Chapter Three
Peppermints and Evidence
Verity examined the shawl with Alexander's magnifying glass — he carried one now, ever since the palm-pot business at Tunbridge Wells — while the picnic pretended not to watch.
"The shawl is unharmed," she announced. "No tear, no snag. The brooch did not catch and pull free."
"Then it fell," said Sir Peregrine. "The wind —"
"The wind," said Verity, "is a suspect, Sir Peregrine, but it leaves no footprints." She moved down to the reeds, to the exact spot where Cyril had caught the shawl, and went over the grass on her hands and knees with the thoroughness of a woman who has lost a peppermint and means to find it.
Alexander watched her with fond resignation. "You have grass on your hem."
"I have a case on my mind. Hem later." She stopped. "Ah."
Between two blades of grass, winking dully, lay a tiny tongue of silver — the catch of a brooch-pin, snapped clean off.
"Brooches," said Verity, holding it up on her fingertip, "do not snap their own catches falling onto grass."
"They do not," Alexander agreed. "Grass is famously gentle."
"Something wrenched it free," said Verity. "Something in a hurry." She pocketed the little silver tongue with the reverence due a relic. "A brooch does not leap from a shawl, Alexander. It is taken — quickly, while the shawl is being shaken out and every eye is still on the chase."
"Shaken out," said Alexander thoughtfully. "Twice. Thrice."
"Thrice," said Verity.
The interviews began. Miss Honoria Vane, breathless with importance, reported a flash of purple down by the reeds. Verity investigated. The flash of purple was a dragonfly — a very handsome one, but innocent.
Miss Vane, undeterred, produced gossip instead. "Mr. Pettifer's tailor writes him the most devoted letters," she confided. "Pink ones, my dear. Quite passionate. I have seen them peeping from his pocket."
"Pink," said Verity. "Indeed."
The Reverend Mr. Plimpton had been fully occupied with the wasp, a witness of unimpeachable character if you asked the wasp.
He was now writing the sermonette into a notebook entitled Wasps: A Warning to the Flock.
"I saw nothing, Lady Verity," he said, "but the inside of my own eyelids, which I was squeezing shut in prayer. "
And Cyril Pettifer stood apart, his left hand thrust deep in his left coat pocket, patting it — pat, pat, pat — the way a man pats a pocket that contains something he wishes it did not contain.
"Mr. Pettifer," said Verity pleasantly, "will you help us search the far bank?"
"These boots are new, Lady Verity." Cyril drew himself up. "Italian. They have never seen water, and by heaven they never shall."
"A patriot," murmured Alexander.
"And I must leave directly after tea," Cyril added, a shade too quickly. "An appointment in the village. With my tailor."
Verity and Alexander exchanged a look — the particular look of two people watching a timetable assemble itself.
Verity offered the peppermint tin. Cyril took three at once.
"Three again," said Alexander, as they walked away.
"Three," said Verity, "is no longer a sweet tooth. Three is a confession with sugar on it."
Across the meadow, Cyril was edging toward the lane, glancing at the sun.
"He keeps looking at the sun," said Alexander.
"He keeps looking at his pocket," said Verity. "The sun is innocent. Come — we are taking the boat."