“I suppose we’d better get back,” Mira said. “What is the best way to return to the parlor?”
“Just through that door there, down the hall, and to the right.”
“Thank you.”
They stepped into the hall and Byron closed the door behind them.
“Either one of them is lying,” Mira said. “Or both of them are.”
“Most definitely. What are you seeing?”
“There had to be a horse on the ridge either that night or the morning after. Otherwise there wouldn’t have been any snow on the ground to make the icy tracks. We know it couldn’t be the morning after, so it had to have been the night of the party. If Treadway took a horse to that location and fell, the horse surelyhad to make its way back to the stable and wouldn’t be able to open the stable door on its own.”
“Or the door to its own stall, for that matter.” Byron clucked his tongue. “Someone had to have brought the horse back. The question is, why would Foster and Sharpe lie? Is someone paying them off, or are they involved in the murder?”
“I don’t know. But I do know that your sister is liable to murder me if we take much longer.”
“Mary doesn’t have the imagination,” Byron said, but began the trek across the house to the parlor. “Do you think it is better for us to enter together or separately?”
“I think together. If we arrive separately we will be guilty of both indiscretion and deception.”
They entered the parlor, and Mira pointedly avoided facing the two Sherards, though she could feel their sharp gazes upon her. A tea tray, the pot of which was likely cold, sat on the table at the center of the room.
“I’m so sorry for the delay,” Mira said. “You have such lovely grounds, I felt the need to explore a little.”
“Oh, it is no trouble at all,” Mrs. Risewell said.
“And what is your excuse?” Mary asked Byron.
“I don’t believe I need an excuse.” He pulled the handkerchief from his pocket. “I stepped out for a bit of air and found this.” He unfolded the fabric and revealed the dagger.
“Heavens, is that...” Mrs. Risewell brought a hand to her neck.
“Blood? Yes.” He folded the handkerchief up again. “I found this near where Mr. Treadway fell.”
Theresia frowned. “But, I thought he died from the fall!”
“That is what the coroner said.” Mary adjusted her skirts. “Surely he would know the difference between a blow to the head and a knife wound.”
“Certainly.” Byron tucked the bundle back into his jacketpocket. “But I believe the police ought to have a look at it, just the same.”
“Then we should deliver it before it gets too late. Thank you so much once again for your hospitality, Mrs. Risewell. And you are certain it isn’t an inconvenience to have Benson staying on a little longer? The wheelwright said it would be a few days yet.”
“Not at all. We are happy to oblige for as long as you need.”
“You really are too kind.” Mrs. Sherard stood. “We must do this again sometime.”
“Oh yes!” Mrs. Risewell said. “Are you coming to our little Valentine’s Party on Thursday? You are all invited.” She turned to Mira. “The Renaldis too, if they wish.”
“We’d be delighted,” Mrs. Sherard said.
February 11, 1889: Evening
By the time they reached Bath, itwas far too late to catch Inspector Rutledge. Not wanting to hand the dagger over to just any police constable, Byron and Mira thought it wise to keep the weapon in their possession for the time being. Since they had some questions about the post-mortem, they decided to pay a visit to Dr. Turpin. They would have preferred to speak with Mr. English, the coroner, but he had returned home to Bathampton after the inquest.
“This is all highly irregular, Ambrose,” Mrs. Sherard said, as the hired carriage stopped in front of the doctor’s rooms in Brock Street. “Is this how you spend all your days? Flitting from one place to the next in search of clues?”
“When I’m on a case, yes,” Byron said. The group exited the carriage, asked the poor driver to stay once more, and moved up the front steps.
