“Flatterer.”
“I only speak the truth.”
Mira laughed. “You are an incorrigible flirt. Which reminds me—we ought to come up with a plan for how we will rejoin the others.”
“How so?”
“Can’t you see how it will look? I go off to find Miss Risewell, and she returns from the stable without me. You go to find Mr. Risewell in his study, but never arrive. If we return together, your family and the Risewells will only imagine the worst.”
“Oh, my family is dealt with easily enough. I shall just tell them we were investigating the scene of the crime, and they are certain to be more disappointed and outraged than before. As for the Risewells...” he looked over at her. “I can’t think of anexcuse, but I suppose we could prove their fears right.”
“Oh? And what shall we do?”
Byron grinned. “Hold hands? Share a chaste kiss? Certainly both are scandalous enough with our not being engaged. Though, we have broken the rules enough by now, perhaps we don’t need to orchestrate it.”
She laughed again, stepping away. “Yes, and the coachman is watching.”
“Who cares about the coachman?”
“Well, I thought we—” She stopped, feeling something flat under her foot. She stepped away and the sun caught a flash of silver. Though the day was warm, a chill came over her.
“Byron... you had better have a look at this.”
He crouched beside her, pulled a handkerchief from his pocket, and picked up a dagger with an inlaid handle. Half of the blade was covered in rust-colored splotches.
Byron looked up at her. “Seems murder is becoming more likely all the time. It’s impossible to know whose it is—the blood or the dagger, for that matter.” He wrapped the knife in the handkerchief and tucked the bundle into his coat pocket. He looked about and found a few sticks, inserting them into the ground in a triangular pattern around where the knife had lain. “There. Now we’ll remember where we found it. We’ll need to bring this to the police, but first I’d like to take a better look from where he likely fell.” He took her hand and they headed up the southern path.
“Surely the blood couldn’t be his, could it? You and I both saw the head wound.”
“We’ll have to talk with the coroner about it. Or Dr. Turpin. The whole thing is a bit strange.”
When they came to the top of the ridge, Byron let go of her hand and stepped closer to the edge.
“Be careful,” Mira said. “There are still some icy spots.”
“I find that curious,” Byron said, crouching. He measured several patches of ice with his hand. “Almost uniform in size too. I would think they were footprints, left behind by compressed snow, but these are too large and there weren’t any on the southern paths. Yet here, and to the north...” he clicked his tongue.
“There were more by the stable. Could these prints belong to a horse?”
Byron stood. “That is a possibility. The weight of a horse would provide more compression, and therefore, a more solid bit of ice.” He turned in place. “If these do belong to a horse, the creature must have stopped here, turned around, and headed back to the stable. The ice is all a jumble here, but see there,” he moved along the path and pointed out two separate bits of ice. “We have a steady gait with tracks heading to that point and then back again.” He followed the path a few more paces away. “And here we have more definite proof—horse dung.”
Mira frowned. “But the hunting party left their horses with the gamekeeper after we looked at the body, and surely he brought them straight back to the stable. The horses wouldn’t have come this way at all.”
Byron tipped his head to the side. “Unless a horse was brought to this point on the night of the party. We discussed the possibility of Mr. Treadway going to meet a partner. However, I would have expected them to choose a more secluded location than this.” He gestured to the slope. “Suppose Mr. Treadway took a horse in order to ride out to meet his partner. Then, when he arrived here, the horse was spooked and Mr. Treadway fell. The horse, being well trained and not wanting to be out in the inclement weather, trotted back to the stable. The new snow hid the tracks and fecal matter the morning after.”
“What about the knife?” Mira asked.
A twinkle came to Byron’s eye. “You always ask the rightquestions. I believe we have an additional item to add to the agenda. Would you be so kind as to escort me to the stables?”
They followed the icy tracks from whence they came and Byron pulled open the heavy stable door. “I say, is there anyone in here?” he called out.
Some rustling came from one of the stalls and Rudy Foster poked his head out. “Yes, sir? How might I help you, sir?” He approached them, wiping his hands with a cloth.
“We have some questions about the night of the eighth,” Byron said.
Rudy’s eyes widened. “You mean when the poor man fell from the ledge?”
“Yes, that’s the one. Were you working that night?”
