February 11, 1889 Late Afternoon #3
“Is there anything on that side of the property that can’t be accessed from the lower paths?” Mira asked.
“There’s a gate there in the wall surrounding the estate, but I don’t remember the Risewells ever using it. Some of the staff that live in Doynton use it to come and go.”
“Thank you,” Mira said. “Do you know where we can find Mr. Sharpe?”
“I just left him in the gun room. Today’s polishing day. I can take you there.”
The sun was veering to the west as he led them back up the hill to the house and through a side door that led directly to the gun room.
Wood paneled walls and the smell of oak greeted them.
A large, leather-topped table sat in the center.
Most of the guns were displayed on racks lined with velvet, save a few on the table in front of Mr. Sharpe. He looked up as Rudy came in.
“Lad, shouldn’t you be cleaning the—” he stopped as he noticed Byron and Mira. “Begging your pardon.”
“They wanted to speak with you about the eighth,” Rudy said.
Sharpe set down his polishing cloth and lay the rifle across his lap. “You’ve shown ‘em here. Now back to your work.”
Rudy nodded and left. The cool air rushed around them, replaced with warmth as he closed the door.
“Terrible accident,” Sharpe said. “The Estfields ought to put fencing along that there West Ledge. I’ve told Grantham, their gamekeeper, as much when the Risewells switch houses.”
“Do you remember anything odd about that night?” Byron asked.
“Why are you concerned with it? The police have already come and gone. Inquest is over, ain’t it?”
“Yes,” Byron drew the word out, glancing at Mira as if he needed permission for something. “But you see, we are trying to settle a bet.”
She nodded, ready to go along with this new lie.
“A bet?” Sharpe raised an eyebrow.
“Miss Blayse here has a brother. And at the party last Friday, he said he would be able to take a horse from the stable and return it without anyone noticing. He says that he did it, but didn’t bring any proof.
We were hoping that maybe you could tell us if any of the horses were missing or in the wrong stall or anything like that. ”
Sharpe laughed. “You youngsters and your practical jokes. No, sir. There weren’t any horses in the wrong place or nothing of the sort. Though the horses are more of young Mr. Foster’s domain these days. You spoke with him, I take it?”
“Yes. Just before coming to see you,” Mira said.
“He’d know better than I. He’s in the stable often enough. Spends his free time in the hayloft, pining after that girl of his. Writes poetry, he does. So I doubt your brother managed to get past him.”
“Girl?” Mira asked.
“Oh, one of the shopkeep’s daughters in Pucklechurch. I’m certain from the way they make eyes at each other. I’ve told him to approach her, but he’s too nervous to even talk to her.”
“Thank you very much, Mr. Sharpe,” Byron said.
“Happy to help.”
“I suppose we’d better get back,” Mira said. “What is the best way to return to the parlor?”
“Just through that door there, down the hall, and to the right.”
“Thank you.”
They stepped into the hall and Byron closed the door behind them.
“Either one of them is lying,” Mira said. “Or both of them are.”
“Most definitely. What are you seeing?”
“There had to be a horse on the ridge either that night or the morning after. Otherwise there wouldn’t have been any snow on the ground to make the icy tracks.
We know it couldn’t be the morning after, so it had to have been the night of the party.
If Treadway took a horse to that location and fell, the horse surely had to make its way back to the stable and wouldn’t be able to open the stable door on its own. ”
“Or the door to its own stall, for that matter.” Byron clucked his tongue. “Someone had to have brought the horse back. The question is, why would Foster and Sharpe lie? Is someone paying them off, or are they involved in the murder?”
“I don’t know. But I do know that your sister is liable to murder me if we take much longer.”
“Mary doesn’t have the imagination,” Byron said, but began the trek across the house to the parlor. “Do you think it is better for us to enter together or separately?”
“I think together. If we arrive separately we will be guilty of both indiscretion and deception.”
They entered the parlor, and Mira pointedly avoided facing the two Sherards, though she could feel their sharp gazes upon her. A tea tray, the pot of which was likely cold, sat on the table at the center of the room.
“I’m so sorry for the delay,” Mira said. “You have such lovely grounds, I felt the need to explore a little.”
“Oh, it is no trouble at all,” Mrs. Risewell said.
“And what is your excuse?” Mary asked Byron.
“I don’t believe I need an excuse.” He pulled the handkerchief from his pocket. “I stepped out for a bit of air and found this.” He unfolded the fabric and revealed the dagger.
“Heavens, is that . . .” Mrs. Risewell brought a hand to her neck.
“Blood? Yes.” He folded the handkerchief up again. “I found this near where Mr. Treadway fell.”
Theresia frowned. “But, I thought he died from the fall!”
“That is what the coroner said.” Mary adjusted her skirts. “Surely he would know the difference between a blow to the head and a knife wound.”
“Certainly.” Byron tucked the bundle back into his jacket pocket. “But I believe the police ought to have a look at it, just the same.”
“Then we should deliver it before it gets too late. Thank you so much once again for your hospitality, Mrs. Risewell. And you are certain it isn’t an inconvenience to have Benson staying on a little longer? The wheelwright said it would be a few days yet.”
“Not at all. We are happy to oblige for as long as you need.”
“You really are too kind.” Mrs. Sherard stood. “We must do this again sometime.”
“Oh yes!” Mrs. Risewell said. “Are you coming to our little Valentine’s Party on Thursday? You are all invited.” She turned to Mira. “The Renaldis too, if they wish.”
“We’d be delighted,” Mrs. Sherard said.