“Now, what exactly is the nature of the charges?” Elizabeth asked the magistrate.
“Poaching, and it’s a serious crime, my lady. Just this year the government made it punishable by deportation to Australia.”
“Should still be a hanging offense,” muttered Tunning.
Elizabeth pointedly ignored him. “I would like to know the circumstances which prompted this charge.”
“Mr. Tunning claims he caught young Gerry Humphries here with a snare in one hand and a rabbit in the other.”
“I see. And when did this occur, Mr. Tunning?”
“At dawn.”
“You were up early. Why?”
“My actions aren’t in question; it’s this dog you should be asking.”
“You are being unaccountably difficult, Mr. Tunning. All right, maybe you’ll answer me this—did you see Gerry set the trap?”
“Well, no, I don’t know when he did that. Probably the night before, when I was busy with the accounts.”
“So how can you say for certain he set the trap?”
“Makes no matter, he must a known it was there.”
“Why? Isn’t it possible he could have stumbled upon it?”
“Impossible, not in that part of the woods.”
“But you were there, too. If he hadn’t found it first, might not you have? And if you had freed the rabbit and someone saw you, should they call you poacher?”
“You’re forgetting one thing. There’s the matter of the poacher’s bag lying not far from the trap,” said Mr. Pfoffler.
“Poacher’s bag?” Elizabeth looked quizzically at Gerry, who shrugged his bewilderment.
“Yes, ma’am. Mr. Tunning took me to the scene of the crime this morning before we came here, and I found it under a bush with two traps and another rabbit.”
“Found this morning, you say, after Gerry was locked in my pantry?”
“Yes, just before we came here.”
She looked at Tunning and nodded thoughtfully. “Clever. You were certainly thorough when you constructed this crime. What puzzles me is why you are afraid of the Humphries.”
“What!” roared Tunning.
“You see, Mr. Pfoffler,” said Elizabeth, ignoring Tunning, “Gerry is well known in the neighborhood as an animal lover, who often goes out early to view the animals in the woods. He would be the last person to set snares to capture rabbits. Someone who knew of his habit could easily frame him for poaching. It strikes me odd that Mr. Tunning should be about so early in the morning, and just so happens to be in the proper location to view Gerry with snare and rabbit in hand, particularly when one knows Mr. Tunning has been encouraging the Viscount to turn the Humphries out of the Home farm. He claims they are a bad lot yet, inexplicably, the Home farm is in the best condition. I contend our estate agent has manufactured this incident as a means to destroy the Humphries.”
“My lady, that’s a serious accusation.”
“You Jade,” growled Tunning.
“Mr. Tunning, please!”
“Oh, his lordship has his hands full with this one, he does. Do you know, sir, what society calls her? The Shrew of London—I can see you’ve heard the title. It was bestowed on her for beingthe most unmanageable and contrary female. The Viscount deserves our sympathy. She will do whatever runs against his lordship’s best interests. He even gave me explicit orders when he was away to have charge of all monies. She wasn’t to have a farthing, that’s how much he don’t trust her.”
“That will be enough, Mr. Tunning,” ordered St. Ryne coldly.
All eyes turned in shocked surprise at the sound of his voice. He stood by the library door, his arms folded across his chest, his dark eyebrows furrowed to a straight bar above his eyes.
