lunch. He guided me to a back door that gave access to the graveled courtyard I’d seen from my bedroom’s balcony. The workshops, he told me, occupied the row of low stone buildings opposite the stables.
I could have found the workshops by sound alone. The moment I strode into the courtyard I heard a cacophony of telltale noises: the clank of a blacksmith’s hammer, the tink-tink of a stonemason’s chisel, and the high-pitched whine of a band saw. I also smelled the telltale stink of kerosene.
In an instant I forgot all about Emma and raced toward the pillar of black smoke that rose beyond the last low building. I skidded to a halt at the end of the row and peered furtively around the corner just in time to see Nell toss a cloth bundle onto a bonfire.
Nell had exchanged her riding gear for work clothes similar to Derek’s, but her long limbs and natural grace made old jeans and Wellington boots seem the height of fashion. She wore a quilted vest over a cornflower-blue cotton shirt, and her golden curls tumbled loosely beneath a tweed cap. She stood with a pitchfork in one hand. A can of kerosene sat a few yards away, at a safe distance from the roaring fire.
“Hi, Nell,” I said, coming up behind her. “We hardly had a chance to say hello last night.”
“You were captivated by Simon,” she said. “Isn’t he lovely?”
“He’s, er, very nice,” I agreed, and hastily changed the subject. “How’s life at the Sorbonne?”
“C’est merveilleuse,” she replied. “Bertie and I have invited Mama, Papa, and Peter to spend Christmas with us in Paris.”
I stared at her, nonplussed. “You’re not coming home for Christmas?”
“No,” she replied. “I’m afraid the vicar will have to find another Virgin for the village play this year.” She stepped forward to poke at the burning cloth with her pitchfork.
“That’s quite a blaze you’ve got going,” I commented. “What’re you burning?”
“Rubbish,” she said.
I gazed at the bundle as the flames consumed it. “Looks like old clothes to me.”
“Fleas in the horse blankets,” she said serenely. “It happens even in the best-kept stables.” She stepped back and rested her pitchfork on the ground. “Did you think it might be old clothes?”
“I . . . didn’t know what it was.” I cleared my throat. “I was looking for your stepmother when I—”
“Smelled the paraffin.” Nell continued to watch the fire. “The stench is unmistakable.”
“I noticed it last night,” I said, “when the turtledove was burning.”
Nell clucked her tongue but didn’t seem distressed. “Careless gardener,” she murmured. “Careless blacksmith.”
“So you think it was an accident?” I asked.
Nell turned to me, her blue eyes wide and innocent. “What else could it be?” She looked back at the fire. “Did Papa find his elephant?”
I blinked stupidly. “How did you know about Clumps?”
“I thought Papa might go up to the nursery,” said Nell, “after his meeting with Grandpapa.”
“But . . . how did you know that I went to the nursery?” I asked.
“A birdie told me.” Nell picked up the can of kerosene. “Mama is in the carpenter’s shop. If you’ll excuse me, I must change for lunch.”
Nell shouldered the pitchfork and headed for a collection of white-arched Victorian greenhouses that lay beyond the stables, the source, no doubt, of the earl’s delicious peaches—and the storage place for the kerosene.
I would have gone after her, but my mind was in a whirl, a not infrequent result of a conversation with Derek’s bewildering daughter.
Why had Nell mentioned “a birdie”? Had she been alluding to the death threat’s first line— Watch the birdie —and, by inference, to the burning turtledove?
I doubted that Simon had shown the nasty note to Nell, which meant that there were only two ways she could have known its contents. Either the poison pen had shown it to her or she’d pasted it together
I could have found the workshops by sound alone. The moment I strode into the courtyard I heard a cacophony of telltale noises: the clank of a blacksmith’s hammer, the tink-tink of a stonemason’s chisel, and the high-pitched whine of a band saw. I also smelled the telltale stink of kerosene.
In an instant I forgot all about Emma and raced toward the pillar of black smoke that rose beyond the last low building. I skidded to a halt at the end of the row and peered furtively around the corner just in time to see Nell toss a cloth bundle onto a bonfire.
Nell had exchanged her riding gear for work clothes similar to Derek’s, but her long limbs and natural grace made old jeans and Wellington boots seem the height of fashion. She wore a quilted vest over a cornflower-blue cotton shirt, and her golden curls tumbled loosely beneath a tweed cap. She stood with a pitchfork in one hand. A can of kerosene sat a few yards away, at a safe distance from the roaring fire.
“Hi, Nell,” I said, coming up behind her. “We hardly had a chance to say hello last night.”
“You were captivated by Simon,” she said. “Isn’t he lovely?”
“He’s, er, very nice,” I agreed, and hastily changed the subject. “How’s life at the Sorbonne?”
“C’est merveilleuse,” she replied. “Bertie and I have invited Mama, Papa, and Peter to spend Christmas with us in Paris.”
I stared at her, nonplussed. “You’re not coming home for Christmas?”
“No,” she replied. “I’m afraid the vicar will have to find another Virgin for the village play this year.” She stepped forward to poke at the burning cloth with her pitchfork.
“That’s quite a blaze you’ve got going,” I commented. “What’re you burning?”
“Rubbish,” she said.
I gazed at the bundle as the flames consumed it. “Looks like old clothes to me.”
“Fleas in the horse blankets,” she said serenely. “It happens even in the best-kept stables.” She stepped back and rested her pitchfork on the ground. “Did you think it might be old clothes?”
“I . . . didn’t know what it was.” I cleared my throat. “I was looking for your stepmother when I—”
“Smelled the paraffin.” Nell continued to watch the fire. “The stench is unmistakable.”
“I noticed it last night,” I said, “when the turtledove was burning.”
Nell clucked her tongue but didn’t seem distressed. “Careless gardener,” she murmured. “Careless blacksmith.”
“So you think it was an accident?” I asked.
Nell turned to me, her blue eyes wide and innocent. “What else could it be?” She looked back at the fire. “Did Papa find his elephant?”
I blinked stupidly. “How did you know about Clumps?”
“I thought Papa might go up to the nursery,” said Nell, “after his meeting with Grandpapa.”
“But . . . how did you know that I went to the nursery?” I asked.
“A birdie told me.” Nell picked up the can of kerosene. “Mama is in the carpenter’s shop. If you’ll excuse me, I must change for lunch.”
Nell shouldered the pitchfork and headed for a collection of white-arched Victorian greenhouses that lay beyond the stables, the source, no doubt, of the earl’s delicious peaches—and the storage place for the kerosene.
I would have gone after her, but my mind was in a whirl, a not infrequent result of a conversation with Derek’s bewildering daughter.
Why had Nell mentioned “a birdie”? Had she been alluding to the death threat’s first line— Watch the birdie —and, by inference, to the burning turtledove?
I doubted that Simon had shown the nasty note to Nell, which meant that there were only two ways she could have known its contents. Either the poison pen had shown it to her or she’d pasted it together
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