Noah Brixton appeared in the threshold, hat in hand, out of breath.
“Sorry. Had to refire the ovens. Ah, Miss Lane.” He made to tip his hat, only to realize it was in his hand.
Sir Frederick silently cursed the man’s timing but made do with pointing to a nearby chair.
Then he returned his attention to Miss Lane. “To begin with, when did you last see Mr. Oliver? Alive, that is?” He winced at his lack of tact.
She looked upward, eyes shifting to the right. “Let me think. We all expected him at dinner two nights ago, but he did not make an appearance at his usual time. Nor at all, that I saw. Mr. George either. Mr. Edgecombe, however, came to the dining room, in quite a happy mood.”
“And you didn’t see Mr. Oliver after that? Not until you and I discovered his body?”
“Right.” She scratched an eyebrow. “As you know, he knocked on my door late that night. So I heard his voice, though I did not see him.”
Here she sent Mr. Brixton a significant look.
Brixton leaned forward. “Excuse me, sir, but Miss Lane didn’t really answer the question. She said when shedidn’tsee him, but not when she did.”
“Oh.” She blinked rapidly.
Seeing her discomfort, the desire to help rose in Frederick like Brixton’s half-peck loaves of bread dough.
He suggested, “Did you see him at dinner the night before that—the last night he appeared in the refectory?”
“Yes! That’s it ... I did see him then.” She added awkwardly, “Alive.”
Frederick nodded and continued, “And had you met him or seen him before his stay here?”
Miss Lane hesitated. “Saw him, yes. Although only from a distance.”
“Where?”
“Birmingham. I went there with John a few times, when he went to call on Mr. Edgecombe. Not the Mr. Edgecombe here now, but his brother. On one occasion, I saw Mr. Oliver leaving the office.”
“And why did John meet with Mr. Edgecombe?”
“He hoped the publisher would help him with ... his novel, but sadly, no.”
“Your brother worked for Mr. Oliver at one point, did he not?”
She swallowed. “Just for a few months, about three years ago. William Edgecombe arranged it. John assisted Mr. Oliver with clerical tasks to free up his time to write.”
“A good experience?”
“No. Though John learned some valuable lessons. And he still aspires to be published.” She smiled but the expression did not reach her eyes.
He was about to probe further into the Lanes’ dealings with the author, but before he could, Mr. Brixton took over.
“With your brother living nearby, may I ask why you are staying here at the abbey?”
“I came to Swanford to visit him, but when I got to the lodge, I found him...” She paused, and Frederick saw a flurry of emotions pass behind her eyes. Worry? Fear? Shame?
“Preoccupied with ... his writing.” She shrugged. “At all events, Lady Fitzhoward was staying here, so I took a room as well.”
Not the clearest answer, Frederick realized, though he did not interrupt.
“And who is that lady to you?” Brixton asked. “A friend?”
“In a manner of speaking. I am her companion.”
