“So it is. Sir Oswald had a stone buried in his fetlock that’d caused infection and tissue to build up over the scar.”
Hebe bent down to salvage her fallen sketchbook, attempting to recall in which stable she’d witnessed something similar… “The left fetlock?”
“How did ya know?”
Tilting her head, she found the page of a magnificent but tempestuous beast purely rendered in charcoal, but in detail on the opposite page, she’d sketched his left leg having never seen such a condition before. An idea hummed in her mind, so she purely twisted the sketchbook for him to view.
“Is this Sir Oswald without his markings?”
Redmond’s eyes widened as he clasped the book, his finger lightly following the curves of rump and back. He inhaled sharply at the detailed leg. “Where the hell did you draw this?”
“That’s Sir Henry’s new stallion.”
He whistled low. “And does it have a white star on its forehead or stockings?”
“No. It’s pure black with just a snip of white. Sir Henry also said it had at least nine years and I believe Sir Oswald is younger, yes?”
“Aye, so he is, just over five.” His lips folded inwards as he scowled at the sketch. “But I’d recognise this horse’s back and loin anywhere. That’s Sir Oswald, so it is.” He stabbed a finger. “And now where the bloody hell is Lord Jack?”
With a sinking heart and rising pulse, Hebe held hand to mouth. “And where is Ernest?”
They strode to the corridor and searched for signs that he may have entered the stables, but solely the empty bucket lay forlornly upon its side.
Although…
“What’s that?” And she bent down to…
“A ribbon?” declared Redmond. “Where’d that come from?”
“Lord Ernest,” she whispered huskily, recalling him trailing it upon her skin last night. “I gave it to him at the races as a tribute.”
“Well, beggin’ ya pardon, Mrs Locke, but his lordship sure as hell wouldn’t have lost it then.”
Hebe blushed but merely nodded, was dreadfully afraid what the darker colour to the ribbon might indicate. “Let us to the magistrate then, for I think this may be blood.”
“Ach, his lordship says he’s useless as a pitchfork with no prongs. And besides, tell him what? As I can’t think we have much to say, but…” He cast an assessing glance. “Sir Henry’s household will likewise be snoozing off the Feast, so why don’t we pay a visit? Think ya’d find this horse’s box if we could sneak in?”
“Of course.” Merely glad he’d not thought to leave her behind. “And on the way we can look for signs of Lord Ernest. Perhaps he just took Lord Jack for a walk unsaddled.”
“I’ll wake Daniel to water the horses. Can ya handle a quiet mare?”
“Without gunshots, yes,” she assured, fear for Ernest causing her heart to patter with an uneven beat. “But Daniel should be awake as Mary went to find him. To help with the wounded swan.”
“Wounded swan?” Redmond frowned and rubbed his chest. “I saw them both in fine fettle not a half-hour ago from…” He trailed off.
Aunt Beatrice’s room perhaps?For no stable quarters overlooked the moat. But Hebe remained silent.
“Mary,” the stable master growled all of a sudden. “Forever in here, poking around and wresting gossip from the lads with her beseeching eyes.” He scowled. “I’ll go look but I fair wager she’s fled. Mayhap back to Sir Henry?”
Needing to hear no more, Hebe raced to the harness room to gather saddle and bridle while Redmond headed to check the moat and grooms’ quarters.
A bleary Thos appeared not a moment later, shirt stained and breeches still greased. “Daniel’s bed ain’t been used. My pa said he were a lazy dizzard. I’ll tack up.”
Within a blink, Redmond returned, muttering that all the swans were grand, and he glanced away with expression grim to gather the horses.
Hebe’s throat constricted till she could scarce swallow.
Had Daniel also been slyly awaiting his moment? In league with Sir Henry?
