have ruined his afternoon by telling him Beau is coursing hares. He intended to scout Beau’s land for the money, I take it?”
I feigned astonishment. “In his condition? You must be joking!”
“What is this peculiar ‘condition’ whose only symptoms appear to be a narrowing of the eyes and a rash of leading questions? I diagnose the onset of spyitis.”
“Well, I expect he might have a look about while he’s fishing. My brother is eighteen years old, Mr. Renshaw. Still young enough to enjoy a bit of role playing. As all the neighbors are under a cloud, you and Beau cannot expect to escape entirely. You, especially, being a stranger in the neighborhood.”
“Lord Harry was also a stranger, an innocent stranger. As the Bible says, ‘Be not forgetful to entertain strangers: for thereby some have entertained angels unawares.’ “
“And some have entertained less celestial beings, no doubt. If you haven’t a set of wings to flee danger, I suggest you be careful or you may find a dagger in your chest one of these nights,” I warned.
“It is kind of you to worry about me, ma’am.”
Our conversation was conducted in a facetious manner. When Renshaw spoke again, he spoke more seriously.
“It wasn’t a dagger, by the by. It was a hunting knife.”
“Did they find the knife?”
“Yes, quite near where you were sketching, actually. It had been tossed into the water. It was a common knife with a bone handle, the kind that can be bought anywhere.”
“Where did you hear all this?”
“You ought to have gone into Chilton Abbas. That is where one gets all the latest on-dits. I kept a sharp eye out for you. I’m happy to inform you that no one suspects you of wielding the knife. The underrated Monger found it. He spent a deal of time examining the scene of the crime. I discovered something else as well.”
“And what is that?”
“But you don’t want to discuss the case. We shall speak of other things.” He looked about and said, “It’s turned out a fine day after all.”
Chapter Ten
“Mr. Renshaw! What did you discover?” I demanded.
“Still harping on the case? Well, if you insist. Mr. Mulliner doesn’t sell, and never has sold, blue ribbons of the type I found in the hut the day before yesterday. ‘No market for such dear items hereabouts,’ he tells me.”
“Is that all? Good gracious, that’s not news. Now if you told me the ribbon couldn’t be had in Windsor or Woking or Farnborough, you would have something. Not many of us make it all the way to London, but we do get as far as a nearby city from time to time.”
“I haven’t had time to ascertain whether Windsor, Woking, or Farnborough carry such a ribbon. And even if I did, there is always the possibility that the ribbon was sent as a gift from even farther away. No, the ribbon, I fear, is a purple herring.”
“Surely you mean a red herring?”
“And you call yourself an artist! Red and blue make purple, n’est-ce pas?” I frowned at this freakish speech. “Oh, never mind, it’s only a joke.”
We did, finally, speak of other things than the murder and the missing money. I asked Renshaw about India and he told me tales of heat and holy cows and monsoons and loll shrub, which is only red wine with a fancy name, of which a great deal is consumed in India. I had heard more interesting tales from Uncle Hillary.
I suspected that Renshaw’s career had been too raffish to retail any of his stories to a lady. I never did discover why he went. He weaseled out of a real explanation and talked about his love of travel and adventure.
“Very amusing, Mr. Renshaw, but you have not forgotten the price to be paid for my driving out with you?”
“Miss Talbot, I’m shocked!” he exclaimed with laughter lurking in the depths of his dark eyes. “Society has a word for ladies who charge for their company!”
“And no doubt you’re familiar with it. Never mind that, weasel. You were going to tell me who Isaiah saw
I feigned astonishment. “In his condition? You must be joking!”
“What is this peculiar ‘condition’ whose only symptoms appear to be a narrowing of the eyes and a rash of leading questions? I diagnose the onset of spyitis.”
“Well, I expect he might have a look about while he’s fishing. My brother is eighteen years old, Mr. Renshaw. Still young enough to enjoy a bit of role playing. As all the neighbors are under a cloud, you and Beau cannot expect to escape entirely. You, especially, being a stranger in the neighborhood.”
“Lord Harry was also a stranger, an innocent stranger. As the Bible says, ‘Be not forgetful to entertain strangers: for thereby some have entertained angels unawares.’ “
“And some have entertained less celestial beings, no doubt. If you haven’t a set of wings to flee danger, I suggest you be careful or you may find a dagger in your chest one of these nights,” I warned.
“It is kind of you to worry about me, ma’am.”
Our conversation was conducted in a facetious manner. When Renshaw spoke again, he spoke more seriously.
“It wasn’t a dagger, by the by. It was a hunting knife.”
“Did they find the knife?”
“Yes, quite near where you were sketching, actually. It had been tossed into the water. It was a common knife with a bone handle, the kind that can be bought anywhere.”
“Where did you hear all this?”
“You ought to have gone into Chilton Abbas. That is where one gets all the latest on-dits. I kept a sharp eye out for you. I’m happy to inform you that no one suspects you of wielding the knife. The underrated Monger found it. He spent a deal of time examining the scene of the crime. I discovered something else as well.”
“And what is that?”
“But you don’t want to discuss the case. We shall speak of other things.” He looked about and said, “It’s turned out a fine day after all.”
Chapter Ten
“Mr. Renshaw! What did you discover?” I demanded.
“Still harping on the case? Well, if you insist. Mr. Mulliner doesn’t sell, and never has sold, blue ribbons of the type I found in the hut the day before yesterday. ‘No market for such dear items hereabouts,’ he tells me.”
“Is that all? Good gracious, that’s not news. Now if you told me the ribbon couldn’t be had in Windsor or Woking or Farnborough, you would have something. Not many of us make it all the way to London, but we do get as far as a nearby city from time to time.”
“I haven’t had time to ascertain whether Windsor, Woking, or Farnborough carry such a ribbon. And even if I did, there is always the possibility that the ribbon was sent as a gift from even farther away. No, the ribbon, I fear, is a purple herring.”
“Surely you mean a red herring?”
“And you call yourself an artist! Red and blue make purple, n’est-ce pas?” I frowned at this freakish speech. “Oh, never mind, it’s only a joke.”
We did, finally, speak of other things than the murder and the missing money. I asked Renshaw about India and he told me tales of heat and holy cows and monsoons and loll shrub, which is only red wine with a fancy name, of which a great deal is consumed in India. I had heard more interesting tales from Uncle Hillary.
I suspected that Renshaw’s career had been too raffish to retail any of his stories to a lady. I never did discover why he went. He weaseled out of a real explanation and talked about his love of travel and adventure.
“Very amusing, Mr. Renshaw, but you have not forgotten the price to be paid for my driving out with you?”
“Miss Talbot, I’m shocked!” he exclaimed with laughter lurking in the depths of his dark eyes. “Society has a word for ladies who charge for their company!”
“And no doubt you’re familiar with it. Never mind that, weasel. You were going to tell me who Isaiah saw
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