“Goodness no!” Missus Thorpe shook her head frantically. “I’ll take care of it.”
“I’ll mind the pot for you then,” Ellie smiled.
“Yer Grace—"
“I insist,” Ellie repeated as she rose. “And when you return, you might even get a piece of the pie I brought you.”
The little boy’s eyes widened, “Pie? Ye brung me pie!
“I did,” Ellie laughed, then lifted her basket and lowered it to his gaze. “Now, go and let your grandmother tend to your little wound.”
As the older woman bustled the boy out, Ellie stirred the pot; the fragrant smell of vegetable stew sparked a memory she couldn’t quite recall. It simply made her chest warm.
When Missus Thorpe returned with a bandaged Westley, Ellie relinquished the pot to the lady. “What can I do for ye, Yer Grace?”
Notching her head up, Ellie asked, “You are one of the oldest tenants we have around. Were you here when the former Duke was still alive?”
“Er, yes, Yer Grace,” Missus Thorpe scraped the carrots into the pot, shaking her head with sympathy. “Such a sad story. The lad was in his prime, and he got cut down before ‘is time. His head, ye know. He lost ‘is head for a while. I think the pressure of taking care of so many people at the same time got to ‘im.”
Ellie felt her heart sink at hearing it from another person, but she asked the question she needed to ask: “Did you know his son at that time?”
“Oh aye, aye,” Missus Thorpe replied, “such a sweet boy. I remember ‘is bright smile an’ happy eyes. He luvved ‘is mother to pieces and was forced to become a man sooner than he ‘ad to. I remember his uncle too—” she shuddered. “—Ooh, what a horrible, horrible man. There was something…oilyabout him. He ‘ad this greedy look in ‘is eye.”
That does sound like the man Dorian keeps telling me about.
“And what happened after?”
“He just… vanished,” Missus Thorpe furrowed her brows. “Him and ‘is father too. The uncle took over the ducal post and almost ‘mmediately the rents went up. I ‘ave to admit, Yer Grace, it was hard for me those years and I almost had to leave, but then His Grace took over again and gave me reprieve.”
“I see,” Ellie nodded slowly. “And what happened to his mother?”
“Sadly, she passed away long before,” Missus Thorpe sighed. “She ‘ad a weak constitution, ye see.”
Ellie bit her lip.
She had come to see old lady Missus Thorpe for a multitude of reasons, including making her presence as Duchess finally known more formally to the townfolk, and in case the old lady who appeared to be struggling at times according to the ledgers, required any help.
But chief among all those reasons, there had been something that had been brewing on Ellie’s mind over the past weeks. Perhaps even the past months, if she were being true to herself.
A niggling feeling that she had not quite placed, nor ever considered to entertain until this very moment she was standing before someone who could provide her an answer and settle all her lingering doubts.
She asked the one question she really needed to ask. “Do you… do you happen to remember the color of the little boy’s hair?”
Returning to his home, Dorian was not sure if he should feel relieved or apprehensive about Sterling’s words. He arrived to find Evelina… gone.
“She had mentioned a bookstore, Your Grace,” Baxter, the Somerton butler, bowed. “Also, there is an Inspector Teller who arrived a little while earlier and seeks your attendance.”
Dorian’s teeth ground at the mention of the inspector. Why had he not dissuaded the man from digging into this Ash’s existence? He understood his wife’s need to close a chapter in her life, but he could do without the distraction at the moment.
“He is in your study, Your Grace,” the butler added into the silence.
Removing his coat, Dorian headed for his study while shedding his jacket as well. As he entered the now strangely tidied room, he was momentarily taken aback by the organization of the place. Had Ellie been working on this while he was away all day yesterday and today?
A trace of guilt curdled in his chest, but he shook his head, breaking from the musings. Finally, he asked, “What can I do for you, inspector?”
The inspector turned from a window, his expression unreadable. “The last time we spoke, I recall speaking of a Mr. Marcus Herring, and Tabitha Clark, and…Jacobson, yes, the once gang leader.”
Dorian tensed. “Impeccable memory.”
