“I must find the saddle from the mule that Miss Peach borrowed. Mrs Markley has her mule back, but we never found the saddle, so I shall go and look for it tomorrow.”
Luce laughed. “Sometimes, Michael, your mind works in the oddest ways. It is the other saddle you should be looking for.”
“Which one is that?” he said, smiling at her.
“The one that Peachy wrote about, of course. You cannot have forgotten the very last entry in her notebook -‘I am almost certain of the murderer’s identity now. I only need to find the saddle, and then I shall have the proof.’”
Michael laughed, pulling her into his arms and kissing her on the nose. “I have not forgotten, but one saddle at a time, wife. One saddle at a time.”
***
Michael left early, his wife still abed and the household only just winding itself up for the day. Autumn was a fine time to be abroad, he had always felt. There was nothing like cantering beneath the russet and gold canopy of well-grown woodland, or alongside a placid stream, catching a flash of brilliant colour from a kingfisher or sending a stately heron aloft in a whirr of massive wings. In all the years he had been in India, it was the softness of autumn that had most filled his memories of England.
But the moors of the North Riding were not in the least soft. The wind was bitter, with a hint of ice in it, and even the small pools that dotted the moor were ruffled and angry today. He was glad to reach his destination, the tower near to Eustace’s estate of Welwood, where the smuggling operation was carried on. He turned his horse into the field beside the tower, alongside the sturdy pack ponies and a few donkeys grazing there. The key to the tower was still tucked under its stone beside the door, so he quickly let himself in. It was chilly inside, but at least there was no wind.
He was tolerably sure that the saddle was not hidden anywhere inside the tower, but he searched it thoroughly all the same. The cellar was less full of smuggled barrels now, just a couple with French markings remaining. Several empty barrels stood awaiting filling, and there was a half-full barrel of ale to refresh the workers. But no saddle.
He passed quickly through the storerooms on the ground floor, noting the thin film of grime that now coated every surface. Last time he had been there, everything was spotless, but no doubt that was Miss Peach’s efforts. With housewifely energy, she must have filled the long empty hours of her tenure at the tower by sweeping and cleaning. Poor Peachy! The place looked neglected now that she had gone.
Up the winding stairs, he checked every room and even ventured onto the balcony and up the narrow stair to the viewing platform on the roof, but, as he expected, there was no sign of a saddle or anything untoward. For some time he stood in the uppermost room, gazing down at Welwood-on-the-Hill slumbering gently under wintry skies, smoke rising only from one or two chimneys. Eustace was away from home again, then. He was always away from home.
Kent’s pride and joy, the telescope, was still facing the house, but it revealed nothing except a maid optimistically draping sheets over bushes to dry them. No one else seemed to be about, not even the grooms at the stable yard.
Michael could not put off the moment when he was obliged to venture outside again. Pulling his greatcoat more closely around him, he locked the door and replaced the key under its stone. Then he stood irresolute. Where would Miss Peach hide a saddle? There were no buildings nearby, and she would hardly have taken it down to Welwood. It must be somewhere near at hand, but where? There was a large patch of woodland running alongside the ponies’ field, but that would take some thorough searching. More likely that it was tucked under the hedge surrounding the field.
He began enthusiastically, swishing aside brambles and overgrown detritus from summer with his sword, but his spirits soon flagged. Would Peachy really have left a valuable saddle under a hedge, where it would be exposed to weather and the attentions of rodents? Yet where else?
After covering a hundred yards or so in each direction and finding nothing, he set out with grim determination to survey the entire perimeter of the field. The far side of it brought him to an ivy-covered wall with a gate set into it, where an elderly gelding gazed mournfully across the Helmsley road to the entrance of Welwood, as if awaiting a friend with an appleor piece of sugar. Michael had nothing of the sort to offer, but he stroked the creature’s nose and gave him a few words of encouragement.
Looking around beyond the gate, in the furthermost corner of the field he saw a small copse, overgrown with brambles and fallen branches, but a narrow path led into it from the gate. All Michael’s senses tweaked into alertness. A gate and a path meant something hidden within the patch of woodland. Eagerly he followed the path into the wilderness, the enfolding greenery hiding him very effectively from the world beyond.
Twenty paces in, he had his answer — a low shed, rather dilapidated and entirely invisible from beyond the trees. It was not locked, the door creaking open at a push. Inside was hay, piled almost to the roof at one side but scattered in heaps elsewhere. It took him no more than five minutes of prodding and poking and kicking aside clumps of hay to find what he was looking for — a mule’s saddle, with the letter ‘M’ neatly stitched into the leather. The saddle for Mrs Markley’s mule.
Michael smiled.
14: The Secret Room
Lord Grayling went off to find out if the cold collation he had ordered was ready, leaving Olivia sitting quietly at one end of the long gallery. At the other end, the punch-fuelled billiard players were becoming rowdy, but she hardly noticed, for there was a far more interesting sight nearby.
Lord Embleton was examining the paintings on the gallery walls, a guide book in his hand, with a gushing Miss Grayling in tow. She chattered away unstoppably while he made the occasional abstracted remark and otherwise ignored her. It was most entertaining to watch and when, after some minutes, Osborn and Effie appeared, Olivia waved them over to the bench where she sat, and indicated the object of her attention with the slightest tilt of her head.
Osborn chuckled. “I am enjoying this visit tremendously,” he said affably, folding his arms and stretching out his legs, neatly crossed at the ankles. “What a fascinating house this is, with interesting sights in every room.”
Effie laughed, too. “Shall I rescue him, do you think? He does not seem amused.”
Without waiting for an answer, she strode across the gallery to where her brother continued to ignore his persistent admirer. “Miss Grayling, did I hear your brother mention a secret room? If there is one thing I adore in a house, it is secret places. Do, pray, show me where it is.”
Startled, Miss Grayling turned to her uncertainly. “The secret room? Oh, yes… but perhaps you would care to see it, Lord Embleton?”
“Th-thank you, but I p-p-prefer to examine the p-p-paintings.”
“Oh. Very well. This way, Lady Euphemia.” She then spotted Osborn and Olivia watching interestedly. “Would you like to come, too?”
“No, thank you,” they said in unison.
The two ladies went down the stairs to find the secret room, and Lord Embleton wandered further up the gallery, but Osborn and Olivia stayed where they were. For a while they were silent, watching Lord Embleton’s slow progress down the gallery, as Olivia pondered Effie’s revelation that he had no intention of marrying. Yet she thought he had not been in love with Bea Franklyn, and his sister ought to know the truth. So why had he offered for her? It was a puzzle.
She rather liked the idea that his heart had been broken by that thoughtless minx. It made him more interesting, and aroused all her sympathy.Shewould not break his heart. To take a poor, lonely, unhappy man and make him happy — that would be something! Nor did she mind the stutter, now that she had grown accustomed to it. He was a good, honourable man who did not deserve to be rendered miserable. She would love to help him forget Bea Franklyn, and his rank had nothing to do with it.
