Kent,
Simpson,
Wellum.’
It was a remarkably short list, and she could cross three names off immediately. Uncle Charles had no need whatsoever to murder her father, since he employed him. If he had ever had a serious disagreement with him, he could simply have asked him to leave Corland. Eustace was at his own house on the night in question, twelve miles away. Simpson was married, and lived with his wife in the village. Besides, it was hard to see a man of his age and with his arthritic knees creeping about in the middle of the night. That left just three names.
‘Walter,
Kent,
Wellum.’
Walter? He had been very quick to arrive on the scene that night, and very quick to push her and Olivia away, so that they would not see the dreadful sight of her father’s body. Such quick thinking might be because he had not just been woken that minute by Mama’s screaming. Could he have crept about the darkened castle, retrieving the axe, slaughtering her father in his bed, then quietly creeping away, only to emerge at the first scream?
Yet the planning involved in hiding the axe seemed unlike Walter. He was an idiot who had drifted into his engagement to Bea Franklyn because he had not the wit to avoid her, so the jump to calculating murderer was too great to be believable.
As for Wellum, his father and grandfather before him had both been butler at the castle, and he was hugely proud to be the third generation to achieve such a distinction. His parents and his grandfather still lived in the village, and he had a sweetheart at Birchall that he hoped to marry in a year or two, so would he jeopardise all of that? Could he truly hate a man so much thathe would risk throwing away everything just to be rid of him? It seemed unlikely.
That only left Kent, the perpetually cheerful man who never disliked anyone enough even to utter a harsh word about him, let alone kill him. What reason would compel him to do so?
That was, of course, the ultimate question — why? Why would anyone want to kill her father, who was not a good man by any measure, but his transgressions were not such as to call for murder, one would have thought.
Disgusted, she crumpled the paper and threw it forcibly into the fire.
***
Tess was curled up in an armchair in the library one afternoon pretending to read, but in reality wondering where Lord Tarvin had gone and how she might find out, when Betty sidled in looking big with news.
“I’ve just been downstairs pressing that green gown of yours, Miss Tess,” she hissed excitedly, so as not to disturb Lady Alice and Mr Alfred Strong, who were chatting on the other side of the room.
“And?”
“That lad of Mr Parker’s came by with a turkey for Sunday, and you’ll never guess what he said.”
“Yes?”
“He’s seen Mr Shapman!”
“What!” Tess sat up abruptly. “Tom? Where? When?”
“Yesterday, in the village. He’s home, seemingly. Micky said he only glimpsed him in a big crowd outside Tom’s Ma’s house, but it were definitely him.”
“So he is out of prison,” Tess said with satisfaction.
“Aye. I just have to hang up that gown and put away a few things, then I’ll find Harold and fetch my cloak.”
But Tess could not wait even those few minutes. As soon as Betty had gone, she raced down to the garden door in the basement, retrieved her old cloak and bonnet, and she was gone, scurrying away to Birchall village in the greatest excitement. Tom home at last! Sir Hubert had accepted that he was innocent, then, and let him go. She would see him again and surely she would be able to distract his thoughts away from his poultry maid? What was so attractive about a poultry maid anyway?
She raced down the path to the village, and surely her feet had never flown there so fast. In no time, it seemed, she was in the little lane where Tom’s workshop was and lifting the latch to go inside.
He was not there. Her disappointment was so acute that for a moment she could not breathe. Yet clearly he was expected, for the fire in the kitchen was burning merrily, the kettle was on its hook ready to swing over the flames, and there were teacups set out on the table, together with an uncut cake and a small vase of field flowers. There were new curtains at the window, she noticed, a cheerful yellow colour which made the tiny kitchen seem sunny and warm despite the grey skies outside.
She waited for a few minutes, but Tom did not appear. It occurred to her then that if he was but newly out of prison, he would have wanted to spend time with his parents. Perhaps she could look for him there, although Mrs Shapman disliked her, she knew that. She had muttered disapprovingly of‘you grand ladies and your games with humble folk’, as if Tess were just amusing herself with Tom! So she had avoided the rest of Tom’s family as much as possible. But this was different. Surely she could presume on her long friendship with Tom to ask for him there?
She made her way back to the main road through the village, where she saw a great crowd of people filling the street, laughing and cheering and making their way slowly towards her. She saw Tom at once, for even though he was at the centre of the group, he was tall enough to tower over most of the others.
Eagerly she set off towards him, as the crowd flowed down the street towards her. Gradually, one by one, they noticed her and the excited chatter slowly died away as the crowd parted. And there she was, face to face with Tom, various members of his family at his back, and on his arm a girl with flowers in her hair.
