When he stepped through the jagged archway toward what had been the stables, a different note cut through the smoke. Oil. Not the faint, honest smell of harness grease, nor the heavier reek of lamp oil in a sconce. This was sharper. Wrong. And beneath it, something else. A sort of scorched slickness his mind, unhelpfully, supplied a memory for at once.
The charred belly of a ship’s hull, where tar and pitch had burned hot and hard to keep a captured vessel from ever bearing enemy colors. He stopped just inside the stable doorway, or what remained of it, and let his eyes adjust. The roof here was entirely gone. Cold, colorless sky showed through a lace of blackened rafters. Ash drifted in what little wind reached the interior, settling on the wreckage of stalls like grey snow.
The pattern of the burn was clear, once he knew how to look. The worst of it was low. Not from some spark catching high and racing along rafters, but from the ground up. The wooden stall fronts nearest the center of the stable were eaten almost completely away, the lower half blackened and bubbled as if something had pooled and then ignited.
Further along, the charring climbed in a V-shape along the wall, a classic run of flame seeking air. He had seen the like before on the Argus, when boarding scuttled prizes. Ships whose captains had set light to them rather than let them fall into enemy hands.
He stepped forward, boots crunching on brittle charcoal. Here and there the damp earth squelched underfoot. The rain since the fire had done its slow work, but not enough to wash away everything.
Near the center of the stable he crouched, resting his fingertips lightly on the ground. The soil was dark and tacky. When he lifted his hand, it glistened faintly. He rubbed finger and thumb together. The residue was sticky even now, despite the water. Oil. A lot of it. Thrown or poured.
He straightened slowly, taking in the stalls again with this new knowledge overlaying the wreckage. Someone had wanted this to go fast. The horses’ hoofprints were everywhere in the churned yard outside. But there was a clear direction. They had been turned loose and had fled the fire in a herd. He turned as footsteps crunched behind him.
Isla hovered in the gap where the stable doors had been, skirts greyed with ash, hair pulled back loosely from a face that looked drawn and smudged. She had shed her travelling cloak somewhere, the smoke had kissed the sleeves of her gown instead.
“How bad is it?” she asked.
He did not soften it. She had seen enough today without lies.
“Bad,” he said. “The structure might be salvaged, with work. The fittings are gone.”
“The horses?” Her voice tightened.
He shook his head. “No sign of them. From the tracks, they broke out and ran. They’re not lying under this.”
She exhaled shakily, some tension easing. “Then we can find them.”
He nodded once, then gestured to the nearest stall. “Before we go chasing ghosts, I need to show you something.”
She came inside, picking her way carefully through the debris. He watched her, the way she held herself. The first sight of Strathmore’s wounds had struck her hard; he had seen it on her face as they crested the rise. But she had not collapsed. She had set her jaw, walked into the ruin, and gone looking for people to help. That, more than anything, had put the last axe to the rotten beam of doubt in his mind.
“This,” he said, crouching again, “is not an accidental fire.”
She frowned, sinking down beside him without regard for her skirts. “What do you mean?”
He held out his hand, the black smear visible on his fingertips.
“Oil,” he said. “Too much of it. In the wrong place.”
Her brows drew together. “There are lamps in the stable. And … and they grease the harnesses, surely …”
“Yes,” he said. “But not on the earth between stalls. And not so much that the ground holds it even after rain.”
She stood, turning slowly to look at the line of stalls, the splintered beams.
“Look here,” he went on, pointing. “The fire took hardest low down. It climbed. If a lantern had fallen from a hook or a candle tipped, you would see an arc of burning from the point of origin. This …” he indicated the char at the base of the nearest stall front, “…started on the floor. And not in just one place. There are at least three separate patches where oil was poured.”
She stared at him. “You are certain.”
“Yes,” he said. “I have seen men do this to ships. Better to burn them than let the enemy take them. The pattern is the same.”
“For ships,” she said faintly. “Not … homes.”
“Yes,” he said again. “Homes, too. If someone wished them gone quickly.”
She looked at the blackened wood as if it might leap up and accuse her.
“Edward,” she said, after a long moment. “What are you saying?”
