Lord Brathwaite now lifted the muddied vellum in his other hand. “A page has been recovered by my son. I assume that means the rest may be hidden somewhere. Or the thief dropped this sheet before destroying the rest. I cannot begin to imagine what would possess one of you to damage something so valuable. You cannot possibly hope to sell what you have stolen. And to keep my property for yourselves is a betrayal I will not stand for.”
The earl pinned each person with a stern glare. “If the guilty party does not step forward, we will be searching your belongings. Someone here knows something. You might well have seen a seemingly innocent act which you now realize should be called into question. I expect the truth from each and every one of you. What have you seen, heard, discovered? I will be in my study. You may approach me in confidence.”
His eyes darkened. “However, let me warn you, this is your only chance to come forward. Your actions, or lack thereof, are grounds for dismissal. I must have staff I trust to be loyal. “
Barnaby did not need a threat to motivate him or a study in which to interrogate suspects. He had spotted what he needed to see. Among the staff, who had turned to each other in dismay, their love for their master causing them to share in his disappointment, one maid had cast her eyes about nervously. Another servant exclaimed at the shocking situation in her direction, and she nodded absently.
Barnaby chose to keep what he had seen to himself. Let her come forward if she would. He had no proof other than a firm suspicion.
An hour went by, and no one crossed the threshold of the master’s study. A search was called of every room, every nook and cranny where the pages might be hidden. The gardener’s tool shed, even the privy, were not overlooked. All to no avail.
Barnaby, meanwhile, had conducted a quiet investigation of his own. His suspect, he discovered, was named Moira—a lower housemaid whose duties included all the least desirable tasks a servant girl could be asked to do. Young Moira had access to most of the house without anyone questioning her presence there. And she would most likely have helped unpack the crates of books that Barnaby had encountered when he first arrived at Hill House.
Yes, Moira definitely warranted further scrutiny.
To Barnaby’s surprise, the servant girl went about her duties with her usual diligence, seemingly unbothered by the intensive search that continued around her. If she was the guilty party, did this mean she had destroyed the evidence? Why else would she now be calm when earlier she had worn such a look of guilt?
Barnaby wished he could confide his suspicions to Joy. She would have a plan. Her sharp mind would latch onto a brilliant idea at once. All Barnaby had was the tenacity to keep an eye on Moira. Fortunately, with the household at sixes and sevens, no one noticed whether he was cataloguing or not.
Declining dinner that evening, Barnaby remained at his post. He hovered near the back stairs, the only route from the attic quarters to the grounds outside. Since Moira had sensed no danger during the search of Hill House, her hiding place—if there was one—must be beyond the house and obscure enough to avoid consideration.
It was after eleven when the last of the servants finally dragged their tired limbs to their quarters. Barnaby was quite ready to do the same. In fact, his head had lolled forward as he dropped off into a momentary snooze. The creaking of a foot upon the narrow step caused his head to snap up, sleep driven from him like mist before the sun.
Someone was moving about. Someone who had waited until the house was stilled of activity. Someone who did not want to be seen.
The figure continued down the stairs toward the kitchen. Barnaby waited. He did not want the creaking boards to betray him too.
The tiniest sound of the kitchen door swinging open alerted him to hurry up and he descended the stairs as nimbly as he could in the dark. He felt his way around the large kitchen table and stumbled toward where he vaguely remembered the door to have been. It opened with the same small complaint it had made before. Barnaby shut it again and stood, listening, for a hint as to where his suspect had headed.
Nothing.
A moment of panic besieged him, and he rushed along the path that followed the perimeter of the house to the front. Beyond the confines of the building, the almost full moon made Barnaby’s progress smoother and offered him a glimpse of a running figure disappearing down the drive.
Having reached the bottom of the curved drive, Barnaby drew back. The road was open, the hurrying shape of a young woman clear against the bright night.
He allowed her to shrink into the distance before hastening after her, careful to pause in the shadow of a convenient tree or shrub where these appeared along the route.
At the turning to the coastal road, she veered right, down to Fenwick.
Barnaby now started to doubt himself. Perhaps the maid was meeting a local lad, her only crime being one of the heart. Barnaby didn’t even know who, exactly, he was following, for she wore a hooded cape.
On the coach to Fenwick the week before, he had heard talk that smugglers were active in these parts. What if this young woman was involved with them?
Barnaby felt suddenly very alone and exposed.
Another hundred yards and he would pass by the Tully cottage. He wished he could knock on the door and ask Joy what she thought. Her father’s blunderbuss wouldn’t go amiss, either. But the house was dark and he dared not wake them for what might be a fool’s errand. He didn’t know which would be more risky: having Joy insist on accompanying him into the night, or having her father think he was a madman and shutting the door in his face, possibly forever.
So, Barnaby continued on his solo mission, blind to what lay ahead and determined to see it through, no matter what.
The Queen’s Barque was still brightly lit, conversation emanating from its open door as a straggler stumbled out and headed home in a less-than-linear manner. The hooded figure turned at the movement, her features revealed by the brief light before the door swung closed once more.
Moira.
Barnaby barely had time to process this discovery before they were off again, scurrying past one building after the next, until they entered the secluded churchyard.
Now Moira slowed. Turning abruptly, she slipped down through the rows of silent graves until she reached a headstone shaped like a cross. Here she kneeled, the movements of her hands unclear. She muttered something that sounded like a prayer, the words unclear, but the tone urgent, almost a little desperate. After barely a minute, she stood again, a lone specter in the cemetery, and hurried back toward Barnaby.
He nearly fell over himself in his haste to hide. Heart thudding, he hovered behind the low-hanging branch of an ash.
