“This was my mother’s sitting room,” he said, his tone more serious than she had heard from him before. “She loved to sit here in the afternoon, with the light streaming in, stitching her tapestry. This was the piece she was working on when she died.”
He indicated a frame with a half-completed piece still held fast, an arrangement of flowers and birds of an elegant design, although the colours had faded somewhat. The room was just as elegant, the wood panels painted a delicate shade of yellow, and the furnishings light and dainty. It was a very feminine room, but although it was perfectly clean, the wood polished and the windows sparkling, and there were no holland covers, yet it seemed neglected. The lady who had delighted in it had gone, and no later occupant had enjoyed its charms.
“Your sister does not use this room?” Olivia said.
“It reminds her too much of her mama, and makes her sad. It makesmesad, too, but one day, I hope to see another lady occupy that sofa and ply her needle, just as she did.”
He said no more, leading her on to another, more masculine room — the library, where Olivia was relieved to see the earl and Miss Bucknell examining a pair of globes in a corner. Lord Grayling at once lost the serious tone, and became his light, flirtatious self, showing her some books of engravings of the leading political figures of an earlier age, and explaining the sly allusions to the foibles of each.
Olivia listened with only half an ear, pondering his behaviour. He had deliberately led her aside, and thegarderobeswere merely an excuse, for it was his mother’s sitting room he wished her to see. That, combined with his enquiry as to her dowry, was a very clear signal of intent.
If he were looking to marry, he need not waste his time on Olivia, for she was not in the least tempted. She was not sure he was a man to be trusted. But how to deter him? It was a puzzle, until he took her into another room, where a narrow stair was roped off.
“Why is the stair not used?” she said.
“It is not safe. There are some loose slabs — dangerously loose.”
“Why do you not have them mended?”
He laughed. “A direct question, indeed! Because I cannot afford to, that is why. This place takes a monstrous amount of money to keep it from falling down, and I have had one or two reverses of fortune lately in my investments. So it will have to wait.”
Olivia smiled inwardly. There was the opening she needed!
“You will just have to marry an heiress, Lord Grayling.”
He smiled his oily smile. “I have to find her first, Lady Olivia.”
“You need look no further than the Lady Euphemia Howland. I imagine fifty thousand pounds would repair any number of staircases.”
“I imagine it would,” he said blandly, but he seemed rather thoughtful after that.
***
Michael spent two days experimenting with the gun. With the enthusiastic help of Lucas Atherton, who was more than willing to investigate the means by which his brother had been shot, the gun was fired repeatedly from the spot above the cheese store, while Michael stood in different parts of the castle listening for the sound. Then he ran back and forth by way of different staircases, to work out how long it had taken the gunman to reach his spot and retreat again.
And none of it told him anything he did not already know, or explained those parts of the mystery that were still obscure. It was infuriating.
He was standing on the bridge to Corland’s entrance, leaning on the parapet and looking down into the void when Luce emerged from the castle.
“Michael? You will be late for dinner if you stay out here any longer.” She stood beside him and gazed into the void. “What are you looking at?”
He turned to her with a grin. “What do you see down there?”
“Nothing, Michael. It is dark, there are no lights and I can see nothing.”
“Precisely.” He grinned even more.
“Oh, you are minded to be enigmatic? Very well, but might you be enigmatic inside, do you think? It is chilly out here.” She pulled her shawl more closely around her.
He laughed and they went inside, and up to their room to dress for dinner.
“What is your theory?” he said, as his head emerged from the neck of a clean shirt. “Who do you think killed Nicholson?”
“An irate husband,” she said at once. “Mr Nicholson was not faithful to his wife, and I do not believe that the Whyte girl was the only one he seduced.”
“Someone from the village or one of the farms? How did he know the castle well enough to find Nicholson’s room?”
“Michael, every family for twenty miles in each direction has a son or daughter working at the castle. The inhabitants are talked about constantly. Everything about the place is known.”
