February 11, 1889 Late Afternoon
The hired carriage rumbled up the drive towards Wynmar Park, with Mira, Byron, Mary, and Mrs. Sherard all bundled up inside. Castel cited a need to catch up on some letters and Walker chose to stay behind with Liza and the Renaldis.
The flowers in Mira’s hands, a bouquet of pink sowbread, white hellebore, purple monkshood, and yellow daffodils, bowed with each bump in the road.
She sat next to Mrs. Sherard and across from Byron.
The atmosphere was thick with tension, silent as a grave.
Mira knew her every move was being studied and judged.
If a tickle started up in her throat again, she wasn’t sure what she would do.
Luckily, they reached Wynmar Park before anything too grievous occurred.
Mira stepped out onto the gravel, looking up at the estate.
“I do hope they are at home,” Mrs. Sherard said. “It would be a shame to drive all this way to discover they are back in Bath.”
“Perhaps we can go for a walk if they aren’t in,” Byron said, his eyes twinkling.
“Would you like me to wait here, ma’am?” the carriage driver asked, voice rough and deep, as if he had a cold. His coat was pulled tight around his neck and a grey muffler covered his mouth and nose.
“Yes, please do,” Mrs. Sherard said. “We shouldn’t be too long.”
The group moved up the path to the front step where Byron rang the bell. A few moments later, the butler opened the door.
“How may I help you?”
“We are here to visit Mrs. Risewell and her daughter. Are they in?” Mrs. Sherard asked.
“Certainly. If you will wait a moment, I shall fetch them directly.” He ushered them through the door and into the parlor.
Mrs. Sherard took the most prominent chair for herself, Mary the one next to her. Mira didn’t know what to do with herself, or the bouquet, but ended up on the sofa next to Byron.
No sooner than they had all sat down, Mrs. Risewell swept into the room, her purple walking dress swishing behind her.
“What a surprise!” Mrs. Risewell said. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”
Mrs. Sherard gave a slight bow of her head. “We wanted to thank you for your hospitality this past weekend. It really was too kind of you to offer your home at short notice and to let Benson stay on with the carriage.”
“Oh, we couldn’t possibly have done otherwise. I’m only sorry it meant you were all wrapped up in that unfortunate business with Mr. Treadway.” She turned to Mira. “You handled it all very well, my dear. I don’t know if I would have been as quick thinking in the same situation.”
“Thank you,” Mira said. “But I wouldn’t have been able to do it without Theresia. She telephoned the police and gave me directions to the stable. And she was as shocked as any of us about Mr. Treadway.”
“I’m so glad that she didn’t lose her head or anything like that.” Mrs. Risewell laughed a little. “Why, I’m sure I would have.”
“She must be having the most beastly time with all of this.” Mira adjusted the bouquet in her hands. “I hoped to give her this to lift her spirits. Might I see her, or is she keeping to her room?”
“Sometimes I wish she would keep to her room,” Mrs. Risewell said. “No, she’s been out riding this afternoon. However, it’s almost time for tea, so she may be coming back now. If you wanted to go out to the stable, you might find her there.”
Mira stood. “Thank you, I think I will.”
“Would all of you like to stay for tea?” Mrs. Risewell asked as Mira left the room and headed down the hall towards the side door.
The weather was sunny and clear, warm enough that Mira almost didn’t need a coat. Her breath didn’t cloud the air and there were only a few spots of snow here and there, with clumps of ice in an oddly regular pattern, especially around the stable.
The door to the stable opened as she approached and the stable hand, Rudy Foster, walked out. His face was flushed from his work, his arms still wrapped, though the fabric looked new, and he carried his gloves in his hand. He tipped his cap to her, a little flustered.
“Good morning, Miss. I didn’t realize you were still staying at Wynmar.”
“I’m just visiting with the Sherards today.”
“Are you looking for their Mr. Benson? He’s still working on that axle of theirs over in the carriage house.”
“No, I’m actually here for Miss Risewell. Is she still out riding?”
“No, she’s just come inside with Verona.” He opened the stable door to let her go through.
The door closed with a soft shush behind her, the stable quiet save for some whispering coming from Verona’s stall.
“That’s a good girl,” Theresia said. “I might be able to bring you some sugar after tea.”
“Miss Risewell?” Mira called out as she came near the stall.
Theresia jolted, looking up. Strands of her hair had fallen out to frame her face, and her eyes were wide.
“Why, Miss Blayse! You’ve scared me to death. What are you doing here?”
“I came with the Sherards to thank your family for their hospitality. And I wanted to bring you this.” She lifted the bouquet. “This whole situation with Mr. Treadway has been terrible, and I wanted to make sure you were all right.”
“You barely know me,” Theresia said, but she stepped closer and took the flowers from her, smelling them. “And I’m coming to believe that I don’t know you all that well either.”
“Oh?”
Theresia’s mouth twisted. “I’m going to ask you something, and I want you to tell me the truth. Is Bertie right about your Mr. Sherard? Is he actually a detective?”
Mira froze, at the unexpected question. Byron was still acting under the name Sherard, but if Bertie had broken their confidence it wouldn’t do to lie to Theresia.
“He is.”
“Then this visit isn’t just for pleasantries.” Theresia fussed with the bouquet, pulling some flowers forward and others back. “You think that Silas didn’t die accidentally.”
“We don’t know yet.”
Theresia cocked her head to the side. “I’m terrible with the language of flowers. Do they mean anything?”
Mira blinked, the abrupt change in conversation blindsiding her once again. “I’m afraid that I’m not fluent either. Byron is, but—”
“Byron?”
Mira flushed. “I mean, Ambrose. Mr. Sherard.”
“Ah. I see. Is he actually a Sherard, or is he just masquerading as one for his work?”
“He was born a Sherard. But as a detective he goes by Byron Constantine.”
Theresia’s eyes widened. “Bertie said he was a detective, but I didn’t know he meant Detective Constantine!”
Mira smiled. “You’ve heard of him, then?”
“Oh yes. My father works with Ambassador White. We heard all about the debacle back in October. Did you know about it?”
“I was the one who found Mr. Sutherland.”
Theresia gasped, eyes sparkling. “No wonder you weren’t shocked by the body. I had wondered. Do you know, we would have been at Sutherland’s party that night, but we had another engagement. To think we might have met sooner.”
“What small circles we run in,” Mira laughed.
Theresia turned her attention back to the bouquet. “So did he choose these? Detective Constantine, I mean.”
“No. He stayed in the carriage with his mother and sister. I had to have the owner of the flower shop help me. The pink ones are sowbread, they signify a parting of ways. The white is hellebore, representing hope in adversity. The purple is monkshood and is a protection from evil. And—”
“I know the daffodils. Something to do with spring and new beginnings.” She slumped down on one of the hay bales. “To be honest, Miss Blayse—”
“You can call me Mira, if you like.”
“Well then, Mira, I’ll tell you a secret.” She lowered her voice to a whisper. “I never really liked Silas Treadway.”
Mira sat beside her. “I know. Maureen told me.”
“You’ve been thorough in your questioning then.”
“Not really. I just remember her mentioning offhand at the party that you never like any of your suitors.”
Theresia tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “That isn’t exactly true.”
They sat in silence for a few moments.
“I didn’t like him, but I wouldn’t have wanted him dead,” Theresia said at last. “He was self-aggrandizing one moment and disappearing off to who knows where the next. Perfectly charismatic and quite the gentleman, but it all felt like a false front. Like the real Silas Treadway was buried beneath everything else. Have you ever met someone like that before?”
Mira swallowed, thinking of her godfather. “I wish I hadn’t, but yes.”
“I don’t even know where he came from. Usually one is introduced by a mutual acquaintance.
I’ve known Bertie Corbet since before he wore breeches.
But Silas just showed up in Bath one day, and for whatever reason, my father saw him fit to be a potential match.
I suppose that was novel, in a way. And so is the fact that he was a burglar. ”
“If he was the burglar,” Mira said, “and wasn’t framed by the actual thief.”
Theresia’s mouth dropped open. “I hadn’t considered that . . .”
Mira hesitated. Maybe she shouldn’t have mentioned Byron’s theory.
But, then again, the conversation was turning in a quite useful direction for the investigation, if she could only ask the right questions.
Though, with Theresia knowing their true purpose and identity, she would need to be careful not to push too far.
“Would you mind if I asked a few questions?”
“I expected as much with you courting a detective. Or is that a ruse too and you’re his assistant or something?”
“I was his secretary at first.”
Theresia turned on the hay bale so she was facing her. “I’m sure that’s quite the story.”
“Another time, perhaps,” Mira said. “First, the questions.”