Chapter Nine
Bridget never tired of York. Despite the long carriage ride from Westmorland, she never refused an opportunity to visit the magnificent medieval city.
The first glimpse of the spectacular gothic towers of York Minster always sent a thrill down her spine.
The breathtaking cathedral, with its elaborate architecture and stained-glass windows, dominated the area.
But there was so much more about the historic town that Bridget loved.
York’s Roman walls, narrow cobbled streets, overhanging timber houses, and bustling markets never failed to fascinate.
She’d spent many happy hours perusing York with her papa, and so it held her heart and some of her most precious memories.
Bridget leaned her head against the carriage window and sighed as the vehicle rambled through York’s cobbled streets.
In her mind’s eye, she saw a young girl walking arm-in-arm with her doting papa, who insisted on purchasing yards of beautiful fabric along with bows, hats, and gloves for his only daughter.
Her heart ached for the return of those days.
What she would give for just one more day—one more hour—with her papa.
“You’re very quiet,” Nate said, pulling Bridget back to the present. “I do hope you’re not worried about your aunt.”
“Aunt Marianne?” she said, turning from the carriage window to face him.
“Not at all. She is perfectly at home in York.” They’d left Aunt Marianne, who’d accompanied them on the trip, to care for Bijou and peruse the markets while they went about their business—only Bridget wasn’t quite sure what that “business” entailed.
“Actually, I was wondering where we are going?” she said, glancing again outside as the carriage left the city center and rambled through an open road lined with trees.
“We don’t know anything about Mr. Collins.
Where do we start searching for information? ”
“We know more than you think,” Nate said just as the driver slowed the horses, and the carriage rolled to a stop.
Bridget peered out the window and saw that they had stopped in front of an ancient-looking stone building attached to a church.
In front of the building lay a sprawling green, the type one would find at a prestigious public school.
Indeed, affixed to the black iron gates that protected the grounds from outsiders was a red shield with white letters that read St. Paul’s of York.
“We’re at a school,” she realized aloud.
“That’s right. Our man Collins is too well spoken and has far too many airs to be a mere farmer’s son—unless farmers are using Latin phrases nowadays.”
“What are you talking about?”
“The other day, when we visited Mrs. Groby, and I asked Collins to recount Groby’s outburst at The Black Horse, he mumbled the Latin phrase, ‘in vino veritas.’ I knew, then, that we were dealing with a man who has two identities.”
“In wine, there is truth,” Bridget said. “I don’t recall him saying that.”
“And I don’t recall you telling me that you knew Latin.”
“I don’t—not really.” She smiled. “Papa liked to pepper his speech with Latin phrases, so I picked up a few here and there.”
“Aah, I see. Well, either Mr. Collins has spent a lot of time with educated men, or—he is one of them.”
“And you think this is the school he attended?”
“If he lived in York as he claimed he did, then this is very likely where he would have gone to school.”
“But what good will it do us? We can’t simply walk inside and ask for information about a former pupil. We’re not magistrates.”
Nate smiled. “Sometimes there are advantages to being the second son of an earl.” Then he pushed open the carriage door, stepped outside, and extended his hand to Bridget.
She slipped her gloved hand into his and felt a tingle travel up her arm and down her back. She wondered if he felt it, as well.
*
It didn’t take long before Nate and Bridget were seated inside the headmaster’s office.
Headmaster Egan, who’d stood to greet them upon their arrival, was a tall, wiry man, with a neck and legs as long as those of an ostrich.
He had a bird-like face, too, with a beakish nose that supported a pair of round spectacles.
Nate could imagine the towering stick figure looking down admonishingly upon his pupils, most likely with a cane in his hand.
That’s how most of the headmasters operated, in his experience.
He shivered at the memory. The slice of the cane biting into his flesh had never stopped him from doing as he pleased, and it had pleased him to get into a lot of mischief, much to his father’s and his brother’s disdain.
“How may I help you?” Headmaster Egan asked as he reclaimed his seat.
Nate scanned the walls behind the headmaster’s desk, eyeing the portraits of his predecessors. “How long have you been headmaster here?” he asked.
“Seventeen years.” The headmaster straightened his back, indicating his pride in that fact.
“Excellent,” Nate said. “The school is preeminent among public schools in England. I’m sure that’s largely down to you.” A little flattery never hurt a headmaster.
“Well, I cannot take too much credit. After all, the school has been open for centuries.”
“Of course.” Nate smiled.
“Do you have a son you are interested in enrolling, perhaps?” Headmaster Egan glanced at Bridget, and his brow creased slightly as if he were confused by her presence. A boy’s education was his father’s business, after all.
“No,” Nate said and then added, “not yet.” He smiled. “We are here to inquire about one of your former pupils.”
“Oh?” The headmaster lifted his brows.
“We need some information and hoped you’d be able to enlighten us,” Nate said. “It would be several years ago now that he attended.”
Headmaster Egan folded his long fingers together. “We do keep records on all our students—not too detailed, but with the dates they attended and other such facts.”
“Well, I’m hoping you’ll remember a lot more than simple dates. I am sure you pride yourself on knowing every young man who passes through your school.”
“Indeed, I do. But what type of information are you after? I shouldn’t be comfortable divulging information of a private or sensitive nature to those who are not family.” He raised his eyebrows. “Are you family?”
“Not family,” Nate said. “But this is a matter of life or death.”
Mr. Egan blinked rapidly behind his gold-rimmed spectacles. “Life or death, you say?”
“I do, but I cannot divulge more than that.”
The headmaster frowned, drawing his feathery brows together. “I must say this is a little unusual. What is the name of the young man you wish to inquire about?”
“His surname is Collins.” Nate paused, uncertain of Collins’s first name.
“Mr. Douglas Collins,” Bridget added. Nate had to admire her. She would know his first name, focused on people as she always was. “He is today approximately seven-and-twenty years of age.”
Headmaster Egan narrowed his eyes. “Do you know, that name sounds familiar? But it’s not because he was a pupil at our school. No, I don’t recall a Collins here.”
Nate frowned. “But you must have so many pupils; how can you know for certain? He would have attended ten years or more ago. Perhaps check your records.”
The headmaster gave Nate a tight smile. “I remember all of our boys. Most of them come from aristocratic families, so I am not likely to forget a name.”
“But you do remember something, correct? After all, you just said the name sounds familiar to you.”
“Indeed, I do. May I suggest you visit a school called St. Joseph’s in Harrogate?”
“Why?” Nate asked.
“There was some sort of a scandal a few years ago at St. Joseph’s—about four years ago, if my memory serves me correctly, and I believe the name Collins was attached to it.”
“What kind of scandal?”
“I’m afraid I can’t say. I don’t know all the facts, and I have a strict policy against gossip. It would be a waste of your time to learn about half-truths, and as you said, yours was a case of life or death; I’d hate to mislead your inquiry in any way.”
“Of course.” Nate nodded. He was eager to learn more about this scandal and whether or not it involved Collins, but it would do him and Bridget no good if they were to receive incorrect information.
The headmaster was right. It was better to go to the source.
Nate got to his feet, and Bridget followed suit.
“Thank you, Headmaster, you have been most helpful. If you remember anything at all, I would most appreciate it if you would send word to Villa De Lacey on the shores of Lake Windermere.”
“Villa De Lacey?” the headmaster asked, standing up. “Is that the one where—I read about it in the York Herald. A poet was murdered and found lying in the daffodils, of all places. How intriguing. Someone must have been trying to make a strong statement.”
“Oh, you mean…?” Nate gestured to his heart. “Yes, I suppose they were.” He glanced at Bridget, worried the conversation had taken an upsetting turn for her. But she remained admirably poised.
“Not only the taking of that organ but more specifically, leaving the body in the daffodils,” the headmaster said.
“Do you mean because he was a poet, and Wordsworth wrote a poem about daffodils?” Nate asked.
“Precisely. Wordsworth is Westmorland’s greatest poet, after all.
And those young poets make the journey there as some sort of pilgrimage, do they not?
They aspire to be like him—perhaps meet him and learn from him.
So, when I read in the York Herald that a local butcher had committed the crime, I thought they must have the wrong man.
It cannot be a coincidence that this young poet ended up dead in the daffodils.
Unless, of course, the butcher is a poetry aficionado.
” The headmaster blinked behind his spectacles.
“Yes, we are questioning the arrest of the butcher too,” Nate said, turning to Bridget who nodded her agreement.