Chapter 1
They found the shepherd eight days before Christmas. Dead.
Sybilla Somer gazed on the man with horror. Sometimes she thought it would be better to be a wilting sort of female rather than the one the estate and half the shire relied upon. This was one of those times.
She stared at the old man, pushing aside her memories of him, concentrating on the condition of the corpse in front of her.
He lay on his back, his head twisted at an angle.
She saw no blood. Frost covered the ground in the early morning, but had not formed on the body, cold though he was to the touch.
She saw no obvious signs of violence, but something didn’t feel right.
A whimper brought her attention to Jack Cramer, who’d found him and run to fetch her. The boy was no more than nine but already working as a shepherd. He was, in fact, the deceased’s grandson.
“Jacky, we should fetch the magistrate.” Visions of Sir Whittleby dragged from his cozy breakfast room, blustering and complaining, filled her.
He would glance at the body, bark a few orders, and leave as soon as he could.
He would miss the details entirely. She dreaded the alternative, but had no choice.
“Wait, Jacky,” she called, raising a hand. “Go ask Mr. Caulfield, the surgeon, to come. We’ll notify Sir Whittleby later.”
The boy ran off as he was told, relieved, no doubt, to be away from the grim sight. Sybilla pulled her thin cloak around her against the wind. She had sold her warmest wool last winter for fuel. Viscount’s daughter she might be, but she had come on hard times since her father died.
She stiffened her back. Seth Caulfield would come; of that she had no doubt. She heaved a sigh.
I knew I would have to face him eventually.
Seth had been back in Astburn for three months, and she had avoided him the entire time. Foolish that. What lay between them was buried in the past, and her life had changed in more ways than she could count. His too, no doubt.
She dragged her thoughts back to the problem at hand.
Old Mr. Cramer must have been at least seventy.
Jacky had told her the herd was short one ewe when they brought it in the day before.
The boy’s grandda had broken his fast while it was still dark and set out to find the missing animal.
Was it possible he simply fell over and the cold killed him? She doubted it.
She paced to keep warm while she waited for Caulfield—Seth—leaving a circle of footprints in the frost. The shepherd lay in a wide clearing in the shrubby area beyond the fields, just before the woods rose along the river, a sort of island among the various rivulets leading to the brook and the river itself.
She spent several minutes in prayer and tried to keep her mind on Mr. Cramer rather than her encounter with the surgeon, reviewing the details she saw over and over. She needed a second pair of eyes.
Jacky returned more quickly than she had hoped, Seth trudging at his side. They must have run. Seth glanced only briefly at Sybilla, crouched down, and began an intense scrutiny of the body.
“What is it you want from me?” He didn’t look at her when he spoke.
“An objective examination.” She twisted her hands together to keep them still.
He nodded. “Young Jack here says the man left the croft long before dawn. There’s no sign of frost on him. Still, he’s cold enough for it to form. No blood. No sign of violence. Rigor is setting in.”
“What does that mean?” Sybilla studied his back as she spoke. The navy had broadened his shoulders. Toughened him, she suspected.
“It means he’s been dead at least three hours, likely more. His position is awkward. Have you moved him?”
“No. I haven’t touched him. I thought a second witness should be here.”
He glanced up at her then. “Wise. But you always were clever. Shall I turn him over?”
“Please.” She swallowed hard to calm the flutter his quick glance planted in her belly.
Seth—she still could never think of him as Mr. Caulfield—calmly did as he proposed, gently taking Mr. Cramer by the shoulder and turning him over.
All doubt fled. The back of Cramer’s head had been bashed in.
Sybilla gasped. “Still no pool of blood. He was murdered elsewhere.”
“Clever as always. Yes. And not long after he went out, judging from the frost all around. Still, there should be some sign of him being dragged.”
He began to examine the surrounding area without so much as another glance her way.
She swallowed her pride. What did you expect? An invitation?
Jacky needed her. He had vomited into the bushes.
Seth Caulfield would manage on his own. He always could.
* * *
She has changed. How could I have expected otherwise?
It had been nine years since Sibby’s father and brother drove him out, horsewhip in hand, with shouts of “bloody presuming bastard” ringing in his ears.
They had him bound and delivered to press gangs in Great Yarmouth.
Since his return he’d avoided any mention of the viscount and his daughter.
Seth ran a shaking hand through his hair and paused for a deep breath to clear his head before continuing. There would be time to consider Sibby Somer later. For now, there was a murder to solve.
He took a slow walk, circling the clearing.
Instinct told him that, if Cramer had been killed near the village or the Somerton estate, the perpetrator would likely have dragged him to the cover of the trees rather than leave him in the open.
It seemed more likely the trees hid evidence of the crime.
He hadn’t gone far when impressions on the ground caught his eyes. Not drag marks. Not footprints—at least not a man’s.
What would Sibby make of this? He cursed himself for running off without her. She had a great mind for detail.
He followed the marks, realizing in moments that he followed a child’s footprints. Ones too small to be Jacky Cramer’s. Twenty yards later he heard a faint sound and sped up.
The footsteps led into the edge of the woods and came to an abrupt end at a deep depression where the ground fell away.
Surrounded by undergrowth, the drop wasn’t obvious at first. He inched closer to a ditch full of broken plants and branches, and peered down.
Whimpering came from a crumpled pile of white; he had no doubt it was a child.
He stepped down carefully and knelt by a small girl he quickly recognized as the Holdens’ precocious seven-year-old, Becky. She lay on her back, her white gown muddy, her curls held by a silver ribbon around her forehead, and some sort of wood apparatus on her back.
She shrank away from him at first; but her eyes went wide with recognition. “I hurt my leg, Mr. Caulfield.”
“May I check to see if it is broken?” He kept his voice conversational, as if they met in the church yard on a Sunday.
She bit her lip, but she nodded.
He explored her limbs and detected no sign of fracture, but her badly swollen knee had no doubt had a bad wrench. Based on her recoil, so had the ankle of the same leg.
“No break. I’m going to carry you to my surgery. Will that suit?
She nodded again. “Mama will be angry.”
There would be a surfeit of emotion, but he doubted if it would all be anger. “What is this device on your back?”
She treated him to the disgusted look of a child amazed at the ignorance of her elders. “My wings, of course.”
“Of course. But they’ll have to come off so I can carry you.” He set action to words and unbuckled the straps holding the wooden frames covered with white cloth to the girl’s back.
She started to tear up. “They got all broken up, and Christmas is in eight days. I’ll never be able to go.”
The light dawned. He had just rescued a crumpled angel, a refugee from the village pageant. He handed her the wings and lifted her into his arms. “We’ll see if we can fix both you and your wings before then. Don’t you trust me?”
The depression appeared lower on one side, and he climbed out that way. He stopped in his tracks, however, when she replied. “Of course, I do. You’re a doctor. Not the man with no face. When you found me, I was afraid he had come back.”
He didn’t say more until he had them both back on level ground. He began to stride toward the clearing where he had left Sibby.
“What man with no face?”
Becky turned her face into his coat. “The scary one what was carrying the shepherd.”
Seth could only hope Sybilla Somers had developed skills with children since he knew her. Becky’s description of a man with no face would require careful questioning. He could manage children’s bones. Their minds were another matter.
Look at it this way. Sibby won’t be able to avoid me until we solve this.
When he reached the clearing, Sibby appeared to be sketching in some sort of notebook. Wise that. She glanced up, and her eyes went wide. “What on earth?”
“It seems we have both a shepherd and an angel who have come to harm. Should I look for one of the magi? Or perhaps a donkey? We have plenty of sheep in east Suffolk.”
Sibby ignored his nonsense. “You need to get her to her mother.”
“I’m taking her to my surgery where I have my things. It is closer, and she is getting paler and quieter.” From what Seth had seen of Becky Holden, she was rarely quiet.
“But of course, your surgery is better; do hurry. I’ll have someone notify the Holdens.”
“I need you to help me question her closely. She saw someone.”
Sibby’s brows rose. “Good! Jacky has gone to the magistrate. I’ll stop at the Fox and Badger, send someone to the Holdens, and follow you as soon as I am able.”
Seth was halfway home before he thought to wonder why she hadn’t called the magistrate first.