35. Chapter 35 #3
“Certainly, my lord. And any insight you have into this event will also be most welcome.”
Sterling nodded and scanned the cottage’s interior—an open chamber floor plan and small loft—with fresh eyes, though he’d been here once before.
A workable kitchen, with a wooden table and chairs took up half the ground floor.
Dirty plates, cutlery, and random clothing items were scattered on the counter and table, all of which Sterling had taken as evidence that the man had left in a hurry.
The other half of the space functioned as the sitting room.
He took in anew the braided rug, sofa, and small bookcase.
Though meager, all the items, including the dishware and furnishings were of decent quality and appeared to have been regularly tidied if not cleaned by someone.
As he’d noted on his previous visit, Jack Blackwell had not lived the life of a pauper, despite a notable lack of regular employment beyond his guide work.
Sterling fixed the magistrate with a steady eye.
“I’ll go first, shall I? I originally sought out Blackwell to question him about the strangled maid who washed up on shore.
My wife”—an unexpected grin curved his mouth, hearing the term aloud, and he quickly squelched the impulse—“had hired him as a guide to take her across the causeway from the mainland, and she wound up facing down men who held her at gunpoint while Blackwell fled the scene with the maid.”
Mr. North’s eyes narrowed. “Coincidence, or complicity?”
“That was my question,” Sterling replied, impressed with the man’s instincts. “It was certainly suspicious. More so when the maid wound up dead after he claimed to have delivered her to the train station from which she was supposed to have traveled back to London.”
“And then you came here and found indications that he’d fled,” Mr. North stated, glancing at the items left scattered about.
“Exactly. Now I have to wonder if he fled and then was murdered, or if he was simply killed to begin with. As to whether his death is related to that of the maid, barring any proof to state that it was, who can say? But I do not like the coincidence.”
“Nor do I.” North heaved a sigh. “He did not die by strangulation, but by blunt trauma to the head, after which his body was hidden in a byre, under feed sacks. In short, someone went to a lot of trouble to hide him, and he was only discovered because the owner of the shed had a dog who alerted him to the corpse’s presence.
It would have required some strength to move the grain sacks and, more so, Blackwell’s body. ”
“But two strong men could easily achieve this end,” Sterling stated.
“I would say so.”
He glanced up at the loft. “Have you done a thorough look ‘round?”
“I have searched the place, top to bottom, and, to be frank, remain at a loss as to who did this and why. If you’d like to try your hand, maybe you’ll catch something I missed.”
Sterling did. He found nothing new. The same messy wardrobe. Same unmade bed.
With nothing else to be gained, North announced his intention to depart, and Sterling bid him good day, citing a desire to search the property once more before leaving himself.
In truth he wanted to question the neighbors without the presence of the magistrate to induce them to silence.
He began with the two men, laboring over their tools. They’d seen nothing. Knew nothing. Had barely conversed with Blackwell. Such was their story.
Sterling smiled congenially and thanked them for their time. His gut told him they were lying. There were several reasons they could have chosen to do so. A lack of respect for authority figures or those whom they considered higher up the social strata, a lack of impetus, or fear of reprisal.
It was the latter Sterling sensed. It came off the men like stink off manure.
He would need to approach the woman with care and in such a way that did not arouse suspicion from her neighbors.
He saw his opportunity when he spotted her attempting to hoist a large basket of folded laundry fresh from the line.
“Allow me, madam,” he said, taking it off her hands without waiting for an affirmative reply. “This way?” He started toward the back door to her cottage which stood open.
She glanced around her, then shrugged. “Aye, milord.”
Five minutes later, he departed on Zeus.
He took his time making his way down the lane, as if he’d learned nothing untoward.
But the moment he was out of the line of sight of any who might be looking from within one of the cottages, he gave Zeus his head and raced for the coble he’d arranged to await his return in advance.
He had no reason to believe Annabelle or Caroline might be, at this very moment, in imminent danger. But given his track record where Annabelle’s safety was concerned, he wasn’t taking any chances.
Especially as he now knew the identity of the person who had employed not only Blackwell but the two men Sterling believed responsible for robbing her at gunpoint—a nobleman who regularly frequented Holy Island. Lord Vane.