James leaned forward with his fists against the desktop and fixed his gaze on Shepard. “The land in question is very valuable. It depends on how far he would go to possess it.”
Shepard crossed the room and pushed the door to the Tobacco Chamber open once more and peered inside. He shuffled through some papers and opened a trunk, then turned again to James. “Youdo realize what you are saying, Warrington? What you’re accusing him of?”
James set his lips firmly before speaking. “He knows more than he’s letting on, Shepard. We need to find out what that is.”
“Very well.” The magistrate placed his empty glass on the table. “I think I’ll go have a little chat with North.”
“I’ll go with you.” James stepped around from behind the desk.
“And I should go as well,” Cassandra chimed in.
Both men looked to her as if they had almost forgotten she was there.
“What?” She jutted her chin upward. “Why are you staring at me like that?”
Mr. Shepard guffawed. “This is no task for a woman.”
“But it involved me.” She skirted the chair and drew closer. “I can offer assistance. I’ve talked with Mr. North since the day I arrived, and I—”
“Absolutely not.” Shepard jammed his beaver hat atop his auburn head. “Warrington? You coming?” Without waiting for a response from either of them, Shepard stomped out of the room, leaving them alone.
“I want to go,” she whispered, rushing toward him, her golden eyes determined and pleading.
James reached forward and squeezed her hand. “It’s best if you stay here. Let me do this for you. It will be easier if I know you are safe.”
He squeezed her hand once more, and then he followed the magistrate outside into the night.
***
A heavy early winter mist cloaked the forests of Briarton Park as James and Shepard made their way to the vicarage. The hour waslate—not a single soul traversed the bridge or trod the high street. Even the Green Ox Inn seemed deserted. The occasional whip of wind through the tree branches or an owl’s bereft cry would pierce the eerie silence, but otherwise, all was still.
Their steps slowed as the vicarage came into view. Firelight flickered from behind drawn curtains. Even in the night’s darkness, smoke ascended from the chimney.
Once at the front door, Shepard lifted his heavy gloved hand and pounded it against the wooden door.
After several seconds, no response came.
Shepard knocked again. He waited for several seconds and then jiggled the brass knob.
It was locked.
Shepard motioned for James to follow him on the path leading to the kitchen entrance. When another knock went unanswered, Shepard tried the door, and it swung open freely. Inside, a fire simmered in the grate, and candles lit the space. “North!” he bellowed. “You here?”
They waited in silence, but nothing moved until a large brown cat sauntered through the kitchen, taking no notice of them.
“Mrs. Pearson?” called James.
And again, no response.
“Come on,” Shepard instructed.
James followed in through the kitchen to the parlor. Something was untoward about the state of this house. Too many candles burned. Too many items were casually scattered about in hapless abandon. It appeared that someone had been here quite recently. Or possibly was here still.
They continued through the empty parlor and through the empty dining room until they reached a space that had to be his study. It, too, was lit by candlelight, and yet there was no sign of anyone at home.
North’s modest study consisted of a small desk and a narrow wardrobe chest, two crowded bookshelves, and a chest under the window. The clock on the mantel ticked away the seconds, the minutes, as the men shuffled through letters and books, drawers and chests, shelves and stacks.
They were about to give up their search when Shepard’s foot caught on the rug. It slid aside, revealing a mismatched section of the wood floor. He kicked the rug aside and leaned down to touch the disparate floorboard. It lifted out, revealing a small hole brimming with letters and a few small boxes.
