Mrs. Wilkins sat back. ‘Well, you would, of course. Imagine if it had got about that his lordship weren’t that way inclined. Can you imagine the scandal?’
‘So if you don’t think his lordship was the father of Amy Thompson’s child, then who was?’ Bennet returned to the subject.
Mrs. Wilkins sighed. ‘She was a pretty girl but she set her sights high. If you ask me, it wasn’t likely to be one of the staff.’
‘A guest?’ Bennet suggested.
Wilkins shrugged. ‘We’ll never know. The girl took her own life and that of her unborn child. Two sins. No Christian burial for poor Amy. It drove her mother clear out of her wits. Little wonder poor Thompson has his black moods.’
‘They say her unshriven spirit haunts the lake,’ Mrs. Wilkins put in. ‘Old Tom,’ she indicated an elderly man playing chequers by himself in a far corner. ‘He says he saw her all dripping wet and wringing her hands.’
Wilkins snorted. ‘Now you are being fanciful, Mrs. W. Nothing Old Tom sees that isn’t accounted for by the ale. Enough of this tittle tattle. Back to work, woman!’
Bennet sat back and nursed his ale while he mulled over the intelligence imparted by the Wilkins. His new friends in the servants’ hall were remarkably loyal, he reflected. There had been no murmur about the late lord’s proclivities.
It would be interesting to find out a little more about the death of Amy Thompson. He set down the empty pot, picked uphis hat, and, bidding the Wilkins good day, walked slowly back to the hall.
He had discovered the shortcut through the woods and, as the evening drew in, the trees closed around him.
‘Want a drink?’
The slurred voice came from his right, and Bennet, his nerves already taut, started. He whirled around and peered into the dark. Thompson sat on a fallen tree trunk, his shoulders slumped, the bottle hanging loosely gripped in his right hand, between his knees.
As Bennet approached, Thompson raised the bottle and held it out to him. Bennet took the offering and swigged. A rough rum burned the back of his throat and he handed the bottle back as he wiped his mouth.
‘Rough stuff that,’ he commented, seating himself on the log beside the despondent groom.
Thompson lifted the bottle and held it to his lips. His throat worked as he swallowed the fiery drink.
‘You know what today is?’ Thompson slurred.
‘No idea,’ Bennet said, taking the bottle from the man’s slack fingers. It was just about empty, so Bennet discreetly emptied the last drops onto the ground.
‘It’s a year since she died.’
‘Your daughter?’
Thompson swung an arm behind him. ‘There in the bloody lake. Parson wouldn’t bury her in hallowed ground. I tried to tell him that she didn’t take her own life.’ He turned back to Bennet and poked a finger in his chest. ‘I think she was murdered.’
‘And why would you think that?’ Bennet asked, keeping his tone neutral.
‘I saw her body...’ He paused and took a shuddering breath. ‘My beautiful girl...’
He started to cry, great gulping sobs. Bennet sat quietly and waited for the sobs to subside.
‘She had a massive wound on the back of her head,’ Thompson said at last.
Bennet took a breath. ‘What sort of wound?’
‘Like someone had whacked her over the head with something heavy.’
‘Could she have hit her head on something when she jumped into the lake?’
Thompson shook his head. ‘Not where she was found. She didn’t kill herself, Mr. Bennet.’ Thompson hung his head, his big hands slack between his knees. ‘She was happy. Her ma and I had told her that we’d stand by her. She had no reason to take her life.’
‘Did she say who the father was?’
Thompson shook his head. ‘There was rumours it was his lordship, but when I asked her she just laughed. Said the father was a real man and that he’d see her right.’
