“I would like to go and see the place,” Georgia breathed shakily, “though, how do I know it is Elias who lies there?”
“I have a man in my employ who once worked for Broadmede. He knows something of the events of that night. He will drive you and relate the story.”
“You will not come too?” Georgia asked.
“I do not wish to intrude on your grief,” Swinthorpe said humbly.
“I can accompany you, Georgie,” Amelia comforted, taking Georgia’s hands.
“May I suggest otherwise,” Swinthorpe cut in hastily. “If your father is still looking for you, it would not do to be caught outdoors and alone. Besides, the spot in question is north-west London and not all that far, as the crow flies, from Silverton.”
Georgia watched Swinthorpe, suddenly uneasy. But the feel of the pin in her hand led to her dismissing her brief suspicions.
“Lord Swinthorpe is right, Amelia. Best to take no chances. You'll be safe here, and I will return the moment I find anything.”
“We draw near to Swinthorpe, Your Grace,” Thorne commented quietly.
“I can feel it,” Keaton muttered, fists clenched around his trusty cane, “the roads leading to my uncle's house are in a deplorable condition.”
“This is prime highwayman country,” Thorne remarked sagely, “they damage the roads to halt the carriages and make the robberies easier. We are not far from where Major Billy is supposed to have made his final robbery.”
“Which we now know it was not,” Keaton finished grimly.
He heard the distinct click of a pistol being primed as the carriage screeched to a halt.
“There is another carriage outside the house,” Thorne noted, “the driver is still with the conveyance, waiting.”
“Find out who it belongs to.”
Keaton alighted steadily from his carriage, hearing Thorne already crunching away across Swinthorpe's gravel drive from the other side of the door. He, himself, strode towards the front entrance, orienting himself based on where he knew his own driver would have stopped, the scent of the roses that grew around the door, and the faint sound of a fountain that babbled in the distance. Keaton knew the fountain lay in direct view from the front door, a straight line across the drive.
By the time he felt the step up into the porch, Thorne was hurrying back to his side.
“Lord Emsworth's driver, Your Grace.”
“I smell two rats,” Keaton muttered darkly, rapping sharply on the door.
It was answered by a servant who admitted Keaton on sight.
“Nephew!” Swinthorpe greeted from across the hall, “an unexpected surprise. Come and join my guests!”
“I have no desire to be in company with snakes like Silverton or Emsworth,” Keaton snapped immediately.
Thorne loitered on the porch, halted by an upraised hand from Keaton. Swinthorpe had not yet seen him. There was a silence, punctuated only by his uncle's approaching footsteps.
“Is my wife here?” Keaton demanded.
“No, she is visiting a grave where I believe her brother's body lies. It seems I have outdone your investigator. Come, I will tell you all.”
Keaton caught his uncle's sleeve as Edric turned away. “Where?” he asked.
Edric hesitated. Keaton heard him flick open a pocket watch, the metallic click unmistakable. Edric chuckled, then flipped the watch closed.
“The grounds of Paddington Lodge, I believe.”
“One of your properties, is it not?” Keaton breathed, remembering visits to the property, which had been Edric's home before his inheritance of Swinthorpe.
“Yes, does it matter?”
