of the mud, she fell a few yards behind. The spinney where she often rode seemed menacing today.
The sky hung heavy overhead, and the bushes grabbed at her skirts. Droplets of water fell from the shivering branches, landing with a heavy plop on her shoulders. Her shoes were soaked and her skirt tails muddied. A feeling very like doom was in the air. She ran to catch up with the others, who had stopped just twenty yards into the spinney and stood staring at a hole in the ground. Pamela looked at it and shook her head. It was all a hum.
“Nigel, you clunch! That’s only a badger sett. It’s been there forever.”
“I know that. The badgers were killed eons ago. Mama had the hole plugged up and set the mole catcher after them, for they were getting into the beehives. You know how badgers love honey. I found this shovel here. And take a look at this,” he said importantly, pointing into the hole.
Pamela went forward and saw that some fresh digging had been done. One rounded end of the sett had been squared off somewhat. “This is where I found the shawl. I’ll get it,” Nigel said, and disappeared behind a tree, to reappear in a moment with the familiar paisley object.
It looked very forlorn, all wet and bedraggled, and with its beautiful fringe matted into clumps. Pamela glanced to Breslau to hear his opinion. A shiver ran through her when she saw him reach for the shawl and gaze at it. He swallowed convulsively. He believed it then. He thought Fleur was dead—murdered. A silence grew around them, broken only by the dull plopping of water from the branches, and an occasional birdcall.
She felt a stirring of pity, and didn’t know whether it was the image of Fleur, dead and wet and muddied like the shawl, or Breslau’s tense, grieving face that caused it. She had thought him a mere fashionable fribble, but he had real feelings after all. He must have been very fond of Fleur. Perhaps he even loved her.
She reached for his hand, and he squeezed her fingers. “There’s no body, Breslau,” she said gently. “We don’t know for sure. Perhaps she got away.”
He turned his head and gazed at her. He didn’t say anything, but just looked, silent. She imagined his eyes were speaking, saying, Thank you. They had a more gentle air than before. He went toward the grave, still holding her hand, and examined the hole from the edge.
“There are dozens of footprints. They look fresh,” he said. “Did you go into the hole, Nigel?”
“No, I just pulled the shawl out.”
“We’ll need someone here to keep people from disturbing these footprints. They might tell us something.”
“They’re all men’s footprints,” Pamela pointed out. She was becoming self-conscious at Breslau’s continuing to hold her hand, and withdrew. “Fleur’s prints aren’t here,” she said.
“The dead don’t walk,” Nigel said in doleful accents. “Whoever killed her carried her here.”
“He must have been a strong man. Fleur weighed close to ten stone.” The image of General Maxwell darted unbidden into her head. Why would he dig a grave, and not use it?
Pamela saw a corner of something gray protruding from some leaves that had blown into one corner. “What’s this?” she said, and leaned over to pull it out.
It was a gentleman’s fine leather glove, not the common York tan usually seen, but a distinctive gray polished leather. It was a little larger than the average man’s glove. She couldn’t remember what size hands the mysterious stranger had, but Max’s were large and capable.
“Do you recognize it?” she asked the men.
Breslau took it and examined it. “No, but it’s unusual. We might be able to discover in London who made it.” He wrapped it in the shawl. “Where does the spinney lead?”
“Eventually to Norman Quill’s farm,” Nigel replied. “There’s no point thinking he had anything to do with it. He’s one of our most respectable tenants, with a wife and seven kids.”
“The road to
The sky hung heavy overhead, and the bushes grabbed at her skirts. Droplets of water fell from the shivering branches, landing with a heavy plop on her shoulders. Her shoes were soaked and her skirt tails muddied. A feeling very like doom was in the air. She ran to catch up with the others, who had stopped just twenty yards into the spinney and stood staring at a hole in the ground. Pamela looked at it and shook her head. It was all a hum.
“Nigel, you clunch! That’s only a badger sett. It’s been there forever.”
“I know that. The badgers were killed eons ago. Mama had the hole plugged up and set the mole catcher after them, for they were getting into the beehives. You know how badgers love honey. I found this shovel here. And take a look at this,” he said importantly, pointing into the hole.
Pamela went forward and saw that some fresh digging had been done. One rounded end of the sett had been squared off somewhat. “This is where I found the shawl. I’ll get it,” Nigel said, and disappeared behind a tree, to reappear in a moment with the familiar paisley object.
It looked very forlorn, all wet and bedraggled, and with its beautiful fringe matted into clumps. Pamela glanced to Breslau to hear his opinion. A shiver ran through her when she saw him reach for the shawl and gaze at it. He swallowed convulsively. He believed it then. He thought Fleur was dead—murdered. A silence grew around them, broken only by the dull plopping of water from the branches, and an occasional birdcall.
She felt a stirring of pity, and didn’t know whether it was the image of Fleur, dead and wet and muddied like the shawl, or Breslau’s tense, grieving face that caused it. She had thought him a mere fashionable fribble, but he had real feelings after all. He must have been very fond of Fleur. Perhaps he even loved her.
She reached for his hand, and he squeezed her fingers. “There’s no body, Breslau,” she said gently. “We don’t know for sure. Perhaps she got away.”
He turned his head and gazed at her. He didn’t say anything, but just looked, silent. She imagined his eyes were speaking, saying, Thank you. They had a more gentle air than before. He went toward the grave, still holding her hand, and examined the hole from the edge.
“There are dozens of footprints. They look fresh,” he said. “Did you go into the hole, Nigel?”
“No, I just pulled the shawl out.”
“We’ll need someone here to keep people from disturbing these footprints. They might tell us something.”
“They’re all men’s footprints,” Pamela pointed out. She was becoming self-conscious at Breslau’s continuing to hold her hand, and withdrew. “Fleur’s prints aren’t here,” she said.
“The dead don’t walk,” Nigel said in doleful accents. “Whoever killed her carried her here.”
“He must have been a strong man. Fleur weighed close to ten stone.” The image of General Maxwell darted unbidden into her head. Why would he dig a grave, and not use it?
Pamela saw a corner of something gray protruding from some leaves that had blown into one corner. “What’s this?” she said, and leaned over to pull it out.
It was a gentleman’s fine leather glove, not the common York tan usually seen, but a distinctive gray polished leather. It was a little larger than the average man’s glove. She couldn’t remember what size hands the mysterious stranger had, but Max’s were large and capable.
“Do you recognize it?” she asked the men.
Breslau took it and examined it. “No, but it’s unusual. We might be able to discover in London who made it.” He wrapped it in the shawl. “Where does the spinney lead?”
“Eventually to Norman Quill’s farm,” Nigel replied. “There’s no point thinking he had anything to do with it. He’s one of our most respectable tenants, with a wife and seven kids.”
“The road to
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