Chapter Twenty-three
The pounding began before the light. Marcus sat upright in bed, pulse already elevated, mind straining through sleep-dulled haze. The sound was no polite tap but sharp, rapid and too urgent for mere household confusion.
“My lord,” said the voice from beyond the door, muffled and unsteady. “Forgive the hour, but I must speak with you. At once.”
He swung his legs over the edge of the bed. His robe hung from the nearby chair, the sash catching on his wrist as he pulled it closed. Cold bled through the floorboards when he crossed the room.
He opened the door. Mrs Thornberry stood there, her cap slightly askew, the collar of her wrapper clutched at her throat. Her face was drawn in ways Marcus had never seen.
“There’s been—” she said, her voice breaking. She quickly gathered herself. “Mr Price. In the library. He is dead, my lord.”
He stared at her, words catching somewhere behind his teeth.
“Where is Catherine?” he asked.
Mrs Thornberry shook her head.
“We are searching for her now,” she replied.
A beat passed before Marcus spoke again.
“Where?”
The housekeeper pointed toward the stairs.
“The library,” she said. “The constable has been sent for. But you should come—at once.”
He did not bother with boots, only shoved his arms through the sleeves of his coat and followed her down the corridor, heart hammering without rhythm.
The household was stirring, but no voices called out. Only the creak of stair-treads, the shuffle of cautious feet behind closed panels.
The library door stood wide. Marcus crossed the threshold and stopped short.
Edmund Price lay near the hearth, one arm flung aside, his spectacles fallen askew beneath his temple.
A dark stain had spread across the carpet, seeping into the fibres in a jagged arc across the marble.
The poker lay a few feet distant, tipped as though discarded in haste.
Marcus advanced slowly, his gaze fixed upon Edmund’s still features. Not the peace of sleep. Not the pallor of illness. This was stilled violence. He found himself kneeling beside the body without quite realising it, his hand half-extended yet never touching. There was no need.
“Do not step closer, Lord Penwood,” said a voice behind him. “The scene is still being examined.”
Marcus rose slowly. A man in uniform stood at the threshold, a notebook already open in his hand.
“Constable Neal,” he said. “Called from the village. Forgive the intrusion.”
“There is nothing to forgive,” Marcus replied, his voice hoarse as he looked down again. “This is—was—Mr Edmund Price. He had been a guest at Penwood these past few days.”
The constable inclined his head. “And Lady Penwood?” he asked gently. “She cannot be accounted for.”
Marcus turned.
“She would have been either in her chambers or here in the library,” he said—suddenly aware of the implications as the words left his lips.
The constable shook his head.
“She is not in her chambers, though her belongings remain untouched. One of my men discovered certain items in a writing desk there. Forgive the presumption, my lord, but they must be examined. This matter may extend beyond a simple burglary.”
Marcus followed him upstairs.
Catherine’s chamber was orderly: the windows still latched, a shawl draped over a chair, the dressing table untouched. Yet on the writing desk, several pages lay flat, weighted at the corners. Constable Neal gestured toward them. Marcus lifted the first.
The hand was close enough to seem hers, though not exact.
In his shock, he could not weigh the difference; the sight alone was enough to turn his stomach.
The letter referenced Edmund by name, thanked him for assistance in identifying “specific catalogue inconsistencies,” and instructed him to withhold conclusions until “access to the full collection” had been achieved.
Another note described “removal of sensitive items” and warned that concealment might be delayed owing to her husband’s “recent increase in vigilance.” Each line struck harder than the last. The constable waited in silence as Marcus read.
At last, Marcus looked up. “This is a forgery,” he said. “This is not my wife’s handwriting.”
The constable lifted a brow.
“That is possible,” he allowed. “But these letters are not the only evidence. Several marked artefacts are missing from the catalogue drawers in your study. The drawers were not forced. Someone with access and familiarity removed them discreetly.”
Marcus scowled.
“Only my wife and I have access to those cabinets,” he said.
The constable gave a measured nod.
“As I suspected,” he replied. “And one of Mr Price’s notebooks was discovered beneath the wardrobe lining. It contains his assessments of several high-value pieces—the very pieces now missing.”
Marcus did not move.
“I assure you, you misread what lies before you.
The constable’s tone softened, almost kind.
“My lord, the evidence suggests that Lady Penwood and Mr Price acted in concert—that they planned to remove certain pieces without your knowledge. Perhaps Mr Price’s conscience failed him. Perhaps a quarrel turned violent. She may have struck him herself, or employed another to do so. Either way—”
“No,” Marcus said quietly.
The constable exhaled.
“She did not do this,” Marcus insisted, his voice steady now. “She was the one who helped me secure the items.”
The constable gave a slow nod, as though waiting for Marcus to grasp a truth that refused to take hold.
“The letters, the documents, her absence—”
“I do not care,” Marcus snapped. “You do not know her.”
Constable Neal regarded him with a patronising patience that set Marcus’s blood alight.
“I understand it is painful to consider—”
“You understand nothing,” Marcus cut in. “She would never have harmed him. And she would never have betrayed me so.”
The constable gave a slow, measured nod.
“The appearance of guilt does not always reveal intent,” he said evenly. “But the case must be pursued as it stands. Even if she is innocent, she must be found.”
Marcus turned away. His gaze fell upon the shawl folded over the chair, then the unused candle on the bedside table.
He had seen her wear that shawl but a day before.
He had spoken with her only hours ago. Nothing in her manner had suggested duplicity.
No one—not least a stranger—could persuade him that Catherine was secretly some master-thief.
The letters trembled faintly in his hands.
He traced the indent where her name had been signed, and every instinct rebelled.
She had never lied to him—not once. She was no dissembler, though she softened hard truths with gentleness.
Kind, orderly, adept in every duty as countess, wife, and companion—but not a liar.
Still, a doubt crept in. Had he misjudged? She had adapted to her new station with startling ease, as though accustomed to abrupt change. There had been moments, too, when her insight and manner left him wondering how much she chose to reveal, and how much she kept to herself.
While he still agreed that something was amiss with Harold, it occurred to him that he might have been misreading the behaviours of those around him.
If that were true, perhaps he had mistaken conniving actions and hidden skill for Catherine’s natural adeptness.
He stared at the letters in his hands, considering what the constable had said. Was it possible the man had been right?
He stepped back, breath unsteady. The constable said nothing further, his men moving quietly through the chamber with professional care, their presence giving shape to the shadow of betrayal.
Hours passed thus. The house roused to whispers and unease, yet Marcus remained, one hand resting upon the chair where her shawl still hung, stricken with the certainty that something had gone terribly—impossibly—amiss.
***
Rosalind stood at the foot of the staircase with her arms crossed over her bodice and a furrow between her brows that had deepened steadily since morning.
The murmurs of servants moved faintly through the hall, but she heard none of it.
Her attention was fixed only on the door to Marcus’s study. She entered without knocking.
He sat behind the desk, unmoving, a half-folded paper clenched in one hand. His shoulders were too still. His gaze had fixed itself on a point far beyond the window behind her.
“Rosalind,” said Alexander from the doorway as he stepped in behind her. “He has scarcely spoken all morning.”
Rosalind nodded, her heart falling.
“I can see that,” she said quietly.
She advanced slowly and sat across from Marcus.
“We have come because we will not allow this silence to become belief,” she said.
He blinked once. His expression did not change.
Rosalind leaned forward.
“I have seen you doubt her, Marcus,” she said. “I have seen you hold those letters, turn them over in your hands as if they might explain something. But they do not explain her.”
At last, he lifted his head.
“This is all very odd,” he said.
Rosalind folded her arms tightly.
“You are not a fool,” she said. “And neither am I. But if you truly believe Catherine capable of murdering a man and fleeing into the night with a satchel of stolen artefacts, then you never truly knew the woman you married.”
Marcus’s jaw tensed.
Alexander took a slow breath and stepped beside her.
“Forgive the intrusion, but we too have reviewed the evidence with Constable Neal,” he said. “And I cannot credit a word of it.”
Marcus rubbed his forehead, and Rosalind saw the turmoil in his eyes.
“She vanished,” he said at last, the words low and raw. “And they found those letters in her own chamber.”
Rosalind scoffed, shaking her head in disbelief.
“Then someone put them there,” she said. “Because she would never have written them. She would never have cause to do so. I would swear it before a magistrate. Before any court of law, if necessary.”
Marcus sighed, and Rosalind thought he looked more saddened than angry.
“She was frightened,” he said, more to himself than to them. “Yesterday, she hesitated before supper. She began to say something. I thought perhaps…”
Rosalind held up a hand, which, to her surprise, silenced him at once.
“You know what she feared?” she asked. “Disappointing you. She feared she was not becoming what you need, and that she had allowed a moment of weakness to push you away. But never did she show herself capable of deception. Certainly, not deception such as this.”
Marcus closed his eyes. Rosalind hoped he was beginning to feel remorse for such thoughts.
Alexander stepped forward.
“Rosalind is right,” he said. “This story the constable has sewn together is too neat. Too convenient. And it does not match what any of us witnessed. Not her behaviour. Not her character.”
Rosalind nodded, her agreement unflinching.
“She knew the names of every servant by the second day,” she said. “She remembered which guest preferred tea without milk and which one disliked the citron tarts. She worked from morning until night preparing for your precious gathering, not for greed, but for you.”
Alexander nodded, giving Rosalind a warm, supportive gaze.
“And if she had wanted to leave, she could have done so in full daylight with far less suspicion,” he said. “There was no need for theatrics.”
Marcus opened his eyes. For the first time since dawn, something real flickered behind them.
“I keep thinking that if I walk to the corridor, she will appear again beside the linen press. She will say I am fretting, and that supper must not be delayed on account of old paperwork.”
Rosalind’s expression softened. She saw now that it was, perhaps, less dreadful for Marcus to imagine Catherine a culprit than to face the thought of her as a victim. Yet he must face it all the same. If Catherine was innocent—as they all knew her to be—then her disappearance was no accident.
“Then trust that memory,” she said. “Not these forged pages and planted items. You must believe in what you know of her. She needs your help now. Not misguided judgment.”
Alexander nodded.
“She did not leave you,” he said. “She was taken. And the sooner we prove it, the sooner her name may be cleared—and her safety secured.”
***
The note arrived just past four o’clock, delivered by a stable lad with no badge, no livery, and no explanation. The paper bore no seal, only a single name scrawled across the outer fold: Lord Penwood.
Marcus broke it open with stiff fingers, unfolding the message inside. The handwriting was neat. The language, chilling in its simplicity:
Bring your Roman collection—everything of value. Do not bring the constable. Do not speak to anyone. Come alone, at dusk, to the old mill south of the village. If you want Lady Penwood alive, you will comply.
Any deviation, and she dies.
He read it three times.
Then a fourth.
Then he folded it again, precisely, and set it down on the edge of his desk, as if it were some fragment of pottery that might, by stillness alone, arrange itself into sense.
Catherine was, indeed, innocent. And she was alive.
But she was in grave danger.
He had sat wallowing in false suspicion while his wife was in the hands of someone who was clearly unpredictable. The knowledge struck so hard it hollowed him.
He reached for the back of the chair as fury and helplessness locked in equal measure behind his chest.
He picked up the note again. The script was confident, deliberate—betraying no haste. That alone revealed much. Its author had written without fear of discovery, certain of his advantage.
‘Do not bring the constable… Come alone.’
He demands everything.
Marcus crossed the room, already unlocking the cabinet where his most valuable items had been stored under protective cloth.
He withdrew them with care. Each item told a story of his life’s study, his years in Oxford and out in the field. And now, each would be a bargaining chip in someone else’s game.
He packed them into an old satchel, set it upon the chair, and raked a hand through his hair.
Every instinct screamed to go to Alexander. To demand Rosalind’s help. To alert the constable.
But the words of the note remained fixed behind his eyes.
‘If you want Lady Penwood alive, you will comply.’
He dared not chance it. Whatever snare lay ahead, he would step into it willingly. He would bring the whole collection—every shard, every fragment. He would carry the Roman world to that crumbling mill if it meant Catherine stood there, breathing.
He would give it all: his reputation, his safety, his scholarship—let them burn to ash—so long as his wife returned to him alive. He bent to fasten the strap. Dusk would come soon. And he would be ready.