A Conspiracy of Ravens by Gilbert Morris Page A

guests had all departed by the next day, except Serafina, Matthew, and Dylan. Serafina joined Heather in Edward’s room and inspected the bandage on his neck and the blue bruise on the side of his head. She waited until Heather left, then motioned Inspector Grant over.
    “Edward,” she said, “I have some alarming news.”
    Edward stared at her. “What sort of news?”
    “The fall you had wasn’t an accident.”
    “Why, of course it was. The saddle slipped.”
    “I found your saddle. The girth was cut in two places. There was just enough of it left intact that it wouldn’t part until a strain was put on it. When you went over the fence, your weight came down and the saddle came off.”
    “Oh, I say,” Matthew Grant exclaimed. “That’s bad.”
    “I can’t believe it. It was an accident,” Edward insisted.
    Serafina started to argue, but she saw that it would be useless. “Be very careful. This is two times that attempts have been made on your life.”
    “Oh, you and Heather worry too much, dear. You be off now. I’ll be riding over to see you in the next week or so.”
    They left, and Crinshaw, the butler, came to stand beside Lord Darby’s bedside. “You look tired, sir. Let me bring you your drink.” He was a tall, gaunt man with a gentle manner. He had been with the Haydens for fifteen years and was always aware of the earl’s well-being.
    “No, not now, Crinshaw. I’m fine. Just bring it to me tonight at the usual time.”
    “You need to rest, sir, and your wine always makes you rest.”
    It was Crinshaw’s duty to bring Lord Darby a special drink at bedtime. Only the two of them knew the formula that had been passed down from Edward’s father. It was composed of a rare and expensive wine mixed with several strong spices.
    “I’ll be fine, Charles. I think I can sleep now.”
    “Very good, sir.”
    He moved out of the room and descended to the kitchen where he was questioned at once by the housekeeper, Mrs. Swifton. “How is he, Mr. Crinshaw?”
    “Not well, if you ask me.” He sat down and she poured him a cup of tea and one for herself. He sipped at it and shook his head. “Lady Trent says that the master’s fall was no accident. The girth of his saddle was cut.”
    “Do you tell me that?” Mrs. Swifton exclaimed. “Who would do such a thing?”
    “The man who shot at him last month.” Crinshaw nodded. “I hope Lady Trent will use her gifts as a detective to find out who’s behind all this.”
    The two sat at the table, old friends, and finally he got up. “Keep your eyes open, Mrs. Swifton. There’s some evil in all this, and I fear we’re not done with it yet!”

    Dylan saw that Serafina was worried. Matthew had left them to ride in the carriage, and the two of them were on horses borrowed from Sir Edward’s stable. “You’re worried about Lord Darby, yes?” Dylan said.
    “That was no accident, Dylan.”
    Dylan did not answer, but he cast a curious glance at her. “It doesn’t sound like it.”
    They had not ridden far when they passed a field. Suddenly some dozen ravens rose into the sky. Dylan watched the huge black forms rise and muttered, “My grandmother would have called that an omen.”
    “Would she? She believed in things like that?”
    “Oh, yes, we all did. Ravens are sinister birds. Mr. Edgar Allen Poe, the American, has written a rather marvelous poem called ‘The Raven.’ A rather disturbing poem. You must read it sometime.”
    “I don’t believe in things such as that.”
    “My grandmother did.” He hesitated then said, “She was alone one day, and suddenly her husband appeared to her. He was working in the mines, and she didn’t know what he was doing home. She started to speak, and suddenly he wasn’t there.”
    “What do you mean he wasn’t there?”
    “I mean he just disappeared. Two hours later the manager of the mine came and told her that her husband had been killed in a cave-in.”
    Serafina turned to stare at Dylan. “She