Assassin by Lady Grace Cavendish Page B

Court Gate, close to one of the small staging stables.
    There was a servant there, fast asleep on the truckle bed, so Ellie and I had to creep about. We did have the excuse of looking for Mrs. Twynhoe’s pillowslips. We checked the few pots on the table, looked under the bed and in the clothes chest. No yellow powder.
    It wasn’t until we were about to go out of the door again that I realized a funny thing about Sir Charles’s shoes. They were lined up at the foot of the bed—two pairs of smart shoes to wear at Court,one pair of riding boots, all quite new. And then there were other pairs of shoes under the bed, and another pair of riding boots, rather more worn. But these looked smaller, and when I put one of the old shoes next to one of the new ones, I could see clearly that the old ones were quite a lot smaller. “Look at that,” I whispered to Ellie. “Isn’t it odd?”
    “What?” said Ellie.
    “His shoes. Look, the new ones are big and the old ones under the bed are small. It’s as if Sir Charles’s feet grew suddenly, like mine did last year. But he’s too old to have growing feet.”
    Ellie looked and frowned in puzzlement.
    Suddenly I heard footsteps in the passage. Sir Charles’s voice called out, “Stevens, are you there?”
    Ellie and I looked at each other in horror, and then Ellie scuttled under the bed and I went with her. We hid in a nest of footwear and old hose as Sir Charles came into the room.
    I looked at his feet. He had another pair of boots on, very smart, brand new, and his feet were very big. I tried to remember Sir Charles’s feet when I’d seen them before. Had they changed?
    Sir Charles went over to the manservant on the truckle bed and shook him awake.
    “Wuzzat?” muttered the man. Then he woke up properly and we heard him scrambling to his feet. “Um. Yes, Mr. Amesbury.”
    Ellie and I looked at each other.
Mr.
Amesbury?
    “Go and check on my brother. Make sure he has water and can’t get out,” said the man who I had thought was Sir Charles.
    “Yes, sir, if you say so,” replied Stevens sullenly.
    “I do say so, Stevens.” The voice was cold and nasty, nothing like Sir Charles’s friendly rumble.
    I felt my jaw dropping open. Sir Charles wasn’t Sir Charles—he was somebody else entirely! With the same face, maybe, but bigger feet and … A thought popped into my head. Didn’t Sir Charles have a brother? I screwed up my eyes, trying to remember. A brother who had died in France …
    If
he’d died! What was his name? Harry? No. Hector.
    “Best put a knife in him, sir, then drop him in the Thames,” said Stevens, who was pulling on his jerkin. “That way—”
    “Thank you for your advice, Stevens. I am perfectly well aware of what’s best,” snapped the impostor. “However, I cannot possibly do it until I know all his business dealings—and where he has hidden the deeds to his house.”
    “Don’t think he’ll tell you, sir,” said Stevens. “Not wivout some better persuading.”
    “I know my brother, Stevens. He’ll tell eventually rather than starve.”
    What a horrible way to talk about your brother! Ellie’s eyes were like saucers. I was having to hold my hand over my mouth because the smell of stale cheese from the old hose was making me want to cough.
    “And then once I’m safe I think I shall become ill for a while, so I can get rid of this padding,” the impostor continued. He clearly was the not-so-Honourable Hector Amesbury, brother to Sir Charles.
    Hector sat on his bed and changed into his riding boots with help from Stevens.
    “First I must make an appearance at the stables,” he said, “or somebody will wonder why my horse-mad fool of a brother has suddenly gone off the beasts. But then I shall come and … talk … to him again. Tell him that.”
    “Yes, sir.” Stevens was by the door. “Couldn’t I just … rough him up a bit—give him a taster, sir?”
    “Very well. But don’t do too much damage,” Hector told him,