February 11, 1889 Late Afternoon #2
Theresia sat back. “I know the first one. When did I last see Silas Treadway alive? Just before the party. He was in the upstairs hall, just coming out of his room. We talked for a moment and then I came down. I didn’t see him again until we found him.
” She grimaced. “He usually followed after me like a dog at parties and those sorts of things, so I can’t imagine what he was up to.
Other than talking to you and Maureen, of course.
You said that at the inquest, didn’t you? ”
Mira nodded. “He mentioned he was in the war in Sudan but was sent home because of an injury. Do you know what injury it was?”
“I think it was his leg, but I never saw any sign of it. He didn’t have a limp at all and the weather never affected it.”
Mira frowned. “That’s odd.”
“That’s Silas for you.”
“Has your family had anything stolen before this?”
“Not that I know of,” Theresia said. “And Silas would have had plenty of opportunity. It’s strange that he waited until the party to do it, when he could have done it any time he wanted.”
“Yes, he was staying with you, wasn’t he?”
Theresia sighed. “Unfortunately. It happens every year. We come to Bath, father wants hunting companions, and inevitably they want to court me.”
Mira pulled a strand of hay out of the bale and wrapped it around her finger. “You said there was at least one suitor you liked.”
“Just one. And he isn’t even a proper suitor, so it doesn’t matter.” She stood. “Thank you for the flowers, although I really am all right. I’m more worried for poor Maureen.”
“She’s doing better.”
“I’m glad. It’s been positively awful for her, one thing after another. She was so withdrawn when she first came to Bath. I’d just managed to get her to open up to me when Mrs. Callan died.”
“That was her aunt, right?”
“Yes. She was such a kind old sort. A hypochondriac for certain, but I imagine anyone would manifest illnesses to explain away aches and pains when you’re at that age.”
“I had heard that she was frequently ill,” Mira said, brushing the hay from her skirts and following Theresia outside the stables.
“Ill enough she didn’t leave the house. We’d invite her over time and time again, but she never took us up on the offer. Speaking of which, do you think the Sherards are staying for tea?”
“I’m not certain.”
“We’d better go in and see.”
Mira looked out towards the West Ledge. “I’ll catch up in a minute. I think I’d like to get a little exercise in.”
Theresia followed her line of sight. “I’ll leave you to your sleuthing then.” She winked.
They parted ways at the upper juncture and Mira followed the path she had taken away from the body the previous Saturday. It was much easier to navigate without all the snow. When she came to the place where the body had lain, she found Byron coming from the opposite direction.
“I thought you were with your family,” Mira said.
He smiled. “They think I am talking with Mr. Risewell in his study.”
As they spoke, they turned their attention to the steep slope that rose before them.
It started out almost at a ninety degree angle at the top, then lessened towards the bottom where they stood.
If someone were to fall, one would hit the rocky outcrop quickly and then roll down the incline.
Even though the snow had melted, it was impossible to tell if Silas had followed that path due to how rocky it was.
At the base there were some scrubby grasses and a few scabby bushes.
“How was Miss Risewell?” Byron asked.
“Surprisingly open. I discovered why she hasn’t considered Bertie Corbet as a suitor. I think she’s in love with someone else.”
“Who?”
“I don’t know. She was vague on that point. She just went up to the house,” Mira kicked at one of the bushes with her boot. “By the way, she knows you’re a detective. It seems Bertie Corbet is telling everyone. So much for him keeping a secret.”
Byron sighed dramatically. “That’s the trouble with having a reputation.”
“She’s very impressed with your record,” Mira said. “And she seems entirely oblivious to your memory loss.”
“I don’t advertise that. Nor will I, now that I have such a beautiful memory keeper beside me.”
“Flatterer.”
“I only speak the truth.”
Mira laughed. “You are an incorrigible flirt. Which reminds me—we ought to come up with a plan for how we will rejoin the others.”
“How so?”
“Can’t you see how it will look? I go off to find Miss Risewell, and she returns from the stable without me. You go to find Mr. Risewell in his study, but never arrive. If we return together, your family and the Risewells will only imagine the worst.”
“Oh, my family is dealt with easily enough. I shall just tell them we were investigating the scene of the crime, and they are certain to be more disappointed and outraged than before. As for the Risewells . . .” he looked over at her.
“I can’t think of an excuse, but I suppose we could prove their fears right. ”
“Oh? And what shall we do?”
Byron grinned. “Hold hands? Share a chaste kiss? Certainly both are scandalous enough with our not being engaged. Though, we have broken the rules enough by now, perhaps we don’t need to orchestrate it.”
She laughed again, stepping away. “Yes, and the coachman is watching.”
“Who cares about the coachman?”
“Well, I thought we—” She stopped, feeling something flat under her foot. She stepped away and the sun caught a flash of silver. Though the day was warm, a chill came over her.
“Byron . . . you had better have a look at this.”
He crouched beside her, pulled a handkerchief from his pocket, and picked up a dagger with an inlaid handle. Half of the blade was covered in rust-colored splotches.
Byron looked up at her. “Seems murder is becoming more likely all the time. It’s impossible to know whose it is—the blood or the dagger, for that matter.
” He wrapped the knife in the handkerchief and tucked the bundle into his coat pocket.
He looked about and found a few sticks, inserting them into the ground in a triangular pattern around where the knife had lain.
“There. Now we’ll remember where we found it.
We’ll need to bring this to the police, but first I’d like to take a better look from where he likely fell.
” He took her hand and they headed up the southern path.
“Surely the blood couldn’t be his, could it? You and I both saw the head wound.”
“We’ll have to talk with the coroner about it. Or Dr. Turpin. The whole thing is a bit strange.”
When they came to the top of the ridge, Byron let go of her hand and stepped closer to the edge.
“Be careful,” Mira said. “There are still some icy spots.”
“I find that curious,” Byron said, crouching.
He measured several patches of ice with his hand.
“Almost uniform in size too. I would think they were footprints, left behind by compressed snow, but these are too large and there weren’t any on the southern paths.
Yet here, and to the north . . .” he clicked his tongue.
“There were more by the stable. Could these prints belong to a horse?”
Byron stood. “That is a possibility. The weight of a horse would provide more compression, and therefore, a more solid bit of ice.” He turned in place.
“If these do belong to a horse, the creature must have stopped here, turned around, and headed back to the stable. The ice is all a jumble here, but see there,” he moved along the path and pointed out two separate bits of ice.
“We have a steady gait with tracks heading to that point and then back again.” He followed the path a few more paces away.
“And here we have more definite proof—horse dung.”
Mira frowned. “But the hunting party left their horses with the gamekeeper after we looked at the body, and surely he brought them straight back to the stable. The horses wouldn’t have come this way at all.”
Byron tipped his head to the side. “Unless a horse was brought to this point on the night of the party. We discussed the possibility of Mr. Treadway going to meet a partner. However, I would have expected them to choose a more secluded location than this.” He gestured to the slope.
“Suppose Mr. Treadway took a horse in order to ride out to meet his partner. Then, when he arrived here, the horse was spooked and Mr. Treadway fell. The horse, being well trained and not wanting to be out in the inclement weather, trotted back to the stable. The new snow hid the tracks and fecal matter the morning after.”
“What about the knife?” Mira asked.
A twinkle came to Byron’s eye. “You always ask the right questions. I believe we have an additional item to add to the agenda. Would you be so kind as to escort me to the stables?”
They followed the icy tracks from whence they came and Byron pulled open the heavy stable door. “I say, is there anyone in here?” he called out.
Some rustling came from one of the stalls and Rudy Foster poked his head out. “Yes, sir? How might I help you, sir?” He approached them, wiping his hands with a cloth.
“We have some questions about the night of the eighth,” Byron said.
Rudy’s eyes widened. “You mean when the poor man fell from the ledge?”
“Yes, that’s the one. Were you working that night?”
“N-no sir. The Risewells gave the outside staff the night off, on account of the party.”
“So you wouldn’t know if anyone had come for a horse, say, around ten o’clock?”
“If it were the family wanting a horse, they would have come found me in the lodge. I stay there with Mr. Sharpe, the gamekeeper.”
“But someone might have been able to take a horse without you knowing?”
Rudy frowned. “All the horses are accounted for now, sir. And they were the morning of the hunt.”
“We noticed some dung near the top of the West Ledge,” Byron said. “Are horses often taken over the ridge by that path?”
“N-no sir. The Risewells usually only take the horses into the woods for hunting or riding.”