A shout had him turning his head to look out the window. Two men were working on repairs to the axle of a carriage, one yelling directions, the other following them, face red. The roads would be well rutted from the drying mud, and strengthening the guests’ conveyances was a sensible task. But the one servant looked ready to punch the other in the face.
Henry clenched his hands. Anger made men do foolish things. He’d only landed one punch to Taylor’s face, but he’d made many more to the man’s body. And worse, he’d enjoyed it. He’d thought he could shake some sense, or at least some penitence, from the secretary for almost shooting Katherine.
Taylor had no penitence in him. Or sense. Perhaps it was because Henry was generally a peaceful man that Taylor had thought he could escape punishment for his remarks. That he could insult Katherine so vilely and suffer no consequences.
He’d been wrong. But Henry had been wrong, as well. Violence to Mr. Taylor’s person hadn’t been the answer. Had he weakened Taylor to the point where hours later he’d been unable to defend himself? Was Henry partly to blame for the secretary’s death?
Limbs dragging, Henry gathered up the many drafts of a letter Perrin had written, folded them, and slid them into his pocket. He wouldn’t want anyone else to come across them. The rest of the documents Henry returned to their cabinets, replaced the boards on the window, and departed from the gloom of the office.
He made for the rear sitting room, surprised when he found only Mr. Withers and Mr. Ryder occupying it. “Where is everyone?”
Mr. Ryder rested a book on his knee. “The sun’s reappearance has tempted most everyone out-of-doors. I believe the Havenstones have gone riding, and the rest have taken to the trails around the estate to exercise their legs. I have myself just come back from a walk about the gardens.”
“And Lady Mary?” Henry fingered the papers in his pocket. “Is she also taking a walk?”
Mr. Ryder’s eyebrows drew together. “I didn’t see her, but as she isn’t here, I assume so. Perhaps she is in her room.”
“Mary isn’t one to stay in her rooms.” Mr. Withers turned from his station at the window, a small smile on his face. “That woman loathes inaction.”
Mr. Ryder rubbed his thumb over his book’s spine. “You know her well?”
Withers’s smile faded. “She and my wife and my sister used to have a grand time when we’d come together for the holidays. She is the only one still living of the three.” He faced out the window once more.
“I understand your sister died after a fall.” Henry gentled his voice. Something about Withers seemed breakable if one spoke too firmly. Henry suspected it had been a long time since the man had had anyone to talk to. “How did your wife die?”
Withers clasped his hands behind his back. “My wife died of scrofula, a disorder of the lymphatic system. I’m not certain the account of my sister’s death is accurate, however. She had been feeling poorly before she fell. Which makes little sense. She was a talented herbalist. I trusted my health to her more than any apothecary.”
Henry glanced at Mr. Ryder, but the other man looked as confused as Henry felt. “You believe your sister’s stated cause of death was in error?”
Withers frowned. “It hardly matters. This storm hasn’t been good for her garden. Herpulsatilla vulgarislook half drowned. I gave that plant to her. It was her favorite.”
Henry’s one and only brother had died young, before Henry had much memory of him. Every once in a while he would still ache from the loss of something he could never know. How much worse the pain must be to lose a beloved sibling, one with whom you shared a childhood, who knew you better than most anyone else?
Mr. Ryder beat him to the condolences. “I’m sorry, Withers.” He stood and crossed to the window. Ryder took a small silver case from his pocket and removed a card. He handed it to Withers. “This is my club in London. If you ever want to talk, you can find me there. And it is a fine club to join, if you’re looking. Good conversation.”
Withers took the card, staring blankly at it. He rolled it between his fingers like it was one of his playing cards, a small tremble in his hands, then excused himself from the room.
An uncomfortable silence settled between Ryder and himself. Ryder returned to his seat, and it was Henry who went to the window to stare out. Someone else’s grief was almost as hard to carry as one’s own. It was sad for Perrin that no one deeply mourned his passing, but it made it easier for the rest of them.
A glimpse of snowy white hair caught his attention. “If you’ll excuse me.” Henry nodded to Ryder, then left the sitting room for the back garden. He trotted around the edge of it and toward a path that wandered into a wooded copse. He met Lady Mary halfway between the house and the trees.
“Lady Mary.” He inclined his head. “A fine day.”
She squinted up at him, the rim of her bonnet far too shallow to block the sun’s rays. “I suppose.”
He shifted his weight from his left foot to his right. “And your walk? Has it been enjoyable?”
Lady Mary leaned on her walking stick. “Oh, quite. Now why don’t you tell me why you sought me out instead of boring me with these inane pleasantries?”
Henry sighed. He had been delaying. As a solicitor, he was accustomed to speaking of indelicate matters, but this conversation seemed harder than most. He drew his shoulders back. “Yes. Well, I found some letters in Perrin’s study.”
The lady’s blue eyes glowed. “Something to point to our killer?”
“Er, not exactly.” Not unless Lady Mary was the killer, but after coming to know the woman, that was an idea he could no longer credit. Especially after the death of Mr. Taylor. He pulled the bundle from his inside coat pocket. He’d wrapped the mass with a bit of string he’d found in Perrin’s desk drawer. “These were letters Perrin had intended to send to several different papers. For their gossip pages.”
Her hand paused reaching for the letters, trembled just the slightest bit, before taking ahold of them. “The letters are regarding me. My marriage to Perrin’s brother.”
It hadn’t been a question, but Henry nodded nonetheless. “I don’t believe anyone other than Perrin has seen them, and he can no longer tell tales. And, of course, you can rely on my complete discretion.”
