Bennet sat in silence, digesting this information.
‘Come on, matey,’ he said to the groom. ‘Let’s get you home.’
He put one arm around the big man, and they made a slow, weaving progress back to the stable block. The Thompson family had rooms above the stables, entered from a narrow stone staircase without rails that ran up the side of the building.
Drunk or not, Thompson managed the stairs without incident and threw the door open.
Peter Thompson, who had been sitting on a stool by the cooking fire, with a book on his lap, jumped to his feet. Bennet noted the boy secreting the book in the woodbox.
A low moan came from a pallet on the far side of the room, and Peter, casting a quick, disgusted look at his father, picked up the candle and crossed over to the bed.
‘It’s all right, ma,’ he said. ‘Mr. Bennet, his lordships’ man’s bought pa home.’
The woman in the bed mumbled something, a claw-like hand catching at her son’s sleeve. Peter looked up.
‘Ma’d like to meet you, Mr. Bennet,’ he said, a frown creasing his young forehead.
Little in this life shocked Bennet. He’d seen life and death in every form, but even he took a sharp breath as he looked down on Mrs. Thompson. She looked like a woman already dead, her face shrunken against the bones of her skull. A line of dried spittle ran from the corner of her mouth and her body had convulsed into a rigor, the hands more claws than anything recognisably human.
He bent closer and looked into her eyes, seeing the light of life and intelligence, despite her terrible physical affliction.
‘Pleased to meet you, Mrs. T,’ he said. ‘The old man’s a bit the worse for wear. He’ll ’ave an ’ead on ’im tomorrow.’
The woman choked, the corners of her mouth twitching, and something that could have been laughter flashed into the eyes.
‘Good man,’ she mumbled, her gaze moving from Bennet to the table where Thompson had slumped, his head buried in his arms.
‘My girl,’ she clutched at Bennet’s sleeve.
‘He told me. Don’t fret yourself, Mrs. T.’
‘Find ’im...’ The hand tightened on his arm, the fingers digging into his flesh. ‘He who killed ’er.’
Bennet put his own hand over hers and gently disengaged the twisted fingers. He frowned.
‘You don’t think she took her own life either?’
Slowly, the woman’s head moved on the pillow. A negative.
‘The new lord. I’ll tell ’im. He’ll help you,’ Bennet assured her.
A tear ran from the woman’s eye and the slack mouth trembled. Bennet laid her hand on her chest.
‘Don’t you fuss yourself, Mrs. T.’
He rose to his feet and gestured for the boy to join him at the door.
‘How long’s she been like that?’
‘Since a few weeks after Amy died. She just fell down one day and she’s been like that ever since.’
‘And you and your pa are the only ones to care for her?’
The boy nodded, and Bennet put a fatherly hand on his shoulder. ‘Keep reading those books, boy.’
Halfway down the stairs, he looked up at the youngster who still stood by the open door. ‘Do you think someone killed your sister?’
Peter’s gaze did not waver.
