Eager to getto Braithwaite and talk sense into the magistrate, Nate wasted no time in summoning his valet and ordering his horse to be readied. But before he could escape out the back door, Lady Matheson approached him.
“May I have a word, Mr. Squires?” she asked.
Nate hesitated, surprised to see that she had changed into black mourning clothes.Is that for George?The question almost slipped from his tongue, but he held it back. Lady Matheson looked exceedingly pale and unwell, and he didn’t want to upset her further. She had taken George Otis’s death to heart, and her grief and attachment to the poet seemed to be growing every day. It was odd, indeed, and he was certain that the unpleasantness at breakfast hadn’t helped her nerves either.
“I’m on my way to Braithwaite,” he said. “I only have a minute.”
“Braithwaite. That’s what I wanted to talk to you about. Are you going to see the magistrate?”
“Yes,” Nate said cautiously. He wondered if Lady Matheson had heard about the prospect of Groby’s hanging taking place in Westmorland. If she thought he was going to advocate that the magistrate go forward with it, she was quite mistaken.
“I want to know what he has done with George’s body,” she said. “I think George deserves a poet’s burial—someplace marvelous with a monument honoring his memory—and I want to pay for it.”
“That’s very generous of you. I believe he was an orphan, but I’mafraid you’re too late.”
“Too late? What do you mean?”
“Magistrate Hunt took the body for further investigation, but I can’t imagine he’ll still have it. I am certain he disposed of the body already. One cannot keep a corpse—forgive me my bluntness, my lady—in such warm weather, you understand.”
“Disposed of the body? How? Do you mean he just threw George away like a dog?”
“I don’t know…No.” Nate frowned. He didn’t know what had happened to Otis’s body. The man had been an orphan, but he wasn’t a pauper. He was well educated and had worn decent clothing. He wondered if Bridget knew. It wasn’t customary for women to attend funerals, so perhaps it had all been up to Charlie and Rupert. “I am certain his friends arranged for his burial. Have you spoken to them?”
“Hisfriends?” Lady Matheson scoffed. “Why should they bury him? How long have those two known George? A few months? How dare they?”
Nate blinked, taken aback by Lady Matheson’s vehemence. “I really don’t know. But at least here in Westmorland they were his closest friends. You only knew him for a matter of weeks yourself, did you not?”
“How could you allow something like this to happen?” She bared her teeth at Nate, and he backed away, thinking she was suffering from a bout of hysteria.
“I’m sorry, Lady Matheson, but why didn’t you talk about this before? It’s been a little over a week. That’s far too long to keep a body unburied in the spring. I imagine you know that.”
She blinked, and her anger dissipated. She seemed confused. “Over a week, you say? Has it been that long? Impossible. Why, I saw him just the other day.” An eerie smile played on her lips. “Some days, I quite forget he is…gone.”
Nate swallowed. He’d always thought of Lady Matheson as asophisticated and beautiful woman, but now, he could see that she was quite unstable. If he didn’t know better, he’d think she was mad.
“No matter. I want you to tell the magistrate to exhume his body, so I can give him a proper burial—one fit for a poet of his talent. Perhaps on the shores of his beloved Lake Windermere.”
“I don’t think that will be possible. If he’s already buried—”
“I insist. I don’t care what it costs. A poet like George needs a shrine. He deserves to be remembered. He shall have a resting spot where those who admire him centuries from now will be able to visit his grave. He does not want to rot in a common grave and be forgotten. His friends, indeed!”
“I’ll speak to the magistrate. I promise,” Nate said, backing further away and reaching behind him for the door handle. He would promise anything to keep Lady Matheson calm at this point. Had the lady and George Otis been lovers after all? It certainly seemed that way. She was behaving more like a grieving widow than a woman who’d been slightly charmed and mildly entertained by a young poet she’d just met.
*
Magistrate Hunt stoodto greet Nate as he entered the gentleman’s study in his home, located across the street from Braithwaite’s small jail where Mr. Groby was being held.
“Mr. Squires,” the magistrate said. “Please, sit down. What can I do for you today?”
“I’m here about Groby.” Nate took a seat across from the magistrate’s desk. “I was told you are getting ready to send him to York for his trial.” Nate wanted to ease into the conversation before bringing up what he’d heard regarding Groby’s possible gibbeting.
“Indeed, so if you’ve uncovered any new evidence, it’s best you let me know now.”
“I think there is a possibility Collins is involved—and perhaps Mrs. Groby herself.”
Magistrate Hunt tapped his fingers together. “I’ve given that some thought too. Collins has practically taken over Groby’s farm and slaughterhouse. It looks suspicious.”
“There’s even more to it than that,” Nate said.
