Striding down the lane in the moonlight, the only one who noticed her was the neighbor’s cat, Cecilia. This
curious feline followed at her heels for awhile, before a
movement in the underbrush attracted her attention and
she disappeared in search of a hapless mouse.
Within ten minutes, Lydia reached the edge of the town.
She leaned against an oak tree and waited. The stillness
was almost palpable, and more forbidding than she had
anticipated. It was with relief that she heard the thud-thud
of hooves and observed John leading his horse, Scapegrace,
toward her.
‘Well met, my lad!’ John greeted her in a loud whisper
when he drew near enough.
This reference to her male costume did not discompose
her. She merely replied, ‘I thought skirts would be very
much in the way.’
‘I do not disagree with you.’ He helped her up onto
Scapegrace before mounting behind her. ‘But for a moment
I thought you had sent someone else in your place.’
‘And miss this adventure?’ He must be mad. ‘There is
small chance of that!’
They rode slowly at first, and then at a pretty brisk
gallop. Lydia was not really accustomed to being on horse
back, but she found it quite exhilarating; nor was she in the
least afraid, with John’s arms about her and his broad
chest for support.
‘What is that house there?’ she asked, seeing a silver
silhouette rising above a neat expanse of parkland.
‘That’s Bellefleur, Sir Hector Mannington’s place.’
‘I’ve heard my aunt speak of him.’ Lydia looked more
intently, though not in expectation of seeing anything. ‘He is something of a recluse, is he not?’
‘And old as Methuselah,’ John added.
‘They say that he is mad as a hatter, and treats his
servants shamefully.’
‘They also say that there are ghosts haunting Wickham
Wood,’ he reminded her.
She acknowledged the good sense of this remark,
refraining from further comments. A few minutes later,
John reined in his horse and dismounted. He reached up
and helped Lydia down as well.
‘From here, we walk.’
‘Is it far?’ she asked, watching him tether Scapegrace to
a sturdy tree trunk.
‘Less than a mile.’
‘But why stop here?’
‘Because,’ he answered, turning back to her, ‘something
as large as a horse is difficult to hide. If there
are
smug
glers in the wood, we don’t want to announce our presence,
do we?’
‘No indeed.’
For the next fifteen minutes, they walked silently
together through the fields in the moonlight. Scrambling
over stiles and navigating ha-has, they gradually made
their way toward a patch of impenetrable darkness
outlined against the sky. At length John broke the silence
with a loud whisper.
‘This is where Mr Cole was found.’
Lydia almost jumped out of her pantaloons as she
looked down on a patch of ground which showed evidence
of a recent fire. To think that some of those ashes beneath
her feet might actually be the remains of a
dead man!
Even the smell of the place was unpleasant: the scent of
desecration, perhaps? It was an eerie feeling indeed, and
she was conscious of a desire to quit the spot as soon as
possible.
‘Poor man!’ she declared sententiously. ‘I hope that he did
not suffer too much.’
‘My father said there was hardly a patch of skin
remaining on the bones.’ John’s statement was dispassionate, as if he were describing a portrait hanging in an
old house. ‘The few bits of flesh left were so seared by the
flames that they looked like the skin of a centenarian.’
‘How awful!’ Lydia breathed excitedly. ‘And to think it was the second corpse to be discovered in such a fashion.’
‘Not precisely,’ John said after a brief pause.
‘What do you mean?’
‘The previous corpse was not burnt,’ he explained.
Lydia was startled, though she was not sure why she
should be.
‘I had thought the deaths were identical,’ she said, half
to herself.
‘Why?’
‘Well, it seems to me that a murderer who takes the time
to kill two people in the same place is more than likely to employ the same method. Of course,’ she continued with
some self-deprecation, ‘I am not well versed in such
matters.’
‘No,’ John agreed. ‘Not but what I think you have the
right of it. I never considered the matter before.’
‘Perhaps the two crimes are quite unrelated.’
‘Just what I was thinking.’
‘But that is almost more difficult to believe.’ Lydia shook
her head. ‘There must be a connection, only we have not yet
perceived it.’
‘Come,’ John said, linking his arm with hers. ‘Hold on to
me. We must not become separated.’
* * * *
He had scarcely finished speaking before he drew her after
him into the woods. The change was so immediate and so
dramatic that Lydia actually gave a gasp of surprise. The
moonlight beyond the wood was crisply bright, making
their progress quite easy. However, once beneath the
canopy of the trees, a curtain of gloomy darkness
descended upon them.
There were shapes and shadows all around, to be sure,
but they were mysterious and unrecognizable. It was a
cool evening, but it was not the chill air which made
Lydia tremble suddenly and tighten her hold upon John’s arm.
A loud rustling and the sound of something swooping
down out of the trees almost deprived her of speech. Could
the villagers be right? Did these woods harbour demonic spirits? Lydia watched the shadowy creature wing its way
amongst the oak and birch trees, her heart pounding
uncomfortably in her breast.
‘An owl,’ John said shortly.
‘Of course.’ Lydia was pleased to note that she sounded far more composed than she felt.
Other denizens of the woods contributed to a subdued
symphony of night sounds as they made their way gingerly to the edge of a small circular clearing where the moonlight
drifted down to settle in alabaster puddles upon the
nodding leaves of enchanter’s nightshade and the rounded heads of death-cap mushrooms. John pointed out - and
carefully avoided - a sett of badgers. Meanwhile, a stoat
poked its head out from a hawthorn bush before making a
noisy exit into the darkness.
Lydia could understand now how the villagers might
suppose supernatural agents to be at work here. Had her
imagination been inclined in that direction, she could easily have convinced herself of the same thing. But
despite what might justly be referred to as the relentless
ominosity
of the above description, she remained in
command of her emotions and behaved with admirable
presence of mind.
‘We’d best sit down here and wait,’ John said at last, pausing beside the trunk of a large oak tree.
He pulled off his jacket and laid it on the ground,
motioning for her to make use of it as a makeshift cushion.
‘Why this spot?’ she enquired, looking around her and
seeing nothing.
‘It’s as reasonable as any other part of the wood,’ he
replied, joining her on the ground. ‘We are not in the center,
but we are deep enough to hear any unusual sound and to
have some notion of where it comes from.’
‘But what if the smugglers come from the other side?’
‘Then we will doubtless miss them.’
Lydia was not certain that she approved of this phleg
matic attitude. Secretly, she considered that John should
be a little more concerned that they might lose their
quarry. It was an odd sort of hunter who cared not whether he caught his prey! However, she could scarcely argue the
point, since he had been kind enough to include her in this adventure - which he was under no obligation to do, after
all.
She gradually grew accustomed to the peculiar night
sounds around them, and soon ceased to look up at every
rustle in the underbrush. Conversation was kept to the
barest minimum, as their situation dictated silence.
Eventually, boredom overcame the feeling of excited
anticipation with which the night began. Without being
aware of it, Lydia’s head began to tilt ever so slightly. At
some point in the proceedings, she fell asleep. It was only when the sound of her name roused her that she raised her
head from John’s shoulder, where it had been resting in
surprising comfort.
‘What?’ she cried, looking about her in some confusion at
first, until she remembered where they were and for what
purpose. ‘Did you hear something, John?’
‘No,’ John answered flatly. ‘But it will be daylight in little
more than an hour. We must go.’
‘Are you certain that nothing happened?’ she demanded.
‘I assure you,’ he said, with a grin, ‘I would not have
allowed you to sleep through an encounter with a gang of
ruffians!’
With that, Lydia had to be content.
* * * *
Their retreat from the woods was not nearly as interesting as their journey of a few hours before. It was an ignomin
ious end to what had seemed a grand adventure. So much
for romantic dreams. Lydia chided herself for having
expected more. She was as hopeless as Louisa.
However, John remained undaunted.
‘It is hardly likely,’ he said as they rode back toward town
in the darkness, ‘that these fellows would frequent the wood every night. We must try again another night -
perhaps when the moon is not full.’
‘Do you think it likely that we will have better luck a
second time?’
‘Bound to!’ he said cheerfully.
As Lydia made her way up to her bedchamber shortly
thereafter, she was not so hopeful. Nor did she relish the
thought of spending another night in the dark, inhos
pitable surroundings of Wickham Wood. Her enthusiasm
was seriously dampened, along with her vitality. She was
weary to her bones, and fell into bed at once.
It was quite late when she arose the next morning, and
Aunt Camilla was all concern at the dark circles beneath
her niece’s eyes.
‘Perhaps you are ill,’ she suggested apprehensively,
placing a hand on Lydia’s brow to assure herself that there
was no fever. ‘I hope that it is not the influenza.’
‘Has anyone in the village contracted influenza?’ Lydia
asked reasonably.
‘No.’ Her aunt paused, before adding, ‘But it has to start
with someone, does it not?’
‘I am perfectly well, aunt,’ Lydia said. ‘I did not sleep very soundly last night. That is all.’
‘Is something troubling you?’ Camilla was still convinced
that ill health was the root of the problem. ‘It is this
terrible murder! Indeed, I do not know how anyone can
sleep.’
‘Yes, Aunt.’ Lydia was glad to be able to answer with at
least some semblance of truth. ‘I fear that is my problem.’
They had scarcely swallowed the last morsel of break
fast, when a diversion was created by the arrival of a letter.
It was addressed to Lydia, and was from London.
‘It’s from Papa!’ Lydia exclaimed, instantly diverted.
‘I do hope it is not bad news,’ Aunt Camilla said, biting
her lips and clasping her hands together in anticipation of
impending disaster.
‘That is hardly likely,’ Lydia replied, but could not resist
adding mischievously, ‘unless there is an outbreak of the
plague in town.’
She carefully broke the seal and unfolded the paper.
My dearest Lydia,
she read, in papa’s neat, uncrossed handwriting,
I
trust that you are enjoying your stay with
your Aunt Camilla - a charming woman, as I recall. I
suppose that your mother and sister are well, although that
is mere conjecture on my part. I never see them from one day
to the next. They are forever attending a ball or ridotto or
some such nonsense, and I only occasionally encounter them
at breakfast. That may be the one blessing afforded me
during this exile in town.