He shrugged. “Simplest thing in the world for a pen full of hungry porkers.”
I pushed aside my plate, staring suspiciously at the sausages as I did so. “That is revolting.”
“That is nature,” he said, finishing his kedgeree. He regarded me over the rim of his teacup. “You realize this means the fellow we have known as Jonathan Hathaway can be no such person?”
To busy my nerveless fingers, I took up a piece of toast and began to butter it. “Why do you say that?”
“If he has taken the trouble to steal a jewel he was meant to inherit anyway, he is clearly an impostor. And that would explain why you were uncertain of his identity, as were his relations.”
“Lady Hathaway believes in him,” I said.
“Lady Hathaway is elderly and no doubt sees what she wants to see,” he returned. He sat back in his chair and gave me a long, level look. “The more important question is, Who is this man pretending to be Jonathan Hathaway?”
The butter knife slipped through my fingers and crashed onto my plate.
He went on. “Well, I suppose it hardly matters now.”
“Doesn’t it?” I asked, retrieving the knife and plunging it once more into the butter. It was easy to pretend it was Harry Spenlove’s heart, I thought darkly.
“The theft of the jewel is a family matter, not a criminal one, since Lady Hathaway certainly does not mean to bring charges,” he said evenly. “Whether he ever returns again or simply vanishes into the night with his diamond, he cannot be arrested unless Lady Hathaway insists. And that will clearly not happen. So,” he finished with a broad smile, “that means we have survived this little favor to Sir Hugowithout being stabbed, abducted, shot, or otherwise assaulted. I shall consider that a victory.”
•••
As soon as Stoker had prepared the thylacine, we made our good-byes and the household saw us off. Lady Hathaway and Anjali stood at her ladyship’s window, waving, while Mary brought her children to lisp an interminable farewell poem. Every time one of them forgot a line, she made them begin again until at last I could bear it no longer.
“What clever children!” I exclaimed, interrupting them with a bright smile. “Stoker, I think they deserve some of your excellent honey drops.”
His expression darkened. “This tin is the last of them,” he protested in a whisper.
“Sometimes sacrifices must be made for the general good,” I returned. I put out my hand for the tin. He rummaged in his pocket before handing over the candy with ill grace. I plucked a large piece out for each child, cramming it into their greedy mouths before Mary Hathaway could protest. Instantly, the gooey mess stuck their little teeth together, rendering them blessedly silent.
I handed the tin back to Stoker, who would have sulked except for the fact that a pair of strapping farmhands was just emerging from the Hall with his trophy. He supervised their handling of it as they secured the crate on the back of the carriage. He leapt up, clearly intending to ride thusly to the station at Shepton Parva, perched next to his beloved thylacine with the air of Achilles gloating over the still-warm body of Hector.
Before I could remonstrate with him, Effie emerged from the house carrying a large wooden box. She thrust it into my startled hands.
“The orrery,” she said, flushing.
Charles gave her a surprised look. “Why, Effie—” he began.
The expression on her face would have suited one of the lesser martyred saints. “I know it has to go, Charles. You are quite right. But I cannot bear to keep it if I am only going to lose it in the end.”
“Well, I think you might have it for another month or two,” he said kindly. “Lord Rosemorran may not even offer for it.”
“Then let him have the thing!” she burst out. “If I am not permitted to study, then Granfer’s instruments are a mockery. They should all be cleared away.” She flicked me a glance. “Good-bye, Miss Speedwell. I think you meant to be kind.”
I had not time to reply before she returned to the house, clearly on the verge of tears. Charles Hathaway looked a little embarrassed, but his embarrassment was tinged with relief.
“It seems she is benefiting from your helpful example, my dove,” he said to his wife.
Mary was too busy applying a damp handkerchief to her children’s faces to respond. We said our farewells and I clambered into the carriage, clutching the unwieldy box. The driver clicked his tongue at the horse and the conveyance lurched into motion. I turned to wave farewell at the assembled Hathaways, feeling as though we had just made a timely escape, but from what I could not say. Mary fussed over her children under her spouse’s genial eye—it would never occur to him to help, I reflected as she darted after little Geoffrey, who slipped, eel-like, out of her grasp. Anjali and Lady Hathaway had already disappeared, but as we bowled along the drive, I saw a gingery head at the window of the observatory. Effie must have fairly run up the stairs to watch us leave, I realized. And she remained there as long as the carriage was in sight, until the little rise of the hills beyond carried us away from Hathaway Hall and its curious inhabitants.
CHAPTER
19
As the miles fell away behind us, I was conscious of a lightening of my spirits. I had spent the better part of the morning packing up my things and heaping metaphorical ashes upon my head. My silence had allowed Harry to abscond with the diamond, an eventuality I ought to have foreseen, given my familiarity with the man and his character—or lack of it. Furthermore, upon reflecting on the appearance of the spectral sphere of light, I had at first wondered if it might have been Harry, roaming the moor in pursuit of some dastardly purpose of his own.
Of course, this was impossible, as I had seen him, with my own eyes, emerge from the house with Stoker, where they had been engaged in a spirited game of billiards. But I had not inquired deeply of Stoker as to whether Harry might have absented himself from the game for any period of time. Any gentleman might, I reasoned, withdraw pleading the urges of nature. It would be a simple matter to slip out of the house and venture out onto the moor—but for what purpose?
