“Second daughter of the Duke of Camberley.”
“About thirty?”
“Thirty-four.”
“So Miss Franklyn is her stepdaughter. Her mother must have been a striking woman.”
The mass of black curls, of course. But Winnie could only say, “I have no idea. There is no portrait on display at Highwood Place.”
“No, I suppose there would not be, with a second wife in residence. Did Lady Esther marry him for his money?”
“What an impertinent question, Captain! What would you say if I asked you such a thing?”
“I would answer at once that I only married my wife for her fortune and her rank as a baron’s daughter.” He smiled, his teeth gleaming in the candlelight, but he threw a glance that was far from indifferent towards his wife where she sat further down the table.
“Yes, I am sure you did,” Winnie said, unable to suppress her own smile. “Do you never stop asking questions?”
“Sometimes, but only while I work out what the next question should be. People are fascinating.”
“Indeed they are, Captain.” And not the least fascinating was the captain himself.
“You must talk to a great many people as you go about here and there, Miss Strong,” the captain said. “What are they saying about the murder? Who do the villagers think might be responsible?”
“You have kept me rather busy lately, Captain,” Winnie said with a smile. “I have not been in the village much at all since poor Mr Nicholson’s demise.”
“Nevertheless, I am sure you have heard some talk.”
“Oh, there are plenty of wild ideas. The simple-minded lad from the mill. The widow who talks to her chickens but not to her neighbours. The potter’s youngest boy, who is always in some sort of trouble. The Franklyns’ butler who waters the wine. The new chambermaid at the inn, who has wicked eyes, whatever that may be. Or the usual favourites — the Romanies or the tinker or the charcoal man or the smugglers from Scarborough way or the half-pay soldiers wandering the countryside.”
“Do any of those strike you as plausible, Miss Strong?”
She gave a wry laugh. “Not one. For one thing, they would have to get to the castle from the village. Then they would have to know how to break in, where to find the axe, and where the chaplain was sleeping. That is before one even gets to the question ofwhythe potter’s boy or poor Mrs Wilde or the smugglers, for heaven’s sake, should bear a grudge against him in the first place.”
“That is indeed the key to the mystery,” the captain said slowly. “He seems to have been a well-liked man, yet someonedisliked liked him enough to kill him. If you hear anything to the point, will you let me know, Miss Strong?”
“Of course. We all want the murderer caught.”
When the ladies withdrew, Winnie made a point of sitting beside Mrs Edgerton. “Your husband tells me he only married you for your fortune and rank, but I do not believe him.”
Mrs Edgerton laughed. “He tells everyone that. It amuses him to say so, but he had more money than I did, in fact, and he was not exactly nobody. He is the son of a gentleman, despite his odd career. Besides, my father was only a baron for a few weeks, and before that he was merely a lowly government official.”
“Do you not mind the captain saying such things?”
“No. He will tell me all about his conversation with you later, you see, so it is not as if he is insulting me behind my back.”
“Well, if you do not mind it… but I should not like it myself. I like my father’s way, for he talks about the grey times before he knew my mother, and the brightness of the years since. He tells the whole world how much he loves her.”
“And that is admirable, Miss Strong, but not all men can express their feelings so openly. Michael is one such, but it does not mean he feels nothing. When we first met, he climbed the ivy to my window on the third floor every night just to leave a little love token on my pillow — a single rose, a heart-shaped stone, a poem…” She sighed. “It wassoromantic, and he said not a word, so I had no idea who it was, not for a long time. He still does silly things of that nature, so I know how strong his affection is. Love is not in words, it is in actions. A man shows his love by what he does, not by what he says.”
“That is very wise,” Winnie said, but secretly she still preferred a man who could express his love in words, too. Privately, perhaps, for not everyone was as besotted as her father, or as open-hearted, but there had to be a declaration of love. And that made her look at Bea, and wonder how Walterexpressed his love for her. Not in his actions, that much was certain, for he had never treated her any differently, from the time she had moved to the North Riding five years ago to the time when they were betrothed. But perhaps he was ardent when they were alone together.
That thought was too dispiriting for words. She could bear him marrying Bea if it were merely a pragmatic matter — the heir to an earldom marrying a rich and well-connected young lady. At least Winnie could still be his friend. But if he were deeply in love with Bea, then there would be no room for Winnie in Walter’s life at all, and that would bring her unbearable grief.
But it appeared her friendship was still necessary to him, for as she took him his tea, he whispered to her, “The tree house tomorrow?”
She nodded, her heart beating quicker in anticipation. The tree house! He was going to confide in her again — at last!
7: A Bit Of A Rogue
