The Mysteries of Pendowar Hall (The Audacious Sisterhood of Smoke & Fire #1)

Chapter Seventeen

T he heavy fog from the night before had vanished, leaving a cloudless blue sky in its wake. From the garden bench where she and Miss Fallbrook were seated, practicing French, Diana caught sight of Captain Fallbrook returning on horseback to the stables.

“Miss Fallbrook, you have earned some time off. Would you like to go riding?”

“Yes! Thank you, Miss Taylor.” The young woman leapt up and dashed back to the house to change into her riding habit.

Diana waited outside the stables until the captain emerged. “Sir.”

“Miss Taylor.” He looked dashing as always in his black frock coat and pleased to see her. Tenting a hand over his eyes against the sun, he took in his ward across the way. “Were you holding a lesson en plein air ?”

“We were—and do so now whenever the weather permits. Miss Fallbrook prefers the out-of-doors.”

“How is her reading coming along?”

“She makes new progress every day.”

“Excellent. I am heading back to the house. Will you walk with me?”

“Yes, thank you. I was hoping to have a word with you.”

“About what?” They started back towards Pendowar Hall.

The best approach, Diana had decided, was a direct approach. “I heard footsteps last night. ”

His face fell. “Not this again. I thought we agreed you had dreamt that.”

“Pray hear me out. I had trouble sleeping and—”

“Welcome to the club. I have not had a decent night’s rest since I returned to shore,” he said, interrupting testily. “I miss the rocking of a boat at sea.”

“I’m sorry, Captain.”

He heaved a sigh. “You were saying?”

“It was well after two o’clock. I heard footsteps in the hall and followed them. Someone was in your study.”

He eyed her sharply. “How do you know?”

Diana told him about the snuffed candle, the papers in disarray, and the French door that had been ajar.

“That is easily explained. I was in my study working last night, until about half-past one. I must have left the candle burning when I retired. That’s why you smelled a snuffed candle.”

“But, sir, who blew it out?”

He shrugged. “The wind. I often leave the French doors partially ajar—I enjoy the night air. It would explain the dispersed papers as well.”

“What about the footsteps?”

“As I have said before, it must have been Mrs. Gwynn doing her nightly rounds.”

“If it was Mrs. Gwynn, I would have encountered her in the hall.”

“Not if she went down the south stairs.”

“The south stairs?”

“There are two servants’ stairwells, one at either end of the house, to the north and south.”

Diana hadn’t realized that. It helped explain how the trespasser had vanished so quickly—perhaps he hadn’t gone over the balcony at all. “I still believe there was an intruder. Anyone could gain access to Pendowar Hall via the passage from Smuggler’s Cave. ”

He considered that. “True. But unlikely. You didn’t actually see anyone, did you?”

“No. But I found something.”

“What did you find?”

“An early draft of a letter from your uncle to his tenant at Greenview Farm.” Diana stopped, withdrew the letter from a folder, and gave it to him. “Mr. Trenowden was seriously in arrears in his rent.”

The captain read the letter. “Yes, I know about this. Jack Trenowden has had a hard time of it these past few years. His horse died—he’s had to pull the plow himself. He loaned a substantial sum to a brother who never paid him back. And then a blight destroyed most of his crops.”

“Oh!”

“When I inherited the estate, I forgave the greater part of the debt and am allowing Trenowden to pay back the remaining sum, when he’s able, in small installments.”

“That is kind of you.”

“I only did what I thought was right.” They continued on across the rear courtyard, on their way to the house. “Forgive me, but I don’t see a connection between this letter and the footsteps you say you heard last night.”

“I’m truly sorry for all that the Trenowdens have been through. They seem like good people. But… the man has a large family to feed. Do you think he might have been driven to take extreme measures to hold on to his farm?”

The captain stared at her. “Are you asking if Jack Trenowden killed my uncle to avoid eviction?”

“Sir Thomas died on the first of June, a week after that letter was written. Knowing of your generous nature and perhaps hoping, once you inherited Pendowar Hall, you would erase his debt, Mr. Trenowden might have been driven to take Sir Thomas’s life. ”

“Miss Taylor—”

“The suicide note said, ‘ I cannot go on .’” Diana gestured to the draft of the letter in Captain Fallbrook’s hand. “In his letter to Mr. Trenowden, Sir Thomas wrote ‘ I cannot go on ignoring the situation .’ It would be an easy phrase to trace or copy.”

His forehead furrowed. “Even if what you say is true—and I assure you, it is not —if Trenowden received a copy of this letter, he would have been able to trace and copy it at home. Why would he have snuck into the house last night?”

“To search for and retrieve this early draft. If found, it could prove the suicide note to be a forgery.”

“How would Trenowden have known that my uncle had kept a draft of this particular letter?”

“Perhaps it was general knowledge that Sir Thomas kept drafts of all or most of his correspondence. The perpetrator couldn’t take a chance of its being discovered.”

The captain shook his head, straining for calm. “Miss Taylor. How many times must I say it? I beg you to give up this nonsense. Jack Trenowden could no more have killed my uncle than the Man in the Moon.”

“Why not?”

“Because he was out of the county at the time and did not return for weeks. I remember that distinctly because he was unable to attend my uncle’s funeral.”

*

Mr. Trenowden’s whereabouts at the time of Sir Thomas’s death were verified by his wife a few days later, when Diana and her pupil delivered the apron and pinafores they had made for the family.

After church on Sunday, Mr. Wainwright further confirmed that fact.

“Mr. Trenowden was indeed away then,” the curate told Diana. “ In Shropshire, I believe, helping his widowed sister.” They stood beneath a giant yew tree in the church’s courtyard, where parishioners milled about after the morning service. “Why do you ask?”

Her theory had been so far off the mark, Diana was embarrassed to discuss it now. It had further occurred to her that if someone other than Mr. Trenowden had used that draft in the study to forge the suicide note, why wouldn’t they have taken the draft with them then and there? Why leave it to be discovered?

At the same time, she remained unsatisfied.

“Please keep this between us,” she said, lowering her voice, “but I believe someone has been sneaking into Pendowar Hall late at night and looking for something in Captain Fallbrook’s study.”

“Looking for what?”

“I wish I knew. You told me, Mr. Wainwright, about Sir Thomas’s wish to be buried in the churchyard, and it has gotten me thinking.” She mentioned the enigmatic suicide note. “Did Sir Thomas seem depressed to you in the months leading up to his death?”

He pursed his lips and glanced away. “I would say he appeared more distracted than depressed. But that is merely an observation.”

“Can you think of anyone who might have wished Sir Thomas harm?”

“I cannot.”

“An excellent sermon, Mr. Wainwright.”

The sudden appearance at the curate’s elbow of Mr. Latimer, the captain’s solicitor, made Diana start. He shook hands with Mr. Wainwright, and they entered a cordial conversation. Moments later, Mrs. Gwynn came up to pay her respects, followed by Mr. Emity and several other servants from the manor house.

It was Diana’s cue to leave.

*

Diana decided to try a new route back to Pendowar Hall along the shore. She wound her way down the path from the village to the beach, where the tide was at its lowest ebb.

It matched her spirits.

Someone had gotten away with murder. Mrs. Phillips had suspected it, and Diana knew it now as surely as she knew the sun would rise the next morning. She’d exchanged several more letters with her godmother, who seemed to grow weaker by the day, and continued to encourage Diana to learn the truth.

To Diana’s frustration, all her theories so far had come to nothing.

With a sigh, Diana pressed on, the briny wind assailing her cheeks. Golden pebbles crunched beneath the soles of her half-boots as she crossed the beach to the ocean’s edge. The hard-packed wet sand there was strewn with damp seaweed, driftwood, and other debris from the previous night’s storm. A few feet away, waves bubbled up in frothy whiteness. A seagull swooped down to splash and grab a tidbit from below the surface of the sea beyond.

Diana was so entranced by these sights, sounds, and smells, she didn’t notice the board until she’d almost tripped over it.

About five feet in length, the piece of driftwood looked to have been manufactured of good quality wood. Flecks of white paint clung to its smoothly planed surface, but it was ragged at both ends, as if the victim of a violent rupture. Had it come from a boat?

Curious, she bent down to examine it. The hairs stood up on the back of Diana’s neck.

The plank was peppered in one spot with a series of tiny holes—holes that didn’t look as if they’d had anything to do with screws or nails but had been drilled to deliberately inflict damage.

*

“It appears to be from a boat’s hull,” conjectured Captain Fallbrook from astride his horse.

Diana had brought the plank up from the beach and encountered him and his ward on the estate grounds as they rode home from church.

“What kind of boat?” Diana inquired.

“My guess is a sailboat. A small, white one. One that was dashed to bits on the rocks, from the looks of it.”

A white sailboat. Dashed to bits on the rocks.

“Why did you bring that home, Miss Taylor?” Miss Fallbrook, astride her own steed, wrinkled her nose with distaste. “It’s just a nasty piece of driftwood.”

“It’s the holes,” Diana explained. “It looks to me as though someone drilled them deliberately.”

“Holes?” Captain Fallbrook dismounted. Holding on to his horse’s reins, he asked, “May I?” He examined the plank. “I see what you mean. It is curious.”

“How old do you think this is?” Diana asked.

“It could be from a vessel that sank a few years ago or half a century ago. It’s hard to say.”

Just then, the contingent of servants they’d seen at church rounded a bend in the path. Everyone issued courteous greetings and paused to examine Diana’s discovery.

“Why would someone drill holes in the hull of a boat?” asked Mrs. Gwynn.

“Perhaps they were trying to scuttle it,” Mr. Emity suggested.

“I’ll bet it was a smuggler trying to get rid of the evidence,” exclaimed Miss Fallbrook, her interest evidently renewed, “and to avoid capture by revenue men.”

Diana had a very different possibility in mind.

*

The wind howled. Angry waves rose to man height as Diana gripped the mast of the small, white sailboat, terrified.

At her feet, water bubbled up through tiny holes in the hull. Quickly, the flow became a torrent that engulfed the boat. The vessel overturned, hurling Diana into the surging sea. She flailed and struggled. If only she had learned to swim!

Diana watched in horror as the boat was swept away. And then she was sinking, sinking, her heavy skirts a leaden weight that dragged her down. Was she going to die? With a gasp, Diana came awake, her heart pounding.

She stared into the darkness, struggling to calm herself. It was no mystery why she had dreamt of holes in the bottom of a boat and drowning. The subject had occupied her thoughts all afternoon and evening, ever since she’d found that piece of driftwood on the beach.

Might that plank, she wondered, have belonged to the boat that sent Sir Thomas’s wife and son to their deaths? Diana’s blood ran cold at the thought. If it were true, it meant that more than one murder had taken place at Pendowar Hall.

But who would have wanted Lady and Robert Fallbrook dead? And why?