“May I look for them?” Michael asked. “She might have written all her findings in a notebook, so if the pockets are still there…”
“Should you like me to look?” Luce said.
“If you feel able to do so, that would be helpful. I do not like to rummage under the skirts of a lady I knew so well.”
Luce moved the cloak aside and quickly found the slit in the skirt that concealed one pocket. It contained a few coins, a handkerchief, a small box of lozenges and an apple.
She hesitated. “Will you… roll her over a little? So that I can get to the other pocket?”
He obliged, but it contained only a prayer book and several keys on a ring. “No notebook.”
“Do you need to… examine the body?” Luce said in a low voice.
“The coroner will do that,” Michael said hastily. “He will tell me if there are any other injuries, or marks of interest. I should like to see the barn where you found signs of habitation, if you will, Atherton.”
The barn was full of hay. Just inside the door, where the hay was more spread out, Michael saw a pile of blankets arranged in the form of a rough bed, a paper bag containing a half-eaten loaf of bread and some cheese, a flask and a rather dilapidated portmanteau made of thick, woven wool, containing a few items of clothing.
“So this was how she was living,” Luce murmured. “Poor Peachy! And she was so fastidious about her person, as a rule. She was thrilled to be at Corland Castle where there was always hot water for washing.”
“I wonder why there is no notebook?” Michael said distractedly.
“There is not much here to go on, is there?” Atherton said sympathetically.
Michael could only agree. Atherton left, having other business to attend to, while Michael spent some time talking to Mr Tonkins and his family, but no one had noticed anything amiss or seen any sign of Miss Peach. After that, he allowed the farmers to carry Miss Peach gently into the farmhouse until she could be conveyed to Pickering. He gathered up all the belongings from the barn, and he and Luce rode slowly back to Pickering.
“I do not think she could have suffered,” Luce said after a while.
“No, I should imagine not. It would have been very quick, for a slight creature like that would have no defence against a man bent on mischief.”
“But why, Michael? Why would anyone want to murder poor Peachy? Even her few coins were not stolen.”
Michael pulled his horse up sharply. “Yes, why? And that is what has always bothered me about Mr Nicholson’s murder, too. Why would anyone do such a thing? It makes no sense, and Miss Peach’s murder makes no sense, either. Did you notice anything odd about her clothes, Luce?”
“They were very old, but that is hardly unexpected.”
“There was no straw on them. She was living in a hay barn, yet there was not a scrap of straw on her.”
“She was lying out in the open. Any stray wisps would have blown away.”
“No, for look at us. You have straw in your hair, I have it on my coat, and we were only in the barn for a few minutes, and not even lying down in the hay. She would have been coated in the stuff. When you pulled open her cloak, bits of it would have flown out.”
“What are you saying, Michael — that she was never in the hay barn at all?”
“I am not sure,” he said, frowning. “All I know is that there is something odd about all this. However, we have keys to identify, and her bag to examine thoroughly. Let us go back to her room at the chandlery and see what we can find out.”
18: An Upright Citizen
Kent’sangersustainedhimall the way from the church back to the castle, and then, as abruptly as the popping of a soap bubble, it was gone. How could he have spoken so, and to Katherine, his sweet Katherine, of all people? Such intemperate language! He could not think without horror of his words to her, and she so gentle and innocent, to be harangued in such terms.What an insufferably sanctimonious woman you are!He could hardly bear to remember it, when she had only been trying to rescue him from his evil ways.
And yet, what could he do about it? She deserved an apology, but if he went to see her, he could not be sure that his rage would not flare up again. She had been angry, too. No, that would not do. For a while he toyed with the idea of writing to her. It was improper, but under the circumstances… and he could address the letter to Mrs Cathcart in the first instance. He even attempted to pen a few lines. But the difficulty of finding the right words discouraged him.
It was hopeless.
For the rest of Sunday, he gave himself up entirely to grief-stricken misery. Katherine was lost to him, that was all he knew, just when he had never been more certain that she was the one woman in the world who could make him happy. If she had died, he could not have been more overwhelmed with sorrow. In his mind, he stood on the balcony at the tower and kissed her again and again, remembering that moment of supreme joy and pretending that the madness just minutes later had never happened. If only he had not taken her into the cellar! If only… if only…
The next morning, after a sleepless night, he rose as soon as the first streaks of light appeared on the horizon, with just one thought in his head — no more agonising over what was done and could not be undone. He needed something to occupy his hands if not his mind, so he took his tools to the sunken garden, where there was a broken fountain to be worked on, and set about scrubbing and poking and delving. Then there were leaks and blockages to be looked for, and, eventually, repairs to be effected. Early in the afternoon, he had the satisfaction of seeing water playing over the nymphs who cavorted around the centre of the fountain.
And the instant it was done, as he sat watching the drops shimmering in the weak autumn light, all his grief came roaring back. Having something worthwhile to do could help him forget for a while, but it could not last forever.
