr? Hmmm?” He caught Simon under the arms and lifted the baby high over his head as the boy squealed with delight. “Actually, why were any of those names on her list?”

He glanced over at Hero, but she simply shook her head.

It was one more question to which they had no answer.

T
he innkeeper, Martin McBroom, seemed a logical source for information on the three relatively unknown men on Emma Chance’s list—Samuel Atwater, Major Weston, and Jude Lowe.

Finding McBroom seated at a small, untidy desk in an alcove off the entry hall, Sebastian asked first about Samuel Atwater.

“Ah. Saw his name on the list, I did,” said the innkeeper, shuffling papers around on his desktop.

“So who is he?”

“Could’ve told you before if you’d asked.” McBroom kept his focus on his papers in a way that told Sebastian just how deeply he had offended the innkeeper earlier by not indulging the man’s desire for a good gossip. “Happens he’s steward out at Northcott Abbey. Some sort of cousin to her ladyship. From Yorkshire,” he added in the faintly disparaging tone typically used by villagers when referring to “outsiders.”

“How long has he been in Ayleswick?”

The landlord picked up his quill and inspected the tip. “Twenty, maybe twenty-five years, I suppose.”

“And Jude Lowe?”

“Proprietor of the Ship, he is.”

“And where might the Ship be?”

McBroom set about mending his quill with a knife. “At the crossroads to the east of here. Just beyond the old gibbet.” He raised his bushy eyebrows and threw Sebastian a sideways look over the tops of his spectacles. “Fitting, ain’t it?”

“Oh? Why’s that?”

Rather than answer, McBroom returned his gaze to his quill. “You gonna be talking to him?”

“Yes.”

“Ah, well. Then you’ll see, won’t you?”

“And Major Weston?” asked Sebastian, fighting the urge to grit his teeth. “What can you tell me about him?”

According to the innkeeper, Eugene Weston, too, had arrived in the area some twenty to twenty-five years before, when his militia unit was billeted in the village. “Quite splendid to look at, he was in those days. Leastways, all the young women thought so—and more’n a few of the older ones who should’ve known better.” McBroom sniffed. “Him and his scarlet regimentals and great flowing mustache. Course, he had eyes only for Liv Irving.”

“Liv Irving?”

“Daughter of them took over Maplethorpe Hall.”

“Oh?”

McBroom lowered his pen, his lips working silently over his teeth, the impulse to continue punishing the Viscount for his earlier snub warring with the urge to divulge the lurid past of one he obviously disliked.

The lure of the lurid won.

The main house had still been standing in those days, explained the innkeeper. It was a grand Palladian villa dating to the early eighteenth century, and the Irvings were unabashedly proud of their fine new estate. From the very beginning, they took to throwing large house parties to which they invited as many representatives of old or titled families as they could entice to come. The origins of the family’s wealth were in trade, but they were determined to erase the stigma of having earned rather than inherited their fortune.

As a cousin of Lord Weston of Somersfield Park, the handsome young major was enthusiastically welcomed to the Irvings’ endless round of dinners, rout parties, picnics, and balls. So eager were the Irvings to cultivate the well-bred and well-connected young officer that they failed to inquire too closely into his antecedents. By the time they discovered that the handsome young major’s kinship to Lord Weston was distant and his father no more than an impoverished country vicar, the major had convinced sixteen-year-old Liv to elope. It was nearly a week before the couple returned, at which point the girl was hopelessly ruined.

There was nothing the Irvings could do at that point except put a brave face on it and hope for the best.

The Dower House lay at the end of a short drive that wound away from the main Ludlow road just beyond the crossroads. Built in 1789 for the late Mr. Irving’s widowed mother, it was of moderate size, with symmetrically placed windows, a paneled central door, dentil-work cornices, and a dormered, hipped roof. The garden was small but exquisite, with both a formal section enclosed by a high yew hedge and a more natural area given over to wild roses and Leucojums and Camassias. When Sebastian reined in his chestnuts before the steps, he could see the blackened brick chimneys of Maplethorpe Hall itself just visible above the tops of the trees in a small spinney.

He dropped to the ground. “See if you can find a talkative groom,” he told Tom. “I’d be interested to hear the servants’ opinion of their master.”

Tom grinned. “Aye, gov’nor!”

The front door opened, and Sebastian turned to find the major himself bounding down the shallow front steps toward him.

“Lord Devlin? It is Lord Devlin, yes?”

He was dressed quite nattily in a striped silk waistcoat, fine doeskin breeches, gleaming high-top boots, and a well-cut navy blue coat. He still sported a flowing, military-style mustache, although its once rich auburn was now beginning to fade to gray. In one hand he carried a crop, as if he had been on the verge of going out riding.

“Major?” said Sebastian with a bow.

“Yes, yes.” The major bowed low and flashed a wide smile that displayed even white teeth. “I was just on my way into the village to see you. Heard you’re helping young Rawlins. He’s a promising lad, but there’s no denying this sort of thing is beyond his capabilities. Far, far beyond.”

The major was smaller than Sebastian had expected, the top of his head barely reaching Sebastian’s chin, and of a narrow frame, with most of his weight tending to settle about his middle.

“Rawlins was clever enough to suspect that Emma Chance hadn’t committed suicide,” said Sebastian.

“Yes, well . . .” Weston brought up one hand to cover an unconvincing cough and glanced significantly toward the house. “What say we take a turn about the garden, eh? I’m afraid Mrs. Weston’s a bit overset by all this.”

“Of course.”

They turned their steps down an allée of cordoned pear and apple trees, the green fruit just beginning to swell toward ripeness. “Why did you want to see me?” asked Sebastian.

Weston looked startled. “I beg your pardon?”

“You said you were on your way into the village to see me.”

“Oh, yes, of course. Just seemed the thing to do, what? Let you know that if you need anything, you’ve only to ask. Only too happy to be of service.”

“You met Mrs. Chance, I understand?”

“Oh, yes, several times.”

“Why?”

“You mean, why did I meet her? She was interested in Maplethorpe Hall. Wanted to sketch what’s left of it and very appropriately approached me to ask permission. Naturally I said yes.”

“When was this?”

“That she spoke to me?” Weston frowned, his eyes narrowing against the brightness of the sun. “Let’s see. . . . It must have been Sunday. Yes, it was—after church services. So definitely Sunday.”

“And did she sketch the house?”

“She did. That very afternoon. I know because I saw her there.”

“Sunday afternoon?”

“Yes.”

“Did you speak with her then?”

“Yes, of course. Seemed only polite, eh?” Weston’s tongue flicked out to wet his lips, his hazel green eyes crinkling with a smile that might once have been charming but now came off as faintly lecherous.

“What did you talk about?”

“Oh, this and that. She wanted to know more about the house—the way it used to be. She expressed interest in the Irvings’ tradition of hosting extravagant entertainments, and I recall telling her about one grand hunting party we had in the autumn of 1791, at the beginning of partridge season. As it happens, I had particularly good luck that year. Bagged more than anyone nearly every time we went out.”

“Did she ask about anything else?”

“Not so’s I recall, no.”

Weston stared out over the carefully tended borders, a faint smile of remembrance still warming his plump face. He was the kind of man who could remember with clarity everything he himself had said and done, but little else, for his focus was always firmly planted on himself.

“When did Maplethorpe Hall burn?”

Weston sucked on his back molars as if the answer required a moment’s thought. “Must be ten—no, fifteen years ago now. Caught fire in the middle of the night. Mrs. Weston and I barely escaped the flames with our lives. Afraid m’wife’s father was not so fortunate. He was bedridden, you see, and there was no getting to him in time.”

Sebastian glanced back at the brick Dower House with its tall, white-painted windows and neat green shutters. The house was both charming and spacious, yet nothing, surely, to compare to the hall. So why hadn’t Maplethorpe been rebuilt? Why had a man obviously as ambitious and as enamored of wealth and all its trappings as Weston retreated to life on such a reduced scale?

“We talked about rebuilding,” said Weston, as if following the train of Sebastian’s thoughts. “But somehow we never got around to it. In the end, we realized this place suits us fine. We were never blessed with children, you see.” He smiled sadly when he said it, and Sebastian had the feeling it was an explanation he trotted out often: endearingly self-deprecating, faintly tragic, and patently false.

“I’m sorry.”

Weston shrugged. “My wife keeps busy with the gardens, both here and at the ruins of the old house. It’s her passion.” He wafted one hand in an expansive arc that took in the exquisite borders backed by towering dark yew hedges. “This is all her work.”

“It’s lovely. She has a real talent.”

Again, the self-deprecating smile—although this time it hid a venomous barb directed at his wife. “So I’m told. I’m afraid it’s all just shrubs and flowers to me.”

“When was the last time you saw Emma Chance?”

The abrupt change in topic appeared to disconcert him. “Why—that afternoon. Sunday.”

“Did you know she drew your portrait?”

A faint, inexplicable hint of color tinged the major’s cheeks. “No; did she indeed? Well, well, well.”

“Did you happen to notice if she had one sketchbook with her, or two?”

“I only recall seeing one. But then, she had a canvas satchel with her, so I suppose she could’ve had another in there. Why?”

“We haven’t been able to find the sketchbook she used for buildings and landscapes.”

“No? That’s odd.”

They’d reached the spinney now, a thick stand of young oaks and field maple underplanted with hazel and dog roses and eglantine.

Sebastian said, “Who do you think killed her?”

It was a question he tended to ask essentially everyone he spoke with. But the major’s reaction was definitely curious.

“Me?” Weston stared blankly at him, jaw slack. “Good God; how would I know? She was a pretty little thing. You’re certain someone didn’t try to have his way with her and simply carried things too far?”

It struck Sebastian as an unpleasantly euphemistic way to describe an act of attempted of rape leading to murder. “Why? Have there been instances of that sort around here in the past?”

Weston gave an odd, forced laugh. “Not to my knowledge, no.”

“Mind if I take a look around the grounds of the old hall?”

Weston’s smile faded away into something almost pained. “Whatever for?”

“It might help.” Sebastian studied the other man’s florid, sweat-slicked face. “Why? Is there a problem?”

Weston gave another of his oddly nervous laughs. “No, no, of course not. There’s a gardener named Silas—Silas Madden. Lives in the old grooms’ quarters over the stables and also functions as a sort of caretaker. He might try to run you off, but just tell him we spoke.” He hesitated a moment, then smiled again as what looked like genuine amusement flooded his face. “They say it’s haunted, you know. The old house, I mean.”

“By your wife’s father?”

“No, from before that. The daughter of the previous owners, the Baldwyns. Threw herself off the roof. She was their only child, and they died themselves not long afterward, of grief. Or at least, that’s the way the story goes.”

“Why? Why did she do it?”

“The usual: unrequited love.” Weston rolled the last word off his tongue, lingering on the “l” and vowel sounds in a way that made a mockery of both the word and the emotion it stood for.

Sebastian felt his skin crawl. “What does the ghost do?”