“No matter,” Edgerton said easily. “I have already detained you for too long. I should get back to Pickering, now that I have a second murder to deal with.”
In all his own troubles, Kent had forgotten that. “Eustace told me that your friend Miss Peach came to a sad end. I am very sorry. Pray convey my condolences to Mrs Edgerton and all your colleagues. I do not remember her well, for she was a very self-effacing lady, as I recall, but she seemed an inoffensive person.”
“She was. Thank you for your condolences, sir. My wife is very upset. Miss Peach was her governess for a number of years and they have remained close.”
“It is hard to imagine why anyone thought to kill such a meek old lady,” Kent said. “At Tonkins Farm, too, which is hardly a place where ruffians congregate. What was she doing there?”
“I have no idea,” Edgerton said sombrely. “She believed she was investigating Nicholson’s murder, and was so secretive about the business that she told no one what she was up to or where she was.”
“Did Tonkins or his family know why she was there?”
“They never saw her.”
“But if she was living in their hay barn…” Kent stopped, perplexed. “How is that possible?”
“It is not, of course,” Edgerton said tersely. “Have you ever slept in hay, Mr Atherton? Or played about in it, as a boy, perhaps? How much hay did you acquire when you did so?”
Kent laughed. “A great deal!”
“Exactly! Bits of hay and straw work themselves into every nook and cranny. The Tonkins’ hay barn had blankets arranged as a bed, and Miss Peach’s bag was there, and bags of food, but on her body was not a single speck of straw. I asked the physician who examined the body yesterday to look for that in particular, and he found no trace. Nothing lodged in her hair or in her clothes.”
“So… are you saying that she was never in the barn?” Kent said. “Then… someone put the blankets there.”
“Exactly. The scene was staged, just like a play, to make us believe that she had been living there, but in fact, she could have been anywhere, anywhere at all. But unless we know where she truly was, there is no possibility of finding her killer.”
Kent was very struck by this revelation. Was it possible that the mysterious visitor with the green leather bag was Miss Peach? Surely not! There was nothing about the tower connected to the murder of Nicholson, which was her principal focus.
“Surely she could not have beenanywhere,” Kent said cautiously. Edgerton looked at him enquiringly. “What I mean to say is that she must have been somewhere associated with Nicholson, surely?”
“That is logical, yes. Unfortunately, there is no certainty that Miss Peach’s mind was… entirely rational, shall we say. Unless I can find some clue to her train of thought — a notebook, say — I cannot be certain that she had not veered onto some other trail altogether. But I must get back to Pickering. Thank you for showing me the tower, sir. I am very glad to have seen inside it at last, and you may be sure that whatever goes on here is of no interest to me.”
They made their way downstairs again, where Edgerton efficiently pumped water to clean the used tankards and glasses, while Kent tidied away the remains of the food and wine.
“Little wonder that you get the occasional unauthorised visitor when the place is so well supplied,” Edgerton said, grinning. “A fine starry night, with a bottle of decent wine and something for a light supper — an appealing prospect, is it not?”
Kent laughed. “I suspect all this will have disappeared in a day or two.”
Outside, he locked the door and placed the key under its stone again. “I know, I know,” he said, in answer to Edgerton’s quizzical glance. “We should find a more secure arrangement.”
Edgerton only laughed, and began strapping his sword onto his horse. “Where is your mount, Atherton? Do you have a better place to keep him than right outside the door, with the reins draped over a bush like this?”
“I have turned him into the field. It minimises the amount of droppings to be cleaned up here.”
“Droppings,” Edgerton murmured. “I wonder…”
Kent retrieved Stupendous from the field, to find Edgerton leaning on the gate with a frown on his face, gazing out at the animals pastured there.
“Whose are these beasts?”
“I suppose Eustace owns them. They are retired mounts, too old for riding, seeing out their final days at leisure.”
“Most of them are not riding horses, though,” Edgerton said. “Ponies, mostly, and a few donkeys. Or are they mules?”
“There might be mules amongst them. I cannot say I have ever looked at them closely enough to be sure.”
“Hmm. It is possible. It is just possible, and no hay, a comfortable bed and fresh water supplied. Even food, perhaps.”
Kent said nothing, not fully understanding the interest in mules.
