Sighing, Mr Ramsey stepped ahead and pointed towards the edge of the churchyard. “Over there. Near the oak tree.”
So he’d decided to be helpful.
Perhaps he was tired and wanted to go home.
Benjamin Hawke’s grave lay neglected. Coarse grassforced its way through the cracks. The stone was dark with grime and moss. The contrast with the memorial beside it could not have been more stark. A son’s verdict, written in weeds.
“A man’s reputation follows him even in death,” Mr Ramsey said quietly. “Some say he shouldn’t rest in consecrated ground.”
She kept her gaze on the stone.
“Others say he was shot in cold blood.”
“What’s the truth?” she asked.
“No one cares.”
She looked at the memorial beside it, two white roses laid upon the grave. The plot was immaculate, the marble polished to a hard sheen.
“Mr Hawke must have loved his mother dearly. He’s not forgotten her.”
“And never will.”
She ran her fingers along the cold edge of the stone.
It would take everything she had not to yield when he returned. But if she meant to reach him, she would have to demand the truth.
“Why two roses?” There were more in the garden.
“That’s not for me to say.”
She didn’t press him. He’d said enough.
She walked out of the churchyard and followed the lane back to the stile, damp earth clinging to the hem of her skirt. She didn’t climb it, but continued on, trusting the maid’s directions.
“Mrs Buckley won’t tell you anything,” Mr Ramsey said, still trailing her like an errant ghost. “She swore an oath to her mistress and wouldn’t grant the Lord her confession.”
She did not wait for him.
“Often it’s the things people don’t say that prove telling.”
Mrs Buckley’s tiny cottage sat beyond a bend in the lane, its thatch threaded with ivy, a narrow plume of smoke rising from the chimney. Hardly the dwelling of a secret-keeper.
The woman who answered looked near seventy, her cheeks rosy from the hearth. Warm air, rich with the scent of butter and something freshly baked, met Daphne at the door.
Mr Ramsey cleared his throat. “Mrs Buckley.”
The woman’s expression brightened. “Mr Ramsey. What brings you here today?” Her kind eyes settled on Daphne. “No need to explain. I can see why you wouldn’t want her at Shadowmere this weekend.”
“Miss Harland is a guest, not a maid.”
Mrs Buckley paled, studying Daphne as though she had sprouted horns.
“Not a guest for the Masque,” Daphne corrected. “Mr Hawke allows me to stay in the cottage while we try to prove neither of us killed Lord Harland. My father.”
Her fingers gripped the jamb. “I see. Well, you’d better come in. I’ve just finished baking scones. They should be cool enough to eat.”
The cottage was well tended, copper pans polished bright above a scrubbed pine table. Standing in the warmth of it, she had almost forgotten she was furious with Dominic.
