“I know. So ... perhaps I was wrong.” But deep down, Anne didn’t fully believe she was.
“If you truly think someone harmed Lady Celia, do you think it’s a good idea to go back there, my dear?”
No, it wasn’t. Then why was she? Anne searched her heart and knew why. The same reason she had gone to Painswick Court in the first place, even though she had been full of misgivings. Because someone had asked for her help. Because she could be of use to a person who needed her.
After they had eaten, Anne insisted on carrying the dishes to the kitchen, and then the two older women walked Anne to the door, Lotty using a single crutch for the short distance.
There Miss Lotty embraced her again. “I do so worry about you there. I can’t help feeling responsible.”
“I shall be all right. Truly.”
Would she be? Would she truly be safe in Painswick Court, or would whoever had shortened Lady Celia’s life decide to shorten hers as well?
Leaving Yew Cottage, Anne crossed New Street and entered the churchyard as darkness fell. She followed one of the paths that crossed the graveyard at an angle, then walked around the immense church toward the door in the wall that led to Painswick Court.
Shadows deepened, closing in on her, the many large yew trees obscuring much of the moonlight and casting even darker shadows across her path.
As she rounded the corner of the church, she heard something. What? The clank of metal? Ursula Birt’s former words echoed through her mind once more:“More than one person has heard the sound of clankingarmor as the king’s ghostly cavaliers suited up forbattle.”
She told herself her imagination was getting the better of her. The sound could have been any number of things.A local blacksmith at work. A chain being hung, ready to padlock a gate. Someone dropping an iron pot.
Despite her assurances, a chill prickled over her and she had the uneasy sensation of being watched. She looked one way, then the other, and whirled around. Nothing.
Foolish creature.
She turned again toward the door to Painswick Court, and faltered.
An outline of a figure stood out against the lighter wood of the door. She blinked, but the figure did not disappear.
And then it began to move.
“Who is it? Who’s there?” Anne called.
Another clank as the door latched shut behind whoever ... or whatever ... it was.
The figure started forward, and Anne instinctively stepped back.
What should she do? The church was deserted at this hour, the shops shuttered. Should she hurry back to Miss Lotty’s? Or to one of the cottages nearer by—and hope someone would answer her knock in time?
Another step back. Another move toward her.
As the figure stepped from the shadows, faint moonlight shone on it.
Anne gasped at the image, so like paintings she had seen. Long curly hair, beard, doublet, robe ... the white of the large collar brighter in the dark than the rest of him. Nearly as bright as the glint of something slender and metallic in his gloved hand.
A knife? The missing knife?
Anne froze. This was no ghost. No figment.
A moment later she turned and ran, bolting in the direction she had come. She gained a few yards by the element of surprise, but within two seconds, footfalls ate up the distance between them.
She would never make it out of the sprawling labyrinth of headstones, tombs, and trees, let alone to Yew Cottage by speed alone.
Yew...
She would have to try to evade him and hope he was not as familiar with the churchyard as she was.
Anne dodged headstones and ran through the low opening of a yew archway. Emerging on the other side, she ducked behind a large chest tomb as her pursuer ran past.
