“N-no sir. The Risewells gave the outside staff the night off, on account of the party.”
“So you wouldn’t know if anyone had come for a horse, say, around ten o’clock?”
“If it were the family wanting a horse, they would have come found me in the lodge. I stay there with Mr. Sharpe, the gamekeeper.”
“But someone might have been able to take a horse without you knowing?”
Rudy frowned. “All the horses are accounted for now, sir. And they were the morning of the hunt.”
“We noticed some dung near the top of the West Ledge,” Byron said. “Are horses often taken over the ridge by that path?”
“N-no sir. The Risewells usually only take the horses into the woods for hunting or riding.”
“Is there anything on that side of the property that can’t be accessed from the lower paths?” Mira asked.
“There’s a gate there in the wall surrounding the estate, but I don’t remember the Risewells ever using it. Some of the staff that live in Doynton use it to come and go.”
“Thank you,” Mira said. “Do you know where we can find Mr. Sharpe?”
“I just left him in the gun room. Today’s polishing day. I can take you there.”
The sun was veering to the west as he led them back up the hill to the house and through a side door that led directly to the gun room. Wood paneled walls and the smell of oak greeted them. A large, leather-topped table sat in the center. Most of the guns were displayed on racks lined with velvet, save a few on the table in front of Mr. Sharpe. He looked up as Rudy came in.
“Lad, shouldn’t you be cleaning the—” he stopped as he noticed Byron and Mira. “Begging your pardon.”
“They wanted to speak with you about the eighth,” Rudy said.
Sharpe set down his polishing cloth and lay the rifle across his lap. “You’ve shown ‘em here. Now back to your work.”
Rudy nodded and left. The cool air rushed around them, replaced with warmth as he closed the door.
“Terrible accident,” Sharpe said. “The Estfields ought to put fencing along that there West Ledge. I’ve told Grantham, their gamekeeper, as much when the Risewells switch houses.”
“Do you remember anything odd about that night?” Byron asked.
“Why are you concerned with it? The police have already come and gone. Inquest is over, ain’t it?”
“Yes,” Byron drew the word out, glancing at Mira as if he needed permission for something. “But you see, we are trying to settle a bet.”
She nodded, ready to go along with this new lie.
“A bet?” Sharpe raised an eyebrow.
“Miss Blayse here has a brother. And at the party last Friday, he said he would be able to take a horse from the stable and return it without anyone noticing. He says that he did it, butdidn’t bring any proof. We were hoping that maybe you could tell us if any of the horses were missing or in the wrong stall or anything like that.”
Sharpe laughed. “You youngsters and your practical jokes. No, sir. There weren’t any horses in the wrong place or nothing of the sort. Though the horses are more of young Mr. Foster’s domain these days. You spoke with him, I take it?”
“Yes. Just before coming to see you,” Mira said.
“He’d know better than I. He’s in the stable often enough. Spends his free time in the hayloft, pining after that girl of his. Writes poetry, he does. So I doubt your brother managed to get past him.”
“Girl?” Mira asked.
“Oh, one of the shopkeep’s daughters in Pucklechurch. I’m certain from the way they make eyes at each other. I’ve told him to approach her, but he’s too nervous to even talk to her.”
“Thank you very much, Mr. Sharpe,” Byron said.
“Happy to help.”
